“I will take them all,” Martha states, although her words maintain their dispassionate tone.
“Oh, no, Martha,” Hannah insists, stepping forward. “You’re far too generous. We’ll never be able to make use of all these oranges. One per child is sufficient—”
“I don’t want sufficiency,” Martha insists. Her voice grows more strident. “I want abundance for these children. I want them to know what it is to have plenty.”
“Two, then. More than that may bring indigestion—and Rebecca’s ire.” Hannah smiles as she makes this gentle reminder.
“No. No, I will buy them all. All of them in this shop.” Martha’s pallid cheeks have turned mottled pink, and her green-gray eyes bright and hard. “You and Rebecca may do with them what you will; make marmalades and jams; pickle and sugar the rinds; throw the rotten ones to the pigs for all I care. I want those children to have a surfeit. Let them live like kings and queens for a space.” She spins back to the vendor. “Have them delivered to the orphanage on Thirteenth and Fitzwater Streets.” Then she yanks open her reticule and tosses out enough gold coins to purchase twice the amount of fruit in the stall. “And send a large box to the same address every time a decent cargo arrives.”
In the midst of this transaction, little Caspar crows from his perch in Kelman’s arms, then points toward a young girl standing just outside the shelter of the stall’s canvas awning. She regards the scene boldly, although she remains at a distance. “Is that your baby?” she asks Thomas Kelman.
“No.” It’s Hannah who responds. “This is a foundling child. A Negro.”
The girl frowns slightly. “That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a white papa.”
“That’s true.” Hannah looks at Kelman as though seeking his advice, but the girl continues with a soft:
“I think the boy loves this man as much as he would his own father.”
“Would you like an orange?” Martha asks abruptly.
“My name is Ella” is the answer. “I’ve never tasted one.” But she makes no move to enter the fruit vendor’s stall.
“Does your papa work here?” Martha probes.
Ella scowls but doesn’t reply.
“Or your mother, perhaps?”
“I’m not an orphan” is Ella’s sole response; then the need for human contact finally propels her into the shop. “Please. I would like to taste an orange.” She gazes up at Cai, who continues to stare down at her with the fascination younger children reserve for older ones; then she swiftly returns her attention to Martha. “You have not been here before, I think, miss?”
“No,” Martha answers as she turns unsteadily, negotiating a separate sackful of oranges for the little girl. The clearheadedness she experienced for a moment is quickly passing, and she can again feel the effects of the sleeping draughts Owen Simms prescribed. “No, I haven’t.”
“You have a girl to do for you, then, miss? Or you are looking to engage one, perhaps—?” Then Ella interrupts her question with a swift dodging turn of her head. The motion is so rapid and defensive it almost appears as though she’s been slapped.
Kelman looks in the direction Ella is staring. A group of women are walking there; and from their garish clothes and loud manner, he knows immediately what trade they are engaged in. “Do you know any of those ladies, Ella?” he asks as Martha and Hannah follow his glance.
“No” is Ella’s defiant answer, although she keeps her face averted and her eyes on the ground. “They are not ladies, either.”
“Where is your mother?” Hannah asks her.
“At home. Where else would she be?” Ella blurts out, then all at once drops the oranges and plunges away, disappearing among the crowd.
“Thief!” someone shouts at her retreating figure, but Martha rallies, producing her own forceful cry:
“Let the child pass. She’s running an errand for me.” Then her shoulders slump and her knees almost buckle, and she turns back and gazes emptily at Thomas Kelman once more. “It’s time for me to return home. I’ve been sufficiently long on my outing.” She looks at Hannah. “Tell Rebecca she can blame me if the children grow spoiled.”
“Let me escort you,” Kelman says; he cannot bring himself to add “Miss Beale.” He knows he shouldn’t say “Martha” in this public place.
