She stared intently at Molly, something unreadable in her eyes.
“Yes.”
“Good.” Ava smiled tightly. “There are things you don’t understand yet. But I assure you, there is a great opportunity coming our way. Many people would like us to fail. I am going to do everything in my power not to give them the satisfaction.”
She waited to stand until Molly reluctantly began to brush her teeth.
“The Tooth Fairy will be dealt with. You kept your courage last night, and for that I’d like to reward you.” Her face brightened. “No more pretending. Today, Molly Green, we’re going to make you a real lady.”
* * *
The dressmaker’s shop was on a busy street near the wharf, a cheery yellow building that stood out from the others against the gray February sky. Farther down the street, Molly saw the hotel where she and Tom had been a few nights before. Her pulse quickened at the memory.
The shopkeeper opened the door to them, bowing low, as a tinkling bell overhead signaled their entrance. His velvet pants were perfectly tailored to accommodate the difference between his thin legs and large waist, and the gold button on his matching mustard jacket closed neatly despite the enormous girth of his stomach. He’d drawn a small beauty mark atop his Cupid’s bow, and his overly red cheeks suggested rouge. He looked, to Molly, like nothing so much as a glazed pie stuck on two spindly legs.
“Daaarling.” He threw his arms around Ava, kissing the air beside each cheek. His accent sounded French, though Molly would not have bet on its authenticity. “It has been too long since I’ve bathed in your presence. Please tell me that you’re making a tour of the Continent this year.” The man clapped his hands together like a delighted child. “It would be such fun to design your attire.”
“If I were to go to the Continent, Pierre, I’d buy my gowns there,” Ava said dryly.
The big man’s face fell.
“Now, don’t be dramatic,” Ava said. “I am not in Europe. I am here. And while I’m here, you are the only person in the city I’d let lay a hand on my measurements.”
His pout remained.
“Besides, I’ve something much better for your pockets. I need an entire wardrobe for my niece, newly arrived in town.”
Pierre’s frown lifted into a beatific smile. “My dear, but of course! Where is she? I must be introduced to the angel immediately.”
“Molly.” Ava clicked her fingers, and Molly stepped forward.
The dressmaker did his best to hide his shock. Clearly, he’d mistaken her for a maid. “This is the girl?”
“I don’t see any other, do you?”
“She’s quite . . .”
“She has an unusual look to her,” Ava allowed. “But I’ve seen you turn Gloria Rutledge into enough of a beauty to at least be kissed in the dark, and if you can do that, you can certainly handle my niece.”
“Enchanted,” he said to Molly, bowing again.
Molly was not such a fool to believe the sincerity of the gesture, but she pulled herself up as best she could and assumed what she hoped was an appropriately winning smile. She knew her forehead was too wide, her skin too freckled, her chin too sharp. Even so, hearing Ava describe her as “unusual” hurt. She tried to shake the insult away.
“It’s very nice to meet you, sir.” She started to curtsy, but Ava elbowed her and gave a discreet shake of her head. Apparently, such niceties were reserved for members of a higher station.
“Let’s begin,” Ava said. “Pierre, you can handle the undergarments on your own time, but I’ll want at least three good dresses by the end of the month. I’d like to choose the material today.”
“Madam, surely you cannot—”
“Caroline van Amee told me there was a lovely little Dutch seamstress opening a shop over on Fourth.” Ava’s voice was coy. “Apparently she’s quite quick with—”
“But of course, for you, I can move the moon if I have to.”
It was a lesson for Molly, watching her aunt. Ava pulled what she wanted from others as easily as the air stole breath. And it wasn’t just her money. There was that, of course, but Molly did not doubt that the woman might be just as convincing if she showed up in rags.
“The dresses will be fine, thank you,” Ava said. “Now, let’s start with a formal gown, shall we? I have an important party that I’ll need Molly to attend in a few weeks. She must look absolutely perfect.”
“And your own gown?” Pierre asked hopefully.
