“Lady Katherine,” Hannah repeated softly. “Queer how much she looks like you.”
Nell’s hand shook a little as she touched her own chin. Katherine Aubyn had a cleft there, too. Her jaw made the same stark square. Her nose was as long and thin, her eyes as widely spaced.
A prickle moved down Nell’s spine. The girl looked just like her. How was that possible? She knew she wasn’t handsome, but this girl with her face looked perfect, not a single wrinkle or blemish to prove that she was real. The photograph was like a magic mirror—a view into a different life where she was born to riches, where maids wove silk ribbons through her brown hair
and fastened a fortune in pearls around her neck before she sat down to pose for a portrait.
Lady Katherine wore a faint smile. It seemed to deepen as Nell stared.
My pearls could buy a thousand visits from a thousand doctors,
that smile said.
Gooseflesh rose on her arms. Hannah asked, “How do you reckon you look so much alike?”
She drew her shawl tighter. Witchery! This girl had stolen Nell’s face and was getting far better use from it. “Boring,” she said sharply. “She’s boring, that’s what. Not a line on her face—you think she ever farts, or does she have the maids do that for her, too?”
Hannah laughed. “Well, with
that
much chink, who needs to be interesting?”
Nell forced out her own laugh. “True. Her daddy’ll buy her a husband if she can’t find one on her own.”
The picture made her feel sick somehow. She linked her arm through Hannah’s and pulled her away.
Her friend cast a forlorn glance back at the shop window. “Can you imagine, Nell? What it’d be like to have your face up there? To have the blokes paying for your picture?”
“Lord, no, and I’m glad of it!” Her voice sounded firm enough. “Don’t think I’d want
my
face in Dickie Jackson’s pocket.”
Hannah’s laughter started out surprised but trailed off into sad. “Oh, Nell. Truly, though,
don’t
you wonder? Piles on piles of chink. Not a care in the world.”
She couldn’t imagine it. But she’d seen what trouble lay in trying. “They don’t go hand in hand, love. Rich women have got cares of their own.” She had to believe that. Wasn’t anybody in the world without a heart and a worry to burden it.
“Ha! I could use some cares like that!” Hannah
slid her arm out from Nell’s to do a little twirl over the pavement. “Shall I wear the diamond or the emerald tiara tonight, milord? The silk dress or the satin?” She batted her big brown eyes and sketched a mock curtsy. “Oh, you wish to give me even
more
money? However will I make do?”
Nell still felt dizzy, like that bleeding photograph had leapt out and slapped her. “Oh, you’ve brought back the rotting disease from one of your whores?” she retorted. “Too kind of ye, milord!”
Hannah planted her fists on her hips. “That was just patter! Anyway, I’m serious. You
must
wonder. Say you do.”
Nell felt herself frowning. “You shouldn’t waste your time hankering after what you can’t have. That’s no road to happiness.”
“Happiness?” The other girl’s lips crooked in a sneer. “Aye, and I’m happy right now, ain’t I? With my ding gloves that some fine lady probably gave to her maid. Who probably gave ‘em to the scullery girl before they ended up at Brennan’s!”
Nell felt a moment’s shock: the outburst was so unlike Hannah. But why not? Hannah mightn’t have
her
worries, but neither of them had a future full of pearls and comforts. Meanwhile, the fog was coming on thick, lowering in dirty, sullen clouds to the uneven cobblestones. All around, light and sound were dimming, and the wet chill in the air warned of rain. Somewhere in this city, Lady Katherine was warm and snug, but out here, it promised a nasty night, the sort in which an unhappy spirit could find more than enough trouble to suit it.
God save us both
.
She pulled her shawl over her head and then held
out one hand, exposing cracked red knuckles. “If you’re going to toss those gloves, I’ve got a use for ‘em.”
Hannah stared. Her lips tightened around some emotion that Nell didn’t want to guess at. “I’m sorry, Nellie. I don’t know what’s got into me.”
“Oh, but I do,” Nell said softly. “Aye, Hannah, of course I think about it.” God above, she thought about it far too often lately. She barely could sleep at night for the thoughts in her head. “But it’s stupid to dwell on it. It only hurts.”
That photograph seemed such a bad omen. There was only so much good fortune to go around, and another girl with her face had already claimed her share.
