She shrugged.
“Stay alive. That’s what I intend to do.”
She handed me her tweed cap, saluted me with her finger to her forehead. “Don’t you need the hat?”
“I’ll find another quick as you please. Now I’m goin’ to find me a spot to settle down for a few winks.”
In the next moment, I stood alone in the dark. I closed my eyes, willing Ernest to appear, to rescue me from taking another step alone. He would know what to do next. He always had a brilliant plan, another dream.
However, it was his brilliant plan that led me to this very moment. My long chestnut-colored hair, once the pride and the joy of light in my Ernest’s eyes, now tumbled across the floor in the night wind.
Ernest is not here.
I took a deep breath and set my cap over my shortened locks. It was the last time I saw the woman named Tony.
I wandered the streets like a ghost. Not another homeless soul glanced in my direction.
It did not take long as a man to find work. I find it amusing in a strange way that the double standard between men and women is apparent. I wondered how long it might have taken me to find work as a woman and yet in my disguise as a man, I was quickly able to get on with a pub owner who needed help in cleaning and upkeep in return for a room, a pint and one meal a day. It was a king’s plenty for having lived months searching for scraps in trash bins.
In the days to follow, I became aware of my surroundings, and it has occurred to me that the pub owner rents out his upstairs rooms to another business, one which many a homeless woman eventually turns to in order to make quick money.
I dutifully ignore the grunts and groans beyond the thin walls, reminding myself that my situation is temporary until Ernest appears. Though I admit the sounds of unbridled pleasure oft-times creates an unbearable longing for him.
Not the pub owner, Madam Spencer (the upstairs renter) or any of its clients so far is aware of my identity. I keep my cap pulled down over my eyes and, mindful of Tony’s warning, refrain as much as possible from speaking to anyone. I suspect the pub owner may feel I am unable to speak, as he placed an extra slice of bread on my plate in tonight’s supper. Once or twice I have entertained the thought of revealing myself to the madam and requesting employment, but I talk myself out of it every time when I hear the horrid stories between the pub patrons of young girls being used in ways unfathomable for the sake of odd pleasures.
Therefore, I do my work and keep to myself, staying in my small room and writing in my journal. (I was able to trade part of my wages for a quill and a bottle of ink from the pub owner.)
I wonder at the wisdom of trying to get word to Ernest of where I am staying. My quarters are sparse, having but a single cot with a filthy mattress and stained pillow. There is a heavy wool blanket, torn in several places and it appears to have come from a livery. I do not allow my mind to dwell on what events may have occurred on my naked mattress, but a stray giggle from down the hall quickly reminds me of the probabilities. I sleep fully clothed for warmth and to place as much between me and the bed as possible.
There is a small table that has a broken leg that I was able to mend with a bit of twine I found while taking out the refuse. I have a small wooden chair, and a kerosene lamp, which I use sparingly.
There is but one window, barely large enough to poke my head through that is my only ventilation. Unfortunately, it overlooks the alley at the back of the pub. Most nights I keep it closed against the stench rising from the alley below.
I try not to think too long on the things that I miss—Ernest, most always, fresh air, and my beloved hair, though I must admit the upkeep is much easier. I am able to bathe in the public facility once every two weeks, though I must exercise caution to do so only when it is empty. It is in that privacy, when the cool water touches my flesh that I close my eyes and think of Ernest.
My eyes fail me in this dim light and I mustn’t waste the oil, for it costs me an evening’s supper to fill it from the pub owner. I will rise early to tend to my duties of sweeping out the pub, laundering the towels, wiping down all the glassware, polishing the woodwork and chopping wood for the corner stove in the pub. After that, I am at the owner’s disposal in running errands and helping his cook in the galley with stew and potatoes for the noon crowds. My hope dims for your arrival, Ernest, but my determination is strong that you will not abandon me here in this life forever. I shall close with a fervent hope that you will come to me soon.
