Among the Fallen

by Virginia Frances Schwartz

  * * *

  A letter waits upon the floor of my cell when we return from Sunday chapel. It can’t be good news. It never is in here.

  Feed it to Luther. He loves soiled things. It’s his job. He’s a tosher, as was his father before him. One who descends into London’s dark underworld of sewers, where he fishes out finery from the muck: rings and coins, pocket watches that slipped out of pockets and silver spoons. Greedily he grabbed them, though he stepped through a maze of rats and reeking sewer gas to get to them. I don’t remember him ever bathing. All I remember are his unforgiving hands.

  My boot grinds the letter into the stone. Best to tramp it down. Around and around, I circle the cell. Beneath my boot, the letter grows filthier.

  When next I look up, the light is almost gone.

  From far away, loudening by the moment, a trumpeting shout is heading closer. I look up to the window, waiting to see that slice of things. A wondrous flock of wild swans crosses the thin slant of window, squawking their return home to the far-off Baltic Sea after wintering here. Their honking lingers in my bare cell long after they disappear.

  They say swans carry the souls of the dead to Heaven, coming and going from the otherworld. They will carry me out of here too. When they migrate north like this, it is almost spring. My time is nearly up! They cannot keep me here. No matter what I did or did not do.

  Suddenly I am on my knees crawling toward the crumpled letter. I rip it open like oakum.

  Dear Miss Wood,

  Pressing business and family matters have called me elsewhere. And Deadlines. However, I have been in touch with the prison and have had their reports keeping me apprised of the condition of the inmates who have applied to the Home.

  The Riot in E corridor has affected me with great sadness. The matrons wrote in harsh tones about the breakdown you had in your cell and your involvement in the uprising. But I have read between their lines.

  How could you not be affected by another’s fear? You were driven into an old habit of Despair the night the new girl arrived. That was an Unfortunate but very normal reaction as evidenced by the behavior of all your fellow inmates. Further, the night notes clearly state that though you were “curled tight as a ball of Coif on the floor at midnight, wailing, with sheets spilled everywhere, yet all was tidy and the inmate was in her hammock by three.”

  It is this last gesture of yours that I put my faith in along with my own observations. We will expect you at Urania in two weeks’ time.

  Sincerely,

  Mr. Dickens

  * * *

  A girl spins in circles on the cold stone floor. Far off, she is flying with the wild swans.

  * * *

  Days later, Ayre measures my height, waist, and feet and wraps a tape around my chest. Two weeks pass. And then, one evening, she brings me down to the basement tubs for a bath. Afterward, I comb my straight hair. It’s grown to my chin since the last shearing. I beg Ayre not to cut it. She hesitates, then puts her scissors down.

  “All right. But you must be sure to tuck your hair completely under your bonnet tomorrow so no one sees.”

  She presses a parcel into my hands. “For your leave-taking tomorrow morning.”

  “My old clothes?” I shudder to think of the blood.

  “Those we burnt. You’re to wear what’s sent from Urania.”

  A smile tugs the corners of her lips for the very first time. Bet matrons are trained never to do this.

  * * *

  Alone in my cell, I unwrap the parcel. A long green dress, the color of an evergreen forest! Thick and sturdy bombazine, woven to last! A wide bonnet with a green ribbon to match the dress! Brand-new undergarments! Tie-up boots of black leather! These I wiggle into at once, marveling at the precision of heel defining the stone floor with that ringing I had heard in the matrons’ boots. All night long, those boots stay strapped to my feet.

  Next morning, I awaken in the dark to dress. Twirling around, the hem of my dress spinning in circles, wishing for a mirror to see the girl in her new outfit. In a few minutes, I’ll be out the gates, never to return. Now it’s certain Emma won’t find me here. She’ll never know for sure about Tothill. I tuck her letter into my boot, taking it with me.

  It’s so early that the other girls have not yet gone down to the oakum factory. On my way out, at certain cell doors, Ayre slides each eyelet wide for me to look in and say my goodbyes. Cold silence rings in Hester’s cell. Edwina lies quite still in her hammock and waves a pale hand. I whisper wishes at Rose’s cell, hoping she will heal soon. Lines of a hymn, “Amazing Grace,” fall from her lips, in rasping notes:

  Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound

  That saved a wretch like me.

