by Denise Daye
God had blessed him with his cold-hearted mother’s looks—a woman whose beauty had brought her fame and a marriage with his father, the recently deceased and widely respected Duke of Aberdeen. If title was what a woman was hunting for, his mother could have not landed a better match. The dukedom of Aberdeen had been around for hundreds of years, known and respected far and wide not only in England, but in all of Europe. That was, until his harpy of a mother spent his father’s legendary fortune into ruin, and if that wasn’t bad enough, pushed him into his early death bed by asking more and more of him when there was nothing left to give. And if things weren’t bad enough, she’d now managed to force his beloved sister, who was nothing short of an angel, into a marriage with the most despicable man in all of England. A man who was rumored to be whoring around wearing nappies and fathering more illegitimate children than Genghis Khan. George took another long sip of his beer as if he were trying to wash down the bitter taste his mother had left on his tongue.
A silhouette that soon identified as Murphy, the pub’s owner, tore George back out of his deep thoughts. He was standing right in front of his table, holding up a piece of paper in front of him.
“Me Lord,” the red-haired, short man who seemed rounder than the table he was sitting at yapped. “’Dis jist arrived for yer. Didn’t say his name.”
George eagerly put his beer down and jerked the paper out of his hand. Murphy curiously waited around, looking at the letter in anticipation of what was in it.
“Thank you,” George said without opening the letter, clearly signaling him that it would stay closed until the man had made his way back into the now wildly clapping and dancing crowd again.
Murphy hesitated for a moment, glancing over the letter with greedy eyes, before he threw George an angry look and left. For a moment he just sat there, holding that piece of paper in his hands as if he wasn’t sure whether he really wanted to know what was in it. For weeks he had been running around New York trying to find information about his dear friend and business partner Billy. It had been months since he had last heard from him. Months since the earth had swallowed him, leaving nothing but a cold trail to a gold mine. For weeks, George had paid countless lawyers and investigators to find out what had happened—but to no avail. It wasn’t until a drunk man at the pub had told him about a police officer named Wilson who would and could do anything for a few dollars. And with money running thin, this man was pretty much his last hope. George took another sip of his beer, marveling at how his entire future was now in front of him in the form of a little piece of paper. It held the power to either continue the legacy of the house of Aberdeen or strike it down like a giant rabbit. Aberdeen Park had survived war and intrigues for centuries, but not the greedy fingers of an exceptional beauty. And according to the creature of rapacity he had to call mother, ‘Billy didn’t just vanish but in fact ran with the gold, hiding somewhere in riches beyond belief, laughing about the foolish Englishman who was imprudent enough to trust an American with his last funds to mine for gold in the savage lands of the frontier.’ Those were the exact words she’d yelled at him instead of saying her goodbyes.
For a moment she had him, for a brief moment he let his mind slip into her dark belief system and doubt his dear friend as well. But Billy was not like that. They had been friends for many years. He was a good man, trying to make a better life for himself—in an honest manner. More in worry than anger, George slammed his fist onto the table. Billy was no con artist. There must have been a reason for Billy’s disappearance. Whatever it was, he was here to find out, and if he was lucky for once, this piece of paper would bring him a step closer to finding not only his dear friend, but hopefully a handsome amount of gold along with it.
George took a deep breath, sneaking glances around him, before opening the letter.
I’ve found him. Meet me at 9 at the East River Bridge.
W.
A rush of adrenaline shot through his veins, instantly waking him from the curtain of slight drunkenness. His blue eyes narrowed as he read the note again, just to be sure. The words stayed the same. It felt like his insides were fluttering. For the first time in weeks—no, months—there seemed to be hope. Billy was alive! Wilson, that drunken, corrupt fool, had managed to find out more in a few days than all the investigators and lawyers he had hired in months—and that on both continents.
George pulled out his father’s golden pocket watch. It was eight now. Although there was still enough time, he thought it better to head out now. Under no circumstances could he risk missing such an important appointment. His very name depended on it.
