The Dressmaker's Dowry

by Meredith Jaeger

  Another officer taped off the intersection with yellow caution tape, the lights of his cruiser flashing red and blue against the gray sky. A puddle of blood had pooled around the little boy’s middle, a dark crimson. I bent over and threw up on my sneakers.

  “Keep moving,” the nurse said, pushing me forward.

  More and more people gathered around the intersection, staring at Dad’s truck, at me, whispering, sirens wailing—people shouting and crying.

  I had caused all of this chaos.

  Only thirty minutes ago I’d been at home in my bedroom, throwing the covers off when I realized I’d slept through my alarm. I’d gotten dressed, grabbed the keys, and driven over the speed limit like an idiot the whole way into town, worried about clocking in late to Gino’s Pizza. I’d cursed and sworn like a normal teenage girl on her way to work, thinking about prepping the pizza dough.

  But nothing was normal anymore.

  “Can you come with us down to the station?” An officer had a firm hand on my shoulder, leaning in so close that I could smell the coffee on his breath. His eyes were blue as icicles. Where did the nurse who’d been helping me go?

  I couldn’t tell how much time had passed, minutes or hours.

  “I—I—” I looked again at the boy lying in the street, his face now covered by an oxygen mask. Two paramedics lifted a stretcher and loaded him into an ambulance. “Is he going to be okay?” I swallowed. “Do you think he’s going to—”

  But I couldn’t finish my sentence.

  I wanted to rewind time, just like I could rewind “Karma Police” on my tape. I needed to go back to this morning, so that I’d never have woken up late for work, never have driven too fast in the rain, and never have made any of this happen.

  “Let’s go,” the officer said, guiding me toward his cruiser. “You can give us your statement at the police station.”

  “My parents,” I said, tears streaming down my cheeks. “I want my mom.”

  The officer nodded, pushing me into the back of the police car like a criminal, right behind the metal partition. “We’ll call them for you.”

  Pain stabbed me like a knife twisting in my gut. That little boy on the stretcher had a mom too. The desperate look on her face would be forever burned into my mind. I didn’t need the officer’s answer to know what I had done. That little boy, Connor, was dead. And I was the monster who had killed him.

  Chapter 18

  Hanna, 1876

  Sawdust peppered the streets, the stench of rotting garbage and human waste growing stronger. Hanna wrinkled her nose, lifting the hem of Georgina’s dress. Men with picks and shovels slung over their shoulders pushed against her, knocking Hanna aside. With their workday half done, they took to the saloons in droves.

  “Oy!” a man with a glass eye hollered at Lucas. “Come ’ere to old Bill’s Tavern. Free drinks for the lady, and I’ll give you a whiskey on the house.”

  Hanna’s grasp tightened on Lucas’s arm. Dressed so nicely, they were prime targets for robbery, even in broad daylight.

  “Do you think he knows Sam O’Grady?” Lucas whispered, cocking his head toward the tavern keeper.

  “No,” Hanna said, picking up her pace. “All he wants is your silver. It is best we go back to that saloon where Sam is known.”

  “But the last time we were there, the bartender was not forthright with us. He wouldn’t even give us the man’s name.”

  “Correct,” Hanna answered. “But the working girls, they will talk. One of them might have seen Margaret.”

  Lucas’s eyebrows shot toward his hairline. “The harlots? Heavens, Hanna, I thought you had enough of their company the last time we visited.”

  “Yes, they are troublesome. But it’s not an easy life for them. Who can say it is a path they have willfully chosen?”

  She shuddered to think Margaret had been forced to lie with a man against her will. Hanna would be torn to pieces if her friend had encountered such a fate.

  Lucas pulled Hanna closer. “You show such compassion toward others, an admirable trait indeed. Now then, what is our plan?”

  She warmed at the eagerness in his eyes. Lucas could have stayed home, sipping tea in his sitting room. Instead he trudged through the filth of Pacific Avenue, willing to revisit the dark haunts of Sullivan Alley.

  Hanna tapped her chin. “To find Margaret, I must get upstairs to where the girls are sleeping.”

  Lucas paled. “Hanna, I don’t think—”

  “You will remain downstairs,” Hanna said. “Close enough to hear me scream. Buy a drink from the bartender and converse with him. Do everything you can to learn of Sam O’Grady. I will sneak upstairs and do the same.”

