Dangerous Women

by Hope Adams

  Hattie had realized long before Bertie was born that men would come to her assistance. They couldn’t help it. She’d seen the effect her bosom—often displayed to show promise of better things to come—had on even the most level-headed of them. Patrick Sheenan was far from level-headed. Hattie had agreed to accept his offer so that she might move from the hovel in which she was living, but soon regretted it. She might have been willing to put up with his boorishness, drunkenness and even betrayal, but not his unkindness to Bertie. At first, it was only remarks. Patrick called him names like “brat” and “worm,” but one night he told Hattie that Bertie should be sent away.

  “Where would he go?” Hattie was aghast. She would have picked Bertie up and fled the house then and there, except that she was almost naked and the night outside was freezing and wet.

  “To my mother’s house, in Suffolk.”

  There were no words Hattie could find to express what she felt. It was as though a huge stone had been placed on her heart, to weigh it down and hurt it. At last she said, “He’s never met your mother. I’ve never met your mother.”

  “She’s a bit of a hag, to be honest,” said Patrick, “but kind at bottom. And a very good cook.”

  He fell asleep then and was soon snoring. He had, Hattie knew, drunk enough beer to lay him out till late the next day. She stared into the dark, wide awake and planning. Before dawn, she rose from the bed, dressed quickly, picked Bertie up, swaddled in his bedclothes, and bundled him under her arm as she let herself silently out of the house. He was grizzling a little but that was one noise she knew would not trouble Patrick or wake him. He was deaf to any sound that came from a child. Once she was out of the house with Bertie, she fled, as quickly as she could.

  Before she’d left the bedroom, she’d had the presence of mind to empty Patrick’s pockets of every coin that was stuffed into them. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to find a room in another part of London. Patrick won’t bother to look for us, she told herself. He’s too lazy. He’ll find another woman soon enough. And if he does come after me, I’m ready for him. She’d used part of her stolen money to buy a small, sharp knife and knew with some certainty that she’d be quite capable of using it in defense of her precious child.

  Now, not wanting Bertie to be distracted by her attention, Hattie sat down, took out her knitting and began to work on a sock, pretending she was not listening to what Emily was saying. She felt flattered to be so admired by the woman, but it was tiring. There’s no real harm in her, she thought, and I shouldn’t be so uncharitable.

  Emily was telling the children the story of Noah’s ark. “And the waters rose and Noah called the animals, every one, and they came and lined up on the shore and went into the ark, two by two. Elephants and lions and tigers and dogs and cats and horses and chickens and every single other creature you can think of . . .”

  “Flies, Miss,” said one child.

  “Fleas,” said another.

  “Rats,” said Bertie, and Emily held up her hand for silence.

  “Yes indeed, all of those. And the animals lived on the lower decks.”

  “Like us!” Bertie cried.

  Emily smiled. “Very like us, Bertie. When everyone was safely aboard, the Flood came . . .”

  Hattie stifled a yawn. It was muggy on the lower deck, and last night she’d hardly slept. She allowed herself to drowse and the needles fell from her hands. She woke only when Bertie shook her arm.

  “Wake up, Mama,” he said. “I’ve learned a new story. About a man called Noah. And Emily can cluck just like a chicken. They had chickens on the ark, you know. Emily, show her!”

  Emily was standing behind Bertie with a hand on his shoulder. “Another time, Bertie. Another time.”

  Bertie wandered away, and Emily sat down beside Hattie.

  “He’s a very sharp little boy,” she said. “Perhaps you’ve taught him a lot yourself.”

  “I’ve tried. I learned my letters from my ma when I was a very small girl and, more than anything, I want Bertie to read and learn, and be”—she hesitated—“better than me. I want him to do well.”

  “He will, I’m certain.” She leaned forward and touched Hattie’s hair. “He’s fortunate in his mama. Such hair!”