“If you spent half as much time sewing as you did trying to sell me things, you’d already be done.”
“Of course, madam. As you wish.”
“What’s the new fashion being worn in London?” Ava said, moving on. “I hear plaids are all the rage.”
“Ah, you’re right as usual! Now that Victoria’s taken up a private residence in Scotland, everyone wants a little piece of the country to call their own. Tartans, plaids, anything at all with a touch of the Queen’s new home.”
He hurried over to a shelf and pulled down a large bolt of fabric. Laying it carefully on a sewing table, he stretched out a yard of navy with yellow lines running across it and looked up expectantly.
Ava was silent, and so Molly spoke. “It’s very pretty.”
Though for the life of her, she could not think what a woman an ocean away ought to do with the kind of dress she was supposed to wear.
“I shouldn’t even be showing you this,” Pierre whispered conspiratorially. “I’ve orders to save it exclusively for a woman of very high rank.”
“We’ll take it,” Ava said. “Though not for the party gown. For her everyday. Next?”
Pierre flushed and moved to the back of the room, surveying the bolts of fabric stacked on pallets from floor to ceiling. The effect was precariously pleasing, shots of color threatening to topple at any moment onto the man. Molly followed in awe, tilting her head to stare at the riches.
“While I look,” Ava said, “perhaps your assistant can start on my niece’s measurements.”
Pierre flushed again. “I’m rather in between assistants right now.”
“You don’t have anyone helping you?” Ava shook her head. “Really, Pierre, perhaps I should go to another shop.”
“Of course I have someone,” Pierre said hurriedly. “It’s just that she’s new and not quite ready . . .”
“Surely the girl can take measurements,” Ava said incredulously.
Pierre looked defeated. “Yes, but—”
“Well, where is she?” Ava spoke to him as she might to an especially dim dog unable to perform the trick she’d just asked.
Pierre motioned to a back room.
“Go on, Molly,” Ava said, shooing her away. She called for Pierre to bring more fabric, shaking her head no at each proffered bolt.
The back was separated by a pretty green curtain with a bold pine-cone pattern. When Molly pushed it aside, she found herself in a small sunny room full of fabrics and patterns spread across several large tables.
“Well, if it ain’t Little Miss Heads Will Roll!” A familiar figure stood from where she’d been working, spitting a needle out of the side of her mouth. “Thought I recognized your voice.”
The rush of unexpected delight Molly felt was genuine. “Ginny!” She hurried over, lowering her voice. “Thank you again for the other night.”
“Now, I’ve heard that before, though not usually from a lady.” Ginny grinned. “And it weren’t nothing. Tom needed a favor, and I was happy to oblige.”
Molly felt a strange flutter in her belly at the mention of Tom’s name.
“You know,” Ginny said, grabbing a measuring tape from the table and pulling it around Molly’s waist, “Tom can be a hard one to read, but he’s got a gentle soul.”
“Gentle enough to let me carry a head without warning.”
“To b
e fair, he hired me out of his own pocket to make sure you got through it okay. He didn’t have to do that.”
“He was just looking after himself.”
“Maybe.” Ginny nodded, kneeling to run the tape to Molly’s ankles. “And sometimes, that’s the best way to look after others.”
She took hold of Molly’s hand, giving it a squeeze.
Molly hissed with pain.
She tried to yank away but not quickly enough. Ginny held tight, frowning. “You might fool a few folks with a new dress, but not real ladies.” Pulling a box from the shelves behind her, she extracted a pair of lace gloves. “Wear these. And do something about those hands.”
Molly nodded, grateful at the lack of questions.
“Now hold still. I’m gonna pin up your dress so I can measure you better.”
A poke lanced her thigh. “Ow!”
“Sorry. Still learning. I got tired of paying money for something I could make myself, so I hired on here to apprentice weekdays.”
Molly thought back to the dress the other night, its low cut. “Is this . . . um . . . your only job?”