  Lucas grimaced, dodging the splash from a puddle as a horse-drawn carriage rambled past. “What if the girls are . . . engaged?”

  “It is too early. The girls are creatures of the night. And most men are still asleep, nursing their headaches.”

  They slowed to a stop, standing in the street as the tavern came into view up ahead, with its red-painted clapboard and yellow trim. Chickens clucked as they walked past, flapping away from the grocer who tried to grab one by the neck.

  Lucas sighed. “Take no more than a quarter of an hour, or I will not be capable of waiting any longer. I fear for your safety.”

  “Here, this is the alley. I will look for a side entrance.”

  Chinese men with pails balanced on ends of broomsticks spoke in their native tongue, passing Hanna on her right. She stepped aside to make room.

  Lucas squeezed Hanna’s hand. “Scream as loud as you can, should you encounter any danger. I will occupy the barkeep downstairs.”

  Hanna looked into his eyes. “You must also be careful. There are many pickpockets about.”

  Lucas patted his vest and the coins jingled. “I’ve hidden my dollars in my back pocket this time. The small change is merely for show.”

  Hanna smiled. “I see you have learned.”

  Beyond the street vendors hawking their wares, homeless men searched for bits of junk in the shadow of the building. The wind blew, carrying the scent of urine from the alley. Before Hanna could lose her nerve, she squeezed Lucas’s hand once and then let it drop. Darting away as the next group of Chinese passed, Hanna entered the alley.

  Holding her breath, she crept past an old man sprawled on the ground, a bottle of whiskey clutched to his breast. Hanna walked along the side of the tavern, looking for a door. Piano notes filtered through the walls. For some, it was never too early for folly.

  A crack of light caught her eye. The outline of a door. Pressing herself against the wall, Hanna peered through the gap at an empty corridor and a rickety wooden staircase. The piano music grew louder. She looked at the metal latch locking the door in place. It was no more than a hook resting inside a screw.

  Aside from the drunk in his stupor, not a soul moved about. She wedged her fingers inside the crack, attempting to jiggle the lock, but Hanna could not stick them deep enough.

  A knitting needle would have been the perfect tool. Hanna’s skin prickled as Madame Costello’s bloody chamber came to mind. Looking down, Hanna spotted a twig, thin and sturdy enough that it might work. Picking it up, she moved to the doorway.

  “Clarence, this keg is done,” a man bellowed. Hanna sucked in her breath, pressing her body flat against the wall. Silently cursing Georgina’s hoopskirt, she wished she did not have so much fabric hindering her movements.

  “Run and get another barrel of ale,” a different man hollered.

  Something scraped across the floorboards. Heavens! If either man were to step outside, she would have to run in the opposite direction.

  “Dammit, this is heavy,” someone grumbled. Hanna waited, barely daring to breathe. But slowly his footsteps faded.

  She peeked through the crack once more. With the hallway empty, she pushed the stick against the metal hook, applying steady pressure. Unhitching, the hook of the lock swung to the side. Slowly Hanna pushed open the do
or.

  Shutting it behind her, she quietly set the latch back into place. With a deep breath, she looked up the staircase at a red door. Hiking up her skirts, Hanna took the stairs as quickly as she could. When the doorknob twisted in her hand, she let out her breath like a whisper of wind. Once again, lucky.

  Creeping inside the room, Hanna blinked, trying to adjust to the darkness. Heavy curtains obscured the windows. Rows of cots lay side by side, occupied by sleeping women. Bloomers and chemises had been cast haphazardly across chairs, while others hung on twine to dry. In the corner, a wooden vanity with a cracked mirror held a washbasin and a few combs. The room smelled of smoke, perfume, and sweat.

  As one of the girls turned in her cot, her hair spilled over the side, shining a brilliant red. Margaret! Running to Margaret, Hanna crouched at her friend’s side, wiping the sweat-soaked strands of red hair from her face. Stroking Margaret’s cheek Hanna whispered, “Margaret, wake up.”

  But when the girl blinked, a blade of panic whisked through Hanna. This girl was not Margaret. Deep purple circles shadowed her dark eyes. Her hollow cheeks gave her face a skeletal appearance. As she turned to Hanna, the girl’s cracked lips parted.

