Molly threw the wrapping paper onto the floor, a chilly thanks ready on her lips. It was probably some damned trinket. A ribbon or a hatpin or whatever he thought he could buy her off with.
“Do you like it?”
Nestled against blue velvet sat a large wedge of cheese.
An anger, so hot it boiled, rose inside her, pinking her skin. After everything, after all she’d been through, he was making another joke? She looked to him, eyes furious, awaiting an explanation.
He shrugged. “They were out of Limburger.”
She laughed.
The sound so surprised her that she clapped a hand over her mouth as if she might catch it and shove it back in.
For the first time that morning, Tom gave her a real smile, and in the daylight she could see two dimples bloom like bullet holes around the dangerous gun of his grin.
But just as swiftly, it was gone, disappearing behind the cloud of seriousness he wore like a mask.
“See you tonight,” he said, giving her a curt nod. “And this time, wear a dress you can walk in.”
* * *
Ava was waiting for her at the breakfast table. When she saw Molly, she hurriedly put down the newspaper she’d been reading. Even so, Molly caught a glimpse of the headline.
WOMAN’S DISMEMBERED BODY FOUND IN SCHUYLKILL
“Good morning!” Her aunt seemed transformed, face radiant with cheer. Her smile was so like Ma’s that Molly had to stop herself from reaching out to beg an embrace.
But it was not Ma. Ma, who’d started each day with a song and a kiss for Molly and Da. Ma, who refused to keep the shutters of the farmhouse closed, who danced in the sunlight and laughed as she churned butter and swept the dirt from the floors. Who was so tenderhearted she brushed the spiders into her dustpan and released them outside rather than kill them. As much as Molly might have liked to think Ava’s cheer was because of her, she hardly knew the woman, outside of the fact that she made her living off the misfortune of others.
Hardening herself, Molly sat down at the table.
“Good morning,” she said. Molly tried and failed to hide the rumbling of her stomach. Laid out on the table was a feast—bread and pastries, a side of bacon, two tumblers of fresh milk, and honeyed butter with jam. Fatigue heightened her hunger. She grabbed a toast point and shoved it into her mouth. The salted butter that melted across her tongue was so delicious she had to stop herself from moaning out loud.
“We’ve much to do today.” Ava dabbed her mouth with a delicate linen napkin. She herself had hardly touched the spread. “If you are to start a new life here, we must begin immediately.”
Molly’s heart sank. She had hoped for a morning by herself, time to gather her thoughts. Rest. Perhaps even a chance to sneak into the church and speak to some of the students. Instead, she was to work. “You steal corpses in the daylight?”
Looking amused, Ava raised an eyebrow. “No, something much worse.”
She tensed.
“Today, Molly Green, we must face the living.”
8
The address Ava gave the driver took them to the edge of the city, the carriage wheels slushing through the thick snow. For a horrible moment, Molly had the irrational thought that they were headed to the orphanage, but that turn passed, and she relaxed, sinking against her seat.
“You look tired.” Ava reached across the frigid carriage and pinched Molly’s cheeks.
“Ow!”
“At least you’ve some color.” Her voice was brusque. “These women, they’ll notice things like that.” Molly had borrowed another gown from her aunt. Though it fit better, this one’s muted beige dulled her complexion and made her freckles stand out like a spray of fresh dirt against her skin.
Ava herself looked like a perfectly executed painting, her navy silk dress expertly setting off the ice blue of her eyes.
“What women?”
“We are performing charity. In the company of the illustrious Ladies’ Society for the Improvement of the Poor. Prepare yourself. You must do all you can to convince these people that you belong in their world.”
“What if I don’t?”
Her aunt grew impatient. “There are only three types of ladies, Molly—beauties, victims, and liars. And you’ll never be a beauty.”
Molly flinched and reached up to pat at the awkward curl hanging over her cheek. Maeve had helped her arrange it, but it did little to flatter her face.
Her aunt offered a half smile. “Being plain has its advantages. The adder snake does not announce its presence when entering a nest it means to rob.”