Superstitious rubbish, she told herself. Aloud, she said, “Try to focus on the bright things, love.”
Hannah took a deep breath, then gave her a determined smile. “Aye, you’re right, of course.” She looped her arm back through Nell’s. “Well, come on, then, ducky. We’d best make tracks; it looks to be heading for a pea souper.”
Hannah’s fingers were saying something different from her smile. They dug into Nell’s arm hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to give her a new worry when she already had too many to bear.
She opened her mouth, then thought better of it.
I think about it constantly,
she might have said.
It’s a stone in my chest, a hot, fiery stone, the injustice of it.
But what good would it do for Hannah to know that? She needed a different sort of example—one that showed her how to accept what she couldn’t change. You
had
to accept it; otherwise the fire in your chest would spread and burn you, inside out. Nell felt it happening to herself. She’d seen it happen to her stepbrother. Last autumn Michael had been ranting,
raging, ready to change the world. He’d joined the Socialists, helped them gather over a thousand men. They’d gone marching through Hyde Park screaming slogans, demanding justice.
And what had they won? The wrath of the police. Broken ribs and shattered noses. A couple of days’ notice in the newspapers … and then it had been over, and the toffs had gone back to their tea parties, and Michael had turned to gin.
No. Best to forget such things.
“I will,” Hannah said, giving Nell a start. She hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud. But it had been the right thing to say, for Hannah’s grip gentled, and she gave Nell a real smile this time, then launched into a popular ballad making the rounds on the street. Nell joined in, and together they set a brisk pace for home.
Nell woke that night to the sound of footsteps stopping next to her head. Her eyes opened on a silhouette looming over her. Not an arm’s reach away, Mum loosed a wet, choked breath.
“She’s done for,” said Michael from above. “Death rattle.”
That made the hundredth time he’d said the same. She could smell the gin on him. The floorboards creaked under his feet; his balance was failing.
She pushed herself up on an elbow. “Where’s Suzie?” she whispered.
“Where’s Suzie,” he mocked. “Where in bloody hell do you think?”
To her right, she heard her mother murmur something.
Don’t speak,
Nell willed silently.
Keep sleeping.
She’d seen Suzie’s state earlier this evening—eye blackened, face red and puffy from weeping. Michael
could go days without the drink, but none of them rejoiced when he did. His abstinence invariably ended in a glut that lasted for days.
If he wanted a fight, he could have it in the back room. Mum needed her sleep.
Nell pushed aside the blanket and got up. The back of her neck prickled as he fell in step behind her.
A thin sheet separated the two rooms. On the other side, a kerosene lamp sat on the small table beside the hearth. Thinking to light it, she felt for the matches.
His sudden grip on her wrist pulled her around. Hot, moist, his hand was twice the size of hers. “Don’t,” he said. “Leave it dark. I don’t want to have to look on your ugly face.”
“All right,” she said on a breath. Mum said he had a demon in him that fed on the drink. Nell rarely paid her much mind when she took to raving of devils, but nights like these, it was easy to believe such things.
With her free hand, she felt behind her for the long iron fork she used to grill sausages over the fire. It fit nicely into her palm, a solid weight, reassuring. She’d sharpened the tines a week ago. “Where’s Suzie?” she asked again.
Not dead, pray God
. Once a man took to using his fists, he rarely stopped. One day, she feared, Michael would hit one of them too hard.
“Mott’s.” His laugh was low and nasty. “Knee-deep in the lads, wouldn’t you know. Made me sick to watch her.”
She wished that she could see his face. He took after her stepfather, brown in his coloring as dirt, but he was well built, a boxer, handsome and proud of it: he didn’t let himself sneer or twitch unless he’d given over to his temper. If she could see the line of his mouth, she’d have clearer intentions about this fork
in her hand. “It’s part of her job, Michael. She makes good money there.”
“Don’t she? I wonder how she manages so much. Maybe I know.”
“I know she loves you.” Pathetic but true. Suzie had been a properly pretty girl with a dozen suitors. Most of them would have treated her better than Michael did. Like countless women before her, she’d thrown her fortune into the slops by following her foolish heart. When Nell married, she’d choose a man for better reasons: kindness, decency, a solid roof to shelter her. A lad who loved her more than she did him: that was the safest way to happiness.