Ginny looked up, eyes twinkling. Another poke. “Nah, I’m a performer too. You should have Tom bring you by our place some night.”
“You and Tom are close, then?”
Ginny laughed. “Maybe at one time. Then again, half the girls I know could say the same. Tom is real good to everyone else, but he don’t let no one be good to him for too long.”
Another poke. This time, there was no doubt about the intent.
Angry now, Molly swatted the needle away. “You’re doing that on purpose!”
“Now, there’s some spirit!” A smile tugged at the corner of Ginny’s lips. “Wanted to make sure you weren’t dead.”
“I will be if you don’t stop stabbing me.”
Ginny’s laugh filled the space between them. “I like you. You tell Tom to bring you by. Me and the girls will treat you to a real show.” She pinched Molly’s thin arm. “Feed you too.”
Molly swallowed down a painful memory of Kitty, trying to feed her a stolen dinner roll.
You’re much too thin. The nuns will mistake you for one of their saints . . .
“Molly?” Ava peered around the door, sounding impatient. “Aren’t you done yet?”
Ginny curtsied, as prettily as any well-trained maid. “Yes, miss, we’re all finished. And if you don’t mind me saying”—she shot a quick look at Pierre—“it’s capes that are in fashion now. Pierre ain’t big on ’em, but that’s what all the ladies coming off the ships from France are wearing. You make them to match the dress with a silk bow that ties under the chin. And a green would look nice. There’s a moss color in crinoline just arrived that would do swell with your girl’s eyes.”
Ava studied Ginny, taking in her brightly colored pin-striped dress. “Is that right?” she said. She turned to Pierre, who immediately began to apologize.
“I am so sorry, madam,” he said, bowing so low that this time Molly swore his nose touched the floor. “The girl, she—”
“She’s got more taste in her little finger than you’ve ever displayed.”
Pierre cringed and shot Ginny a furious look.
“Thank you, dear,” Ava said to Ginny, moving closer. She peered at a speck of unusual color peeking from the bodice of Ginny’s dress, which Ginny yanked up quickly to cover. “You have the most beautiful skin,” Ava said. “I never can get mine to look so fresh.”
“It’s juniper lotion, miss.”
“I’ll have to try that.” Ava smiled. “And that gown you described is just exactly what we’ll want. By the first of March if you can. I’ll want it for my party.”
“Of course.” Ginny nodded demurely, and Molly couldn’t help but grin to see her so well-behaved.
On the way out, Molly lingered after Ava and Pierre had left the room. “Thank you,” she whispered, and then, before she could stop herself, pulled Ginny into a fierce hug.
After an awkward second of surprise, Ginny squeezed back.
“You come see me, understand? The Red Carousel. You need someone to talk to, I’m there.”
Molly started to leave, but Ginny grabbed her arm. “And, Molly? Be careful. Nights are dangerous these days. Ain’t but a moment to go from living to dead, and then it’ll be your head in a box.”
13
Her first week as a grave robber, Molly’s days began to take on a reliable routine.
At ten, she woke to wash herself in a two-inch bath of water and then dress in one of Ava’s hand-me-down gowns, usually a plain brown gingham for day and, depending on her task, a different one that her aunt chose for night. After breakfast, she headed to the library, where Maeve would have already prepared a mug of cocoa and a fire. There, Molly immersed herself in one of the room’s many books. But rather than geometry, she began to read about the dead. Several dense texts rested on the highest shelves, and she started to make her way through each of them.
She was amazed to discover that the intricate anatomy drawings were more beautiful than any of the moth illustrations she’d loved as a child. Soon enough she could tell a tibia from a fibula and differentiate the thorax from the larynx. She made a game out of it, identifying the parts of the corpses she and Tom loaded each night, taking them apart and putting them back together again in her mind, like a puzzle. Sometimes she even carried one of the books with her.
At noon, she had tea with her aunt, usually something light—finger sandwiches of ham pâté and salted mushrooms, or salads dressed in vinegar—Ava guiding her on which forks to use, the proper way to wash her fingers in the bowls of rose water at the end.
