Once More, Miranda

by Jennifer Wilde

  I hurried down the street, turned a corner, cut through an alley, heading for Big Moll’s. A thin, sallow man in gent’s attire came staggering up from one of the opium dens that riddled the slum. I paused, studying him with great interest, my head tilted to one side. He was wearing gent’s attire, sure, but the clothes were sadly rumpled and, I decided, his pockets had probably already been emptied by the harridan who kept the den. There’d be much easier pickings at Tyburn, and, besides, folk who spent the night with the pipe sometimes went plumb berserk and had the strength of ten. I let him pass. No need taking unnecessary risks, not unless there was a sure profit in store. Moving on, I passed the tall, tumbling down building where the painted boys entertained gents. Every taste was catered to in St. Giles.

  My stomach growled, and I hoped Big Moll was in a good mood. Sometimes when she’d had a good night and wasn’t too grumpy she’d give me a cup of coffee and a roll, crabbing all the while, of course, claiming I was eatin’ up all ’er profits. It was a long walk to Tyburn, and coffee and a bit of roll would stand me in good stead. Moll was always grumbling and bitching and pulling fierce faces, but she had a heart as big as the rest of her, and there was a soft spot in it for me, had been ever since I’d come to her aid—what?—nine years ago. Yes, Mum had still been alive then, and I had just begun to polish my skills as a thief. I smiled to myself, remembering that day.

  Big Moll hadn’t been so big then, though she was certainly hefty enough, and her plump face had still been vaguely pretty. She hadn’t been managing the house for very long, and she’d been foolish enough to set out for Black Jack’s establishment with the night’s take in her pocket and no paid bullies to protect her. She hadn’t gone fifty yards before two thieves fell upon her, knocking her to the ground and making off with the money. Uninjured, she began to shriek and wail like a stuck pig, claiming Black Jack would have her throat slit if she didn’t get the money back. A crowd quickly gathered, laughing and mocking her and throwing refuse, and my eyes flashed angrily as I helped her to her feet, a rotten tomato splattering my cheek as I did so.

  “Don’t you worry, ma’am,” I told her. “I’ll get your money back for you. Just see if I don’t.”

  I scurried away then, pursuing the thieves. I had recognized them, and I knew their haunts, knew where they were likely to go. Sure enough, I spotted them in Jacob’s Gin Shop, cackling over their success. I sidled up to them and ordered a half pint of gin and, when it came, tripped and accidentally spilled it all over Ted Brown, the burly, pock-faced villain who’d grabbed her money as she fell to the pavement. I apologized profusely and wiped at the damp spots on his coat and then left immediately, Big Moll’s money tucked safely in the bodice of my dress.

  She had hardly been able to believe it when I returned it to her. Her big brown eyes grew wider. Her plump, painted mouth made a large “O” as she began to count the money. Finding it all there, she clasped me to her and hugged me so tightly I feared my ribs would crack and said I was a bloomin’ wonder. She asked me why I hadn’t kept the money for myself. I told her the thought hadn’t occurred to me. She pounded me on the back and hugged me again and roared that I had a lot to learn about survival in St. Giles and said she’d better start giving me a few lessons, innocent mite that I was. Big Moll was my first real friend in St. Giles and, to this day, the only one I trusted.

  Reaching the house, I skipped up the stairs, opened the door and moved down the hall to the parlor, smelling the wonderful aroma of coffee. Three of Big Moll’s girls were lolling in the parlor, bleary-eyed, puffy, wearing thin wrappers and very little else.

  “Look ’oo’s ’ere,” Nan said hatefully. “Come to beg a cuppa coffee, I suppose.”

  I made a face at her. With her stony blue eyes and mousy brown hair, Nan was the least attractive of Big Moll’s girls, a skinny, querulous shrew with a sharp tongue and a wretched disposition. Strangely enough, she was also one of the most popular. A lot of men seemed to fancy a snappish whore.

  “Pay ’er no mind, luv,” Sally said. “She’s in a snit. One of ’er regulars passed ’er over last night, chose me instead. ’Ere, let me pour you a cup. We ’ave cinnamon rolls. Fresh, too. The lad from the bakery just brought ’em.”

  “An’ you gropin’ ’im in the ’allway ’fore ’e could get away,” Nan snapped.

  “Up your arse, Nan. You know I never did no such thing. ’E was a ’ealthy-lookin’ lad, though. Cheeky as could be.”

  “Barely sixteen, ’e was.”

