by Hope Adams
“What’s all that blood?” someone asked.
“None of your business,” Beth said.
“Get back to your beds, you nosy vultures!” Hattie added. “None of you ever seen someone in pain before? Marion’s lost a baby. Now clear off back to where you came from.”
Somewhere in the darkness there would be—Hattie felt sick thinking about it—the remains, however tiny and however awash with his mother’s blood, of a real person. Someone who might have given Marion as much joy as Bertie gave her. No point thinking like that, she chided herself. Get on with the work. Pretend it’s just blood with nothing in it of a child. She looked for Beth and saw her sitting on the edge of her mattress with her head in her hands. The other women had returned to their own bunks.
“Help me with this, Beth.” Hattie spoke as kindly as she could. “No good brooding about poor Marion. She’ll be looked after.”
“I didn’t think of a baby,” said Beth, getting to her feet. “That’s bad. I feel sad for her.”
“Perhaps it’s for the best.” Hattie remembered Miss Hayter’s voice, when she read to them from the Bible, how strong it was. How the fine words had made her feel calmer, even though she found it hard to believe in God as completely as she should. She said to Beth, pretending to be as devout as Miss Hayter, “It was God’s will, Beth. Marion will go to her new life now, without having to worry about caring for another person. She’ll be free.”
“That’s not right. She wouldn’t think like that. What mother thinks of her child as a burden? You don’t, and don’t pretend you do.”
“We’re not talking about Bertie. Or me. World’s not like that. Don’t you know about the women who stick knitting needles and worse into thousands of young girls to rid them of their babies? Or the ones who take away newborns and charge their mothers good money for dosing them with killing drugs or chucking them in the river? I thought everyone knew about things like that, once they were out of the nursery.”
“Course I know.” Beth sounded sulky. “Don’t think Marion’ll see it like that. That’s all I’m saying.”
As they spoke, they rolled items of clothing into a bundle for washing. Hattie hoped Beth wouldn’t ask her what had become of the bloody stuff that at one time held the power to grow into a person. She’d lie. She’d say she didn’t know, though it was probably there, under their hands, bound up in the sheet they were bundling to be rinsed clean in the stinging seawater that flowed past the hull of the ship. The mattress was black with blood and stank of rusty metal. Hattie hoped Mr. Donovan hadn’t forgotten about the sailor he’d promised to send. She pictured him sliding the mattress over the rail and into the sea to float away, the water soaking the drying black stains, so that streams of red drifted into the water. She thought of fish, swimming through smoke-like trails of diluted blood, Marion’s own and that of her growing child.
19
THEN
Cotton piece: white ground with large turquoise spots, ringed with black
April 1841
CLARA
Word has spread: Marion is in the hospital, having lost a baby. If you ask me, the loss was a blessing in disguise: the work I did in my past life has left me thinking that pregnancy is, more often than not, a nuisance—or even a curse. I listen to others talking.
“Mr. Donovan was so kind,” Beth says. “And Hattie went to fetch Miss Hayter. Went right to her cabin. In the middle of the night. In the dark.”
The young ones are sadder than the older women. Izzy Croft and Becky Finch, her constant companion, are sitting together, speaking about it to Rose Manners. Izzy’s in the middle, with Rose on her right, Becky on her left, and Rose’s hand goes often to Izzy’s arm, then her shoulder. She touches Izzy very often and looks at her while she’s speaking. Izzy pretends not to notice the attention but I see her eyes move and I see her smile, and she is falling for Rose. I know the signs. She lights up when Rose says anything, and then she’s brushing some speck of dirt from Rose’s shoulder while Rose preens and twists herself so that she can be closer to Izzy. I watch Becky especially, and she is suffering. Her face is pale and she speaks more to catch Izzy’s attention than because she has anything to say.
“I feel sorry for poor Marion,” she says quietly.
“She’ll leave men alone from now on,” Izzy says. “Learned her lesson.” She giggles. “She’ll have to console herself in other ways.” Rose smiles and leans forward, touching Izzy on the wrist. She whispers something I can’t hear, but Becky clearly does because she draws back as if someone has hit her, gets up and walks away. I watch her dragging her feet, her shoulders bent under a burden of misery I can almost see.
The Newgate Nannies have appeared and taken over the conversation.
“Didn’t even know she was up the duff,” says Selwood.
“She got off easily,” Dwyer says. “I had it harder. Blessing to lose it before it’s born—stops you having to get rid of it after.”
Izzy laughs. “What would you know? No one’d want to touch you, would they? Not if they had eyes in their head.”
Everyone falls silent. How did Izzy dare? Everyone knows Dwyer is not to be crossed. I can tell she’s doing it to impress Rose, to seem brave.
Dwyer turns her wandering eye on Izzy, like a cat considering how exactly to rip off a mouse’s head: slowly or quickly? Then she shivers and seems to think again.
