Barrett is silent and concentrates on eating. My spirits sink as I realize that his wish for promotion is about more than money or prestige; it’s about family honor, and his relationship with me could ruin his parents’ cherished dream.
Conversation lapses, and Mrs. Barrett tries to revive it as she serves a pie made of beef, gravy, onions, carrots, and turnips, topped with mashed potatoes. “Have you any family, Miss Bain?” she asks.
The evening is riddled with danger zones. “No,” I say, unable to tell her about Sally when I’ve yet to tell Barrett. And if his parents knew about my family’s shameful history, they would think me even less an appropriate bride for their son than they already do.
We chat about the weather and other trivia. After the baked custard dessert, I’m glad when nature calls and I can excuse myself. When I return, I hear Barrett and his parents talking in the parlor. I stop outside the door.
“Are you sure?” His father sounds doubtful.
“Yes, I am.” Barrett’s tone is defensive, adamant.
My spirits plunge. I gather he’s just told his parents that he wants to marry me, and they aren’t thrilled.
“She’s not as pretty as the other girls you’ve gone with,” his mother says.
“I think she’s beautiful.”
Barrett says it as if he means it, but I’m upset to hear his mother disparage my looks.
“She seems kind of stand-offish,” his father says, “like she thinks she’s better than us.”
“She’s just shy,” Barrett says. My spark of anger at him flares. He must know that my behavior tonight is at least partly his fault. “When you get to know her, you’ll like her.”
“Did she say yes?” his father asks.
“Not yet.”
“That’s good. You can change your mind.”
“I’m not going to change my mind!” Barrett sounds less certain than defiant. Our strained relations have taken their toll on him. “I’m going to marry Sarah—if she’ll have me.”
His mother sniffs. “She would be lucky to have you. If she doesn’t know that, then she doesn’t deserve to be your wife.”
“Let’s not talk about it anymore.” Anger tightens Barrett’s voice.
I feel hurt and rejected, my hopes for our future sinking. Barrett loves me, but he also loves his parents. Can he stand firm against their disapproval? I wish I could sneak out the back door and run away. Instead, I paste an artificial smile on my face and walk into the parlor.
* * *
An hour later, Barrett and I are riding toward Whitechapel on top of an omnibus. Icy wind swirls the fog around our open-air seats. My head aches from the strained atmosphere at his parents’ house and my effort to pretend everything was fine. Barrett, slumped beside me, massages his temples. I take a deep breath, preparing to break the silence that’s as thick as the fog. I should tell him about Mrs. Fry’s tip. It will be in the morning paper, and surely Sir Gerald won’t mind if Barrett hears of it a few hours early. But that’s not what comes out of my mouth.
“If we were to break up, that would kill two birds with one stone.”
Barrett turns to me, confused. “What are you talking about?”
“You could mend fences with Inspector Reid, get promoted, and please your parents.” My voice cracks. “Or does that count as three birds?”
“Sarah. I’m not going to throw you over just to make Reid happy and get ahead.” Barrett’s voice is irate, emphatic. “And what have my parents got to do with it, anyhow?”
“They didn’t like me.”
“They did like you,” Barrett says, as if trying to convince both of us. “It just takes them time to warm up to new people.”
“They think I’m too plain and stand-offish and I don’t deserve to be your wife.” The humiliation stings.
“You heard what they said? Oh, God, I’m sorry.” Then his eyebrows draw together into a suspicious frown. “Were you spying on us?”
“No!” I’m offended that he should accuse me, the injured party.
Barrett shakes his head in disbelief. “Of all the sneaky things!”
Everything that’s happened today is suddenly too much. My temper snaps. “That’s the pot calling the kettle black. Don’t you think it was sneaky not to tell your family anything about me and then drop me on them without warning me to expect questions?”
Barrett has the grace to look ashamed. “I’m sorry. But I knew they wouldn’t—”
A fireball of anger with hurt at the core grows in my chest as I complete his sentence. “You knew they wouldn’t approve of my looks, the work I do, or how I live.”
