* * *
On Saturday afternoon, our benefactor, Miss Coutts, visits and everything around her fades. She’s dressed in burgundy from her silk hat and veil down to her heeled boots. Folding her veil back, the lady motions me to sit across from her as she sips from her teacup like a hummingbird. Bergamot perfumes the room.
“Cat got your tongue?” Jemima whispers in my ear as she bends down to offer us oatcakes. She smiles sweetly at Miss Coutts as if she had a mouthful of sugar.
Miss Coutts removes her gloves. To see her hands could make one weep. Her skin is smooth and lily white, nails filed to ovals, all her long fingers dotted with rings. I sit on top of my own hands, still darkened with oakum.
“Mr. Dickens tells me you read novels. That is quite pleasing to hear. What do you enjoy so far about living at Urania?”
Her lips lift woodenly at the corners, almost as if she is too shy to smile. She’s not like the male trustees: loud, all business, orders, and talk.
“Everything is alive here, miss. The girls chatting. Turning the earth for a garden. Richard the rooster struts as if he owns all the hens and the yard too. He’d never believe it’s Urania who owns him!”
“Well put, Miss Wood.” She smiles now. “You paint a picture of how simple, everyday things have their own beauty. And humor too.”
“For two years, all I had was walls, miss.”
“I am glad you wished to come to Urania. Are you?”
“It seems like I’m in a dream from which, any day now, I will awaken and be back at Tothill.”
“Don’t say that name!” Miss Coutts presses a finger over her lips. “You must never tell anyone you were there. Promise me!”
She fixes me with dark eyes and sits most erect.
I nod vigorously. How could I dare do anything else?
She lifts her cup of milky Indian tea and so do I. Never once did I imagine I’d be sitting with a lady from Piccadilly at teatime.
“Mr. Dickens has such praise for your voice. It’s trained, he says. I’d like to hear you recite. In our next meeting…will you read to me?”
My face heats as I nod.
“By the time you leave here, you will be a first-class servant,” she tells me. “Those who look upon you will only see a fine background and a sound education. And some finishing as well—”
She hands me a small leather case of grooming utensils. There is a bristle brush, which she instructs me to use morning and evening to keep my hair clean and free of oil. Rosemary water to wash my hair with monthly. A jar of cocoa-nut oil to smooth stray ends into a bun when my hair grows out. And a tiny file to trim my nails. Such things are meant to tame girls like me.
* * *
Later Sesina says, “We didn’t want to tell you about it. I’d spoil the surprise. But isn’t it special?”
Never had I thought to groom myself other than with a splash of water for my stand-up wash. As I brush my hair in front of the mirror that night, counting the hundred strokes Sesina says I must make, I examine myself. A quiet girl from the rookery, only her eyes giving her away. They dart and darken, watchful. Pa used to call my hair silken wheat and blond. “You will draw them in, golden girl,” he predicted. But that girl has gone.
Now my hair has browned. The crisp blue dress speaks of another girl, the one Mr. Dickens and Miss Coutts wish me to be: a first-class servant once I pass all their tests. I once dared believe I’d be something other.
* * *
One evening, Mrs. Marchmont leads a discussion in the parlor.
“We believe it’s important for you girls to imagine your new lives once you leave England.”
Fanny nods. “You won’t catch me going back to the streets, I swear! Once I sail out of this country, I’ll make good.”
The matron nods. “What do you expect to find in the colonies?”
“Enough money,” Leah responds. “A good position. A place to live.”
“Decent work,” Fanny says. “Where I don’t have to sell myself.”
“That is all behind you,” the matron insists. “Miss Coutts has found placements for our senior girls, Alice and Hannah, who will emigrate together to Australia. Hannah will cook for a clergyman’s family, and Alice will be the town’s dressmaker—”
Sesina interrupts. “Miss Coutts mentioned marriage too?”
The matron nods. “Eligible farmers and miners will be reviewed by our contacts in the colonies. If you wish, you can marry someone suitable.”
“What if he’s ugly?” Fanny protests to a round of giggles.
“Beggars can’t be choosers!” Jemima yells to more laughter.
“Girls!” The matron’s voice rises. “It is up to you whom you pick. As married women, you will have security and a place in society.”
From the top of the mantel, Rhena’s photograph looks down on us. Big-bosomed and unsmiling, she emigrated to Canada a while ago. They say she has already married.
“What does Mr. Dickens think of us marrying?” Hannah wonders.
Our matron smiles widely at that and pulls a letter from her bag.
“I’ll read from a letter he wrote to Miss Coutts about Urania when they were planning to open it…‘If even one woman goes on to a new life, with both work and marriage, think how far we can reach into the future. For their children will know a different life and have a better chance.’ ”
“Never imagined having my own children,” Jemima mumbles. “Between no money and the gin, my parents couldn’t care for me. But if I got a good man overseas, I’d start a family. Girls. No boys!”
Fanny sighs. “I always dreamed of having babies.”
I keep my gaze down at my crocheting. No one must guess why I don’t chime in. No one must know what happened.
I had a baby once and cannot tell where it is now.