  “Who are you?” she croaked.

  Hanna’s eyes darted to the other girls, still sleeping. But for how much longer? The madam or a john could enter at any moment. A dozen or so girls snored lightly, their arms hanging over the sides of their cots.

  “Please,” Hanna whispered. “Do not raise your voice. I am not here to hurt you. My name is Hanna. I am looking for my friend Margaret. Have you seen another girl with red hair and fair skin? She would have arrived only a few days ago.”

  The girl’s eyes focused momentarily and then clouded like sea glass. “The red-haired girl. Yes, I remember . . .” Her eyes fluttered closed.

  Hanna squeezed the girl’s hand. “What do you recall?”

  A prostitute coughed and rustled the thin sheet in her cot. Hanna crouched low in the shadows. The floorboards squeaked as women moved in their beds.

  “Please,” Hanna hissed, shaking the girl’s arm. “Wake up.”

  The girl’s brown eyes opened again, lucid. “Her screaming, it was awful. Sam hit her. Then she was quiet.”

  Hanna felt the sting of Father’s palm and winced for Margaret. No woman deserved to feel the slap of a man’s hand. Her body shivered with cold, though the room was warm. “Sam? Do you mean the man with the scar?”

  The girl rolled her head as if she couldn’t control her neck. Her words came out too slowly, thick as molasses. “Yes, him. His breath smells of whiskey. He is the worst. He’s so rough, he is.”

  A lump rose in Hanna’s throat. Was lack of sleep blurring the girl’s senses, or something else? Hanna bit her lip. “Did Sam take her . . . in here?”

  The girl’s eyes began to close again, and Hanna squeezed her hand tightly. “Please. What is your name?”

  “Johanna,” she murmured, staring at the wall. “But round here I’m Little Jo.”

  Holding tightly to Jo’s hand, Hanna took a deep breath, dreading the question she did not want to ask. “Did Sam O’Grady force himself upon Margaret?”

  Little Jo turned her head, looking dazedly toward the window. “He said he couldn’t spoil her. He’s saving her for the man who paid him.”

  Hanna felt as though she’d swallowed glass. “Who paid Sam?”

  Little Jo stared at Hanna. “Her husband.”

  “Why do you say that?” Hanna asked. “Margaret was not married.”

  “Little hands, a little heart.” Jo sighed, her lips rough as burlap. “Wish I had a silver trinket like that. So pretty.”

  Goose bumps prickled Hanna’s arms. Jo had seen Margaret’s claddagh ring. Hanna covered her face, shaking. Cots creaked and sheets rustled as the girls stirred from their slumber.

  “Jo, please,” Hanna whispered. “What man paid Sam O’Grady so that he would not spoil Margaret? What man?”

  Little Jo’s head lolled to the right. “The man at the window.”

  Hanna looked to the window, the black curtains obscuring the view. Who had been standing on the street down below?

  “Carriage,” Jo mumbled.

  As she closed her eyes, Little Jo’s mouth parted. Her fingers unfurled, and an object fell, landing with a clink on the floor. Rolling toward Hanna’s feet, a glass vial slowed to a stop. Hanna picked it up, smelling the telltale chemical scent. Opium.

  “All right, girls, rise and shine!” a voice bellowed.

  Hanna sucked in her breath as footsteps thundered up the creaking staircase. The disembodied voice was male, perhaps one of the two men she’d heard earlier.

  “Rent don’t pay itself,” he hollered. “Get up!”

  Lucas had asked her to scream should anything happen. Ought she to do it? Cowering next to Jo’s cot, Hanna contemplated hiding behind the curtains. But the bulk of her dress would give her away. There was nowhere to run. Bracing herself for the worst, Hanna watched as the doorknob twisted.

  “Pardon me, is this the way to the lavatory?”

  Hanna relaxed, recognizing Lucas’s voice.

  “Oy,” the other man snapped. “You don’t come up here wivout paying. It’s seventy-five cents for a roll in the hay, or a dollar for a real looker. The girls ain’t up yet, but I could wake one for you.”

  Lucas scoffed. “Are you speaking of harlots? I want no such business. I am asking if your establishment has a lavatory.”

  The man growled. “A what now? You can use the outhouse round the corner like the rest of us do. Or go piss in the alley.”

