by Erica Monroe
At nineteen, Abigail was the same age as Poppy. With almond-shaped blue eyes and a small nose, Abigail was everything that was fresh-faced and innocent.
Poppy was used and tarnished.
Abigail’s younger sister, Bess, trailed behind her. Bess offered her hand to Poppy shyly, a dingy ginger curl falling across her eye. Beige, ocher, and blue threads tangled with her unruly hair. Children as young as six quilled silk until their small hands were blistered and bleeding.
Leading Bess by the hand, Poppy kept walking through the factory. Abigail followed behind them.
“Why do you think they’re letting us go so early?” Abigail asked, careful to keep her voice low lest the Larkers overhear her.
Boz Larker’s office door was closed. It’d been closed since four that afternoon, though little sound carried from the office when the looms were in motion. Larker closed the door when he didn’t want the workers to know who was visiting him.
Poppy nibbled on her bottom lip. “I don’t know.”
Bess peeked up at her. One look at Bess was enough to convince Poppy that she was doing the right thing. She might not be able to save Bess from a hard life, but devil take it, she’d sell her body before she allowed her own daughter to work in one of these factories. Every shift brought money home to support Moira.
“Let’s not question their generosity, shall we?” Poppy quickened her pace, and Bess trotted after her.
Abigail nodded, lifting her skirts up so that she’d not trip on them as she walked. Though Poppy was shorter than her, Abigail’s strides were never regular. As a child, Abigail had worked as a piecer, sliding underneath the machinery and resting on her right side to mend the broken threads. Her right knee bent inward, giving her an awkward, almost waddling walk, but if she was careful, she could move at an almost parallel speed to Poppy.
They fell into step with the rest of the workers. What had once been an orderly line at the first toll of the bell had quickly descended into a mob. No one wanted to be present should the Larkers change their minds about the early exodus. Poppy kept one hand on her lantern and the other on Bess, shielding her as people pushed to and fro in their attempts to fit through the slim doorway. Abigail stumbled as a man slammed into her, but caught herself on an iron stand used to hold gingham bags, scrapers, and netting.
Finally, it was their turn to leave.
Cool, crisp air washed over Poppy’s face as they stepped outside. She let out a deep breath, readjusting to the new smells of the outdoors. The factory was all iron and rust, silk and fibers, but here in the open the scents varied. Down the street someone was baking bread, while the odor of juniper lay finely over everything from the several open dram palaces.
She could place gin within a five-meter radius, thanks to her brother, Daniel.
The first traces of nightfall had descended over Spitalfields. Poppy stopped for a moment to allow Abigail to catch her breath and lit the lantern with a lucifer match. She leaned back against the wall. As soon as the crumbling brick side met with the thin cotton of her dress, she sprung forward as if stung.
Not more than a week ago, Anna Moseley had been found against this wall, beaten and stabbed. Some fool Peeler had lifted her up from the spot, probably worsening her injuries.
The Met didn’t give a whit about Anna’s death. They hadn’t cared when they arrested Daniel for a murder he didn’t commit. He’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time, a victim of circumstances. The bloody Peelers didn’t care about victims.
But Poppy cared, damn it, and Anna had been a good person. A sweet girl with her whole life ahead of her.
“I miss her too,” Abigail remarked.
Poppy sighed. “It isn’t fair.”
Bess blinked. She looked from Poppy to her sister and back again, her brows furrowing with consternation.
Pulling Bess to her, Abigail covered the girl’s ears with her hands. “There’s no sign that the Larkers had anything to do with Anna’s murder,” she whispered.
“And no sign that they didn’t,” Poppy murmured.
“You could go somewhere else,” Abigail suggested, unclasping Bess’ ears. “The way you fix up the clothes you find in the rag and bone shops...I’d be lucky to ever be half as good, and I’ve been at this my whole life. You could easily make twice as much in the pretty shops on Bond Street.”
“No.” Poppy shook her head. She didn’t tell Abigail she’d worked as a dressmaker’s assistant until she’d been dismissed from that post. She didn’t tell Abigail anything that remotely resembled the truth because she knew better.
Some lies had to be upheld.
“Besides, what would you do without me?” Poppy forced a grin. Abigail meant well.
“Oh, I’d moan and groan, but I’d muddle through,” Abigail smiled back.
They continued walking. The street was empty. It was too early for the gin crowd. The rest of Spitalfields was either at work in another one of the factories, sitting down to supper with their family, or sleeping off last night’s bout.
“What are you going to do with the extra blunt you earned from weaving the most silk in a week?” Abigail asked.
“I haven’t thought about it.” Another lie, for Poppy knew exactly what she’d do with the bonus: it would go in the fund for Moira to attend a finishing school someday.
“You must have a plan,” Abigail teased. “I’d buy more books, of course. I finished The Italian last night. Thank you for loaning it to me.”
“You’re welcome.” Poppy smoothed her skirt with aching fingers, tingling from too many hours spent at the loom. “I suppose Moira would like some fruit.”
“Fruit?” Abigail repeated, her button nose wrinkling. “Ack. You’re so practical. I long for adventure, something scandalous.” Poppy had been scandalous once, and she’d paid the price.
“Eventually, of course, I’d like to marry,” Abigail continued. “It seems lovely to be married.”
“It was lovely,” Poppy lied. Wincing, Abigail reached for Poppy’s hand, covering it with her own. “I’m sorry, love, how insensitive of me. Rambling on about my problems, when the loss of your Robert is still fresh with you.”