“Thank you, no, Mr. Kelman. That would not be seemly—or befitting to my father’s memory to be seen in the company of a recent acquaintance.” She pauses, her display of energy now spent. “You will apply to Mr. Simms, will you not, if you have further news concerning my father’s death to impart? Or of this … this hermit …? Mr. Simms will be … he will be my ears and my mouthpiece for a while …”
“I would prefer to talk with you directly … should I gain information—”
“No. That will not be possible.” Martha seems about to speak further; instead, her gloved right hand reaches up and lightly touches her neck. “Let us say farewell, then, Mr. Kelman.” Then she summons what little remains of her strength and walks in a slow, straight line from the market building.
It’s ruth who spots the girl running. Running and crying, then stumbling and nearly falling in her haste to escape the Shambles. “Stop, child!” she calls out, and hurries behind, catching Ella in her arms after a block-and-a-half chase. “Stop. Child. What ails you? Has someone done you harm?”
Ella stares up at the Negress. Her first instinct is to flee; her second is to rail against her captor; her third is to sag into the taller woman’s arms. “A lady bought me oranges,” she finally manages to mumble.
Ruth gazes into the child’s fearful eyes. “And were you afraid of what she might demand in exchange for the oranges?”
“No …” Ella looks down at her feet. “But she wanted to know about my mother …”
Ruth nods; she continues to hold the frightened girl. “What’s your name, child?” she asks at length.
“Ella.”
“Well, Ella, mine is Ruth. Do you know that name from the Bible?”
Ella shakes her head.
“Ruth was a young widow lady. When her husband died, her old mother-in-law, who was also widowed, decided to leave the country of her husband’s family and return to her own people. Ruth went with her, although this meant traveling to a far-off land.” Ruth pauses; Ella continues to regard her. “But this Ruth was very good and very brave, and when her mother-in-law told her to lie with powerful King Boaz, she did—”
“The king paid the mother-in-law?” Ella asks with a quick, angry scowl.
Ruth also frowns. “No. It was not like that … I think her mother-in-law believed the king would marry Ruth if he slept with her.”
“Ah,” murmurs Ella.
“And the child this Ruth and her king would make together would also become a king, the grandfather of an even greater king named David. And so Ruth would be remembered forever.”
“Ah,” Ella repeats, but with less enthusiasm. Royal people are of little interest in her world. Then she stands straighter, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “And do you have a son you call David?” she asks.
“I have no son. I did once, but I do no longer.”
Ella doesn’t question this statement, although she recognizes the great sadness in Ruth’s voice. “I had a mother once, too,” she says in empathy.
Ruth nods. “And a father also, I’ll warrant.” Her tone is gentle, but Ella stiffens instantly.
“My father sold me,” Ella states, but the sound of the words is defiant rather than sorrowful.
“And who do you dwell with now, that you are running away from fine ladies shopping in the Shambles?” Even as Ruth poses this kindly query, she realizes that she’s heard the girl’s voice before. “I saw you walking some days ago … with a man I thought was your parent—” Then Ruth grasps Ella’s shoulders in steely and determined fingers, staring hard into her face. “What do you know about the club-footed tailor who escaped from Cherry Hill? Josiah, by name—?”
But Ella, quick
as a flash, shakes herself free and is on the run again.
As Much Gold As You Can Hold
IN THIN BOOTS WRAPPED IN cloths, Ella’s cold feet trudge along the cobbled pavement, carrying her north once more toward the Shambles, where the lady offered her the oranges two mornings past. Ella has little hope of retrieving that lost piece of luck, but she retraces her route on the chance—the barest of chances—that she might.
As she marches doggedly on, head down, shoulders defensive and fierce, she berates herself for running away from the tall lady who bought the oranges. Running away when she might have taken those lovely sweet-smelling fruits! Or maybe found a paid position in an elegant household. Or been given a few pennies to put in her pocket. Oh, anything wonderful might have happened, if only she hadn’t been such a baby. And if she hadn’t been such a cry-baby, the terrible Negress called Ruth would never have grabbed her and asked her name and then demanded to know what she knew about a club-footed tailor.
