He will give me time to think about it, he says, for he leaves on tour again tomorrow. Then he rushes out with his papers. All I can do is plop down in a chair and try to breathe.
He gives a great gift: the secrets of his writing. Why now?
* * *
Ivy rushes to find me after her interview with Mr. Dickens later that month, feet flying so fast across the polished floor, she almost trips. She waves her first love letter to Jack, two pages of scribbled print.
“Dickens found Jack! In Tasmania!”
My friend spins in circles and pulls me around with her.
“He’s writing Jack to tell him to save for our marriage. He’s apprenticed himself to a gold prospector. Such a perfect job for him! A decent trade. Finally! The two of us will go to Tasmania in late spring to meet up with him. All of us will have a home together.”
I don’t tell her what I’ve heard about Tasmania: a wild place swarming with gold diggers, convicts, drunks, and tigers. What Ivy wants, she gets, without ever thinking ahead, like the wardrobe she bought by counterfeiting. I would never dare take such chances. I worry about the price to pay, but she never does.
Ivy can count large sums in her head and plow through a novel without letting the hard words stall her. Surely she will know what to do now. So I tell her what just happened at Tothill and Tavistock House.
Her eyes expand. “You saw Luther, Orpha? How terrible! You must try and get him out of your thoughts. Dickens will help you. I will too. I’m so glad you finally confessed to him. Think how free you will be once we go to Tasmania. I can’t wait to get there.”
She stretches out in her bed, lifting her bare toes up in the air. “I’d give anything for Jack’s kisses right now. Like a drug, kisses make me forget everything.”
“Anyone’s kisses?”
“Only Jack’s.” She looks straight at me. “You’ve never been kissed before? I mean…by someone who loves you?”
I lower my eyes. The bristle of his unshaven beard. His tongue licking the edges of my frozen lips. A serpent’s bite.
“Oh, I’m sorry, dearest Orpha, how thoughtless of me.” She touches my cheek softly. “Here I’m going on and on and forgetting that you—”
“Never mind. Tell me more. Tell me what a kiss is like.”
She gasps. “Why, it’s…sunlight shining only on you. Him pouring all his attention into you. You taking it in…like nectar!”
“Did you ever…lie with him?”
She nods. “I didn’t just give him my body. I gave my soul.”
She doesn’t want it back as I do mine. Mine wasn’t given. It was taken. Locked tight in the rookery. All I’ve ever wanted was the return of my soul.
* * *
Mr. Dickens’s suggestion scurries around in my head like a rat clawing underneath the floorboards. I just can’t write about Luther boldly on paper. To even mention his name might conjure him.
Luther’s tricky. He could get tired of waiting and make inquiries at Tothill. He might hear I’m out now and plot ways to trap me there again. He means to silence me for the stories I hold, secrets buried deep in my belly.
At any time, he could show up at Urania!
In the middle of the night, I part the curtains to check the empty street leading to London. I must be on the lookout. He could be anywhere.
JANUARY 1858
·• SEVENTEEN •·
At dinner, Martha, the new resident, a girl of thirteen, straight from St. Pancras workhouse, shows up. All morning, we heard her screaming in the back kitchen while Miss Jane trimmed her hair to the scalp, for it was crawling with bugs, then rubbed it with kerosene. The odor of fuel now penetrates the room.
Martha slides next to Ivy at the table like a drowned river rat, her hair damp and flattened. Her shoulders curl in as if she’s afraid of being hit at any moment. Sitting beside Martha, Ivy sparkles, her dark curls bouncing and her cheeks flushing as she tastes leftover Christmas pudding. In just four months, Ivy has changed.
“Mmm! Orange peel! Plum! Brandy!” Ivy chews, rolling her eyes. “Nutmeg! Suet too! But what’s that heating my mouth so?”
“Ginger!” Hannah shouts. “It’s my secret ingredient.”
“I must learn to make such a pudding.” Ivy laughs. “My Jack will love it!”
