by Ann Moore
“Ah, you’re a true friend, Danny Young. Come round about seven then, and we’ll go from here.”
“Done!” Danny jumped up from his chair and clapped Sean on the shoulder. “And after, we’ll be making the rounds, eh?”
“Who’s buying?” Sean asked, suspiciously.
“You are, of course. To thank me for supporting you while you give another of your famously long-winded—I mean deeply stirring”—he winked—“speeches about Mother Ireland! See you at seven, boyo, and don’t be holding me up!” He gave a jaunty salute, then worked his way to the front door, slapping the backs of all the old drinkers.
Sean watched him go and thought again how much Grace would like Danny—he was a lot like Quinn Sheehan back home, and Quinn had always been able to make Grace laugh. Grace. His smile faded. He could only hope that William had gotten his letter and had then managed to find Grace and Mary Kate in the midst of chaos. He could only hope they were even now on the ship, drawing closer every day.
He looked down at the papers spread on the table—none of it good news, really. Not about Ireland. “Please, Father,” he silently prayed, “deliver them safely. And if it’s not too much trouble, Lord, would You include McDonagh in that bargain, as well?”
He closed his eyes briefly and for a moment caught a glimpse of Grace dancing with Morgan at their brother’s wedding a lifetime ago— fiddler in the corner, neighbors crowded up against the walls, glasses full of poteen and punch, children running in and out, tinkers leaning in at the windows—and he was filled with a longing so sharp that it made him wince and clutch his chest. He opened his eyes then and looked out the smeary window as he did a thousand times a day, hoping beyond hope to see her face but seeing instead only the dark, forbidding sky of winter.
Four
“ABSOLUTELY not! You’re not going!” Julia paced the room angrily.
“Well, I’m not asking your permission now, am I?” Grace put her satchel on the bed and opened it up.
“It’s madness—that’s what it is!” Julia threw up her hands. “Sheer madness! You’ve had some kind of a breakdown.”
“I feel better than I have in some time,” Grace told her. “I’m awake now somehow.”
“I should never have brought Aislinn here,” Julia muttered, still pacing. “Damn her. Damn her! How could she even suggest this? You’re not going, and that’s final.”
“I am going, and that’s final. The question is, will you help me or not?” Grace put her hands on her hips.
“I won’t,” Julia said stubbornly. “I will not stay here and watch your child while you go off to prison—something I’m trying to keep you out of, by the way—to see Lord David Evans, the most carefully guarded man in bloody England!”
“Come along then, why don’t you?” Grace winked at her daughter, who sat soberly on the bed, holding her doll and watching the exchange. “Mary Kate would like to see London, won’t you, love?”
Mary Kate nodded obediently.
“Oh, bloody hell. Excuse me,” Julia said to Mary Kate, whose eyes had gone wide. “Just tell me why, then. Why, in God’s name, you’d take a risk like this after all we’ve been through.”
“There is no risk,” Grace said confidently. “If we’re caught—and they’ve been doing this for years, mind you—it’s a fine to pay, perhaps a night in jail.”
“What if you’re discovered?”
“The guards don’t even know I’ve left Ireland,” Grace said. “They’re not looking for me here.”
“Yet,” Julia added.
“Aye. And that’s why we’ve got to do it now. Besides, we sail in four days. That’s barely enough time as it is.”
“I’m fond of David, as well, you know. He’s an old friend. I should go in your place. That’s it!” Julia jabbed her finger in the air. “I’m going!”
Grace shook her head. “Not this time. You’ve got to look after Mary Kate. ’Tis my only chance.”
“But why?”
“I’m not debating it with you, Julia, for sure and I’ll lose. I’ve got my reasons. The dying are close to God, you know—they have things to tell us.” She paused, then lowered her voice. “Morgan died all alone, with no thanks nor words of love from anyone. If he were here, he’d find a way to see the man who had saved his life more than once.” She crossed her arms defiantly. “And so I’m going. With or without you.”
Julia let out an exasperated sigh. “You’re just like him, you know. So noble it makes me ill.”
Grace smiled despite herself. “You’ll come, then?”