This last recollection makes Ella tremble in helpless fright. Suppose this Ruth chased after me when I ran away? she wonders as her eyes dart apprehensively around. Or suppose she’s sneaking somewhere near—right now—waiting to follow me home and discover where Daniel lives, and then turn him over to the police? Suppose I bump into her when I turn the corner or cross the street? Suppose she spots me walking here? Picturing these awful scenes and recalling Ruth’s strong fingers holding her tight, Ella begins clinging to the shadows cast by the cold morning sun, darting nervously from dark splotch to dark splotch on the icy pavement.
She remembers the little mulatto the gentleman held in his arms. How well dressed the boy was, and how warm and safe. An orphan decked out in finer array than she’s ever known! Envy and longing twist at her heart and make her face knot itself in pain. And I have only Daniel, Ella tells herself in despair. Daniel, who’s so afraid of the day watch and night watch that he cannot seek honest wages from an honest shop. That little orphan boy has fine people to carry him about, but I have only my frozen toes and an empty belly and a benefactor who may not be able to afford keeping me much longer.
Tears of woe well into Ella’s eyes and begin rolling down her cheeks. And what’s to prevent Daniel from casting me off if Mr. Robey deserts him? Or perhaps selling me to another fancy house as my father did? What’s to stop this horrid Ruth from creeping around the city until she finds us? She’d get a reward for exposing an escaped convict; I’m sure she would.
The hurt and self-rebuke Ella feels have now hardened into anger at those around her, and her mouth sets itself into an unforgiving line. Well, I know what I can do; I can turn Daniel in before any Negress does! Or before he takes it into his head to abandon me. I’ll seek out a member of the day watch and tell him I know the whereabouts of the club-foot tailor. Then I’ll get the reward money and be my own mistress. And no one will be able to buy or sell me again.
But this vindictive dream evaporates almost as fast as it began. Daniel saved me, Ella reminds herself. He made me a supper of sausages—and many other things; he gave me a warm place to sleep; he gave me a coat. I could never harm him. Never. Never.
Instead of lifting her spirits, however, Ella’s heroic claim induces another spate of anxious tears, causing her to stumble as she walks, which makes her almost collide with two matrons strolling together, then a nursemaid and her charge, an aproned errand boy, and finally a gentleman and his lady: all of whom look askance at the slight and dirty bundle of despair who hurries blindly past them.
When Ella finally looks up, she notices her path has carried her to the high brick wall surrounding St. Peter’s Church. Peering through the gates, she sees the morning sunlight glinting upon the window-panes, turning them a gilded color as hot as desire. Ella draws an awed and wondering breath, then passes into the graveyard as though an unseen person were urging her to do so. People pray for blessings, she’s heard tell; they pray for healing from ravaging illness, for the discovery of lost objects, for babies—some of them—or husbands who won’t squander a family’s livelihood on drink.
She considers what her own request might be, and the shiny cross leaps into her mind. She’ll ask God for gold. Boxes and boxes of it. More than she can ever hold. And think how pleased Daniel will be then! And the dangerous Ruth? Well, they’ll be able to pay her handsomely for her silence.
But this miraculous intervention comes to naught. The church in which Ella wished to pray is shut against her, a Negro man with a broom chasing her out long before she can kneel and make her vital request, then shooing her off toward the street like a diseased and unwelcome cat, and finally shaking the broom after her as if even the dust she’d left behind were tainted.
Ella slinks along the pavement imagining the many fine things God’s gift will never provide: no pretty dresses, no butter cakes, no doll with a shining china face, no toy rocking horse like she saw in a shop window, no fine roasted beef for Daniel. Or silks for him to sew or handsome bone buttons. Or glittering silver ones, either.
She forces herself not to cry. Instead, she trudges along, berating the Negro man with the broom and the God who permitted him to threaten her with it. Then her anger finally levels on God alone. God who provides rich people with more riches, velvet cushions to kneel upon and glowing candlesticks and lace embroidered with colored threads as bright as summer flowers. What use is it to pray to a being as selfish as that? Might as well pray to a beetle not to spoil the flour or a mouse not to steal the baby’s food.