Martha can’t stop staring at Ivy. Neither can I. The seams of Ivy’s dress have been taken in by Alice to fit her small waist. I am reminded of red poppies startling the early spring garden in the midst of all that dead, dull brown. One can almost hear the roar of blood rushing through Ivy’s veins.
Martha points to Ivy as she asks us, “Being here turns you into a lady?”
We all belly-laugh until it hurts.
“Sooner or later!” Ivy shouts. “In spite of ourselves.”
* * *
“Guess what’s happened?” Ivy links her arm in mine after our meal, leading me near the bookshelves where we are alone.
“Dickens has written me! He’s found me a position for now at the inn here in Shepherd’s Bush on Saturdays when there’s weddings and feasts. I’ll be a serving girl there. Don’t you know what this means, Orpha? I’ll make money for our trip! I’ll step into the world on my own! People will think me just a normal girl!”
I clap my hands. “Fanny will be so jealous!”
“Dickens says he trusts me to go out and come back on my own—which he can’t do with Fanny. He thinks I might get too restless at Urania like Sesina and the others who bolted. ‘It’s time to change the rules,’ he confessed to me, ‘and give you girls more freedom!’ ”
Three and a half years she was bound in prison, longer than me. Toward the end of her sentence, she could barely lift her head. No one would ever guess it now.
On Sunday, Ivy tosses her earned coins up in the air like a juggler. She spins on the heels of her boots and laughs out loud about the gold earrings she will buy in Tasmania.
* * *
Today Hannah leaves for Australia dressed in a gray woolen traveling suit we all helped to sew. I will never forget her face, ruddy and plump, blue eyes clear as spring sky, heading toward her carriage. Fanny and Leah link arms and wave goodbye. They’re the next ones to emigrate, then Ivy and I.
In the back of the parlor, Alice collapses into a chair. She was supposed to leave with Hannah today. Miss Jane sets a hand on her shoulder and bends down to whisper something. Alice sighs. Gently, Miss Jane leads her up the stairs to her room, Alice leaning on her the whole way.
* * *
Ivy finds me writing in the garden and sits down beside me on the bench.
“Fanny and Leah tease one another that they are twins, going off to Australia together. You and I are sisters. Not twins.”
“What do you mean, Ivy?”
“We tell each other everything. Like bosom friends and sisters do. But you and I differ. I love the bustle of the inn and the streets but you don’t. You need quiet and all those books in the library.”
I nod. “That’s how I’ve always been. It’s such a comfort to find them at Urania. That’s what Mr. Dickens offered me, just like he arranged for you to work at the inn. He knows us well.”
“I know more about you than you think. You write. I hear your quill scratching even in the middle of the night. But you never tell me what you write about. Will you?”
She points to the papers piled on my lap.
I hold my breath. She’s never asked before.
“Is it private?”
I shake my head. It’s been contained inside me all this time like a secret hive. Only I could hear it buzzing. Only I could believe that somewhere out of sight, hidden in the chicken shed or in the dead of night, honey spilled over. “Your wounds were too deep,” Mr. Dickens said.
“So, who’s it about?” Ivy persists.
“Girls like us, the ones at Tothill, who
were so lost. I want to tell it so people know how prison made girls suffer so much for such small acts that they were forever ruined.”
I hand the pages over.
Ivy shakes her head. “I can’t follow script yet. Read it to me!”
I remember Pa facing his audiences, how he could capture all their attention with just one sentence spoken, solemn and resonating across the dark. So I read aloud while Ivy shuts her eyes. When I finish, she sits straight up, her eyes brightening.
“All the while you read, I could see it right in front of me: the prison corridors, its narrow cells, the girls trapped inside. And their voices so heartbreaking! However did you find out their real stories?”
I could feel my face flushing. “Some was told to me in a few whispered words. Some was what I felt deep inside. Glimpses down dark hallways. Hunches and guesses. Watching how a girl moved to tell me all about her.”