  When she was a girl, Hattie sometimes wondered why people exclaimed over her hair and pronounced her pretty. Others shunned her on account of it, calling her a “witch’s brat” and worse. By the time she was twelve, she was used to the remarks that came her way, whether unkind or admiring. Now she said to Emily, “When I was a girl I longed for golden hair. Kitty would have grown up to be fair, I’m sure . . .”

  “Kitty?” Emily asked quietly, sitting down beside her, ready to listen.

  As she answered, Hattie reflected that it was years since she’d spoken of her. “My sister, much younger. Ma called her ‘a mistake’ and I cried when I heard her say that. How could such a pretty baby be a mistake?”

  “Many of us are. I was . . . and my mother never let me forget it. Never loved me properly. I think many mothers are less loving than they might be. That’s what I’ve learned.” Emily was frowning. “They don’t realize what they have. Also, for how short a time. Children leave you.”

  Hattie nodded. “They do. You know it, more than most. Ma couldn’t care for Kitty. There were so many of us . . . four children and my father good for nothing but drinking money away . . . Oh, I suppose she acted for the best but I couldn’t bear it. Saying good-bye to Kitty.”

  Emily turned a little toward Hattie. “Good-bye?”

  “We gave her away.”

  “To a relation?”

  “No . . . not a relation. A woman south of the river.”

  “Who was she?”

  Hattie shook her head. “I don’t know. A woman who helped anyone in trouble. Ma said Kitty’d be well taken care of. We were told she’d be given to a lady who couldn’t have children of her own. Grow up to be rich and well dressed, sent to school and fed. All the things Ma feared she’d not be able to give her . . . She told me on the way home. ‘It’s a chance for Kitty, don’t you see? To be something. Something better.’ I didn’t understand. I cried every night for a month, but in the end, you have to stop, for it’s doing no good. But I don’t forget her.”

  In sympathy, Emily put a hand on Hattie’s arm. “I’ll ask God to look after her, your sister.”

  “That’s kind of you.” Hattie was trying to smile, though this talk of Kitty had opened a wound in her heart: a wound that Bertie’s presence eased a little. Since his birth, something like a scab had grown over the place where memories of Kitty used to be. Hattie could go for days without feeling sad, but when she began to remember, the pain was as fresh as if her little sister had been given away yesterday.

  They’d gone to the house in the rain. The parlor there was much grander than Hattie was used to. A big oil lamp with flower patterns etched on the glass that surrounded the flame stood on a table next to a sofa covered with dark green plush. The woman was dressed in a day gown with lace at the collar and cuffs. She wore an elaborately patterned Indian silk shawl that shone where the light caught it. The curtains were drawn . . . It must have been afternoon. November—Hattie remembered treading on golden leaves on the way home. Ma had been silent as they strode away through the dark, every lamp in the street lit, but Hattie could tell that each step was hard for her. She’d moved stiffly and kept her eyes fixed on the ground in front of her. She hadn’t said a word to Hattie, not for more than an hour. But Kitty hadn’t seemed to mind being handed over to a stranger. She’d rested in the woman’s arms and smiled up at her.

  “Such a bonny baby,” the woman said. Hattie never did catch her name, or maybe it wasn’t spoken. “You mustn’t worry in the least. I will find her the perfect home. I know of several ladies who’d be only too happy to take her. She’s delightful.” The woman seemed kind and, for a few mom
ents, Hattie was almost comforted. She had fine dark eyes, and her hair was carefully dressed, with curls falling over her left shoulder from a lace cap. She brushed them away from time to time with her left hand in a gesture that seemed to Hattie the height of elegance.

  Kitty, Kittycat, Kitty, Kittycat . . . Hattie repeated in her head, over and over, as she walked. Her mother couldn’t speak aloud and neither could Hattie. If the words were unspoken, maybe the sadness would disappear after a while.

  When they reached home, Ma went immediately to look after the others. Food for everyone had to be prepared and put on the table. The boys never asked about the baby. Truly, they seemed not to see her while she was in the house, so her absence would not be noted. Pa took a bite from the hard end of a loaf, and said only, “Done, is it?”

  “Yes,” said Ma, and that was an end of it.

