Aunt Orla, Polly, and I were silent as we sat, long into the night, sewing.
My mind easily slipped to my encounter outside the Metropolitan Opera House and the kind blue eyes of Mr. Alexander Paxton-Hill.
His five-dollar bill sat heavy in my pocket, and I wondered what Aunt Orla would do if she knew it was there. I didn’t even dare to touch it, for fear it would make a noise and draw unwanted attention.
I now had nine dollars and fifty cents to call my own. The rest was hidden under a loose floorboard in the back of the bedroom with my only other possession—a locket my mother had given to me and made my aunt and uncle promise to never sell.
Someday, I would take my money, and my locket, and I would leave New York City as far behind as possible. I would board a train and travel west, beyond the Mississippi River, to a place that was wide open and green. As I sewed, it was all I ever thought about. I painted colorful pictures in my mind of the little cabin I would live in by myself, the clear stream I would drinkfrom, and the clean air I would breathe. To provide for myself, I would become a fashionable seamstress and sew clothing that would make people proud to wear it. My mind filled with the designs I would create. It was the only way to survive the grueling life in Five Points.
As the night progressed, I kept watch of the time. The minute hand moved slowly toward ten o’clock, the invitation burning in my mind. Whatever Mrs. Hill offered had to be better than what I currently had—yet, what if it wasn’t decent? What if she had a proposition that would shame me?
But what was the worst that could happen? I would be embarrassed and leave, and I would never need to see her again.
The best that could happen—I didn’t even want to imagine the possibilities. What if she offered me a job and a place to live in her home on Fifth Avenue? I rarely had reason to go to Fifth Avenue, but when I did, I was left speechless. The homes were so grand, the shops were opulent, and the streets were clean.
What if this was the opportunity I’d been hoping for my whole life?
But what if I was disappointed yet again?
“Keira?” Polly stood above me and tapped my shoulder. “You’re daydreaming again. Breakfast.”
I looked up and saw a hint of light in the eastern sky outside the single, cracked window in our apartment. It was nearly seven. Aunt Orla was setting plates at the table, which had been cleared of cuttings, and Uncle Charlie was just stepping out of the bedroom, yawning as he pulled his suspenders over his dingy white undershirt.
I quickly finished the last of my shirtwaists and folded the snowy white fabric to set it upon my pile. I stood and stretched. My neck and back were sore, and my stomach growled, but the nervous energy I felt banished my exhaustion.
My hand brushed against my hidden pocket, reminding me that I needed to find time to hide the money. I would have to wait until Aunt Orla and Polly were asleep, and the others were distracted with their work. Then I would slip it in with the other money I had saved.
“Where were you last night, duchess?” Uncle Charlie asked as he turned his bleary-eyed gaze on me and scratched his whiskered face.
My cheeks warmed at the nickname I’d been given as a little girl, when I’d vocalized my daydreams and begged for a pink ribbon for my fifth birthday.
“She won’t say,” Aunt Orla mumbled as she dished up plates of cabbage and potato, setting them down on the table with a clunk.
“’Ave you taken up with a man?” he asked me, frowning. “You know how I feel ’bout that.”
I did know. I was too valuable for them to lose—though they complained that I ate their food and took up space in their apartment.
“Who is he?” Aunt Orla asked. “Not one o’ Sean’s friends, I hope.”
“I haven’t taken up with anyone,” I said as I took a seat at the table.
“She probably went uptown to gawk at the swells,” Polly said as she sashayed across the room with a mocking voice. At the age of sixteen, she was turning into a young lady, but just like her mother, she had little patience for me. “She likes to pretend she’s one o’ them, don’t you know.”
Patrick laughed, and Aunt Orla scowled, but little Imogen, just nine-years-old, looked at me with understanding in her pretty green eyes. Imogen liked beautiful things as much as I did but had learned early on not to voice them as I had.
“Always putting on airs,” Aunt Orla said to me, “ever since you could talk. Acting like you were too good for the likes o’ us. Weshould ’ave left you in the gutter with your mother, where you belong.”
“There’s no need for that,” Uncle Charlie said as he scolded his wife. Though he teased me, he was the only one who stood up to his wife’s insults.
I lowered my gaze, shame and embarrassment heavy upon my shoulders. No one had ever said as much, but I had long suspected my mother had been a woman of the night—and I was an unwanted byproduct. A mistake. Tainted from birth.
And, until today, I’d never had anywhere else to go. I’d been stuck living this life, hoping and praying for a miracle—one that had been handed to me outside the opera house.
I had to go to Mrs. Hill. If I didn’t, I would regret it for the rest of my life.
Even if she offered me a job emptying her chamber pot, if it meant leaving Five Points, I would do almost anything.
Almost.