“It’s like a book!” Ivy jumps to her feet. “I can see it! Girls move in scenes from cell to oakum room to chapel. I was there, Orpha! This is about all of us at Tothill. And it’s real. A true story!”
I am spellbound.
My mind separates from the rest of me, lifts high above, and spins. I look far down at the broken girl below who once was me. How could she have written a book?
She was no one: a girl in pieces. Her soul stolen. Who wrote it, then?
Me! It was a slice of my own soul flying back.
FEBRUARY 1858
·• EIGHTEEN •·
“We have secured posts for you and Ivy.” Miss Coutts calls us both into the parlor one morning. “Ivy shall be a maid in an inn until she marries. And Orpha will be governess to the children of the Governor of Tasmania!”
“Oh!” screams Ivy, jumping up. “When do we sail?”
“April. You should be able to write as well as you read by then.”
Words leap out of me. “It’s too soon! I’m not ready!”
Must I go? Couldn’t I stay in England? Or remain at Urania?
Ivy gasps, turning to me, as if hearing my thoughts.
Miss Coutts shakes her head. “My dear Orpha, how many times have I heard those words, even from girls who couldn’t wait to emigrate! When it came time to leave, they all confessed how afraid they were. That’s quite to be expected. It’s just nerves, dear girl.”
Ivy frowns at me, leaning closer to our benefactor. “You know she’s been writing? Lots! A book! Has she said?”
“I knew about the ink. Nothing more.” The lady turns to me, her eyes widening. “Can you show it to me? I would be very interested in it.”
“See?” Ivy nudges me. “She’s curious, just as I was. Orpha wrote it true, miss, about that awful place whose name we cannot say aloud.”
I run to the shed, carrying the pages back, loose and trembling in my hands like fragile eggs. They are the dark secrets that spilled into my blood, veins, and arteries. I pass them to Miss Coutts with fumbling hands, pages spilling everywhere.
On the way out of the room, Ivy links her arm in mine.
“You told her!” I hiss at her.
“I had to. She must know all about you. Dickens doesn’t come around much anymore. Besides, she owns this place. She’s the one really in charge. Who’s to tell her if I don’t? Who’s to help you if she doesn’t?”
Winter shivers through me. Without my pages, I feel naked.
* * *
A whole month passes without a visit or even a letter from Mr. Dickens. I keep glancing out the front window, holding vigil. Often, I walk out to the front gate, listening for the afternoon train from London. In the evenings, knitting with the others, I listen for him coming in the door, swinging his walking stick, tipping his top hat to us: “Good evening, girls!”
But there is no sign of Mr. Dickens.
One morning, a telegram arrives that Mrs. Marchmont tears open, reads through twice, and hastily stuffs into her pocket. Her whole body sags afterward. Suddenly, she looks years older. She turns toward London, her lips pressing into a tight line as if she’s swallowed bitterness itself.
Gathering my cleaning rags, I head to the back parlor, shutting the door behind me. If the room shines, surely he will return. Layers of dust cover all the furniture. The desk is piled with letters and books, the quills neatly arranged, and there is ink in the bottle.
Suddenly I see what’s missing.
The shelf in the glass cabinet is empty. I rattle its door. Locked! The Case Book is gone. My story too.
Greedily, I yank open the desk drawers and check. They are all empty. Not one paper is left. The key is not there. Everything has vanished with Mr. Dickens.
* * *
That very afternoon, Miss Coutts arrives, although it is not a Saturday. She bustles straight to the kitchen, where the matron is giving cooking lessons. Pots immediately clang to the floor.
“I’m all butter fingers!” cries Martha.
She and Ivy are ordered out of the kitchen at once, still in aprons.
Through the kitchen door travel the loud voices of Miss Coutts and the matron. We three press in.
“How can anyone do such a thing!”
“Mr. Dickens dares to.”