He slugged the rest of his beer in a single chug and got up. It was instantly noticeable that he was almost a head taller than anybody else who was standing around him. At a lean and muscular six feet, he was considered a bit taller than most men of his time. He straightened his elegant day suit and was just about to head over to the door, when his gaze met with Murphy’s. His intense stare directed at the note stood out even at a lively crowded pub like this one. George’s eyes darkened as he held the note up to the candle on his table, locking his gaze with Murphy's. The heat of the flame ate away the note, inching closer and closer to George’s fingers, but he didn’t even flinch. Murphy finally turned away, well aware that his more-than-suspicious curiosity had not only been noticed but also challenged.
George had a bad feeling about this guy, and it was better to let Murphy know that. If the last few weeks in New York had taught him one thing, it was that these parts of town were just as shady as London’s West End. George was by no means street-smart, but his time in the army in the Indies had changed him from the naïve spoiled lordling he used to be into a man who knew that life wasn't sparkling wine and endless sunny days for everyone. The three-inch long scar on his left cheek was proof enough. A starving man in Bangladesh had left George with this souvenir to steal the piece of bread out of his hand. Not money, not gold, but bread.
He grabbed his coat and made his way to the door, focusing his attention on Murphy, who here and there threw him a quick glance but looked the other way whenever their eyes met. George stopped right next to him, just enough to give him a silent warning, before stepping out into the dark night.
An icy wave hit him in the face the moment the door closed behind him. The streets were surprisingly busy. Some shops were closing up while others had just opened for the evening. A few drunks were singing on the side, one of them being thrown out from another pub. Women in scantily worn dresses were teasing men, and a few fights broke here and there, but nothing too much of a concern for the police who stood there in laughter. The endless noise and chatter mixed in with the familiar stench of the area that George had somehow gotten used to. It was the same old twilight, nothing new.
A carriage stopped in front of George in the hopes he would ask for a ride.
“No, thank you,” he shivered, crossing the street. His fine clothes were like a big target sign on his back, attracting everything from beggars to the mothers of society hunting for a duke for their daughters. He wrapped his coat tightly around himself, a lost battle against the coldest winter he had ever experienced in his life. Locals said that the 1881 winter had taken many souls in December and January and that he was lucky to have arrived right before the spring. But lucky or not, it was still a bloody hell of a lot colder than England—full stop.
Sobered up from the icy attacks of the New York winter winds, he made his way toward the base of the world-famous East River Bridge construction site. A marvel of engineering, the East River Bridge was a declaration of wealth and progress, sent out into the world by the newly emerging world-power—America.
The streets in this area of town seemed to offer much more solace, letting him enjoy the view of the starry cloudless sky, wondering if his sister was also staring at it this very instant. How he longed to be home. But if Wilson had truly found Billy, then not only George, but his poor sister along with his entire estate could be saved—a relief he co
uldn't even begin to describe with words, making this trip well worth it.
“A newspaper for the fine Mister?” a voice spoke from the shadows.
George looked down, squinting at the young fellow who stood behind a gas lamp post. A blonde boy no older than twelve was holding a newspaper up, close enough to George's face that he could almost read it. George waved his hand to get a better look at the boy. He was dressed in warm clothes and looked well fed, a stark contrast to other newspaper boys he'd seen so far. Most of them were caked in dust and muddy clothes, shivering in the cold, nothing but skin and bones. What would drive such young boys to sell papers in the dead of the night, he wondered, feeling an odd jolt in his chest. There was something about this boy’s body that made him look like eight, although George was more than certain that he was well over ten. The curse of poverty did this to children. Years of hunger would delay their growth.
George remembered the letter; he couldn’t be late.
He wanted to reach for a coin, but the boy must have thought he wanted to leave without buying a newspaper, so this determined little fellow stepped right in front of him, blocking his way.
