Chapter 4
Four
Time slows to a trickle without a home. The days blur together. I measure the hours between waking and sleeping by the next meal. The next place to shelter for the night. The next drink of water.
Water. My parched tongue reminds me of my thirst as I uncurl from my cramped position beneath the deep eaves of the Huguenot church.
I’ve sheltered here for the past three nights, out of the wind, but I’ll need to move along soon, before someone notices and reports me for vagrancy.
I stand and stretch. I finally abandoned my carpetbag yesterday, its weight too cumbersome to justify.
I hadn’t bothered to change into any of the clothing I took from home, anyway, apart from fresh underthings, preferring the freedom the stolen breeches give me.
Much better than heavy, long skirts. With my slight frame, and my breasts hidden beneath the too-large shirt, I resemble a boy.
I’m fine with the ruse. There’s safety in it.
The sun is a faint, ash-gray glow below the horizon as I make my way to the public cistern.
It hasn’t rained for the past few days, so the water in the basin lies stagnant.
I dip the ladle and bring it to my mouth, wincing at the stale taste.
Thoughts of typhoid fever and cholera accost my mind, but I drink deeply all the same, trying not to gag.
If this is to be the rest of my life—survival in the shadows, with nothing more to look forward to than my next meal—I wonder at my wisdom in trying to live at all.
Despair has taken hold of me more than once in the past, especially in prison, when the nights closed in and my regrets got the better of me.
I contemplated ending my life many times.
Many prisoners did, unable to bear the jail’s unceasing torments. But for some reason, I held on.
Now I wonder why I’ve been given this second chance.
Why I’m still here. I see the looks of disdain people give me.
Or how they dismiss me outright, turning their heads.
I’ve become invisible to them. A nuisance.
Charitable souls are rare. In the past week, I’ve encountered only one—a fellow vagrant who offered me a crust of bread.
I’d foolishly eaten through most of my pilfered supplies within the first three days.
It’s time to pawn my jewelry and plan for my unsure future.
I think of all the places I might go, with enough money in my pockets to buy passage on a steamer or a train.
Savannah. New Orleans. Up north. I might disappear anywhere—but with Charleston’s mild winters and familiar streets, I’m loath to leave.
It’s home. It always has been. Besides, Papa and Mother are here, their hearts forever tethered to my own with an invisible thread, even if they have no knowledge of my survival.
A reunion is impossible, but leaving the city would mean abandoning them forever. I’m not ready to do that. Not yet.
Dawn is breaking when a scream pierces the air, near the corner of Market and King, halting me in my aimless amble.
By the time I round the corner, a small crowd has gathered outside a shuttered storefront—a lamplighter, a City Guard officer, a woman in hysterics, and the bespectacled man doing his best to calm her.
At their feet, a body lies prone on the cobblestones, covered with a woolen cloak, one white hand outstretched.
I approach cautiously, trying not to call attention to myself, and tuck into a closed storefront’s recessed entryway, leaning forward to listen and catch glimpses of the scene.
“For god’s sake, Cass. Pull yourself together.” The gruff voice belongs to the bespectacled man. In response, the wailing woman snuffles, blows her nose.
“If I may, Mrs. Humphrey, was the young woman entertaining a gentleman last night?” The officer. His voice is cool. Detached.
“I assumed so. She went out around three, as she does. Sally’s my best girl, you see. The prettiest of them. Catches the eye of fancy gents coming home after the balls. I run a fine establishment, sir. The best in the city.”
“Did you know the fellow she was meeting?”
“No.” Another sob. “She didn’t tell me. But when I saw her, just an hour or so ago, she wasn’t with a man. She was alone. Walking down by the docks.”
I watch as the officer kneels next to the corpse, raises the cloak. I see a wan face. A tangle of copper hair. A shiver walks across my shoulders. “I’ll need to fetch the coroner and the morgue wagon. All of you stay here until I’ve returned.”
“I must see to the rest of the lanterns, sir,” the lamplighter interrupts, lifting his snuffing pole. “Any wasted oil comes off my pay.”
The officer stands, lowering his voice. I strain to hear. “I need someone trustworthy to keep an eye on those two, Sam. Make sure they stay here. I’ll return soon.” He dusts off his pin-straight trousers, frowns beneath his mustache, then departs at a brisk clip.