“All right, all right.” Julia pulled out the tidy notebook in which she kept her endless lists. “Where exactly are we going, by the way?”
“Number Twenty-seven St. Martin’s Place,” she said. “Molly’s Dance Hall for Gentlemen.”
“Oh, Lord,” Julia groaned.
London was far busier even than bustling Liverpool, and Julia—used to rubbing the occasional elbow in higher society—found herself intimidated by the sight of such handsome carriages, riders in full dress on horseback, gentlemen in afternoon clothes tipping their hats to magnificent ladies in flounced skirts and fitted jackets under warm woolen cloaks, their own hats sailing jauntily atop hair that had taken most of the morning to arrange. They were near Hyde Park, and despite the chill weather, ladies and gentlemen were out walking in anticipation of the lavish teas that awaited their return. Julia frowned and attempted to tame her own wild hair, which had been hastily pinned by candlelight the day before.
“Underneath all their finery, they’ve worries same as us,” Grace said quietly, watching her friend.
“I somehow doubt that any of them are planning to break into prison tonight as prostitutes,” Julia muttered.
Grace laughed and wrapped an arm around Mary Kate, giving her a squeeze. “Ah, well, you may be right about that. So what do you think of this great London Town, then, wee girl?”
Mary Kate pinched her nose and wrinkled her face so intensely that both women had to laugh.
“Too many carriages and not enough shovels.” Grace dropped a kiss on the top of her daughter’s head.
The smell of the bigger cities was something none of them was used to—the sulfurous bite of coal dust in the back of the throat; the sharp, earthy smell of horse manure piled along every street; the rank rot of offal from the butchers and fish slime from the market stalls; human waste from back-alley privies. All of this fouled the air when it was warm, or ran together in the streets when it rained, creating a dark, dank liquid that splashed up on the walkways and clung to carriage wheels, boot heels, and cloak hems. No one seemed to notice; no one seemed to care—it was simply the way things were.
Having at last reached the crowded station, they disembarked from the carriage, collected their bags, and ventured into the street to hire a cab. The driver gave them a curious look when Julia—not wanting to be dropped at a house of ill-repute—gave him instead the address of a place she hoped would be nearby, but he delivered them in short order. They sat for a moment and watched as finely dressed men passed through the doors of a stately building, nodding jovially to one another, pausing to place a gloved hand upon the arm of a friend, the shoulder of a colleague, exchanging polite greetings and the latest news. They suddenly understood the look of the driver—Number One was the West End Gentlemen’s Club.
They paid him and waited until he was out of sight, then walked quickly up the avenue away from Number One. As they traveled the long blocks, hedges inside each wrought-iron fence grew sparse and the fences themselves showed a need of repair and paint. Grounds were not manicured and ornamented in a style that reflected the owners’ good taste, but had become nearly anonymous—still tended, but not by personal gardeners. Draperies were more often drawn, adding to the blank look of the houses, and the houses themselves appeared to have been divided into smaller residences as evidenced by the numbering—10A, 10B, and even 10C. Darkness fell and flakes of snow clung to their cloaks.
Numb
er 27 St. Martin’s Place still remained whole and undivided—at least from the outside—though its lower floor windows were covered and its entrance nondescript. The neighborhood, by this time, was most definitely questionable, and the women approached cautiously, pausing at the alley that separated 26 from 27.
“This way,” Julia directed, eyeing the narrow, unlit passage that stank of garbage and human waste.
She led them carefully down the way until they reached a blue door with a small, black letter M on it. Julia knocked. It was a long minute before the peephole slid open and a bloodshot eye looked them over.
“We’re expected,” Julia said quickly. “Let us in.”
The peephole slid closed and the door opened, held by a chain.
“Who be you?” growled the large, grizzled woman who guarded it.
Julia hesitated. Only Molly knew their names. “Old friends of Molly’s from Liverpool,” she said, affecting a poor Cockney accent.
A trio of men lingered at the entrance of the alley, silhouetted in the lamplight, nodding their heads at one another, then starting down.
“You don’t look like no friends of the Mistress.” The woman eyed them warily. “Maybe you be church folk or some such thing.”