With complete devotion,
~A.C.B.
April 12, 1873
I find less and less desire to continue my writing. I once did so at Ernest’s request, in hope that he would be able to read of my adventures and be proud of how I stayed strong until he found me. But my hope of his coming for me dwindles with each passing day and instead of writing, I have taken to walking the streets, offering a coin to the women I see huddled in the streets with their children. Some who have no children I refer to Madam Spencer. At least it is better than living on the streets. It is hard not to think of my mother and Everett; likely he is dead now.
One woman I found, clutching a small child to her breast. The lack of movement in her arms caused me to think the worst and I again thought of my mother watching her own children die. The woman climbed over the wooden bridge trellis and teetered on its edge. Her hand grasping hold of the edge was all that kept her from plunging into the dark, icy water below.
“Please don’t.” Fear for the woman and her child’s fate choked out the volume in my voice as I ran toward her. As I drew near, I spotted her raising her face to the sky. She closed her eyes. The last rays of the sunlight of day illuminated her bright auburn hair.
With my next breath, she was gone.
“No!” I cried, rushing to the edge of the bridge. Below I could see the ripples where her body had disappeared. I searched frantically the bank below, hoping to find help. There was a group of men, huddled around a small fire, warming their hands. I waved and shouted. “Over here, there is a woman. She’s jumped off the bridge, please I need your help.”
Perhaps my voice was lost in the distance, or they simply did not care. The ripples in the murky water below soon dissipated and I knew the woman was gone, both she and her child. I lay my head down in my arms and cried. I do not know how long I stayed there, staring blindly at the water. Moreover, there passed through my mind the fleeting thought to follow her. Instead, I found my way back to my room and pulled my journal from beneath the mattress where I keep it hidden. I will not let her life go unnoticed, if only in its last moments. I will write what I’ve seen and how I am surviving in a world predisposed to the whims of men, and where seemingly women are regarded as an expendable quantity.
Regardless of what it may take, I vow never to allow my lot in life to prompt me to give in to despair. Life is far too precious. My mother set me on that journey and so too did Ernest, who once said to me, “With enough determination and hard work, you can become anything you wish to become.” To that I will add, that I will do whatever I must as a woman to survive, if nothing more than to live to tell others my tales of survival.
~A.C.B.
May 19, 1873
I awoke to the sound of weeping in the next room and feared a client had brought harm to one of Madam Spencer’s ladies.
I peeked through a crack in my door to find the poor young thing quite alone, seated at the edge of the bed. She clutched a flimsy sheer gown to her frail body. I could see the sharp angle of her shoulder blades stretched across her pale skin.
Her head popped up and her gaze jerked to mine with a horrified expression. Pitiful is too kind to describe what I saw and my heart immediately rushed to compassion.
In my haste, I bypassed that I wore a collarless man’s shirt as my nightdress, and though much thinner, I still possessed the curve of my hips. I realized too late that I had already removed the cloth that bound my breasts in order to appear as if I was a young boy.
She sniffed once or
twice, her dark eyes appearing sunken in their sockets as her gaze held mine.
“Are you a crow for Madam?”
My furrowed brow gave away that I had no knowledge of the term, but I was certain that sweeping and pitching garbage had little to do with being a crow. My puzzled look tipped her to my ignorance.
“A spy, are you a spy for Madam to be sure I give the client what he’s paid for?”
I shook my head.
“New tail, then?”
That, I understood. I sensed her competitive spirit despite the fact there seemed to be no client in the room. “No mum, at least for the time being. I live here, in the next room. And now, tell me, what is your story?” I wondered if her client had left her, in which case, her worries had only just begun. I have heard the whippings Madam Spencer administers to those who betray her generosity.
“Please don’t tell her, you must promise me.”
Her pale blue eyes were rimmed with dark circles against her fair skin. They pleaded with me most desperately.