“Wasn’t always a fat old hag, was I? I was young and tasty once, too . . . I had a baby from my grandfather. That’s right. Think of it. My own father’s father. Baby almost killed me coming out. Ripped me apart and I couldn’t even look at it when it was born. My ma and me took it to a woman in Seven Dials. Filthy house. Screaming babies in every room. My poor mother knew the woman and she took my baby without no money. Felt sorry for me, I daresay. Well, she wasn’t the only one. Until you’ve got a child on your hands when you’re not even eighteen and she’s off someone who should’ve protected you from harm, not had his way with you, well, shut your mouth is what I say. You don’t know nothing. Nothing.”
Silence follows Dwyer’s speech. No one can find words to say what they’re feeling. One by one, we return to our bunks. From my mattress, I can see Rose and Izzy, heads together, moving toward the dark corner where Izzy’s berth is. I look for Becky. She’s lying down, her whole body curled away from the light. She’s lost Izzy’s affection, that much is clear. It crosses my mind to get up and speak to her, try to console her, but I don’t move. I think of Dwyer, of all people, using the services of the kind of person I could understand. But women who sought my help came to a pretty, well-kept house. They were treated kindly. They left relieved. That was what I told myself—what I had to tell myself every time some poor creature crossed my threshold. Would these women forgive me if they knew how I’d earned my living? They might. Some might have sought my help. Every one of them is guilty of something but I am guilty of worse, and what I did . . . well, perhaps they would even forgive that terrible thing. Perhaps they would have acted as I did. As I had to act.
20
NOW
7 July 1841
Ninety-three days at sea
“Pass it to me,” Emily said. “I’ll do it. My eyes are better than yours.”
“No, they’re not,” said Dora, a skinny woman with pinched lips and black hair. She was shy, but eager to please. “Just got a bit of something in one of mine, that’s all it is. But here, take it. I don’t mind if you fancy doing a bit of my work for me.”
“She can’t help herself, you know,” Ruth said. “Always helpful, Emily is. Didn’t you notice?”
“What’s wrong with being helpful, tell me that!” An edge of temper had crept into Emily’s voice and she was frowning. “Better than sitting there like a pile of potatoes and doing nothing for no one, like you.”
“Don’t hold with interfering in other folks’ business, that’s all.” Ruth was a
plain, heavy woman, with strong features and thick eyebrows. She didn’t speak much, but when she did, it was often to complain about someone else or something that had struck her as unfair. Now she said, “Trouble with you, Emily, is that you’re too busy currying favor with people. Want them to like you.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” said Emily. “It’s good to be helpful.”
“Well, it’s not done you any harm. Miss Hayter favors you, and you’re helping the children with lessons and that. Not bad for a scrawny baggage like you.”
Emily leaned across and stuck the tip of her needle into Ruth’s hand. Ruth sprang up, letting the work drop from her lap, and slapped her, her palm hardened and coarsened by scrubbing. She had worked for years as a laundress, and the blow left a red mark on Emily’s cheek.
“Shut it, both of you,” said Phyllis. She’d appointed herself a kind of under-matron, ever since the Rajah had left London, just because, in Izzy’s words, she was big and bossy and far too interested in everyone else’s private business. “Sit down, Ruth. Emily, what d’you think you’re doing? As if we need any more trouble on this ship than we’ve got already. A stabbing ain’t enough for you? That it?”
Ruth muttered something that sounded like “Sorry.” She sat down again and turned her attention to her work.
“I forgive you, Ruth,” said Emily, smiling. “I don’t want trouble, not me.”
“Then stop smirking all the time,” Ruth said, but she said it under her breath and there were sailors laughing nearby, a breeze was blowing, and only Sarah heard it and she said nothing.
Emily took up her work again and began to stitch one side of a mostly gray square to one of deepest crimson. As she worked, tears gathered in her eyes, spilled over, and she brushed them away with the back of a hand. Lottie, who always noticed everything and was sitting directly opposite Emily, saw that. “Emily? Why’re you crying?”
“Not crying.”
“You are. Spit it out, woman. What’s wrong with you now?”
“Thinking of my boy.” Emily sniffed. “I’ve stopped crying.”
“Miss him, is it?” Beth asked. “I’m like that. Can’t get over missing some people. I spend hours crying. Every night since we left England I’ve wept into my pillow.”
Ruth smiled and patted Beth’s hand. “God, you’re a lying little bitch, you are! You’re snoring loud enough to wake the dead five seconds after you’ve lain down.”
Everyone laughed at this, and even Beth had to smile. “That’s as may be. I still spend hours shedding tears, I do.”
“I don’t,” said Emily. “I’m not a crier. Not me. But today he would have been four years old. He died.”
The women fell silent. You could make remarks about anything you liked, but a dead child trumped the lot. Silenced everyone. Nothing worse in the world than losing a child. Die a hundred times over, you would, before you chose that for yourself.
“What happened?” It was Marion who asked. She was not very sharp, but she was kind. Small spaces still frightened her, though she’d become sufficiently used to the lower deck not to shriek and moan every time she was shut up on it.
For a few moments, Emily sat stitching. Then she said, “Smallpox,” and continued working without another word.
Marion broke the silence again. “Is that why you like teaching the children?”