I had wished a terrible thing: I wished it gone.
But not before I cursed myself dead first so Luther would never find me.
Ever since the arrest, accusations have screamed in my head: Did I wrap the cord in my own bloodied hands and tie it around the baby’s neck? Did I tug it hard before anyone saw it take a breath?
* * *
For hours after our discussion, even when we go upstairs to bed, all the girls gossip about is the colonies, their eyes glazing over as if they’ve been offered a whole gingerbread house to eat. Chatter about kangaroos and koalas buzzes throughout the hallway.
Transportation puzzles me. Why would anyone wish to leave England forever? I shudder to think of being booted to a far-off country where I’ll know no one and from which I may never return. Yet I signed my name for Urania and gave it no more thought. I had to get away from Luther, didn’t I? Mostly, I don’t think of a future at all. It’s only the past that seems alive.
* * *
Tucked safe in my bed at night, I snuggle with Little Dorrit. The seamstress Dorrit is a soft presence floating through the book.
“Got a dirty book you’re hiding underneath the covers?” Sesina calls over. “For we hear you gasping!”
I ignore her and return to my book. Dorrit is invisible, not wishing to be seen. Yet her stitches are so fine, her work is in demand. Though she sews for the upper class, as quiet as a mouse in a corner of their parlor, she can barely afford supper for her own family in the workhouse. That’s what made me gasp. It’s as if he scratched the Little Mouse right onto the page.
I love the nicknames. I want one too. The girls gossip about who is who and how she got that name. Cleanliness earned Hannah her nickname: Hedgehog. Everyone knows Jemima is Sticky Fingers because she stole. But what is it he secretly calls me?
Could he have his favorite? I don’t. Hannah and Fanny confide in me; they don’t speak out of the sides of their mouths like Sesina. Odd how in prison, a girl’s nod or stolen glance spoke for her. Separate and silent, yet we were one.
The one precious thing in prison was Ivy. She always needed to know how I fared. Not a step or handshake could she make on her own. Just that penetrating look she dared and those secret hand signals passing between us in a language she invented. She held up a bright mirror for me to look into, keeping me alive.
Yet I haven’t dared write her. Any letter will be read aloud by the matrons. But if I don’t send word soon, Ivy will disappear and I might never see her again.
The last time I saw her, her fingers rattled the eyelet hard, her cries echoing my name through Tothill’s frigid hallways. It’s hard to think of her still kept there. Has she rebelled, only to prolong her stay? Or has Tothill smothered her in stone?
The very next day I write the simplest of words so she can read them herself:
Dear Ivy, Urania is a true home. You will be safe here with me. Please come!
Orpha
Mrs. Marchmont posts it that afternoon.
* * *
During a lesson with the matron, I try to tame my yarn with a King Charles brocade pattern to make a Sunday shawl, counting stitches so the rows line up. Not one mistake can a girl make or it will show. After a month of knitting, I’ve guessed the places where one’s mind can stretch, along the purl rows that slip by as simple and blind as oakum. Working those rows, I scarcely breathe; I scarcely am. My mind flattens.
I am visited by an image of that sparkling twilight dress falling to my feet. The one with the stars. It was my mother’s dress, which I first wore at the theater one night while the next scene was being set up. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I discovered someone else beneath the costume. No longer was I eleven-year-old Orpha, but another being: Ophelia. She spoke through me as if I were a hollow reed. I had no other want but to please her sharp need to speak. When the actors shoved me before the loud and drunken audience, a bouquet of flowers in my hands, I chanted Ophelia’s sad speech about Hamlet’s mind so overthrown. The crowd was silent throughout, startled to hear a child who had memorized all those lines, roaring its pleasure at the end. Afterward, Pa greeted me with wide-open arms, although he could barely stand straight by that time of night. I was a girl with promise once.
Where do memories go after they brush through you? What if you wish to hold on to them forever?
I wonder if that is why Mr. Dickens writes.
* * *
Some days later, when the afternoon mail arrives, we hear Miss Jane call.
“There’s a letter for you, Leah! From London!”
“Oh!” Leah rushes into the parlor, pleading with Miss Jane to read it aloud.
“Your mum’s taken a turn for the worse. She asks for you to come home now.”
Miss Jane steadies Leah into a chair, patting her shoulder. “There, there, we’ll see what we can do. The trustees are in a meeting right now. I’ll let the matron know as soon as I can.”
At supper, Leah just stares at the floor. She never takes a bite.
That evening, Mr. Dickens writes in the back parlor, then finally calls for Leah. When at last she comes out, she looks pale.
“He’s sending me on the first omnibus to London tomorrow. It will bring Mum comfort to see me!”
Later, in our room, as we help pack her bag, she talks in a low monotone as if it hurts to even drop the words from her mouth.
“How many times did I beg her to run away from my father! She wouldn’t do it. He beat her and drank up what little she earned selling flowers. Day after day of standing out in the streets in all kinds of weather…her consumption never healed.”
Sesina wraps Leah in a hug. “I never knew my own mother. But you’ve told me so much of yours, I’ve loved her too.”