Miss Coutts lowers her voice. We lean closer. “Her name is Nelly, an actress he met in August, of the Ternan acting family. She was only eighteen when he met her last fall.”
“Oh! What will happen to his family? To Mrs. Dickens?”
“Catherine will leave Tavistock at once. Such a disgrace for the poor woman. She was my friend, as was Charles. And we both know quite well that he, with his own name to protect, cannot divorce or ever marry this girl or bring her into society. So why do it?”
A gasp from the matron. “Then she will be his…mistress!”
“Charles has done the unthinkable—what men do. He was my partner in many a project, but he will no longer be part of Urania. So we, as women, must carry on and guide our girls. Without him.”
Ivy’s mouth falls open and she reaches out to steady herself against me. I never told her how I felt him slipping away after I had read the secrets in his journal. It began with the scent of violets that September day, an intoxicating smell that made him dream his own soul away.
I remember the last thing he said to me about writing A Tale of Two Cities. The man is divided; he lives in both those cities. From now on, he’ll roam lost between the two of them.
* * *
Miss Coutts calls for me within the hour. I find her sitting at Mr. Dickens’s desk, clenching his quill tightly, her mouth in a flat line. She straightens when she sees me, her eyes dark and penetrating. Gone is her soft smile.
“I will be your advisor from now on instead of Mr. Dickens. Of course, you can meet with Mr. Chesterson anytime. Especially as we help prepare you for your journey. I believe that there is something still to be done for you. Mr. Dickens has informed me of the progress of all our girls—Ivy’s success at the inn and your progress in writing lessons. All our girls’ lives and hardships, he has told me. Including yours.”
I sit still and wait.
“I have heard stories like yours, Orpha, from too many a girl. Secrets held between them, Mr. Dickens, and myself. Stories confessed by weeping girls to my pastor. Indeed, I have to look no farther than my own stoop to see fallen girls preyed upon by men. Yet these problems have largely been ignored by those in charge.”
She hands over my pages, neatly tied with a green ribbon.
“Your manuscript pierces the truth. It is heartbreaking. Well written. Imagistic. Haunting. I visited Tothill when I first imagined Urania. What a shock it was! Girls and boys tossed away like rubbish. Broken and hardened because of what was done to them. Your words bring it to life as no report I’ve read. You have achieved something startling. Except for one thing.”
She halts. “You didn’t tell what happened to you. T
hat’s the most important part. That you must write too.”
“I don’t know how, miss.”
I don’t say what Mr. Dickens advised—to write directly of Luther.
She leans forward. “Read your work again. You will be surprised how clear it is. See yourself as one of the girls at Tothill. Bit by bit, slip yourself into what is already written. Rewrite it on fresh pages.”
She hands me a gift then: a leather-bound lady’s journal with flowers engraved in blue and gold paint on the cover. Inside are thick pages, white and untouched, too many to count.
“I painted those flowers myself. And thought how practical it could be to contain all your thoughts in one place without pages falling everywhere. Will you use it?”
I am already hugging the journal to my chest. This woman knows me better than anyone. She’s guessed what I’ve been longing for: words and white space to hold them in. My smile must reach my ears. If only I could do as she asks!
* * *
The new journal sits on my desk. Its creamy pages are too clean to disturb with what I have to say; its cover too smooth to mar. I turn images over and over in my mind like a Chinese puzzle box but meet only dead ends. The story can’t find an opening. In the middle of the night, awakening from dreams of a man in a darkened doorway, I cannot fall back asleep for hours.
“Every alley and every drainpipe leading to the sewers, I’ve crept through all their twists and turns,” I hear Luther warn. “Every alcove up and down the lanes, I know like the back of my hand. I’ll dig you out.”
* * *
Another new girl arrives, Kate, leaning on the matron as if she has difficulty standing. She has deep purple bags beneath her eyes, wispy hair, and a waist hollowed out as if she has never eaten her fill.
Among the Fallen Page 18