“An educated man like you should not miss out on the world news,” he smirked, knowing this line would land him something.
George couldn’t help but give this little fellow some well-deserved admiration.
“You know your trade well.” He smiled at the boy, pulling out a coin for him when all of a sudden, the boy’s newspapers slipped from his little twitchy fingers like an invisible hand had just jerked them away. Some fell straight to the ground, while others blew away, scattered by the winds. Muttering under his breath, the boy frantically tried to pick them back up, a desperately futile sight to behold. George bent over to help with both hands, reaching left and right, trying to grab as many he could before the merciless winds made things worse.
Both of his hands full of crunched newspaper pages, George thought to himself that this was exactly why he had left for his meeting with Wilson early. This was America. Anything could happen. No matter what time of the day…everything was possible here…
Esther, now going by the name of Egan, stood outside with Mary and Susan in front of Beth’s boarding house. She was wearing male clothes and her once so beautiful long hair was cut short just to the ears. Beth’s, the promised sanctuary the kids were so eager to talk about, had turned out to be right next to a brothel. When Esther had first arrived here, standing in front of Beth’s footsteps, dressed like a man, with four children and a sick infant in her arms, she had wanted to turn around and leave. But all huddled together in the middle of one of the coldest winters in history, there was no other way than to take a room at Beth’s.
“One day,” she told the kids back then, firmly shaking her head in disapproval. But just like the children had told her, there was no place in town as clean, safe, and cheap as Beth’s. And so, one day turned to several weeks, and weeks to months. Besides, no other place would take her in with five kids, but Beth was as kind as she was smart, so Esther would always have a place there if need be. And as they were all boys now, none of the customers of next door even looked twice at Esther or the kids.
Mary took a sip of her whiskey bottle, then offered some to Esther with a warm lusty smile.
“Herrr lad,” her heavily painted lips twitched in a heavy Irish accent. Esther nodded and took a big sip herself, instantly grimacing as if she’d just bitten into a lemon. Susan, a skinny, young prostitute who despite her age had the look of a woman who had seen it all on her face, laughed.
“There are other ways to warm a handsome fellow like you,” she whispered into Esther’s ear in a silky, smooth voice.
Esther squirmed to the side, squishing her brows together in annoyance. “Stop that, Sue.”
Mary laughed out loud. “That’s what yer git for bein’ such a hansum lad,” she jested, wrapping herself tighter into the blanket she was wearing over her shoulders.
An elegantly dressed couple walked by, staring at them in disgust. From time to time, finer folks got lost in this part of town. Beth’s boarding house and the brothel next door did well enough to be right at the border of the parts of town that finer folks frequented.
“How pathetic,” the fancy woman condemned them in an arrogant voice, holding a handkerchief up to her nose. Her husband hastily pulled her down the street mumbling: “Don’t engage with them, they are not human.”
Esther flared. “How pathetic,” she imitated the woman in an overly dramatic, high-pitched voice, pretending to sniff a handkerchief, causing Susan and Mary to burst out into loud laughter.
Until the moody lady luck had dethroned her, nobody had ever dared to belittle Esther like this. People used to open doors for her, bowed in front of her. But now, every peacock in town thought he could look down on her and her poverty-stricken friends. The couple had vanished, and her gaze fell onto her reflection in an icy puddle beneath her work boots. Her beautiful, long hair was gone and her once so clean, beautiful face was now as dirty as everyone else’s around here. She washed every day, but it was impossible to stay clean in these parts. Besides the occasional lost traveler, everyone she knew was constantly covered in either coal dust, mud, dirt, or all of it.
She was wearing a dark-gray newsboy hat and a gray wool coat that slightly broadened her shoulders. A matching wool vest aided in hiding her female chest just in case the tight wraps around her curves would loosen. At first, wrapping fabrics around her chest to flatten it was quite a challenge. But as money ran out thanks to doctor bills for the children and paying the room before eating herself, Esther had lost weight faster than she could blink, making chest wraps almost unnecessary.