“No.” His expression says yes.
“And you figured I could make up lies about myself that they would like better than the truth.”
“That’s not it. I thought you would—well, just bend the truth a little.”
“What’s the difference between that and lying? You want me to be honest with you but to keep secrets from your parents.” I’m shamefully glad that the shoe is on the other foot. His behavior doesn’t justify my past treatment of him, but I can’t help feeling that it should. “You’re just as dishonest as you think I am.”
Barrett looks contrite. “Sarah, I said I’m sorry. Let’s not quarrel.”
“That’s what people say when they’re losing an argument. Well, I’m not finished.” I’m in serious danger of saying something I’ll regret, but my temper overpowers me, and my hurt fuels its flame. “You knew that if you introduced me to your parents, I would make a bad impression. You brought me anyway.”
Now his eyes flare with a temper as hot as mine. “Well, if you insist on arguing, you could have tried to make a better impression. But you didn’t try. You were stiff and cold, and you didn’t even pretend to like them. So if they don’t like you, it’s your own fault.”
His words sting like a slap across the face. They’re true, never mind that the circumstances weren’t conducive to my being my most likeable self. A lump rises in my throat. Fear, pain, and anger override my inhibitions. “I suppose you’re happy that I made a bad impression. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Of course not. What the devil are you talking about?”
“It’s not only your parents who think I’m not good enough. So do you.”
“That’s nonsense!”
Is Barrett telling the truth or trying to spare my feelings? “If your parents don’t like me, it gives you an excuse.”
“Excuse for what?”
“To end it between us.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize that they hint at the reason I’ve been so reluctant to meet his family and confront my deepest fear—that Barrett will leave me. And when he does, it won’t be due to my lack of honesty; it will be because I’m not good enough in all the ways that a man wants a woman to be good.
My mother was right when she said that no one would ever want to marry me.
The omnibus stops on Whitechapel Road. I have to get away from Barrett before I start crying. As I falter down the staircase, he calls, “Sarah! Wait!”
I run to the studio, and he catches up with me before I can unlock the door. Lights shine in the upper windows; Hugh, Mick, and Fitzmorris must be home. Barrett seizes my shoulders. “I don’t want to end it.”
My ears are ringing with my desperation to escape. I can’t tell whether he’s being sincere or not. I twist to avoid his gaze.
“Sarah, look at me.”
In some deep, buried part of me, I understand that I’m trying to make Barrett leave me now, to self-fulfill the prophecy—better than waiting in dread for the inevitable to happen. My traitorous body overcomes my will. I turn and see that his expression is drained of hostility, filled with urgent pleading. “Sarah. I love you.”
He kisses me so hard that his lips crush mine. I resist; I don’t want him to let me down easily by making love to me before he tells me it’s over.
Barrett pulls back but holds my shoulders tight. He looks straight into
my eyes and says in a quiet, intense voice, “You’re good enough for me. You’re more than good enough. You’re better than I deserve.”
I want to believe him. He kisses me, and this time I melt against him, soothed by the warmth of our desire. When we pause to catch our breath, Barrett whispers, “Don’t worry about my mother and father. Things will work out.”
I smile, but I doubt that I can counteract his parents’ bad first impression of me. Even if I exert myself to be friendly, I can’t change my looks, and my background, work, and manner of living are all black marks that they’ll find out about sooner or later.
It’s only when we’ve parted, when I’m telling Hugh and Mick about Mrs. Fry, that I realize I forgot to tell Barrett.
CHAPTER 16
The next morning, Hugh and Mick and I run outside and buy a copy of the Daily World. We eagerly read the front-page story while standing in the cold, foggy street. The headline reads, “Did the Baby Butcher Get Away with Murder?” Below Malcolm Cross’s byline, the illustration shows a dark, sinister scene of Amelia sneaking out of Newgate Prison at night. “Only seven people know the truth!” declares the line above a row of portrait sketches. They’re not captioned, and the faces are blank, but one is a woman. One of the men sports a doctor’s white coat, another a minister’s collar. The sheriff’s jeweled brooch adorns the last. The line below the sketches reads, “One was Harry Warbrick, the hangman, murdered the seventh of January.”