  Sally handed me a cup of coffee and a sticky cinnamon roll. “Pinched my arse, ’e did, just reached out an’ gave it a tweak. Gave me quite a turn, I don’t mind tellin’ you. My rump’s still sore.”

  “Biggest thrill you’ve ’ad all week,” Nan said dryly.

  “You’re just jealous, luv. Ain’t no one wanted to pinch your arse for a long time.”

  Sally plopped back down on the sofa, plump, jolly, her head a mass of riotous black curls. Her brown eyes were full of merriment, and her soiled pink wrapper scarcely covered her ample girth. I sipped my coffee and took a bite of the roll. Faith moaned from the corner of the room, dabbing at her cheek with a vinegar-soaked cloth. The cheek was terribly swollen and beginning to darken with a bluish mauve bruise. Sally shook her head and frowned.

  “Bloody sod! Beatin’ up on poor Faith like that. Moll threw a fit when she ’eard Faith squallin’, rushed upstairs an’ gave ’im what for, told ’im to go to Mother Redcoat’s if ’e fancied that kinda play. She tossed the bastard right outta the ’ouse. Black Jack oughta protect us from that sort.”

  “Black Jack don’t give a ’ang what ’appens to us long as ’e gets ’is money,” Nan remarked. “What’s a battered ’ore to ’im? Plenty more to fill ’er shoes in St. Giles. Understand ’e’s openin’ a new ’ouse specially for th’ gentry and selectin’ th’ girls ’isself. They gotta be young an’ pretty an’ virginal.”

  “Leaves you out, luv,” Sally teased.

  “I was a virgin for weeks,” Nan protested. “Moll must-a used up a ’undred of them pellets ’fore th’ ruse failed.”

  I knew the pellets she was referring to, of course. Virgins were in great demand and very short supply in St. Giles. Big Moll and the other madams solved this problem by supplying new girls with a small, easily concealed pellet filled with red ink. Surreptitiously broken at a strategic moment, the pellets covered sheets and thighs with a reasonable facsimile of blood. If a girl was clever enough and a good enough actress, she could lose her virginity over and over again before the customers got wise.

  “I ’ad long pigtails,” Nan recalled. “That ’elped, an’ I cried and carried on somethin’ awful. I was a ’uge success.”

  Sally raised her eyes heavenward and clacked her tongue. Faith continued to bathe her cheek, whimpering quietly. I finished the cinnamon roll and licked my fingers. A fire had burned down low in the fireplace, the charred logs making a pleasant crackling noise. The parlor with its worn blue carpet and faded, flowered pink curtains was warm and cozy. I dreaded leaving it for the chilly streets.

  “’Is men are combin’ St. Giles, lookin’ for likely girls for th’ new ’ouse,” Nan continued. “Abductin’ any lass ’oo ain’t gotta ’arelip and looks like she might still ’ave ’er cherry. You better watch out, Randy.”

  “I ain’t whorin’ for no one!” I declared.

  “If Black Jack decided ’e wanted ya to, you wouldn’t ’ave no choice, Miss ’Igh an’ Mighty.”

  “’E’d ’ave to catch me first.”

  “That wouldn’t be ’ard. Black Jack ’as ways.”

  I ignored the remark and drank the rest of my coffee. Black Jack Stewart was the undisputed king of St. Giles, the most notorious criminal since Jonathan Wild and certain to come to the same end one day. Until that time came, he would continue to rule the criminal world with an iron hand, keeping tight control over all criminal activity. Every brothel, every gin shop, every gambling house and opium den paid garnish to him, more
than half their take in most cases, and anyone who dared defy him or withhold money ended up in an alleyway with throat slit from ear to ear. Black Jack had a private army of murderous ruffians eager to do his bidding, a savage gang even more feared than the vicious Mohocks who had terrorized the populace a few years back.

  Black Jack controlled all the receiving houses outright and made an immense profit from the traffic in stolen goods, while the poor thieves who provided the booty were lucky to make ends meet, but we had no other recourse, no other outlet. Any thief who eschewed the receiving houses and tried to sell stolen items on his own met a fate similar to those folk who held out on Black Jack. It was frustrating and bloody unfair. A crafty and accomplished thief like me who took pride in her work couldn’t hope to get ahead, but it beat whorin’. Bein’ hungry now and then was better than catchin’ the pox.