“I promise, but tell me, what has happened? I heard your weeping and I came to see if your trick had hurt you.”
She shook her head, administering the silky movement of her blond curls over her shoulders, skinny and frail as they were. Still I was stuck with a measure of envy that she still possessed her curls.
“It is my first time,” she whispered, her eyes glued to the partially open door. “He has gone down the hall to the water closet and will be back soon.”
She wiped her cheeks free from her tears as I eased down to sit beside her on the bed. “Do you have nowhere else you might go?”
Again, she shook her head and a sweet scent wafted near my nose, reminding me of the rose arbor at the orphanage. She was clearly frightened. I placed my hand on her knee, keenly aware that I’d had no physical contact with another human being since Ernest. The sensation after months sent a shiver up my arm and I pulled away quickly. “Perhaps if you picture a pleasant thought it will help?”
She glanced at my posture, my arms hugging myself as though afraid to get too close. Her gaze lifted to mine.
“Do you think it would help?”
I could not say with absolute certainty, but I knew she had no place else to go. This is our common ground. “We do what we must to survive.”
She appeared to consider my words carefully, slowly nodding in agreement.
“My name is Betsy. Why do you wear your hair so terribly short? It looks much like a man.”
She tipped her head and her curious gaze followed her fingers as she sifted through the short hair above my ear. I closed my eyes at the sheer intimacy of human contact.
“It was a suggestion given to me while I was on the streets, for protection mainly, as I await my Ernest to arrive. I found work here from the pub owner, who thinks I am a young lad.” My gaze snapped to hers. “I pray you will not reveal my secret to him?”
She shook her head. “Not if you keep mine. Our circumstances dire as they are, would require most certainly that we help one another, wouldn’t you agree?”
I nodded, relaxing a bit, as I let my hands ease from my arms. “I am trying to save as much as I can in order to purchase a small flat. Ernest is a poet.” I smiled at the memory of his dark head bowed as he read to me. Where are you, Ernest? Why have you not come to me as you promised?
“How very brave of you to come to London alone with only the hope that he would join you.”
I glanced up at her sweet, innocent smile. Indeed, it was genuine, yet there was in her gaze a deep unhappiness no innocence could hide.
“I had a true love, once, or thought I did. His name was Frank…my fiancé. However, his gaze wandered and he left me for another woman shortly after we announced our engagement publicly. It wasn’t as though I loved him really, our marriage was arranged, nearly from birth—true aristocratic lineage and all that. My father and his felt it a splendid agreement, in order to keep the business secure between the two families. The problem they didn’t consider was that we did not care for each other.”
She lowered her hands as the memory of her own tragic story caused her voice to trail off.
“What happened?”
“Oh, well, my mother was mortified of course, and Frank’s mother encouraged her strongly that it was I who betrayed Frank, and not the other way around. Frank, of course, being a man, had already established himself and was highly esteemed and quite honorable, so he led many to believe. No proof was required, naturally, and shortly thereafter, my mother’s circle of social connections pressured her to believe that perhaps the rumors were true and that I was not interested in a proper home and family. I begged her to listen, pleaded to let me stay, but she finally turned me out and told me to find my own way, whatever that was.”
“How horrid, surely they know the truth by now?”
She shrugged. “I cannot say. I’ve not been in contact with them for over four months now.”
There was bitterness in her voice, and a depth of sadness laced within her words. “Perhaps you could try now and they would listen to you?” I made the offer, though anticipated her response.
As I expected, she shook her head, her spirit entirely broken. She was a lost soul and even though my heart ached for Ernest to rescue me from this dreadful existence, it was trivial by comparison to Betsy’s sad tale.
She twisted her fingers in her lap and my mind raced with how I might assist her with this wretched dilemma.
At the sound of a loud bang down the hall, our gazes together leapt toward the door. The thudding echo of a person of some girth drew closer with each step.