“Ha!” Julia forced a laugh. The men had quickened their pace. “By God, woman, open this door or Molly will have your head!”
That did it. The door slammed shut, the chain rattled, and in they slipped, chased by disgruntled catcalls.
Grace let out her breath and gripped Mary Kate’s hand, unsure of what they might witness now they were inside. The room was lit with red lamps; on the walls were large portraits of reclining women in various stages of undress. For once, Grace was glad of Mary Kate’s shyness and the eyes glued to the floor.
Their guide led them down a long hallway carpeted with a thick Turkish runner; flickering candles behind opaque sconces lit their way. On either side, heavy wooden doors barely muffled the sounds of guests at play—the bursts of laughter and mock shrieks of the ladies, the low commanding voices of the men. Grace stayed in the very center of the hallway, praying no one would exit as they passed.
“That way leads to the entertaining room, where the gentlemen and ladies meet one another,” offered the guide. “Upstairs is more private rooms for cards and such.”
“And such,” Julia whispered, nudging Grace. They shared a wide-eyed look of disbelief—they were in one of London’s most notorious whorehouses.
“And this be where the Mistress lives.” Their guide rapped on a gilt paneled door before pushing it open, then leaving them on their own.
“At last!” A commanding woman dressed snugly in a low-cut green gown swept across the room to greet them. “Molly O’Brien. So glad you’ve arrived safely.”
“Julia Martin.”
“Welcome. And this must be our Missus McDonagh.”
“Aye.” Grace put out a hand, which Molly took in both of hers. “Thank you for agreeing to this.”
“’Tis an honor in a profession that rarely allows for such.” Molly looked down at Mary Kate. “And how grand to have a wee one for company this evening. What’re you called, then, child?”
“Mary Kate,” came the brave answer.
“I am Miss Molly. And you must be starved. Let’s go in by the fire and have our tea, shall we? Do you like buttered scones and jam?”
Mary Kate nodded and allowed herself to be led into the sitting room, where an old woman with ivory hair presided over the tea table.
“Here they are, Gran. This is young Miss Mary Kate.”
“How do you do?” The old woman nodded her head formally.
“This is my grandmother, Mary Kate,” Molly explained. “She’s a lovely collection of dolls. You wouldn’t be the kind of girl likes dollies, would you, now? Because I know she’d like to show them off.”
Mary Kate nodded shyly, then spoke to the old woman. “I have one,” she said softly.
“Do you, now? And what’s she called?”
“Blossom. Gran made her.”
“Is your gran in Ireland, then?”
Mary Kate shook her head. “Gran’s in Heaven.”
The old woman reached out and took the little hand, rubbing her thumb across the child’s smooth skin. “I’ll show you my dolls after tea, and you must introduce me to your Blossom.”
They ate their buns and drank their tea—more hungry than they’d realized—and then the old woman took Mary Kate by the hand again and led her away, the girl smiling anxiously at Grace over her shoulder.
“We are contained here,” Molly assured. “Gran never goes beyond these rooms.”
“Does she know …?”
“Oh, aye.” Molly laughed. “I couldn’t run the place without her. She’s quite a head for numbers. Ran my grandda’s dry goods shop in Limerick half her life.”
“But how does she … isn’t she … alarmed by it all?” Julia asked.
“The two of us have survived more than you’d think there was to survive. We find it peaceful here, to be honest.”
“It’s a hard living, though, isn’t it?”
“Well, it’s not as though I expect her to earn her keep each night.” Molly laughed, but her eyes were serious. “Do I look that hard to you?”
“No,” Grace put in quietly. “Forgive us, Missus O’Brien. We’d no idea what to expect, but sure and it wasn’t a lovely woman, kind and well-spoken, living in comfortable rooms with her old granny!”
“I am sorry,” Julia added. “We’re ever so grateful to you, and here I’ve put my foot in my mouth as usual.”
“Nice trick, that,” Molly said with a straight face. “Popular with them come back from the Far East. You could make a nice wage here.”
Julia’s mouth fell open, but Molly had already turned to Grace.