  No one mentioned Kitty in the house until, just before Christmas, Ma fell ill with a fever and spoke of Kitty often in her delirium, begging Hattie to find her. She promised she would. What else was there to say? Maybe, she thought, the lie would make Ma feel a little better, but it didn’t. She died on Christmas Eve. Ever since, Hattie had detested everything about the festive season.

  “I pray for her, too,” she said to Emily. “And for my mother, who lasted only weeks after she lost her.” She shook her head. “I was soon out of the house, working for a family called the Whitings.” She turned to Emily and smiled. “Then I had Bertie, and now I have someone to love properly as I loved Kitty once. No good, I think, comes from looking back.”

  “That’s true. We must always look forward.” Emily rose from the bench. “We’ll be sewing again soon. I’m happy we’ve both been chosen for the patchwork, aren’t you?”

  Hattie hadn’t given any thought to this but Emily seemed so eager—like a rather ragged dog asking for a pat on the head—that she said, “Yes, indeed.”

  Once she was alone again, Hattie told herself that Emily was being friendly toward her and taught the children well, so it was unkind and uncharitable to think of her as ragged, with untidy hair, some markings from the pox and a smile that revealed uneven teeth. No one could help looking as they did and it was wicked to judge people by their appearance. The Newgate Nannies put it about, for instance, that Emily was sweet on a young sailor called William, who worked in the galley and didn’t look old enough to be away at sea.

  Dwyer had chuckled. “I’m told he peels potatoes and thinks of her.”

  “Maybe,” said Selwood, “he’ll carve her initials on the mast with his knife. Same knife he uses on the potatoes.” The Newgate Nannies had laughed at that.

  Beauty, thought Hattie, must truly be in the eye of the beholder, or half the human race would be quite alone forever. Very few people are lovely.

  22

  NOW

  7 July 1841

  Ninety-three days at sea

  KEZIA

  “Come in, please,” Kezia said, holding the door open, and Emily Paxton stepped into the captain’s cabin. She looked terrified, for no good reason that Kezia could think of. Of course, a certain nervousness before the inquiry panel was understandable, but Emily was very pale and biting her lips. She was someone whose cast of features fell naturally into a rather cowed and sullen attitude, while her extreme thinness and the nervous twisting of her hands didn’t help her to appear innocent. Still, Kezia knew that she was, of all the women, friendliest and closest to Hattie and the one who, everyone agreed, was furthest from where Hattie had lain on the deck.

  “Good afternoon, Emily,” said Kezia. Mr. Davies was writing Emily’s name. Charles and Mr. Donovan had indicated that Kezia should talk to her because she looked so frightened. “Can you tell us why you did not run toward Hattie when she fell?”

  “I was too far away,” Emily answered. “I was nearly at the entrance to our quarters. I turned to go back but the others were already shouting at me to fetch Bertie.”

  She paused and looked at Kezia. “I would have gone to Hattie . . . I couldn’t bear to see her lying there . . .” She wiped away a tear with her sleeve. “I love Hattie, Miss Hayter. She’s my closest friend on this ship.”

  “Thank you, Emily,” said Mr. Davies, looking up from his writing. “May I ask who called to you to fetch Bertie?”

  Emily thought about this for a moment. “I think Sarah was the first. She said, ‘Bertie—go and fetch him. She wants Bertie. Quickly, Emily.’ Then Marion called, ‘She’s crying for Bertie. Get him, Emily!’ So I went. As fast as I could. I ran down there. I did.”

  “And you fetched Bertie?” That was Charles.

  Emily nodded. Mr. Davies put down his pen in a way that made it obvious he was impatient and considered the question ridiculous. Kezia could somewhat understand it. No one had uttered a single word that indicated one of the others was lying. We are, Kezia thought, being thorough and careful. So far, the only doubt was about Hattie’s actual words. Was it possible that she really did say Not Freddie rather than Not ready? She must have known she was in danger of dying and was clinging to her life. Did it matter in any case? Kezia felt increasingly baffled. Maybe someone had been hiding, waiting to attack poor Hattie, someone no one had considered till now. And I’m to blame. May God forgive me.

