The bag of coins made a pleasant jingle in Jack's pocket as he steered the now empty dray over the cobblestones. What was a few scratches on the hand when you could walk away with thirty dollars? It was more than any other specimen had brought him. Visions of sacks bulging with coins shimmered in his head all the way home. The only problem was the clientele of the Black Spar; there simply weren't enough of them, and if he kept this up, there'd soon be none at all. It was that damn Fanny's fault, driving them away with her foul temper and stingy drinks. That had to be remedied at once. They'd start by showing a bit more generosity. No more watering down the rum, and maybe a bit of free food.
No, the food was a bad idea. It would only take longer to get them drunk. Better just to let the rum flow. What he had to do now was convince Fanny, which was no easy feat. But wave this sack of coins in front of her greedy face, and she'd see the light.
He rounded the corner into the narrow alley that led to his stable yard gate. Suddenly he yanked on the reins, drawing the horse to a stop.
A black-caped figure stood before him, silhouetted against the ice-slick gleam of cobblestones.
Jack squinted to make out a face. The features were shadowed by the hood, and as the figure approached, all he could see was the pale gleam of teeth.
— You've been busy tonight, Mr. Burke. —
— I don't know what you mean. —
— The fresher they are, the more they fetch. —
Jack felt the blood freeze in his veins.
— Your wife has let it be known that you seek easier ways to make a living. —
Fanny? What the hell had she gotten him into now? Jack could almost imagine he saw the creature smile, and he shuddered. — What do you want? —
— A small service, Mr. Burke. I want you to find someone. —
— Who? —
— A girl. Her name is Rose Connolly. —
Twenty
IN THE LODGING HOUSE on Fishery Alley, the nights were never silent.
A new lodger had joined them in that tightly packed room, an older woman recently widowed who could no longer afford her room on Summer Street, a private room with a real bed. Fishery Alley was where you landed when your luck crumbled beneath your feet, when your husband died or the factory closed or you were too old and ugly to turn a trick. This new lodger was doubly cursed, both widowed and sick as well, her body racked by wet coughs. Along with the consumptive man dying in the corner, theirs was a duet of coughs, accompanied by the nightly snores and sniffles and rustles. So many people were crammed together in the room that to empty your bladder meant tiptoeing across bodies to the pee bucket, and if by accident you trod on a stray arm or smashed someone's finger beneath your foot, your reward would be a howl and an angry slap on the ankle. And the next night, there'd be no sleep for you, because your own fingers would likely pay the penalty.
Rose lay awake, listening to the crackling of straw beneath restless bodies. She badly needed to urinate, but she was cozy beneath her blanket, and did not want to leave it. She tried to sleep, hoping that perhaps the urge would go away, but Billy suddenly whimpered and his limbs jerked out, as though to catch himself as he fell. She allowed his nightmare to play out; to wake him now would only burn its imprint into his memory. Somewhere in the darkness, she heard whispers and then the rustle of clothes and muffled panting as two bodies rocked together. We're no better than animals in a barnyard, she thought, reduced to scratching and farting and copulating in public. Even the new lodger, who had walked in with her head held high, was inexorably surrendering her pride, every day shedding another layer of dignity, until she, too, was peeing in the bucket like everyone else, hefting up her skirts in plain view to squat in the corner. Was she an image of Rose's future? Cold and sick and sleeping on filthy straw? Oh, but Rose was still young and sturdy, with hands eager to work. She could not see herself in that old woman, coughing in the dark.
Yet already Rose was just like her, sleeping shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers.
Billy gave another whimper and rolled toward her, his breath hot and foul on her face. She turned away to escape it and bumped up against old Polly, who gave her an irritated kick. Rose rolled resignedly onto her back and tried to ignore her ever-fuller bladder. She thought hungrily of baby Meggie. Thank God you are not sleeping here in this filthy room, breathing in this foul air. I'll see you grow up healthy, girl, even if my eyes go blind from threading needles, even if my fingers fall off from stitching day and night, sewing gowns for ladies who never need to worry about where their babies will get their milk. She thought of the gown she had completed yesterday, made of white gauze over an underslip of pale pink satin. By now it would have been delivered to the young lady who had ordered it. Miss Lydia Russell, the daughter of the distinguished Dr. Russell. Rose had worked feverishly to complete it on time, since she'd been told that Miss Lydia needed it for the medical college reception tomorrow night, at the home of the dean, Dr. Aldous Grenville. Billy had seen the house, and had described to Rose how grand it was. He'd heard that the butcher had delivered haunches of pork and a large basket of freshly slaughtered geese, and that all day tomorrow Dr. Grenville's ovens would be roasting, baking. Rose imagined the reception table, with its platters of tender meats and cakes and succulent oysters. She imagined the laughter and the candlelight, the doctors in their fine topcoats. She imagined the ribbon-bedecked ladies taking their turns at the piano, each vying to display her skills to the young men assembled there. Would Miss Lydia Russell sit at the piano? Would the skirt that Rose had sewn for her drape nicely across the bench? Would it flatter its wearer's figure and catch the eye of a certain favored gentleman?
Would Norris Marshall be there?
She felt a sudden twinge of jealousy that he might admire the young lady who wore the gown Rose had labored over. She remembered his visit to this lodging house, and how his face had registered dismay as he'd gazed at the louse-infested straw, at the dirty bundles of clothes. She knew that he was a man of only modest means, but he was beyond her reach. Even a farmer's son, if he carried a medical bag, could one day be welcomed into the best parlors in Boston.
The only way Rose would ever set foot in those parlors was with a mop in her hand.
She was jealous of the lady who would one day wed him.
Once again Billy turned over, this time bumping right up against her. She tried to push him away, but it was like trying to roll a limp sack of flour. Resigned, she sat up. Her full bladder could no longer be ignored. The piss bucket was on the far end of the room, and she dreaded stumbling her way through the dark, across all those sleeping bodies. Better to take the stairs, which were much closer, and go outside to pee.
She pulled on her shoes and cloak, crawled across Billy's sleeping body, and made her way down the stairs. Outside, the slap of cold wind made her suck in a startled breath. She wasted no time taking care of her needs. Glancing up and down Fishery Alley, she saw no one, and squatted right there on the cobblestones. With a sigh of relief, she stepped back into the lodging house and was about to climb the stairs when she heard the landlord call out:
— Who's there? Who's come in? —
Peeking through his doorway, she caught sight of Mr. Porteous, sitting with his feet propped up on a stool. He was half blind and always short of breath, and it was only with the help of his slovenly daughter that he managed to keep up the establishment. Not that there was much to do except collect the rent, dole out fresh straw once a month, and in the morning serve a bit of porridge, more often than not infested with mealworms. Otherwise, Porteous ignored the lodgers, and they ignored him.