So here she was. Poor, starving, belittled, mother of five kids, and to top things off, constantly under lusty attacks from the prostitutes who thought her pretty face to be the most handsome in town. Of course, some knew right away that she was just a woman wearing pants. Beth was one of the smart ones, but much to Esther’s surprise, Milton had been right when he’d told her that most people see what they want. With her hard facial lines from her native mother, one could think her a very pretty-faced man if one had no reason to assume otherwise.
Susan and Mary’s loud laughter tore her back out of her thoughts.
“Really lad. Yer make things so much better raun ‘ere,” Mary’s chest chuckled up and down.
Esther did a little courtesy bow.
“It’s an honor, my ladies.”
All of a sudden, Miki came running down the street. It was already getting dark, so why was she still out and about and why wasn’t Helga with her? She threw herself right against Esther’s legs, hastily sucking her in for her urgent message.
“It’s Milton!” Miki hollered, out of breath. Esther felt a cold shiver run down her spine, the usual worry of a mother fearing the worst for her child. She grabbed Miki by the arms to try and calm her.
“Is he okay?” Esther's voice trembled. Miki nodded. A slight relief. “Then what is it?” she inquired, kneeling down with raised eyebrows.
“He is doing the newspaper trick again,” Miki bawled pointing toward Murphy’s pub.
Esther shot back up; her stomach burned in churning agony.
“After what happened last time?!” Miki just nodded. Esther shot around to Susan.
“Could one of you please take Miki back to Helga and the others?”
Susan was already on her way over and grabbed Miki by her hand.
“Come little one, let’s get you a glass of milk before you get tortured again with reading lessons by that dried up nanny of yours,” Susan said in a sweet voice.
That dried up nanny she was referring to was in fact a woman Esther had been paying to watch the kids and teach them how to read and write when she was out and about making a few coins in every respectable way possible. Helga, an old German widow whom she’d found begging in the streets, was a sweet old lady, which unfortunately at the time also made her a victim of Esther’s stre
et-smart kids. Esther could only imagine how little cunning Miki got away this time…. Milton was the only one allowed to walk the streets freely as he was still selling newspapers to help out with money, but the other kids were ‘supposed’ to be with Helga at all times. Miki would get her interrogation later on, but for now there was no time.
Esther turned on her heel and ran toward Murphy’s. Her heart was pounding against her chest, not from the sprint but from fear. The so-called newspaper trick had almost landed Milton in custody a few weeks ago, which could have placed him in jail, or worse, in an orphanage.
Why would he be so careless to take another risk? Esther’s education put her in a position where she was able to do small administrative tasks for shops around here, including Beth’s. Although that didn’t make them rich, it certainly brought in enough coins to pay for a roof over their heads as well as food—for the kids and Helga at least. So why did he have to gamble away that little bit of happiness he had with that darn newspaper trick he had promised to never ever play on anybody ever again?
Esther picked up speed, her head throbbing in her skull from the whiskey and the sudden jolt of adrenaline. Her heartbeat paced along with her legs faster than she could notice, avoiding the sea of moving bodies, nearly crashing into a carriage yelling slurs back at her.
Just a few more blocks to Murphy’s. She wasn’t sure if she said the words out loud or in her head, but they repeated themselves over and above again.
“Please God, don’t let me be too late!”
For a second, she just stood there, her mouth wide open in disbelief at the scene that enfolded in front of her. The cold wind blew on her face as a storm of white and black papers flew everywhere.
Milton had already dropped all his newspapers, the most important part of his scheme, but instead of the victim leaving and cussing at him for the inconvenience, the tall, lean man had opted to chase them down, fumbling around as if trying to catch pigeons in the dark with nothing but the gloomy light of a single lamp above them. Both his hands were full of crumpled pages, trying desperately to help Milton gather them back into a big pile.