“She’s been my truest friend. And I hers. That was the one thing my father couldn’t destroy. The hulks have him now if he hasn’t shipped far off already. He finally got caught red-handed with somebody’s silver. Thank God we will never see him again!”
That night, Leah sits straight up in bed with her eyes shut and lips mumbling every time I look over. I wonder if she is praying. At any time, something can happen to change your life forever. Afterward, you are never the same girl again.
* * *
Come Friday the next week, there’s persistent knocking at the front door. Only the matrons are allowed to answer, but neither one of them is around. Just Hannah, who nods for me to go because her hands are dripping in beef fat. I run to open it. And gasp.
A delivery boy stands there, his cap at a jaunty angle, legs spread wide, collar wide open, revealing his flushed, bare throat. Bloodstains dot the front of his shirt. Such a piercing gaze he has, bold as a crow. That’s what he would be were he an animal. Which I think he is.
He piles parcels of freshly butchered meat into my arms. “Here’s Urania’s order. And tell Sesina Reuben called.”
He stares knowingly at my chest like he can see the place where my breasts hide. Sharp and slicing, his eyes roam up and down. As if he knows the secrets I keep and guesses I am no virgin. It makes the bile rise up to my throat.
I slam the door in his face. And vow to never tell Sesina.
* * *
We quietly embroider one afternoon. There’s been no news of Leah since she left last week. While the matron gives sewing lessons, Alice busily sews the moiré fabric into curtains for the dining room. In the sunlit parlor, it shimmers a rich emerald green.
Suddenly Fanny stands up and cries out, “Mrs. Marchmont! I can’t stay with Jemima one more second! She calls me terrible names. And curses me too! I want another roommate.”
“Well…” The matron takes a deep breath. “If someone volunteers to take your place, we can arrange it.”
All eyes drop to their work.
Jemima flings her sewing project hard at Fanny’s head. “You’re just jealous. I’m what you can never be. A survivor! You’re some soldier’s leftovers. That’s why you crawled into Magdalen Hospital with those prostitutes! And ended up at Coldbath!”
Before we can gasp, Fanny flies across the chairs and clutches Jemima’s hair in her fists. Then Jemima kicks Fanny so hard in the shins that she tumbles.
Sesina claps as if at a play. “Collie shangles! Let her have it, Fanny! Give her a good batty-fang!”
Hannah, a square block of a girl, storms out of her seat and drags Fanny away from Jemima.
“That girl could hold a candle to the devil!” Hannah mutters, leading Fanny out of the room.
The matron plants her feet right in front of Jemima, hands on her hips. “We do not allow any fighting here. Go to your room right now. And stay there. Fanny will sleep downstairs tonight.”
Jemima huffs up the stairs, kicking the banister as she goes.
“What shall we do now, ma’am?” Miss Jane squeezes her hands.
“I’d like to give that girl a good thrashing!” Mrs. Marchmont frowns. “But I shall do nothing of the sort. I have my instructions from Mr. Dickens. He must be informed immediately. I am under his orders to ‘wait till I get there’! Until then, she stays in her room.”
Zachariah is called to take a message to Mr. Dickens while Fanny rests in the kitchen. It is my turn to wash the evening dishes, so I join her there. It grows very late, after prayer. The girls head upstairs to bed. Just as I’m done, getting ready to follow them, Mr. Dickens storms in. His coat is unbuttoned, his hair uncombed.
“Jemima!” he yells in the hallway. “Come down here at once!”
Jemima appears in the top hall. Ever so slowly, she sulks down the steps.
I tiptoe back into the kitchen for one last check on Fanny, who slumps in a corner on a metal cot. Every muscle in her thin face has flattened. If only she would talk, it’d break the spell.
“Here, let me.” I sit down beside her, unwinding her bun. “You mustn’t mind her. Jemima’s a bully.”
Tears drop down her face. “She was
right about me.”
“No, she wasn’t! She has a sharp tongue.”
Fanny shakes her head. “I told her my secrets. I shouldn’t have. And she twisted them into knots.”
I stroke her hair as if she were a small child.
“A soldier I met at market kept begging me to sneak out with him. Said he was charmed by my beauty. Only for an hour, he said. I was barely thirteen. I stayed the night with him and lost my virginity. When I went home, my father refused to let me in. So I stayed on with the soldier.”
She presses her forehead as if she has a headache.
“He disappeared with all my pocket money. I had no home to go to after. Only the streets. And leering customers. On account of him, I lost my family and all my decency. Why didn’t my father tell me about keeping my virginity? Before I guessed what it was or how precious it could be, it was gone in one night!”
I rock Fanny back and forth, her head against my chest, until she falls asleep. Afterward, in the dark, tiptoeing upstairs, I curse how the night a man first touched you changed the direction of your whole life, both Fanny’s and mine. I could have wept but did not.
DICKENS’S CASE BOOK
It is quite dark when I leave Urania. The matron protests, eager to call a fly to take me home. But she has read my face, all Thunder. My feet are on Fire and I must walk them out. My mind is scorched with images of these girls who were never children, Damaged from the start.
Among the Fallen Page 10