The Frenchman's Widow

by Eliza Lloyd

  “Carry me,” Lily demanded of Charlie. Brighton Beach teemed with tourists taking in the waters and Lily had already removed her shoes, squealing as the water covered her calves and wetted the hem of her dress.

  “And if I say no?”

  “Please, Uncle Charlie, carry me. High up.”

  “You are wet.”

  She reached for him and Imogene watched as another adult fell to Lily’s charms. Charlie was a goner the moment Imo had carried Lily into the breakfast room to meet him.

  The day was too perfect to stay at the house, at least this morning. After lunch Charlie wanted to start with some of the more modest repairs.

  But now it was about family.

  Charlie dropped his shoes and swept Lily up. She laughed with glee and held tight when he placed her on his shoulder.

  “Hold still now or you might fall.” Charlie, his trousers rolled past his ankles, ran toward the water and then leaned forward, pretending to drop her.

  Lily screamed with laughter and a bit of fear. “Noooo! Mama?”

  “She can’t save you, Miss Lily.”

  Imogene watched the antics. She removed her bonnet and folded her parasol, facing the ocean and enjoying the breeze as it caressed her face.

  “I’ll be in the cabana,” she said to Charlie before picking up his shoes.

  “Go on. I think I am her prisoner until she sees fit to free me.” Lily had both his hands and jumped up and down in the shallow, pulsing tide. Her daughter frolicked, forgetting she had a mother at all. Uncle Charlie was undoubtedly more fun and less likely to scold.

  Charlie might have aged into a fine young man but it was good to see the boy—still innocent, still child-like.

  She glanced toward the Chalk Cliffs and the Chain Pier before she ducked inside the shade and sat on the canvas and wood chair. The tent retained the heat of the sun and Imogene’s eyelids drifted downward, the result of complete contentment.

  Charlie and Lily were making noises at the water’s edge and they traveled out of hearing range.

  She must have drifted off because when she woke, she heard the furtive voice of a young girl. Imogene recognized the plea, or rather the offer, and jumped to her feet.

  A waif of maybe ten or twelve years propositioned a man. Not a gentleman, but a cit possibly.

  Imogene stormed up to them and took the child by her arm, holding fast. Wide-eyed, the man stepped back. The fiend. He was old enough to be the girl’s grandfather.

  “Sir, is your family walking on the beach, perhaps? I am sure you ought to catch up.”

  He said nothing, scampering away like a dirty thief and hiding behind the tents dotting the beach.

  The girl tried to twist away, but she was no match for Imogene.

  “Now young lady, what are you about?”

  “Leave me be.”

  “I most certainly will not. Are you hungry? Do you have a home?”

  “Yep.”

  “Yes you have a home or yes you are hungry?”

  “I don’t need no handout.”

  “You are coming with me.”

  “Can’t make me.”

  “I can.” Imogene took a step forward, but the girl dug her heels in the sand. “Being difficult will not help. What is your name?” Imo blinked and shook her head. “You are filthy. Your name?”

  “Birdie.”

  “Bertha? Betty? Elizabeth?”

  “Just Birdie.”

  “Do you have parents?”

  “Did.”

  Imogene gripped the girl’s hands and bent in front of her. “I want to help you.”

  Trust didn’t come easy when one was alone. The girl bit at her lips and her eyes darted, looking for an escape.

  “What about a brother? A sister?”

  The girl tensed beneath Imo’s grip.

  “Hallo,” Charlie called. “Who do you have there, Imogene?”

  For the shortest moment, Imo glanced toward Charlie. The inattention gave Birdie the chance to tear loose and take off running.

  “Birdie! Come back.” All Imo saw was the back of Birdie’s ill-fitting dress and the light colored braid that swung as she ran.

  “What was that about?” Charlie asked. He carried Lily in his arms and they were both wet and windblown. He was wet past his knees. Lily was soaked from her braids to her sagging stockings.

  “A girl I wanted to help.”

  “Do you want me to follow her?”

  Imogene watched as the girl ran toward the pier and then disappeared in the crowd.