  I once was lost but now am found,

  Was blind but now I see.

  We circle to Ivy’s cell last. Her brown eyes startle at the eyelet and then her fingers poke through. I grasp them hard. Her every thought, her every fear, shudders through me.

  I have no one now. Jack’s gone for good. I only had you for a time.

  Ivy stretches her fingers out, touching my cheek with promises.

  “Dear Orpha! How I wish to go with you to Urania. But they’d never want a girl like me. I’m a criminal. Bad as they come.”

  “You paid for what you did and your time will soon be over. That kind of life is behind you. You could begin again at Urania. Join me, Ivy! Tell the matron to write a letter for you.”

  Ayre nods for me to leave. Ivy’s eyes shift, darkening.

  “Don’t forget me! I’ll think of you always!”

  My boots root to the floor by Ivy’s cell door. Ayre slides her arm through mine and pulls me backward. Away. Between Ivy and me are now stone and empty space widening by the second. Throughout the tall hallway, my bosom friend’s cries echo along the cold walls, bounce off the ceiling, magnifying.

  “Or-pha! Or-pha! Or-pha!”

  I only heard her voice a few times, mostly in a hurried whisper or a hiss. Always I wanted to hear more. There was never enough time for us to be together. Never enough time to tell her what happened to me, all the secrets I never spilled. I would have told them to her.

  And then Ayre walks me down to the main floor, past the silent guards, for the last time. Fresh air fills the hallway. On the bottom step, beside Harred, stands a plump woman in a plain bonnet and broad cape. She steps forward.

  “Miss Orpha Wood? I’m Mrs. Marchmont, the matron in charge of Urania. Once I worked here at Tothill. It is my pleasure to take you to your new home now. Have you said your goodbyes?”

  I nod and curtsy. Words get swallowed down my throat.

  “Good,” she says. “Then we’ll ride there together right now.”

  Immediately she locks her elbow in mine, squeezing me tightly to her side, her body warm and solid, a tree trunk against my shivering. She guides me to the door. When it opens to the dawn’s light, all time disappears as if I were never here at Tothill. Behind us, the iron door shuts and bolts. There, by the gate, a carriage waits.

  Suddenly it hits me like a blast of March wind: out here, so close to the rookery, Luther still lives. He knew my every movement and exactly where to find me. He could sniff me out of any corner. Luther could pluck my thoughts as I thought them, turn them inside out and upside down.

  My feet stop, drawing Urania’s matron to a halt. My glance sweeps to all the dark corners of the prison on my left and right, then down the steps and onto the street. No one lurks here at this early hour. Likely, Luther is still sound asleep, in a drunken fog. The matron urges me forward.

  It’s odd how wobbly my legs are. I am a loose egg without its shell. Above my head, buildings soar and morning fog presses upon everything. Pigeons flap their wings, swooping all around Tothill like a celebration. Out on the bustling street ahead, women aim their noses to the sky while men sneak bold glances my way. Th
e greenness of my dress spreads around me like a vast field. My new boots click. They step ahead.

  My Dear Miss Coutts,

  February 27, 1857

  As you have directed, I have sought recruits for Urania from Tothill Fields. So many girls are unsuitable there. Hester would be nothing but Trouble. Others, like Rose and Edwina, are doomed by their medical reports.

  However, there is one Promising inmate who will most likely return to prostitution if we do not intervene. At present, Orpha Wood is secretive as they all are, and unwilling to face up to her crimes. To Miss Wood’s credit, she reads and writes and has fine speech. What are the odds of a Literate lower class girl living in our society today? Fourteen in seventeen thousand!

  Though her own family has Disowned her, I believe we can help by offering her another family. I am willing to take the chance and invite her to the Home on your behalf.