When she reaches Daniel’s house, her fury is nearly spent, and she pauses on the threshold, forming a heartfelt apology for not returning home laden with the wonders she envisioned. As she considers the words, she hears another man talking to her protector. The voice makes her freeze in place. It’s the man who wrapped his fingers around her neck and tried to choke her. Ella creeps round to the side of the house and listens at the oilcloth-covered window.
“I have been told you have a daughter, tailor.”
“I did once, sir. I have no longer.”
“Come, man, I’ve been told otherwise. You’ve been seen walking with the child. A pretty blonde girl.”
Daniel doesn’t speak for a moment. When he does respond, the sound is halting, as if he were limping forward. “Ah … Ella, that would be. She is … she’s my young cousin … a girl from the country whose family wished her to learn the trade of sewing—”
“And you pay for her keeping, this charming ‘cousin’ of yours?” the man interrupts. Ella can tell by the mocking sound of his voice that he doubts she and Daniel are related.
Again Daniel hesitates. “I don’t understand your meaning, sir.”
“Do you pay for her keeping? Or does she pay for yours? I’ve heard she’s a most comely thing, despite her age.”
“Oh, no, sir! I would never permit the child to labor in that fashion. As I said, she’s studying stitchery, and—”
“A girl sewing doesn’t earn the fine wages a girl in a fancy house does.”
“That may be, sir. But I’m not so bad off as to profit from the sale of human flesh—”
“You have numerous persons clamoring for your wares, then?”
Breathless, Ella waits for Daniel’s reply; she’s guessed where the questions are aimed even if her benefactor has not.
“I do not, I regret to say—”
“No … You have but one client. And that man is me.”
“Yes, Mr. Robey, that’s true … Though times are improving, so the people say.”
Ella hears Mr. Robey sigh as though in sympathy; when he resumes his speech, the tone is as liquid as warm molasses. “It must be a pricey proposition keeping a hungry child fed and clothed.”
“It’s not so bad, sir” is Daniel’s gentle response.
“I think I must help you out, tailor. I’d count myself a mean-spirited man not to aid a young girl—and her patron—in their hour of distress.”
“I’m hardly her patron, Mr. Robey. Ella is my cousin—”
“Then you will allow me to assume that title? For my Christian edification?”
Ella squints her eyes in terror and wills her knees and hands to cease their noisy shaking. She tries to gulp back her fears, but her mouth and tongue are as dry as last year’s leaves.
“She’s a simple girl, sir, a country lass. I’m not certain she’s fit to become a lady—”
“For my betterment as a true and devout Christian, Daniel. You must allow me to help your fair young cousin.”
Ella hears a purse open; she hears coins—heavy ones—rattle in a warm grasp. “Gold is a handsome commodity, is it not, Daniel the tailor? Come, man, take it! As much gold as you can hold …”
A Message From the Departed
BEFORE KNOCKING AT THE DOOR to her husband’s study, Marguerite Rosegger pauses. She cautions herself to summon courage, and in so doing tries to recall the hopeful woman she once was, and the proud life she led when her father was still living. Despite these efforts, she finds she cannot re-create the bright spirit she was then. The words she can recall but not the emotion; and that loss affects her severely. She senses herself even less equipped to deal with her powerful husband than she was before. Moment by moment, she realizes that her fortitude and willpower are waning. Moment by moment, year by unforgiving year.
Propelled by something akin to desperation, she raises her hand and raps loudly upon the door. “Mr. Rosegger?” she calls.
“I didn’t summon you,” comes the answer, and Marguerite’s first response is to creep away. Instead, she remains in place, switching her rustling skirts and rocking back and forth on her new shoes until the homey sounds of creaking leather and wheezing floorboards restore her determination.
“May I bring you coffee? Or perhaps a pot of chocolate?”
“I didn’t call you!” is her husband’s rough reply.
“Mr. Rosegger, I must speak with you.” She draws in another tight breath; her fingers grasp each other as though clinging to a cliff face. “It concerns John Durand.”
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