  “Who was that, Mama?”

  “Her name was Birdie. I wanted her to come and live with us.” Imo grimaced. She hated to lose a girl, especially one so young.

  “Let me get my shoes on,” Charlie said, lowering Lily to the sand.

  “And you, little lady, need something dry. Come along.”

  “I can swim now.”

  “Oh, you can? Did Charlie teach you?”

  “She jumped in,” he said.

  “I put my head underwater and swam like a fish.”

  “You did? You are lucky not to have drowned.”

  They headed home, Lily between them, holding their hands and jumping over shells and rocks and sunbeams. Imogene glanced longingly down the beach, sad to have lost a chance to help someone so obviously in need.

  “Do you want to look for her?” Imogene asked.

  “Is that a good idea? You don’t know Brighton that well yet. And I would be completely lost.”

  “It won’t matter if you are with me.”

  “About that. Have you considered hiring a man of all work? I don’t like thinking of you here alone, especially with your projects. You remember how dangerous it was for you, and you had Frank and Danny.”

  “Some big, burly fellow to fight off anyone knocking at my door?”

  “The bigger, the better. And perhaps someone with a decent head on his shoulders.”

  Imogene had a bevy of men to protect her through her life and she hadn’t really thought much about it. First her brothers, Jack in his own way and finally Pierre, who would have hired a Praetorian guard to see her safe. Maybe Charlie was right.

  “I’ll think about it. We can leave as soon as Lily’s abed.”

  “There’ll be a good moon tonight. Let’s hope for the best,” Charlie said.

  * * * * *

  The house needed so much work. Imogene had prepared a lengthy list, which had two main headings, repairs and purchases. She’d meticulously calculated the costs and believed everything could be completed for sixty pounds, but she would spend all of the accrued interest on Jack’s payment if she needed.

  After lunch, Charlie took up tools and began working outdoors. Ynez and Madelina had finished the cleaning already, so the women all began the painting, starting in the front room Charlie had slept in last night. Imogene avoided complete chaos by requiring rooms be dealt with one at a time.

  As exhausted as they were by the end of the day, Charlie and Imogene still slipped out of the house by ten.

  Imogene wore her old clothes, now musty from disuse. Walking down the street with Charlie beside her brought back many memories.

  She could not pass for a boy so easily anymore, especially not in daylight. Her hips were a bit rounder since Lily’s birth and now Imogene had more hair than she knew what to do with. But she’d pinned it up and stuffed it beneath her cap.

  Cutting it would suit Imogene just fine, but respectability came easier when one dressed, talked and acted like everyone else. Which she could do as she established Madame LeClerc, late of Paris, in her new surroundings. It was a matter of practicality not individuality. A noble might be free to flout convention. Imogene did not have that luxury.

  “You ought to throw those rags away,” Charlie said, noticing her wardrobe.

  “Comes in handy now and again.”

  “For all your nocturnal rescue missions?”

  “I don’t think she’d be as easy to find while I’m prancing about Brighto
n in my day dress. Birdie’s protecting someone else, so she’ll have a good hiding place.”

  Charlie might laugh at her, but he understood why she was so determined. It wasn’t easy to pass by twenty whores, knowing she couldn’t help, but she could not pass by a child, especially one that had not been hardened by life on the street.

  Birdie’s big eyes and dirty face hid a frightened girl.

  They had no luck until the fourth night, and only then because they had talked to someone yesterday who’d said he’d seen a young orphan girl between the two buildings where he’d stabled his horses.

  They brought a lantern with them. They searched inside the stable and into the mew. It wasn’t until they were back outside when Charlie saw the missing slat. There was a small hidey-hole in the side of the horse barn beneath the wooden grain trough.

  “Let me see,” Charlie said, getting to his knees and bending low.

  Imo held the light at his shoulder. “Can you get in?” she asked.

  “No, but you might be able to.” Imogene got down on her knees next to Charlie. “I can see feet.”

  “Birdie? Come out,” Imogene said, using a motherly voice she’d practiced every day since Lily was eight months old. “We won’t hurt you.”