“We’ll bring you out into society gradually,” her aunt said. “For now, just worry about your work.”
Always, Molly carried the knife. But she was continually frustrated in her attempts to find Edgar. Still, her only clue was the fact that he was a medical student. But try as she might, she could not seem to penetrate that world.
Molly tried, once, to ask Ava if she might be allowed to meet Dr. LaValle and attend one of his lectures, but her aunt brushed her question neatly away. The next day, she did not appear for tea. Taking the lesson for what it was, Molly did not ask again.
She attempted, instead, to slip outside to the church on her own. But each time, William was there, eyes as watchful as a bulldog. When Molly dared to walk boldly past, the butler cleared his throat in a warning.
“Perhaps I should fetch Mrs. Wickham,” he said.
It was not a question.
After tea, her aunt began her social calls, and Molly was left by herself. The books helped, but they weren’t enough to keep her mind from humming with thoughts of Kitty, Edgar, and the Knifeman. Molly tried to engage Maeve in conversation, but the maid seemed embarrassed by the attention and then horrified when one day Molly actually picked up a feather duster and began to work beside her.
Some days, despite the chill, she strolled the sparse gardens, walking amidst the grisly statues. Others, she wandered the house, taking in her luxurious surroundings bit by bit, fingering the dining room’s velvet curtain or taking down a pretty china shepherdess from the fireplace mantel to run her fingers over the porcelain lips.
It was a fine thing to have one’s hair washed whenever one pleased and to slip chilled feet into rabbit-fur-lined slippers. Finer still to drink melted chocolate steamed with vanilla and sit cozily by the fire. But it was lonely.
The orphanage, with its constant press of other bodies, had not offered the option of solitude. Even at night, there was no privacy, with dozens of sleeping girls tucked about Molly like quilt stuffing.
Here, though, the quiet was unnerving.
Molly thought briefly of seeking Ginny out at her performance venue but stopped short of actually going. It was rare that a student of the doctor’s came to the house, but on
occasion it happened, and she did not want to miss it. A boy in a long coat would visit to collect something for LaValle or relay a message to Ava. Usually, it was Ursula’s beau, James, who seemed to hold a special place in the doctor’s esteem. Molly twice tried to speak to him, but each time Ava stopped her at the door, telling Molly she was to keep from socializing with gentlemen until she better understood the correct rules of engagement. Finally, Molly simply listened quietly at the top of the stairs for a name when a student appeared, fingers curled around her knife.
If Edgar ever announced himself at the house, she vowed to be there to greet him, Ava be damned.
Dinner came at eight—taken in the kitchen alone—and then Molly’s evening began.
Though she hardly dared admit it to herself, she began to long for the nights. Sometimes, when Tom picked her up, she was so full to bursting with her own thoughts, or new information from a book she’d read, that he had to sit there a full five minutes before she’d stop talking, enduring her spill of pent-up loneliness. His own days, she’d learned, were spent running odd jobs to earn extra money and helping mind his brothers and sisters when he could. She wondered if maybe he was lonely too. He’d cross his arms and tilt his head like an annoyed nun hurrying along an especially slow-moving Communion line, but he never tried to stop her, and sometimes Molly thought he even enjoyed it.
But there was still a wall between them. Each night, after they collected the bodies from the increasingly familiar cemeteries and poorhouses, he would ask her the same question.
“Do you want to quit?”
And each night, she went on with it.
* * *
By the time Tom picked her up on the Monday of her second week, Molly had left Ma’s coat indoors in favor of a blue muslin dress of her aunt’s. Though intentionally drab, it was much better suited to the angled lines of her body than any of the other borrowed dresses she’d worn. It was the sort of gown that acted to draw one’s attention away from the wearer, a garment that would be as appropriate in the streets as at a middle-class dinner party. Molly felt quite at home in its shadow.
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