  Ever Faithfully Yours,

  CD

  MARCH 1857

  URANIA COTTAGE,

  HOME FOR HOMELESS WOMEN

  LIME GROVE, SHEPHERD’S BUSH ENGLAND

  ·• SIX •·

  The carriage stops at a high brick house with a walled yard. Its door opens to loud voices and bright, swirling skirts. Sunshine blazes through sparkling windows, making my eyes smart. Laughter expands the room.

  “Miss Wood, here you are, at last!” a thin young woman greets me. “I’m Miss Jane Macartney, assistant matron. Welcome to Urania Cottage.”

  Everything about her is quiet, from her dull brown-striped dress to her flat apron. As she approaches me, one foot trails slightly behind the other. She reaches out her hand, closing the space between us.

  A girl in a lavender dress with flowing copper hair, like a hothouse flower in winter, her dark eyes very knowing, rushes over to clasp my hands too. She stops the breath in my chest.

  “I’m Sesina. You’ll get to know me very well. We’re roommates. You will have a bang-up time with us, Orpha!”

  She introduces the other girls standing nearby: curly-headed Fanny; Jemima, flat-faced, very tall, scrubbing the windows; Hannah pushing open the kitchen door beside a tiny girl named Alice; and Leah, hovering at the very edge of the girls, almost on tiptoe.

  “How that green suits you! Sets off your eyes.” Sesina looks me up and down, studying my dress. “Mr. Dickens has taste. He’s the one who chose that color for you.”

  Hannah laughs. “Mr. Dickens insists on color. Nothing dull or drab like that Quaker uniform Miss Coutts wanted for us! To be made from plain brown derry, mind you!”

  Then Fanny leans in close to whisper, “I’ve heard him say girls such as us who have led…ahem…forbidden lives…we have imagination. So color pleases us. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  She giggles, twirling in a teal dress cut like mine. Chatter fills the cottage with bright notes and ringing laughter. Fanny grabs my hand and pulls me around to show all the rooms upstairs and downstairs. The neatly made beds. Sun at the windows. A sparkling kitchen with big pots and pans. The cozy parlor. Hours later, we hear the matron call.

  “Come now, girls.” Mrs. Marchmont suddenly claps. “It’s time for our dinner.”

  At once, all the girls rush to the table, surrounding me on all sides. Amid their flushed faces, my plainness blares. They have grown their hair out, pinned it high in shiny waves, while mine is brittle, sticking up at odd angles. Beside them, my body is scoured flat as flint. As I lean over to pass the bread, mustiness drifts from beneath my dress: Tothill!

  Pea soup is tasted to ringing compliments for the regular cook, Hannah, and today’s bread maker, Alice, who rose before dawn to knead it. Rolls squish in my mouth, drowning in butter. Potatoes, baked in cream, are passed around. All the while, beer warms my belly. Like an anchor, my body sinks into a chair.

  “You are replacing Agnes.” Mrs. Marchmont turns to me. “She sailed to Australia a month ago with Polly. We all cried when our girls went aboard. Soon they will have jobs and a home.”

  Hannah mutters, “Hope they don’t get seasick.”

  “Bet we’ll hear ’em screaming all the way to London,” Sesina says with a grin, “once they touch down on solid ground after sailing so long!”

  All these girls seem like friends. Which ones will welcome me, I wonder. Whom to look out for, I’ll know soon enough. No one could be truer than Ivy. If only I did not have to leave her there this morning, all alone. It already seems like yesterday. She would have been my bosom friend, I’m sure, just like Emma, if we had met elsewhere. Both were sparks to my dead kindling. When we were together, their warmth heated my cold life.

  * * *

  After we clear the table, the matron beckons me to follow her. She has a way about her, straight-backed but not stiff, that says she is in charge. She shows me a timetable tacked on the wall.

  “Part of your education here, Orpha, is learning how to keep a proper house. These are your new duties.”

  Chores can be ropes, something to climb; something to hold on to. I learned that at Tothill.