I slump onto the step, examining the ridges of my dirty fingernails.
No more than a quarter hour later, the clatter of hooves rings out against the cobbles.
The morgue wagon parts the morning fog and pulls along the curb, its pair of mules huffing steam.
The coroner, a befuddled-looking man wearing a beaver hat, descends from the wagon, followed by the stern officer.
The madam’s wailing crescendos as the coroner removes the cloak shrouding the body on the cobbles.
I gasp. The woman is naked as a babe, her long, slender limbs a preternatural white.
Her beauty, even in death, is undeniable, the rouge on her cheeks the only color present apart from the flaming red of her hair.
An image of Rebecca on her deathbed flashes across my memory, her sunken eyes, the bluish-purple cast of her mouth.
Sally looks like a graveyard angel by comparison.
I draw my cape tightly around me to chase the chill from my skin.
The bespectacled man turns away from the sight.
“Christ,” he swears, his lip trembling. “Poor pet.” The grief-stricken madam ducks her head and keens against his chest. My heart can’t help but share in their pity.
Over the past few days, I’ve contemplated my future enough to consider that I might be forced to sell my charms to strangers, just as this unfortunate young woman did.
Women without means have few choices available in this world outside of marriage, and desperation often leads to peril and ruin.
Workhouses and whoredom are common fates for those unfortunates born—or made—poor.
This Sally was once someone’s beloved daughter. I wonder about her life and what led her to this sad end.
The coroner gives Sally a cursory examination. He pinches a fold of skin inside her elbow, listens for a heartbeat, then quickly covers her up again. “There’s no evidence of lividity. I’ve never seen anything like this, Wesley.”
“Nor have I, sir.” The officer shakes his head.
“Exsanguination.”
I’ve no idea what the word means, but the coroner’s incredulous tone of voice conveys much. “Let’s take her to the morgue,” he says. “I’ll conduct a more thorough examination there and determine the time of death.”
Two young Negro men hop down from the morgue wagon, carrying a litter.
They lift Sally and place her on it, then hurriedly cover her body with a length of white sheeting.
The officer gingerly folds the cloak over his arm.
I can hardly blame him for not wanting to wear it.
He crosses to the madam and her male companion, mutters a few words I cannot hear.
The couple walks away, arm in arm, the woman still bereft.
The scene holds the uncanniness of a dream.
The horror is ephemeral and distant despite my proximity to it—like something on a theater stage.
A tragic opera. I was sheltered from such things in my former life, but the past years in jail educated me in degradation.
While I’m bothered by what I’ve just witnessed, prison has hardened me.
After the morgue cart rolls away, my stomach clenches and growls.
Unlike poor Sally, I’m still very much alive.
Our bodies are carnal things. Demanding to be fed. To be satiated.
Lights in the shops down Market Street flicker on. Bleary-eyed proprietors emerge to sweep stoops and set out their wares to tempt passersby. I rise from the doorway I’m nested in and head for the pawnbroker.
“How did you obtain these pieces?” The pawnbroker eyes me over his spectacles, one gray eyebrow lifted.
“They’re family heirlooms,” I say, pitching my voice low.
His gaze scrapes me up and down, taking in my disheveled appearance. He turns over the Whitby jet mourning brooch, inspecting its clasp and the maker’s mark with his loupe. I’m eager to be rid of the brooch and the memories attached to it. I last wore it at Rebecca’s funeral.
“This is a fine piece. But I’m afraid I won’t be purchasing it. Nor any of the others.” He gestures to the array of jewelry on the counter. “I run a reputable establishment, young man.”
“And these are reputable pieces. I can assure you, sir, they are of the highest quality.”
“I can see that for myself. But I cannot offer stolen goods to the very people they might have been taken from.”
“Stolen?” I stammer. “These aren’t stolen.”
He shakes his head, his expression softening.
“I’m being kinder than most would be. Only because you remind me of my son, god rest him.
” He gives me a sad smile, reaches under the counter, and produces a handful of coins.
“I can hear your belly growling. There’s enough here for you to purchase a week’s worth of food from the market. ”
My long-buried pride bristles. Desperate though I may be, I make no move to accept his charity. “I thank you for your kindness, sir, but I’d rather sell you my goods, fairly and equitably.”