“Bloody hell,” Mick says.
“This is already causing a flap,” Hugh says.
Newsboys invisible in the fog shout, “Amelia didn’t hang!” “She’s still alive!” “Read all about it!” I hear our neighbors buying papers, chattering and exclaiming. The story is already being exaggerated, and Mrs. Fry’s allegations bandied about as though they’re facts.
“The article is risky stuff even for the Daily World,” Hugh says. “It virtually accuses the witnesses of subverting justice and covering it up.”
The watchmaker from the shop next door joins us. “Miss Bain, is this you?” He holds up a copy of the Daily World and points at the text.
We take a second look at our copy, and my own name leaps out at me. I read aloud, “ ‘Last night our reporter, Miss Sarah Bain, received a shocking tip from an anonymous source who claims that Amelia Carlisle was never hanged and was instead smuggled out of Newgate Prison alive.’ ” Alarm stuns me. “Malcolm Cross used my name!”
“You’re famous! I can say I knew you when.” Chuckling, the watchmaker returns to his shop.
“That scum Cross is tryin’ to get you in trouble,” Mick says.
If the story isn’t true, I’ll take the brunt of the repercussions even though it wasn’t my decision to print the story.
“A pox on Cross,” Hugh says. “I should have knocked his block off the other day.”
“At least we found out early,” Mick says. “You have time.”
I’m so rattled, I don’t understand what he means. “Time for what?”
“To get lost before Inspector Reid comes after you.”
Reid will be angry at me for not reporting Mrs. Fry’s tip to the police and for the article that puts the entire justice system in a bad light. But he’s not the person whose reaction I fear most. “I have to tell Barrett,” I say.
“Don’t go near the police station,” Mick says. “Reid might be there.”
“Barrett will have seen the paper already,” Hugh says.
I should have told him yesterday, but I was distracted by our argument. Now he’ll think I deliberately kept him in the dark. “I need to apologize.”
“Do it later,” Mick says. “Why don’t you look for your father some more?”
“Good idea. Make yourself scarce until Reid and Barrett have cooled down,” Hugh says.
I doubt that they’re going to cool down any time soon. “But we have to investigate Mrs. Fry’s story.”
“Mick and I will do it,” Hugh says. “Go!”
* * *
Before my father disappeared, my family lived in Clerkenwell, about two miles northwest of Whitechapel. I’ve been back only once since then, in 1888, to seek clues to my father’s whereabouts. All I learned was that Ellen Casey’s family still believes he murdered her, and so do the other local folks who remember the crime. There seemed nothing for me in Clerkenwell, but now I have new reason to go back. Now I’m on a hunt for Lucas Zehnpfennig. He and my father crossed paths in Clerkenwell, a logical starting point for my search.
I exit the underground train at Clerkenwell station. The day is so cold that my numb nose can barely smell the yeast and sugar from the breweries. Wagons and carriages skid on frozen puddles in the misnamed, long, paved expanse of the Green, and icicles hang from the eaves of shops and houses. A new sense of purpose arms me against nostalgia and fear, as do the modifications I’ve made to my appearance. This morning I raided the props cupboard in my studio, and instead of my usual plain bonnet, I’m wearing a hat made of indigo velvet, trimmed with blue silk roses, whose little black net veil obscures my face. A blue wool cape covers the top of my gray coat, and I carry a tapestry bag instead of my usual satchel. I feel as if I’m dressed for a masquerade, but there should be little chance of anyone recognizing me as Sarah Bain, daughter of the prime suspect in Ellen Casey’s murder.