  Hanna waited in a crouched position. This man could still open the door at any moment.

  “Please, let us keep our graces,” Lucas said. “Show me to the bar.”

  In a flurry of curse words, two sets of heavy footsteps descended the stairs. Hanna let out her breath. Gathering her skirt, she looked one last time at Little Jo and the other women slumbering in their cots, aching to help them.

  Pushing the door open, this time she did not step softly as she ran down the stairs. Reaching the bottom, she turned left, grasping the latch on the door and tugging it open. She stumbled into the alley, then picked up her skirts and ran.

  The silhouette of a man appeared at the end of the street. Hanna sucked air through her teeth, backing away. But as his face came into focus, she smiled, running toward him while her skirt dragged. Lucas wrapped Hanna tightly in his arms.

  “My dear, that took longer than expected. I was terribly concerned,” Lucas whispered into her hair. “I shouldn’t have permitted you to venture upstairs alone.”

  Looking into his eyes, Hanna spoke with a new surge of hope. “I met a girl who has seen Margaret.”

  Lucas’s mouth fell open. “Veritably so?”

  “She described Margaret’s claddagh ring. That awful man, Sam O’Grady, took Margaret upstairs. For what purpose, I dare not say. But the girl—Little Jo—she told me Sam was paid to bring Margaret to another man.”

  “What man would pay that criminal to capture Margaret?”

  Hanna turned back toward the brothel. “I haven’t a clue. I thought the McClaren boy might, but I cannot make sense of it now. Perhaps Margaret’s own father . . .”

  “Why such keen travail to have his own daughter captured?”

  Anger rippled through Hanna, thinking of her vile father. “Men believe they own their children. We are like chattel to them.”

  “But why would Margaret’s father ask Sam O’Grady to take Margaret to a house of ill repute against her will only to bring her back?”

  Hanna shrugged. “Perhaps it was a lesson, to frighten her. If he knew Margaret had lost her virtue, then possibly he wanted to show her the life of a harlot.”

  Lucas frowned, appearing unconvinced. “It seems an awful lot of trouble.”

  Hanna thought back on how Little Jo had mentioned the word “carriage” and a man standing at the window. Or was it merely the opium speaking?

&nb
sp; “Come,” Lucas said. “We’ve spent quite enough time here. Clive will have returned by now. Let’s walk back to Madame Costello’s.”

  “All right,” Hanna replied.

  But the workings of her mind spun like the insides of a pocket watch, ticking and ticking yet finding no solution. She looked down at the hem of Georgina’s dress, the fine blue silk covered with dirt.

  “Scheisse,” Hanna said. “Look what I’ve done to Georgina’s frock. This would not have happened on an ordinary carriage ride.”

  “Oh,” Lucas said, grimacing. “I’m afraid you’re right. We can’t very well tell Mother we were traipsing around Devil’s Acre.” His face brightened. “I’ve a suite at the Palace Hotel. We shall have Clive take us there instead.”

  The Palace Hotel was the last place she had seen Margaret, when Margaret helped her change into Miss Delia’s stolen dress. Hanna’s throat tightened as she pictured Margaret’s ready smile.

  “What troubles you, Hanna?” Lucas asked, falling in step beside her.

  Hanna wiped a tear from her eye. “Margaret. I miss her so.”

  “Hush now,” Lucas whispered. “We shall find her.”

  By the time they reached Madame Costello’s office, Clive sat waiting with the carriage. Lucas helped Hanna aboard and Hanna sank against the seat cushions, her legs pleasantly tingling with relief after their long walk.

  Shouting erupted on the street. As Clive tugged on the horse’s reins, Hanna turned to see a drunkard standing before a saloon, his black hair matted and his fingers caked in dirt. Father.

  Shoeless and shaking with rage, Father yelled at another man. But when his dark eyes met Hanna’s, he fell silent. Her muscles tensed, bracing for the onslaught of insults. Would he drag her from the carriage by her hair down into the filth?

  Yet Father stood there, slack jawed, staring at her. She touched Georgina’s silk dress and fur-lined jacket, remembering she appeared to be a woman of society. Father stumbled forward, spittle flying from his mouth. He fell to his knees in the dirt before the carriage, nearly getting trampled by the horses.

  Reaching his arms out, Father cried, “Help me, my daughter. Please!”