The carriage traveled into West Philadelphia, stopping between Thirty-Fourth and Cleveland, in front of a collection of four imposing brick buildings. The Schuylkill River formed a neat barrier between the large compound and the rest of the city.
“Hurry,” her aunt said as Molly stared, gape-jawed, at the great structure. “They’ll be waiting, the vultures.”
All things considered, Molly thought she’d quite prefer to carry another head.
A stern-looking woman with graying hair and a heavily starched black dress let them inside. “Ladies,” she greeted them politely, but Molly could hear the edge of dislike in her voice as she took in Ava’s silk gown. “The rest of your party are already inside with the children.”
Ava nodded. “Thank you.”
Molly trailed her aunt down the cool corridor. Imposing paintings of past donors lined the walls. The building was tidy and impersonally sterile. It was much nicer than the orphanage where Molly had lived, but she recognized it for what it was immediately—a cage, meant to separate the rich from the sight of the poor.
“This place is called Old Blockley,” Ava said. “Otherwise known as the Pennsylvania Almshouse. Our Visiting Committee does work here once a week. The grounds encompass an asylum, an orphanage, and a poorhouse. It also has a hospital, at which Dr. LaValle and his students volunteer.”
Following her aunt’s sure steps down the hallway, Molly peeked into an open door. Children sat at desks, faces pointed toward the front of the rooms. She felt a pained kinship and tried to catch their attention with a smile, but Ava ushered her on into a smaller classroom at the end of the hall.
The air smelled of cleaning vinegar. A dozen well-groomed ladies sat in a neat circle, hands busily stitching white cloths with embroidery. Orphans in school uniforms sat on the floor, working industriously beside them. Each one of the children wore a green ribbon tied over her eyes.
Before Molly could ask Ava about this peculiarity, one of the ladies spoke.
“You’re late.”
The speaker was an older woman with a thick neck and salt-and-pepper hair, dressed in a teal gown of fine taffeta. Her hazel eyes bored into Molly with insectile precision.
“Mrs. Rutledge.” Ava’s head inclined the barest fraction of an inch.
“Bylaw fourteen of the Ladies’ Society Handbook clearly states that all members of the Visiting Committee are to display promptness in social engagements. An individual’s conduct reflects upon that of the whole.”
“I’m sorry.” Ava did not bother to hide the edge to her apology.
A pretty young lady raised her hand. “Is this one of the charity girls? Aren’t they supposed to be younger?”
“This is my niece, Molly Green,” Ava said, jaw clenched. “She’s new to town. I trust you will all make her feel welcome.”
A snicker.
Ava ignored it and went on. “Molly, this is Mrs. Gloria Rutledge, Mrs. Elvira Richardson, Miss Ursula Rutledge, Miss Cady Rutledge, Miss Clara Appleton, Mrs. Eustace White, Mrs. Camille Edwardson . . .” The introductions went on, too fast for Molly to catch. Each girl in the room nodded as her name was called, each head bowing slightly. Molly felt dozens of curious eyes picking at her like hungry birds. Suddenly the borrowed gown felt too tight, the
ugly curl in her hair as ridiculous as a clown’s painted nose.
These women were like the Hemiceratoides hieroglyphica moths—drinking tears to stay alive.
“We will, of course, have to vote on her membership when the full committee is present,” Mrs. Rutledge said.
“Of course,” Ava allowed.
Sighing, Mrs. Rutledge thrust her embroidery project at Ava. “Here. Take this. I was just teaching the girl”—she nodded her head at one of the children on the floor—“how to finish it.”
“Sophie,” Ava said, supplying the child’s name, and the little girl’s face lit up, the mysterious green ribbon stretching tight across her eyes.
“Yes, yes. Sophie. I was demonstrating the cross-stitch for Sophie.”
Molly looked at the young girl’s lap and saw stitches so neat they might have been drawn on with a ruler, much tidier by far than the large, crooked loops on Mrs. Rutledge’s sampler.
