Chapter 4 #2
The bell on the door jangles as another customer enters.
The broker sweeps the jewelry and coins from the counter and deposits everything inside a velvet pouch, then shoves it into my hands.
“You little fool. Take this to the east side. Or over to Mount Pleasant,” he rasps.
“You might have better luck there. Now, out with you.”
I turn and rush toward the door, my face aflame.
In my haste, I nearly collide with the well-dressed customer and her companion.
My heart stutters. It’s Arabella Meade—Rebecca’s closest friend, daughter of Papa’s merchant partner, and my chief accuser.
Her doe-soft eyes widen in recognition as I brush past her.
I duck my head, murmur an apology, and stalk out onto the street.
Panic threads through me. Did she recognize me?
I glance at my reflection in a nearby shop window.
I look nothing like I once did. My mangy hair sticks out at odd angles, my frame is thin and gaunt—I’m no longer the plump-cheeked young woman I was when Arabella saw me last. Besides, Arabella and everyone else thinks me dead .
. . the best disguise of all. Surely she didn’t recognize me. Surely not.
But all the same, I need to be more careful about avoiding people and shops. I catch my breath, shove the velvet pouch into my pocket, then trudge onward to face another day and night of hiding in the shadows.
I heed the pawnbroker’s advice but have no luck pawning my jewelry along the eastside wharves.
The shops there offer pennies on the dollar, well below worth, so I keep the jewelry and decide it’s more expeditious to steal instead.
I begin with low-hanging fruit. A drunken man stumbling out of an Elliott Street tavern, his wits whiskey-clouded.
I follow him at a distance, observing his unsteady gait.
When he stops to lean against a lamppost, heaving his guts onto the cobblestones, I seize my opportunity.
I dart forward as he retches, my hand diving into his coat pocket, where I’m rewarded with three silver coins.
He doesn’t even notice me, deep in his business of being sick.
As an afterthought, I snatch his fallen hat from the ground, and duck back into the shadows, shaking with nervousness.
But as the evening wears on and I bed down for the night in an alleyway off King Street, my guilt catches up to me.
My theft of the clothes after I escaped the mausoleum was one thing.
An act of necessity. This was too, arguably, but I took advantage of a man whose senses and judgment were compromised.
A poor man, from the looks of him. It doesn’t sit well with me.
Going forward, I vow to steal from only the wealthy.
I try my luck on the Battery promenade the next evening.
With the drunkard’s Kossuth hat pulled low over my forehead, I sit alongside the Battery wall, slumped against a set of stairs—positioned perfectly to reach into a lady’s carelessly open reticule or a gentleman’s pocket as they ascend and descend the steps leading to the elevated seawall.
Although I have no doubt there are people from my old life out taking the air, I keep still and quiet, lifting my head only high enough to glimpse a swishing skirt or a well-cut pair of trousers.
No one pays me any mind. They’re more interested in who is looking at them as they parade about in their fine clothes.
When I go to sleep that night, I’m in possession of a small gold-and-enamel snuffbox and enough money to guarantee I’ll eat well for a fortnight.
Emboldened by my success, I return to the Battery the next two nights.
I need the practice—to become a master at my new trade.
With my sensitive, fine-boned fingers and small hands, quick from years of piano practice, I’m an adept pickpocket.
Though it goes against my law-abiding nature, stealing gives me a surprising sense of purpose.
Hope. I enjoy the thrill—the rush of sheer pleasure each time I succeed.
All the same, I can’t help but think Mother would be disappointed in how far I’ve fallen.
She was ever worried about what people would think, so I was always a dutiful daughter—never wanting to stir the waters.
Rebecca’s persistent illnesses consumed our mother’s attention.
As a result, my days were scheduled from morning to night, filled with sewing and drawing and music lessons.
My tutors and music master kept me occupied, broadened the horizons of my mind, but I was lonely, all the same.
I longed for the tenderness and attention Mother lavished on Rebecca.
But recognizing that Rebecca’s needs were greater than mine, and that our mother was worn thin by caring for her, I suffered her neglect without complaint.
It was Papa I went to when I needed attention and affection.
He filled my life with books and conversation and nurtured my growing intellect with his gentle guidance.
Papa wouldn’t be ashamed of me. He would see what I’m doing as a necessity. A means of survival, a way to keep my honor intact, without resorting to selling my body. I think of poor Sally, and shudder. I’ll do whatever it takes to avoid a similar fate.
I’ll never forget what Papa said to me at the jail, the morning after my arrest.
You’re made of strong stuff, Lil. You’re a Carmichael through and through. A daughter of Douglas, descended from kings and warriors. Hold fast, mo chridhe. You’ll be free again. I know it like my very soul.
And he was right. I was free. Without a home, and with the future ahead of me filled with uncertainty. But free, all the same. Perhaps someday, I’d find a way to make him proud.