  Big Moll came shuffling into the parlor just as I was pouring myself another cup of coffee. Her outrageous wig of bouncing orange ringlets was all askew, her large brown eyes snapping angrily as, hands on hips, she planted her enormous bulk in front of the dying fire and glared at me. Her fat cheeks were generously powdered, and a heart-shaped black satin patch was affixed beneath one corner of her small, vivid red mouth. Her voluminous red taffeta gown had a worn, shiny look, and the fringed purple and blue shawl around her shoulders was decidedly ragged. The bright clothes merely emphasized her considerable bulk.

  “’Elp yourself!” she snorted as I set down the coffeepot. “Go a’ead an’ eat me outta ’ouse an’ ome, you bloody little beggar! I don’t know why I put up with it!”

  I gave her a saucy grin. Big Moll fancied herself a dragon, taking great pride in her surly disposition and razor-sharp tongue, but, alas, she fooled no one but herself. There wasn’t a girl in the house who couldn’t wrap the corpulent old dear around her little finger.

  “Get yourself on up to your room, Faith!” she ordered. “Angle’s back with a bucket-a ice. ’Ave you any idea ’ow ’ard it is to find ice, ’ow much it cost? She’s made-ya an ice pack, an’ I want you to put it on that cheek. It’ll ’elp the swellin’ to go down. Can’t earn no money lookin’ like you do now. Go on! An’ see you stay in bed all day an’ ’ave a ’ot lunch!”

  Faith left the room, still whimpering, and Big Moll scowled and shook her head, the long orange ringlets bouncing furiously. Sally was munching on another cinnamon roll, and Nan yawned wearily, examining her face in a tarnished hand mirror.

  “Poor mite,” Moll said. “That sod damned near killed ’er. If I ’adn’t burst in when I did, ’e’d uv done it for sure. Scrawny lookin’ bugger, ’e was, looked like a clerk. Them are th’ kind to watch out for, th’ puny-lookin’ ones. They’re beat down all day long an’ take it out on poor ’ores at night. Mother Redcoat does a brisk trade with them kind.”

  “Sally said you threw him out,” I remarked.

  “On ’is arse! Told ’im never to darken my door again. I run a respectable ’ouse, I do, no whips, no peep shows, just good clean toppin’. I ’ave my standards.”

  “Yeah,” Nan said languidly.

  “No lip from you, lass!” Moll stormed. “I ain’t inna mood for your sarcasm. So what’re you doin’ ’angin’ around this ’our uv th’ mornin’?” she asked me. “’Sides stuffin’ yourself, that is.”

  “I’m goin’ to Tyburn,” I replied.

  “Tyburn!”

  I nodded. “Ought-a be good pickin’s. The gentry always turn up to see the ’angin’s, and they’re stringin’ up a traitor today. One of the men who supported Bonnie Prince Charles.”

  “A traitor, then,” Moll said. She shuddered. “I shouldn’t care to see that. What they do to those poor souls—”

  “I never watch,” I assured her. “I’m too busy minglin’ in the mob, pickin’ out the likeliest cove.”

  Hanging alone wasn’t considered punishment enough for traitors. They were hung, cut down while still alive, disembowled and subjected to the most hideous tortures before they were finally beheaded. It wasn’t a sight for the squeamish, but then there were few squeamish souls in our London. People seemed to relish the most barbaric cruelty, which, indeed, surrounded them on every side in this age we lived in.

  “Go a’ead,” Moll grumbled, “’ave another cinnamon roll! They’ll just get stale, or Sally’ll stuff ’erself into a stupor. I wish you wudn’t goin’ today, Randy. I get uneasy.”

  “You’re always uneasy,” I retorted, reaching for the roll. “No need to be. I’m the best there is. I ain’t gonna get caught.”

  “That’s what all of ’em say, and all of ’em end up swingin’ from Tyburn Tree or rottin’ away in Newgate or Bridewell. You’ve been at it too long as it is, an’ your luck’s bound to run out soon, if not today then tomorrow or th’ day after. I got a feelin’ about it.”

  “Moll’s always gettin’ a feelin’,” Nan observed.

  “Shut your mouth, Nan! I do, though, an’ every time I get a feelin’ somethin’ bad ’appens, sure as faith. Don’t go to Tyburn today, luv. Stay ’ere. I could use th’ company.”

  “I ’ave my work to do, Moll.”