Abigail’s soft blue eyes shone with sympathy for the supposed demise of a man she thought had meant the world to Poppy. If Abigail knew that the picture of her supposed husband Poppy carried with her had been purchased at a pawn shop, would she still feel such pains of sadness for her friend? Unlikely. So the fictional Lieutenant Robert Corrigan, of His Majesty’s Royal Navy, must remain Moira’s purported father.
Abigail stopped in front of a public house on Wheeler Street. In a few hours, this area would be alive with music, scoundrels, and the fancy crowd back from the most recent mill. She held the door open for Bess. The little girl darted inside, waiting by the bar for Abigail to enter.
Abigail turned back to Poppy. “Join us? After I drop off Bess back home, I’m going to the Ten Bells. I heard there’s a band tonight.”
“Afraid not.” Poppy shook her head. “Must be getting back to Moira.” The last rays from the sun were disappearing quickly. She’d have an hour or two after Moira ate dinner before the babe needed to sleep.
“See you tomorrow,” Abigail called.
Poppy moved away from the public house, eager to get home. Daniel and his wife, Kate, had agreed to watch Moira. Poppy’s companion, Edna Daubenmire, was out running errands.
The lamps faded at this point, giving way to the barely lit crevices of back alleys and battered-window tenement houses. Staying close to the public houses would give her enough light to see by on her way home, provided she didn’t dally any longer. She had memorized which roads she should avoid at what times, taking a different way out in the morning than she did when returning in the evening. Poppy carried a knife and a pair of scissors in her apron pocket, just in case.
She set off, her pace swift and determined.
Footsteps echoed behind her.
She spun around to confront the person, lant
ern high in her grasp. In the shadows, the tall, lanky build of the man was visible, a square hat atop his head.
“Wot ye want?” she snapped, dropping her voice into the cutting dialect of the East End like Kate had taught her.
The man came closer, the lamp’s glow hitting him. Clothed in a blue uniform, a regulation truncheon at his side, that damn hat—he was a Peeler, if she ever saw one.
Bollocks and the balls that came with them.
Poppy had three core beliefs: protect family, be loyal, and avoid officers of the law at all costs.
“Scurry on now, guv, I don’t be wantin’ your type,” she commanded, gesturing toward the other end of the street. “Ain’t nothin’ ’ere for ye to see.”
The man’s eyes narrowed, and all too quickly Poppy realized she’d overplayed her hand. He’d think her a whore, angling for paying bedfellows.
She shook her head quickly, a stray red curl slipping free from underneath her cap at the franticness of the motion. “Oy, I got a family to tend to, and I ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”
“Steady, Miss,” he cautioned, one brow quirking with amusement.
He thought her amusing. The wretched man, accosting her on the street.
She steeled herself, gripping the lantern tightly. “Mrs.”
He nodded stiffly. “My apologies.”
She sniffed. Let him believe she had a man at home to protect her, if it meant he’d leave her alone faster. While she’d delivered a stirring performance of guttersnipe worthy of Covent Garden, there was a flash in the officer’s eyes that left her distinctly unsettled.
As if he knew something about her that he shouldn’t.
“You came from the factory,” he stated. His voice was smooth, baritone, striking at something within her that shouldn’t have resonated.
“So wot if I did?” She didn’t have to feign the agitation in her voice. Her free hand fell to her hip. “Is that a crime now, guv? I’m an ’onest one.”
She had been honest, once.
“I doubt that,” the man replied. “But I’m unconcerned about your true vocation. I care more about the girl who was murdered at the Larker factory last week.”
Anna. Poppy swallowed down her discomfort. An investigation into Anna’s death was highly unlikely. No piggish Peeler cared for a simple fourteen-year-old girl who couldn’t read or write. He must have another reason for stopping her, and it couldn’t be a good one.
Poppy’s stomach tightened. He’d want to know more about her. Atlas had given her a false history strong enough to hold up to casual observance, but under careful examination...
She couldn’t risk this Peeler finding out and revealing Moira’s true parentage.
“I don’t know anythin’ about that, and even if I did, I wouldn’t be tellin’ ye,” Poppy declared. “Go on yer merry way, ye bleedin’ blighter. My babe calls.”
* * *
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Books by Erica Monroe
The Rookery Rogues
A Dangerous Invitation
Secrets in Scarlet
Beauty and the Rake
Stealing the Rogue’s Heart
* * *
Covert Heiresses
I Spy a Duke
* * *
Gothic Brides
The Mad Countess
The Determined Duchess
The Scandalous Widow
* * *
Anthologies and Boxed Sets
Mystified (featuring The Mad Countess)
Charmed at Christmas (featuring The Determined Duchess)
The Rookery Rogues: Volume 1
Suspenseful Starts
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About the Author
USA Today Bestselling Author Erica Monroe writes dark, gritty historical romance. Her current series include Gothic Brides (Gothic Regency romances), The Rookery Rogues (pre-Victorian gritty working class romance), and Covert Heiresses (Regency spies who are the children of a duke). She was a finalist in the published historical category for the prestigious Daphne du Maurier Award for Excellence in Romantic Suspense, and her books have been recommended reads at Fresh Fiction, Smexy Books, Smart Bitches Trashy Books, and All About Romance. When not writing, she works as an editor of romance novels. She loves coffee, wine, comic books, and television. She lives in the suburbs of North Carolina with her husband, two dogs, and two cats.
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