Walking along the Green, I avoid the Crown Tavern, where my father once drank with his friends. The last time I went inside was the day before my mother told me my father was dead. I’d gone there to look for him every day for the several weeks he was missing. Loath to revisit the scene of my lost hope, I head for the few shops I remember from my childhood—a clockmaker’s, a confectioner’s, and a jeweler’s, wedged between new warehouses and factories. I peer in the window of the clockmaker’s. The men at the workbenches are all strangers, Jews with beards and skullcaps; the shop has changed hands. At the confectioner’s, the man behind the counter is too young to have known people from my father’s time. But the jeweler polishing his glass case of baubles is Mr. Sanders, still here though now ancient. As I enter his shop, the bell tinkles, and he looks up.
“Good morning,” he says. “May I help you?”
I’m glad he doesn’t seem to recognize me. “Yes. I’m looking for a man named Lucas Zehnpfennig.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve never heard of anyone by that name.”
My query produces the same results at other shops and from people on the streets. Now that I’m chasing the past instead of vice versa, it’s eluding me like a will-o-the-wisp. An hour later, I’m standing outside the Crown Tavern, which occupies the ground floor of a three-story brick building on a corner of the Green. A new sign decorates it, and the frontage that surrounds the windows gleams darkly with fresh varnish, but when I open the door, I smell the familiar odors of tobacco smoke, ale, and the spiced pickles that the publican’s wife used to serve. The Crown’s interior is little changed, the walls paneled with wood that’s stained the same deep brown shade as the bar and furniture. I’m suddenly ten years old again. My heart pounds, and a familiar flood of hope, fear, and desperation makes me feel faint. I look toward the back table where my father and his friends used to sit. It’s vacant. Some dozen customers are having an early lunch of ale, bread, and cheese. On unsteady legs, I approach the only two women, both in their sixties, seated together.
“Good morning.” I nearly blurt the words I spoke the last time I was here: Have you seen my father? His name is Benjamin Bain. He’s lost. “May I have this seat?” I gesture toward the empty bench at their table and sit before they can refuse.
One of the women is lanky and gaunt, her nose curved downward and her chin jutting up. She’s dressed in a black cloak and bonnet that add to her witch-like appearance. The other has a soft, plump face and body and a toothless, caved-in mouth. She wears a green knitted shawl.
“My name is Catherine Staunton.” I say the false name with as much nonchalance as I can manage. “I’m a newspaper reporter.” I pull the noteboo
k and pencil out of my bag and hold them up.
“Are there lady reporters now?” The witch’s genteel voice is oddly familiar.
“Some.”
“What paper?” the plump woman asks.
“The Daily World. I’d like to interview you. May I buy you a drink?”
They accept, and I walk up to the bar. The publican is Mr. Aldrich, with the same curly mustache and red, cheerful face I remember, looking the same age as he was twenty-four years ago. I’m so astonished that when he asks me what I want, I stammer. Then I recall that Mr. Aldrich had a son; this must be him. I’m still shaken as I fish money from my pocketbook. The three glasses of ale slosh in my hands before I set them down on the table. Resuming my seat and struggling to compose myself, I open my notebook.
“What are your names?”
The women puff up, flattered that a reporter wants to interview them. The witch introduces herself as Agnes Hartwell and her friend as Millicent Johnson. I gulp. I know them! Miss Hartwell was my teacher at the local school; Miss Johnson is the parson’s wife’s sister. I desperately hope they won’t recognize me.
“I’m looking for a man named Lucas Zehnpfennig. Do you know of him?”
Miss Hartwell and Mrs. Johnson furrow their brows as they sip from their glasses. I see the gleam of recognition in their eyes, and my heartbeat quickens. “That’s a name I’ve not heard in a while,” Miss Johnson says.
“Wasn’t he that factory worker who always started trouble during the marches?” Miss Hartwell asks.
“You’re right, Agnes. Always started it, always managed not to get caught. Remember the riot in 1865? He threw rocks at the police. That’s why they broke up the march.”
Miss Hartwell nods. “People were arrested, but not Lucas.”
My father must have organized that march. Was that where he and Lucas became acquainted? Miss Johnson glances at my blank notebook and my pencil gripped in my motionless hand; she wonders why I’m not taking notes. I scribble some nonsense.
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