“That’s him. Quick, you must hide. Go back to your room. He’s had a number of pints tonight. Moreover he is quite large, possessing a fierce temper. Please, we mustn’t tease his anger.”
I stood between the end of the bed and my door, torn by conceding and leaving her to the fate of this beast. I stiffened my spine, summoning as much courage as was in me, and looked at her square in the eye. “I will not leave unless you are certain. I cannot stand by and do nothing to help. If it is your wish, I believe that together, somehow, we can overcome him.”
She laughed openly, looking at me as though I was insane and perhaps I was, if only temporary.
Her gaze lingered a breath more on mine as her brows pinched together, weighing her few options.
“Very well, I have an idea. Play along and perhaps we can convince the oaf that he is about to receive twice the pleasure for the price of one. With any luck the tosspot will pass out from his drunken state.”
For a brief moment, her courage reflected my determi nation. The unsteady footsteps in the hallway drew precariously near. Her theory left much to be desired. Nevertheless, it is all we had.
I nodded. “I will play along then.” My gaze searched the room, landing on a wooden chair in the corner. I pictured how best to whack the man over his head if circumstances came to that.
“Where are you, my lovely girl,” a deep voice bellowed just as the door to the room swung in and slammed against the cracked wall. It sent a chunk of thin plaster flying across the room and I flinched as it whirred past my head.
Standing in the doorway was a man the likes of which I had never before seen. His shoulders were broad, making the opening appear small, and his hands were twice the size of the average man. His thick mass of scraggly, blond hair was cut straight across his nape and stuck out over his thick mutton-chop sideburns, giving him the appearance of a wild beast. However, my attention was drawn to his large face. His cheekbones were hewn into a square jaw and his mouth wide, with thick lips that turned downward in a scowl. And those eyes, eyes as icy blue as a winter morning, turned to me.
I stepped back, holding his gaze. My stomach churned as though I might vomit.
An evil grin curled his impervious lips back over garish yellow teeth. A bit of tobacco residue stuck to his front tooth. I turned my face to gather my courage and prayed we would not have to follow through with our
charade.
He kicked the door shut with his massive booted foot, his gaze bouncing from me to Betsy as he began to unbutton his shirt. I glanced at Betsy with a look of concern, truly my faith in her scheme dwindled with each turn of a button.
“Now this is a lovely surprise.” He slurred his words. “Two for the price of one?” He paused, his narrow gaze scrutinizing my form. “You are aware of course that I am a man of great importance.”
“Indeed, sir,” Betsy replied, twirling a lock of her golden hair around her finger.
“You are a woman, eh?” he growled to me as he shirked off his shirt. He laughed to himself before I could answer, as he slipped off his trousers. “Not that it matters.”
My heart did stop at the sight of him naked. He reminded me of one of the strong men at a carnival. His biceps bulged and both forearms were covered in coarse blond hair. He was tall, in addition to his size, and his legs resembled sturdy, massive posts, with a third such post of great substance dangling between his legs.
“There you go, ladies. It’s not disappointed anyone yet.” He grinned and I swallowed the bile in my throat.
The stench wafting from his body was horrid, worse than the sewage on the streets, if indeed that is possible. Between the beer and the tobacco, he reeked most pitifully.
“How about a little drink before we start?” Betsy batted her eyes in preamble as she popped the cork from a bottle of whiskey placed on the side table. She poured some of the amber liquid in a small glass.
I reached for the bottle after she poured, tipping it back to allow a large swallow to collect in my mouth. My eyes watered as I held it a moment and let it burn down my throat.
“Fine show. I like a woman who likes her drink. My wife doesn’t like to drink,” he mumbled absently. “But I say, the burn is what warms the body, gets the heat going, if you mind my meaning.” He grabbed the glass Betsy held out to him and tossing his head back, downed the amber heat in one quick swallow.
He stood with his face turned to the heavens, mouth wide open in a groan as the whiskey hit its mark.
The Diary of Cozette Page 5