“You should have no problem tonight. This won’t be the first time Lord Evans has received a visit from one of my girls.” She paused. “Does that change your opinion of him?”
“Nothing could do that.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance you’re going to get him out of there?” Molly asked, the smallest note of hope in her voice.
“No.” Grace sighed. “Though I wish with all my heart I had a plan such as that.”
Molly nodded, grimly. “So do we all. We even considered putting him in a dress—bringing him out that way—but the guards check the cells before they release the girls, and Lord Evans’ escape would mean prison for us all.”
“Aislinn said as much. She could only promise me a way to see him, not to save him.”
“She’s done well for herself. I’m glad of that. Her downfall wasn’t much different from my own.” Molly stood and poured out the last of the tea. “I’ll have something stronger waiting for you when you get back,” she said. “But best keep your wits about you till then.”
Grace agreed, though the thought of a little courage was tempting.
“Who are the others going tonight?” Julia asked.
Molly shrugged. “All Irish, this bunch. Just regular girls. Down on their luck, one way or another.” She sipped her tea. “There’s the odd one or two comes to it by choice, for the freedom of it more than anything else. They make a good wage, have a good time, live safer here than on the streets. If they’re smart and put a bit by, they can ‘retire,’ as we say—go off where no one knows them and take up life as a widow woman of independent means. A few marry, though some would say that’s still work.” She winked. “Speaking of which, it’s time to get you dressed, Missus McDonagh.” She stood and crossed the room, calling over her shoulder, “This way, ladies. The night is young.”
Grace and Julia exchanged a wide-eyed look, then set aside their teacups and followed their hostess toward the sound of clinking glasses and laughter.
An icy drizzle tore holes in the smoke and fog, chilling Grace to the bone when she stepped out of the cab. They had been driven around back of a low stone warehouse; the door stood ajar, and a man with a lant
ern motioned them to hurry. Grace covered her hair and face with her shawl, then followed the other girls into the cavernous room, where the guard looked them over thoroughly, lifting his lantern up and down, pausing to squint at Grace.
“’Aven’t seen this ’un ’ere afore,” he said, stepping closer.
A girl called Big Red linked her arm through his and pulled him close to her.
“Sure and you have, Bill,” she teased. “You’ve seen us all one way or another, haven’t you, then?” She winked coyly and kissed his neck.
“Aye, Bill, ’tis Bridey the new girl, been down a while, but better now, aren’t you, love?” A pale, dark-haired girl dressed in lush purple moved closer to Grace, rubbing her hands briskly. “We’ll all be down if we stand here in this freezing warehouse any longer.”
“Unless you want to warm us up yourself,” Big Red offered, pushing her ample bosom against Bill’s chest.
He grunted and pulled away, disconcerted by their flirting. “Maybe after,” he said gruffly. “Time to go now. An’t got all night.”
He snaked them through the piles of wooden crates and bound trunks to the far end of the warehouse; there, a small door opened to reveal steps down to a delivery tunnel that would take them into the prison kitchens.
They followed him single file, skirts clutched in gaudily gloved hands, thinly shod feet stepping carefully around puddles and muck. In the enormous kitchen, they were turned over to another man, who held a long boning knife in his hand; Bill handed him the lantern, the light of which now spilled across a grimy white apron smeared with blood.
The girls knew the routine and nodded to the butcher as he, too, looked them over, thick lips moving as he counted them off. Satisfied, he motioned with the knife for them to fall in behind him.
Grace’s heart was pounding and she felt exposed in the thin red dress that revealed all of her neck and shoulders, and most of her bosom. She had a shawl of brightly colored silk, but the feel of it against her bare skin only served to remind her of how uncovered she truly was. The other girls had done a good job dressing her, and glancing at them, she knew she looked the part—her hair was pinned so that strands fell down around her neck, her cheeks glowed with rouge over white powder, her eyes were lined with kohl, and a beauty patch had been placed just above the corner of her lip. Her teeth were white behind the red paint, and long earbobs had been screwed into her lobes. Over everything was splashed a heady perfume that renewed itself whenever Grace moved.