  She heard the terrified whispers, the little feet pulled tighter as the bodies inside tried to burrow further into their nest. Charlie glanced at Imogene; his empathetic expression nearly brought tears to Imo’s eyes.

  “Birdie, I will come in there and pull you out by your legs. Each one of you, if I have to. And I won’t care if you are crying and screaming.”

  “Just me,” Birdie answered back, her voice sounding like a mewling, scared kitten. With claws.

  “All of you.” How many were there?

  Imogene gave Birdie some time to think before she saw the shod feet and her bottom as Birdie backed out of their home. Imogene set the lantern aside while Charlie got to his feet and gripped Birdie around the waist, so she stood beside him.

  Imogene clutched Birdie’s hand. “I want you to come home with me. Where you can be warm and safe.”

  “You got tuck?”

  Imogene supposed Birdie would have run a second time, but if her first question was whether they could have food, they must be desperately hungry. And hunger could drive a body to do anything, even surrender when one would rather fight.

  “Of course. All you can eat. Now who else is in there?” Imo leaned forward again. The lantern light reflected against the wide eyes of at least two more children, looking like specters in the darkness.

  Imogene called to them, but they didn’t move. Birdie propped her hands against the barn boards and said, “Do what she says.”

  There was more whispering in the dark and another backed out. A girl. Then another girl. Then a boy. Then another girl. They all huddled up next to Birdie and away from Charlie.

  “Oh my. Is that all of you?”

  “Yes,” Birdie said. “You said we could have food.”

  “And you shall, but we have to walk a bit to get to my front door. Now tell me your names.”

  Birdie rattled them off—Alice, Jenny, Sarah, Todd.

  Imogene held her breath. Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh damn it to hell. Why does this happen to children?

  The boy, Todd, held his left arm close to his body. The empty sleeve flapped when he moved.

  “And what has happened here?” Imo asked, touching Todd’s shoulder. The boy turned his face into his sister’s side.

  “He was born that way. Mam said he’s a worthless, queer lully.”

  “No boy is worthless.” Imogene glanced at Charlie. “Well?”

  Charlie took the youngest girl up to his shoulders, a brave move considering the stench surrounding the children. Had the Farrells ever been so dirty? He took Todd’s hand and started down the alley toward the main street. Imogene took the other girls’ hands, leaving Birdie to follow.

  “Can you talk about your family?” Imogene asked.

  “No.”

  “You will tell me later.”

  Birdie didn’t say no, so they marched on in silence, avoiding the fine people of Brighton and unnecessary trouble.

  * * * * *

  Imogene barked orders at Ynez to ready the hot water and tub in the kitchen. Madelina scurried upstairs to move Lily to Imogene’s room so she could sleep through the hubbub, then collected clean clothes. Laraine and Imogene prepared food while the Mitchells—information Imo had squeezed from the reluctant Birdie—sat huddled on the kitchen floor. Birdie had the youngest girl in her lap.

  Charlie worked at the kitchen fire, bringing in additional wood and stirring the flames. “Come along, children. We are not animals. We will sit at the table.”

  Once the food was laid out, the children hurried to find a place, chairs scraping against the wooden floor. Birdie helped the smallest; the others had already grabbed at the bread and meat.

  Charlie stood watch, cleared his throat as the children turned to gaze at him, their mouths full. “We should give thanks.”

  The children didn’t react.

  “Bow your heads,” he said quietly.

  “Why? We don’t have nothing to be thankful for,” Birdie said.

  Rather than spoil Charlie’s gesture, Imogene said, “You are right, Birdie. Maybe there’s nothing to be thankful for now, but I promise you, there will come a time when you will be thankful and then we’ll pray. Eat up now.”

  Imogene shrugged when she turned away, giving an apology to her brother.

  They ate surprisingly little and the youngest leaned her head on the table.

  “Alice, come here,” Imogene ordered. The girl glanced at her sister for approval. “Let’s get you washed up.”