  Moll snorted, making one of her fierce faces. “I’ve told-ya over an’ over, you could work ’ere. ’Elpin’ me keep things runnin’. You wouldn’t ’ave to work on your back, I know ’ow you feel about that. You could run errands for me an’ ’elp with th’ books an’ things like that. It’d be a relief to me, knowin’ I ’ad someone on ’and ’oo can read an’ write, someone I could—depend on.”

  I merely smiled and shook my head, and Moll snorted again, scowling at me as I ate my second cinnamon roll. She’d been after me to come work for her for four years, at least, and although I appreciated her offer and the kindness behind it, I knew it wouldn’t work out. I liked my freedom too much. Moll didn’t really want someone to help her run the house. She wanted someone to cluck over and take care of. Fond as I was of her, I didn’t fancy the role. Besides, I enjoyed my work. The dangers involved only made it more exciting.

  Moll waddled over to the rickety sideboard, opened a bottle of gin and took a hearty swig, belching robustly afterward. Nan stood up, yawned and informed us that she was going to get some sleep. Sally said she guessed she’d go up, too, she’d had a busy night, unlike some she could mention. They left the room, Sally taking the rest of the cinnamon rolls with her. Although I was no longer hungry, I could have used a third one just the same.

  “I wish you wudn’t so bloody stubborn,” Moll grumbled, taking another swig of gin. “I been lookin’ out after you ever since your poor mum passed over, an’ you ain’t made it easy, I don’t mind tellin’ you.”

  “I don’t need anyone to look after me. I can take care of myself.”

  “Hump! You just think you can, missy! You’ve been lucky, yeah, but you’re gettin’ too big for pickin’ pockets. When you was a tiny mite, it was one thing, no one pays mind to kiddies, there ain’t th’ risk, but you’re too noticeable now, Randy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That ’air, that face, that body. Dirty as you are, face smudged with soot an’ your dress in rags, you’re a beauty. I been watchin’ you bloom.”

  “Rubbish.”

  “It ain’t rubbish! You’re too pretty by far to be roamin’ th’ streets. You don’t melt into th’ crowd any longer. You attract attention. Th’ men’re already letchin’ after-ya, and there’s gonna be trouble. Mark my word.”

  “I’ll do that, luv,” I said saucily, “but now I’ve gotta be on my way. I got a long walk, and there’s gonna be a ’uge crowd.”

  Big Moll frowned, her large brown eyes full of genuine worry. “I got this feelin’, Randy.”

  “You and your feelin’s.”

  “Somethin’s gonna ’appen. I feel it in my bones.”

  “Bosh!”

  “You be careful now, pet. Ya-’ear? Promise me you’ll be careful.”

  “I will be, luv. And thanks for the coffee and cinnamon rolls. You’re an old da
rlin’, even if you are full of nonsense.”

  Moll snorted, made another fierce face at me and emptied the gin bottle. I heard her titanic belch as I hurried down the hall and stepped outside. The wind was icy and the cobbles chilled my bare feet, but I paid no mind to it. Stomach full, light of heart, I traipsed merrily down the street, anticipating a successful haul at Tyburn and having not the faintest notion that this day was going to alter violently the whole course of my life.

  13

  The wind had died down and it wasn’t quite so cold now, although I was still chilled to the bone as I moved down Plumtree Court Broad Street. Despite the early hour, the streets were thronged. I stepped nimbly to avoid being splattered as a fierce old crone dumped her slops out of a second floor window, but the laborer behind me wasn’t so lucky. Instantly drenched with refuse, potato peels draped over his head and shoulders, he gave a violent shout, raised his fist, and filled the air with colorful words. Across the way a mob of people were eagerly plundering the ruins of a tenement that had fallen down, carting off timber that could be sold to washer-women and clear starchers. All the tenements were in tottering condition and rarely a month passed that one didn’t come crashing down, frequently crushing poor wretches to death or maiming them horribly.

  Two brawny men were fighting over a pile of timber, fighting viciously, I observed. The blond lout in leather jerkin was trying his best to gouge out the eyes of the black-haired brute. Blood splattered. No one paid the least attention. Such fights were common as dirt in St. Giles. The victor shambled off arrogantly, and more likely the wounded foe was fallen upon by a voracious crowd who rifled his pockets for possible valuables and often stripped the clothes off his body. Violence abounded on every side. It was a way of life and one grew immune to it, as one grew immune to the hideous stench. I still shuddered when I saw the corpse of an infant tossed onto a refuse heap, I still turned away when I saw a maimed, bleeding body sprawling on the cobbles, but I had learned early on that taking care of Randy was the important thing. Compassion could get you killed.