Emily looked at her as though she’d taken leave of her senses. “The opposite,” she said at last. “It’s hard for me to be with the little ones so often. It reminds me of my boy. Close to them. With some of them too attached to me, as well. But don’t tell anyone I said that. It’s probably best for me to be among children. The world’s full of them and I have to live in the world, don’t I?” She sighed. “I told Hattie about it, early on. But she promised not to tell . . . and she hasn’t. Not a single one of you knew about him. Not till today.”
Ann said softly, “Where d’you learn to read?”
“Wasn’t always a thief,” Emily answered. “We’re country people. Farmers, my dad and granddad were. My ma wanted me to be a lady’s maid. Sent me to the village school and I learned to read and the teacher liked me. I did well . . . I liked reading. I loved the stories in the Bible. Loved going to church and singing the hymns. Then I fell with child. My ma fought for me to stay at home, but my pa threw me out. Said I’d shamed the family. Choice was sell my body or steal things, so I stole. Good at it, too. Stole anything from stalls that I could and sold it. Then my boy fell sick and died and I lost all my reason. Not enough of a lunatic to be locked up, but the world became full of darkness and horror. Monsters everywhere. That was what I saw. Blood and fire.”
“Oh, that’s sad, Emily,” said Marion, frowning in sympathy and reaching out to touch Emily’s hand. “So sad . . .”
“Well, everyone’s got something, haven’t they? Something bad they’re going away from.”
“We have,” said Joan. “We’ve all got something.”
“Then I say put miserable things out of mind for a bit and think of good things, things we’ll be seeing soon, when we land. England’s gone, hasn’t it? Bad memories should be left behind, too. We’ve got another chance now,” Louisa said. “Truth is, I’m glad to be away from my family.”
“Me, too,” Alice agreed, and everyone laughed.
“Not my ma or sister,” Izzy said, “but some are right horrible and I don’t miss ’em a bit. Glad to be far away from the lot of them.”
“We’re better than family now,” Phyllis said. “All of us doing this together.” She stabbed her needle at the cloth. “Even though you try my patience often enough.”
21
THEN
Cotton piece: Turkey red ground with yellow ferns widely spaced
May 1841
HATTIE
At first Hattie wondered what Emily was doing, peering behind a stack of wooden boxes, then retreating, peering over again—as though she’d lost something and was searching for it. From this distance it was hard to tell what was happening, but as she came closer she heard a child’s voice and Bertie emerged, giggling.
He and the other children were sitting on some wooden crates and boxes that the sailors had found somewhere aboard the ship. They’d brought them into the living quarters and arranged them in a short row in a corner, from which the belongings of several women had been moved, amid much grumbling.
“Oh, shut your noise,” another woman shouted. “You can push the boxes away when they’re not using them. D’you fancy brats running about freely every minute of the day? Let them be schooled while there’s someone crazed enough to try—give the rest of us some peace.”
Some of the children on board the Rajah were too young for lessons. Those little ones clung to their mothers’ skirts, and when their own flesh and blood grew weary of looking after them, plenty of others were willing to cradle and play with them, either because they were missing their own children, or because they’d never had care of an infant for more than a few hours and relished the novelty.
“I don’t mind looking after them, doing lessons with them,” said Emily, who had come up to stand next to Hattie, as the children took their places.
Emily seemed always to be at Hattie’s side. Was she currying favor? She seemed to like Hattie more than any other woman. I was kind to her, Hattie thought. Or perhaps she thinks I’m grand in some way, and wants to be my friend for reasons that have more to do with bettering herself than any real liking.
“I saw at once,” Emily said, “when I spotted you both coming aboard this ship, that the two of you were . . . superior to everyone else. Better. More respectable than most. Prettier than the rest of us. And your Bertie’s a clever child. I could see you were . . .” She searched for the right words. “I could see you weren’t brought low by being among convicts. By being labeled a criminal.”
“Emily,” said Hattie, “you’re very
kind to speak so, but I must correct you. I am a criminal. Unlike many here, I don’t protest my innocence. I’m guilty of the things I was charged with and won’t deny it. And thank you for what you say about Bertie.”
Hattie wouldn’t have confessed it to anyone, but part of the pride she took in Bertie was pride in herself. Her own mother had taught her to read and write, and she was determined that Bertie would have all the advantages she could possibly give him. The Whitings, when she went to work for them, were startled by her proficiency and Hattie felt sure that her education had helped her in life almost as much as her physical charms. She’d always been good at copying the manners of her betters, and the Whitings set a good example in such things. Bertie, she’d been determined from the day he was born, would have every advantage she could give him. The boy knew his numbers and letters, and Hattie had helped him. Looking at his companions fidgeting on the upturned boxes, she felt sure that Emily would find him among the best and most obedient of her pupils.
When she’d left the Whiting house, pregnant and in disgrace, she’d found a room in a huddle of mean dwellings. She had said, to anyone who asked, that she was a widow. There was no one near her who could prove she wasn’t and she was determined that Bertie would never be known as a bastard. She bought herself a cheap wedding ring and told the story of her poor husband’s demise so skillfully and dramatically—he had been ill with a fever that would not abate, in spite of her careful nursing—with so much sighing and looking Heavenwards that no one who saw her felt anything but pity for the pretty redhead with the creamy skin and her even prettier baby.