“Sure and she loves me.” Michael’s voice was starting to slur, but his grip on her wrist didn’t slacken. “Awfully worried for Suzie, ain’t you? I’d worry for myself instead.”
“I will, when there’s reason for it.” As far as she could tell, she was the only one in this flat that kept her wits about her.
“I’d say there is. I heard about that little talk you had with the labor-mistress. You’ve got a powerful wealth of ideas, don’t you?”
She caught her breath. Were people speaking of that? All she’d asked was for Mrs. Plimpton to speak with the master about a few windows for the workrooms. Much good it had done—the woman had fallen apart with laughter.
You’re not paid to breathe,
she’d said.
Back to work with you.
“Didn’t do any harm,” she whispered. “Just a brief chat.”
“You’re a fool. You think they give a damn about your comfort? They look at you, they see one of us. Just another rat for the slaughter.”
The bitterness in his voice struck at her. She heard his whole history in it, and it made her soften a little. Before jail, he’d had ideas of his own about what workers deserved. He’d put his money toward the cause of reform and all he’d gotten for it was misery and abuse. She could understand if he thought her a fool for following in those footsteps.
“I won’t say anything more,” she said. “But I’m right, Michael. It was the air in the factory that made Mum sick. And they could change it so easily—”
His nails dug into her. “Am I meant to care?”
She tightened her grip on the fork. If he made her stick him, it’d be a long and ugly night. “No.”
“You get sacked and I’ll care. I’ll be fixing you up with Dickie, no matter your thoughts.”
“All right,” she said evenly.
“He was asking after you in the street tonight. Two crowns, he had in his hand. Said he’d be as glad to spend them on you as on another girl.”
The darkness felt like a hand pressing over her mouth, stopping her breath. Damn Dickie Jackson. He knew very well what he was doing with such remarks. Like waving a flag in front of a bull: he thought himself so clever in baiting Michael. Thought it was only a matter of time before her stepbrother forced her to it.
From the other room came the sound of a strangled cough.
Oh, God, don’t let her get up. Let her be too weak to get up.
“I brought in twice that amount this week.” Her voice sounded hoarse. Her wrist was starting to throb.
“Or you could make two crowns in a quarter hour. You think you’re too good for it? Fancy yourself better than the rest of us, maybe? Somebody
special
?”
She swallowed. Sometimes lately she asked herself the same. So many girls she’d known had earned a
quick coin up against the wall. Why should it be different for her? Aye, she could read and write and she’d worked hard to educate herself, but that didn’t make her special. Everybody starved the same way. In the end, everybody died.
Two crowns for a quarter hour. It would be a handsome profit.
But not for her. Wasn’t logic or reason that drove her, but something gut deep, hard as diamond: she could consider such a turn, but she’d never agree to it. There was another way. She’d find it, somehow. If not the moneylender, she’d go thieving before she laid down for Dickie bloody Jackson. “I earn my keep here—”
“Ha! Mason down the street says I could have twelve a week for the space you take up—”
The anger leapt up from nowhere. “Your father promised we could stay here!”
His grip fell away. “Your bloody
mum,
not you. And she’s
dying,
do you hear that?”
“You’re drinking away the coin that could save her!”
The blow came out of the darkness. Agony like lightning knifed through her jaw. The floorboards slammed into her. She opened her eyes, hearing her own strangled gasp, the rough wood burning beneath her cheek.
In the background, Mama called out. “Cornelia! Are you … quite fine?”
“Are you quite fine?” Michael mimicked. “The bloody queen in there!”
Nell held still. Her brain seemed to be rattling in its casing, but her jaw still worked when she wiggled it. He’d used the back of his hand, not his fist, thank God.
“One good kick,” Michael said softly. “That’s all it would take, you uppity bitch.”
Anger swamped the pain. This stupid, useless fork she still clenched in her hand—she should have stuck him when she’d had the chance.
“But you’ve got money to earn,” he continued. “So get used to lying on your back.”
I’ll kill you first,
she thought.
She saw the broad shape of his shoulders silhouetted against the curtain before he pushed it aside. The cloth ripped and fell. His footsteps clomped across the floorboards, setting them to shuddering. Hinges squeaked. The front door slammed.