  The kitchen was a hive of activity as each kid from youngest to oldest was stripped of their grubby clothes, dipped in the tub and scrubbed pink. They were too tired to fuss or fight.

  Once a child was clothed again and had their hair brushed, Charlie swept them up and took them off to a bedroom upstairs. Imogene tagged along. Alice was asleep before she was tucked into the simple bedding spread out on the floor.

  Then they were down to the last one, Birdie. She sat in the dirty water, which Imo regretted, as she knew the wonders of a tub full of clean water and scented suds. Imogene shooed everyone off to bed and then set to work on Birdie’s tangled wad of hair, first with scissors and then the brush.

  “What happened with your mother and father?” Imo asked. She spoke softly and swept the brush through Birdie’s hair with tender strokes.

  “Never had a da.”

  “But you had a mother?”

  She nodded and hugged her arms tighter about her knees. “She left us on the docks. Said she didn’t want us and she couldn’t take care of us no more.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “I don’t know. She got on a ship. I didn’t cry.”

  “Because you were the oldest and you had to take care of your brother and sisters.”

  She nodded.

  “And what you were doing on the beach, you don’t have to do that anymore.”

  “I didn’t like it.”

  Imo reached for a small cloth and scrubbed behind Birdie’s ears and along her neck. “I’ll expect you to stay clean, help with the housework and most importantly, be part of our family.”

  They were quiet while Imo finished scrubbing. “All right. Time to stand.” Imogene hoisted the bucket over Birdie’s head and let the clean, warm water trickle through her hair and down her arms. Birdie shivered, her arms drawn together and her fists clenched beneath her chin, but said nothing.

  Imo handed over a towel, dressed Birdie and ushered her up the stairs. Her siblings were fast asleep and close together with light blankets over them and bare feet sticking from beneath the covers.

  The house wasn’t going to be big enough.

  Birdie lay on the floor and drew close to her sister, Sarah, and said, “Thank you, ma’am.” A hard won statement from a young girl
who probably hadn’t known much kindness. How had she kept them all together? How lucky the Farrells were to have had Danny.

  Imogene snuffed the candle and closed the door. The house grew quiet and Imo checked on Lily before heading downstairs. A candle still burned in the front room and the smell of fresh paint was strong.

  Charlie sprawled on the couch, holding a book close to the candle flame, intently reading from the pages.

  “Thank you, Charlie,” she said.

  “Anything for my sister.”

  She drew closer and set on the couch beside him. “I wasn’t really expecting five of them. Would you keep an eye on the door tonight? I think Birdie is willing to slip away, but her siblings ought to keep her from bolting.”

  “I will sleep with one eye open. And Imogene?”

  “Yes?”

  “Your mam would be proud of you.”

  Raison d'être, as Pierre often said.

  Chapter Six

  Crockford’s bustled with ton gentlemen, all believing they would make a fortune at any one of the gaming tables spread about the room. Jack Davenport wasn’t looking for a fortune or company, even though he could see several acquaintances around the room.

  He preferred a non-thinking game on this evening, so he found a spot at one of the roulette tables. He dropped his tokens on combinations of seven, the croupier spun the wheel and the ball whirred, bounced with a few clickty-clacks and landed on number twenty-seven.

  Mildly gratified, he scooped up his winnings, dropped a few more coins, using four as his anchor, and the whole process repeated itself well into the evening.

  Again and again the hum and clack drowned out thoughts of Imogene.

  Around ten o’clock, he was handed a message.

  He ripped the Prescott seal and peeled open the letter.

  Lady Prescott has gone into labor.

  Jack waved at a porter and requested a drink. These things tended to drag on and he knew he was not really needed at home. Pacing from the bottom of the stairs to the library would be the extent of his contribution to Catherine’s hours of delivery.

  He and Catherine might be married, but they were for all purposes estranged, and their distance had only grown worse with the latest pregnancy. However, no matter how he tried, he could not work up a complete lack of empathy for his wife. She was the mother of his children, and if he hurried home, it would only be to worry needlessly as he gave into the tenseness that surrounded childbirth.