  The timetable reads:

  Orpha’s daily duties: weeding potato beds, weeding and watering flowers in the back garden, chickens, keeping her own garden patch

  Monday: dusting, dishes, washing clothes

  Tuesday: bread, dishes, airing of blankets and curtains

  Wednesday: soup for supper, soup for the poor, dishes

  Thursday & Friday: kitchen meals all day

  Saturday: full house scrubbing, dinner stew, soaking clothes

  I nod agreement as I sit down beside the matron. She is a large woman, nearing forty, with a wide bosom. Her hands and feet are broad as if capable of carrying any weight or doing all these chores herself. Mr. Dickens told me she is a widowed mother who raised three children on her own. That’s why she came to work at Tothill. I shudder to think how deep that prison’s ways may still run in her.

  Then she points to a document. “Let’s finish the last bit of business, shall we? You must sign your contract now.”

  I take a deep breath and scan it. The word transportation sits at the bottom where I have to sign my name.

  The matron looks at me squarely. “Do you understand, Orpha, that once your education here is done, you will sail to one of the colonies? Most likely, you will never return to England.”

  England: my parents’ bones resting in its dust; its memories seeded in my cells.

  I nod and sign. Give your own self away as you did before.

  * * *

  In the late afternoon, I meet Zachariah, Urania’s gardener, handyman, and guard. Wrinkled and tattered as a scarecrow, cap in hand, he sways on his long, thin legs like beanpoles. It’s a wonder he can stand up.

  “Born right here in Shepherd’s Bush, I was.” The old man grins a toothless smile. “It’s a village named for shepherds who stopped here to rest before heading to London’s Smithfield Market to sell their goods.”

  We stand high on Urania’s back porch, the house solemn and three-storied behind us, as he points out long stretches of Miss Coutts’s cornfields. There are few houses, mostly flat fields surrounding us. The cawing of crows makes me look up. Geese and pigeons swarm the air, so thick in number, their wings beat overhead with a swishing sound.

  “Go on out and see the garden!”

  Zachariah leaves me alone in the yard. All around, a high fence hems it so no one sees in. There is a locked gate too.

  Luther can’t get at me here or ever guess where I am hidden. Miles and miles stretch between us now.

  The garden is still mostly sleeping, bowed into its brown with hints of green poking up. There is sky and birdflight here; sunlight warming my body; all on my own, not tethered to other girls. Stone no longer surrounds me, only soft earth. If I press my boot heel down, it gives.

  It’s my birthday month, although I’ve told no one. At seventeen, this surprising
gift appears: a refuge!

  Dare I spin in circles, head back, eyes on the setting sun? I do. Above my head, the whole sky opens wide.

  * * *

  How odd to enter a bedroom where I am not alone. Instead, I have two roommates: Leah and Sesina.

  At once, Sesina pries me with questions. “You from Tothill? Never been there but one of my boyfriends has. Whatever were you in there for?”

  Leah jabs her. “Sesina, you know the rules.”

  “Rules be damned! You know all about me and I know all there is to know about you too,” Sesina retorts. “Good that I do. Don’t I comfort you when you cry? It’s ’cause I know your story.”

  Leah flushes and turns her head away. “Don’t!”

  Sesina tosses her curls, sits down at the mirrored dresser, and twists strips of cloth around the ends of her coppery hair. She glares at Leah’s image in the mirror, then shifts her gaze right onto me. Her eyes are direct, like darts.

  * * *

  Next morning, I awake to Sesina singing a counting rhyme, propped high above me, her hair hanging in my face:

  Eaver, weaver, chimney sweeper,

  Had a wife but couldn’t keep her.

  Had another, didn’t love her,

  Up the chimney he did shove her!

  “Finally! The inmate is awake. Dead to the world she has been.”

  Leah peeks over Sesina’s shoulder, her cheeks sucked tight.

  “Let’s give her our rules, Leah. Five minutes to dress before we go downstairs to prayer.”

  Sesina leans closer, her curls brushing my nose, her dark eyes framed by thick lashes.

  “First, Dickens’s rule—we make up one another’s bed each morning and check for anything hidden. Such as…” She tosses her hair. “Gin. Cigarettes. What girl doesn’t like those things? So if you find any of my treasures, dear Orpha, you won’t report them, will you?”