  23

  THEN

  Cotton piece: geometric groups of four squares in dark blue and red on a drab ground, each set of four squares arranged to form another square

  April 1841

  KEZIA

  All afternoon Kezia had sat with her needlewomen, watching them piecing together triangles of cloth. She listened to their chatter. Beth was talking about her sister, who’d gone to work for a milliner in Edinburgh and found the weather very chilly. Elsie was having difficulty in keeping her stitches small enough and Kezia had helped her to achieve a slightly improved effect.

  They’re becoming a group, she thought, whatever their differences. And there were differences. Some of the women, happy to be doing something useful, enjoyed talking to their companions. Phyllis, Beth, Rose, Hattie, Dora: they were the talkers. Izzy and Rose seemed to be friendlier than usual. Izzy looked at Rose constantly, and it was true that Rose was certainly the prettiest of the women. Beth made a scene of the most trivial pronouncement. Rose could say nothing without taking the Lord’s name in vain or cursing in a way that wouldn’t have disgraced a sailor. Phyllis liked others to follow her suggestions. She had her own way of doing things and tried to impose it; some heeded her, others didn’t.

  “I think we can finish now, everyone,” she said. “Let us put our work away and those who know it can join me in the hymn.”

  Several women were now adding their voices to hers, she noticed, when they bent to pack away their work. Then they stood, with their hands folded over their stomachs and their eyes closed, in imitation of Kezia. She said the prayer she sometimes added at the end of a day’s work: “Lord, we thank you for guiding us in our labors today and pray that you will guard us through the night so that we may continue with it tomorrow. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, amen.”

  Once the wavering chorus of amens was over, Kezia watched them returning to their berths and felt a pang to think of them lying in the near-darkness of the lower deck, while she went to her tidy little cell of a cabin. Whatever efforts the sailors and the women made to keep it clean, the place was still a foul-smelling large box and there was little to be done about it. Prison cells were not fragrant, but this was much worse. Perhaps we’ve all grown used to it, she thought.

  Kezia was making her way along the deck when the captain appeared, walking toward her. “Miss Hayter,” he said, bowing.

  For a few moments, they stood in silence. Kezia searched her mind for a topic of conversation. She was about to ask him to identify a seabird that had flown over them, when he said, “D’you think that the prisoners in your care are by nature bad, or that their circumstances have
led them to crime?”

  Kezia faced him. This was a subject she’d often discussed, and it was close to her heart. “God says we will be forgiven our sins if we repent sincerely. If He can forgive the most terrible sins, then I’m sure we can try to understand lesser crimes. Most of the women below would have been driven to crime by impoverishment, in money and in education. One generation of the poor passes its troubles to the next. A woman steals to feed her children, and if she’s caught, she may be transported. That leaves the children to fend for themselves or be taken into the care of the parish, so they grow up poor, with no instruction to better them.” Kezia stopped. She felt that perhaps she had spoken too frankly.

  She was on the point of apologizing when the captain said, “That’s true. I’ve often noticed it. But do you not think that some people, women as well as men, are born more malevolent than their fellows?”

  “There is the devil to be reckoned with,” Kezia said somberly. “If I believe in good, I must also believe in evil, but I have seldom seen it in my fellow humans. I’ve seen stupidity, poverty, madness, malice and the terrible effects of jealousy, but pure evil? I haven’t seen that.”

  “What about murder? Is that not evil? In all circumstances?” They were leaning over the ship’s rail.

  Kezia paused. “No,” she said at last. “I can think of circumstances in which killing a person might be justified.”

  “Really? You surprise me, Miss Hayter.”

  “I might be kept a prisoner by my husband. I might kill him to escape his treatment of me. No one can tell how they’d behave,” Kezia answered. “It’s hard to imagine the situation, but I’ve seen it. I’ve spoken to women who didn’t have a free moment in their lives. Whose every breath was drawn in fear of the consequences.”