Ava took the cross-stitch and knelt. Sophie’s ribboned face swiveled toward her like a flower to the sun. The little girl was pretty, her brown, curly hair springing loose around her face, but she was so thin that her collarbone poked out of her dress.
“Molly.” Ava waved her over. “Come here and sit with us. Sophie, this is my niece.” Ava handed Molly a small wooden frame with the beginnings of a Bible verse on it. “She’s a terrible seamstress. Perhaps you can teach her?”
The little girl giggled.
Molly sank down gratefully by the child’s side, happy to hide with the orphans on the floor. But even here she could feel the probing stares of the ladies above her, their needles piercing cloth in a cold, constant rhythm.
She was reminded again of the tear-drinking moth, its harpoon-like proboscis. These women might fancy themselves butterflies, but she imagined they were as vicious as any nighttime predator.
Sophie’s hand reached out and then lifted to touch Molly’s face. She was startled, but she remained still as the little girl’s fingers fluttered over her cheeks and nose in light, inquisitive motions.
“You’re blind,” Molly said, surprised.
“And you’re pretty,” Sophie said, her face lit with a smile.
Molly flushed. The child couldn’t know her plainness by touch. “I’m not,” she said. “But it’s kind of you to say so.”
“You are. You just can’t tell.” The little girl sounded sure of herself. “Some people are like that.” Her face clouded. “My friend Janie was pretty. She’s gone now, though.”
“Oh? Where did she go?”
“The teachers say she ran away, but me, I think he got her.”
Molly’s mouth went dry. “Who?”
Sophie’s voice dropped so low Molly had to lean forward to hear her.
“The devil,” she whispered. “He’s come to Philadelphia.” Her entire body began to quiver.
“Here, now.” Molly took hold of Sophie’s shoulders, squeezing them gently. Slowly, the girl’s breathing steadied. “I’m making a mess of my cross-stitch,” Molly said. “Perhaps you can help?”
At the front of the room, Mrs. Rutledge cleared her throat. Pulling a Bible from a beaded reticule purse, she began to read. The other women fell silent, heads bent to their work.
“The wicked is snared in the work of his own hands.
“The wicked shall be turned into hell . . .”
9
They sewed for another hour, Mrs. Rutledge’s voice the only sound. Molly fell into a rhythm with Sophie’s soft body pressed against her side, the smell of clean cotton and soapy child soothing her.
But far too soon, Mrs. Rutledge slammed her Bible closed.
As one, the ladies rose, forming a neat line and filing out the door. Only Ava hung back, stooping to give Sophie a quick hug. Molly was touched to see how fiercely Sophie hugged her back.
“I’m glad that’s over,” someone said, and Molly startled when she felt a slender arm slip through her own. “I’m Ursula, by the way.”
Molly turned to see the young woman who’d asked if she was a charity girl. She was pretty in a swan-necked way, with thin lips and a high forehead. Her blond hair was carefully curled into tiny ringlets that framed her close-set violet eyes. She looked like a china doll whose maker had painted the dots too close together.
“Ugh, isn’t it a pain to sew? I know we’re supposed to do it as charity, but I hate it.” Ursula leaned her head close to whisper conspiratorially. “Don’t tell.”
“I’m no fan of it myself,” Molly said.
Ursula smiled. “And those children! Sniffing around like little moles.”
Molly failed to pull away as Ursula grabbed her hand. Her eyes widened as she felt the rough cut on her palm. But before she could ask about it, a quiet voice spoke from behind them.
“I think they’re sweet.” A girl in a pink dress fell into step beside Ursula. Their relation was immediately evident. But whereas Ursula’s face displayed a severe beauty, this girl looked like her smudged outline, broad and flattened.
Ursula scoffed. “You just say that to impress Edgar,” she said, letting go of Molly’s hand. “Cady’s got a crush on a fellow who thinks he’s a doctor.”
“Edgar’s studying to be one,” Cady corrected. “And I don’t have a crush on him,” she said. But her face had reddened.
“Well, if drinking is on the exam, he’ll be sure to pass.”
The sisters continued their argument, but Molly had stopped listening.
Edgar.
The name sent a spike of excitement through her body. There were surely dozens of Edgars in the city, but how many could be studying to be a doctor?
“We’ve the soup kitchen in five minutes,” Mrs. Rutledge said, having swiveled to crisply address the group. She shot Molly a displeased glare. “Let us try to be prompt.”
Molly looked around for her aunt and saw Ava still lingering near Sophie, bending to whisper something in the girl’s ear before rising to join the others.
The ladies followed Mrs. Rutledge outside and began briskly crossing the walkway between buildings. Molly hurried after them, filing up the steps to the poorhouse. Upon entering, she was immediately swallowed by chaos. Any chance she might have had to speak to Cady about Edgar was lost.
The building seethed with activity, every inch filled to bursting with humanity. Mothers chased children, men huddled with bowed heads, and the whole mass snaked together in a noisy queue down the hall.
Mrs. Rutledge led the ladies briskly past, the crowds parting before her as if for a queen. Only Ava stopped every few feet to say hello. Molly was amazed to see that her aunt seemed to genuinely care about these people. She asked after children, remembered names, and inquired about ailments. For the first time, Molly saw a tenderness that reminded her of Ma.
It was immediately clear that they were not actually needed. The real work in the kitchen was already being done by several ruddy-faced women in plain dresses and white aprons, their hair pulled tightly back from their foreheads and hidden beneath white caps. Stewed marrow and carrots and the aroma of baking bread mingled with sweat and the close, yeasty scent of women at work.
The Ladies’ Society was ushered to a long table at the front, stacked with great piles of chipped white bowls. Two of the women with white aprons were handing them out and filling them with stew. The Society women took over the task of distributing the empties, and the two women in aprons moved down the row to continue ladling.
“Each person gets one soup bowl,” Mrs. Rutledge directed. “Women with children who are capable of carrying their own vessel may receive an additional bowl per child.”
Molly managed to maneuver her way between the two sisters.
A loud dinner bell rang, and the long line of people began to move. With grim faces, each lady took a turn handing out the empty bowls to the crowd.
“It’s so they
don’t steal,” Ursula said loudly, turning to Molly. “If we don’t keep an eye out, they’ll take extra bowls and tuck them under their clothes to sell.”
A young mother with tired eyes and a heavy-looking toddler appeared in front of them. Molly offered her two bowls.
Ursula snatched one back. “None for the infant. He’s still on the breast.”
“But surely a nursing mother . . .”
“One,” Ursula said firmly. The mother hurried away, face burning.
“She looked hungry,” Molly said, offended.
“It isn’t free.” Ursula spoke as if to a child. “Do you know how many charity balls I’ve organized to earn money for this place? We can’t be wasteful, Molly.”
Biting her lip, Molly turned to Cady with a forced smile.
“Your friend Edgar, is he—”
“Pay attention!” a gray-haired woman shouted, drool dribbling across her chin. Scowling, she snatched the bowl from Molly’s hand and hobbled rapidly away.
“See?” Ursula said. “They’re not even grateful.”
A dull ache spiked at the back of Molly’s head.
“God, I can’t wait to take a bath,” Ursula said, her voice growing louder. “I always feel so dirty after this place.”
The ache became a flame.
Molly slammed down her bowl, catching Ursula’s fingers beneath it as if by accident. It was a trick Kitty’d taught her.
Commit your sins in plain sight.
Ursula snatched her fingers away with a hiss, looking at Molly like she might be a wild animal.
“You’ve never been hungry, have you?” The words were out before Molly could stop them.
Ursula gave a petulant frown. “Everyone’s been hungry.”
“Yes, but have you ever gone to bed without dinner?”
“Papa would never inflict such archaic punishment.” There was bewilderment in her voice as she studied Molly.
The Corpse Queen Page 6