"Shh..."
With the release of tension and the sure knowledge that he'd forgiven her-crushing exhaustion overtook Margo. She fell asleep to the jolt of carriage wheels on the rutted lane, the warmth of Malcolms arm around her, and the thump of his heartbeat under her ear. The last, whispery sensation to come to her in the darkness was the scent of his skin as he bent and softly kissed her hair.
Nothing in Margo's experience prepared her for the East End.
Not an abusive father, not the crime and violence of New York, not even the barrage of televised images of starving, ragged third worlders, brandished like meat cleavers by charities desperately trying to stave off global disaster.
"My God," Margo kept whispering. "My God.--"
They set out very early in the morning. Malcolm thrust a pistol into a holster under his jacket and pocketed a tin wrapped with waxed cord, then asked John to drive them to Lower Thames Street, near the famous London Docks.
The Docks had been cut out of the earth in Wapping to form a deep, rectangular "harbor" filled with river water. The city surrounded it on all sides. Steamers and sailing ships were literally parked at the end of narrow, filthy streets.
They picked up an empty pushcart cart John had procure and began walking through the pre-dawn chill. Margo's old boots and woolen, uncreased trousers chafed. Her ragged shirt and threadbare pea jacket barely kept out the chill. Swing docks afforded occasional glimpses of the river as they passed the stinking, bow-windowed taverns of Wapping. Sailors accosted everything female with such gusto Margo huddled more deeply into her boy's garments, desperately grateful for the disguise.
Okay, so they were right. She didn't have to be happy about it, but she could disguise herself. Fortunately, none of the sailors so much as glanced at her twice. Malcolm steered them toward the riverbank, where the stench of tidal mudflats was overwhelming. They watched young kids, mostly barefooted, picking through the freezing mud.
"Mudlarks," he explained quietly. "They scavenge bits of iron or coal, anything they can sell for a few pence. Most children are suppose to be in school, but the poorest often dodge it, as you see. There used to be much fiercer competition down there, before mandatory schooling laws were passed. On Saturdays, the riverbanks are alive with starving mudlarks."
One romantic illusion after another shattered into slivers on the cold road.
"What are those?" she asked, pointing to a boat midriver with large nets out. "Fishermen?"
"No. Draggers. They look for dropped valuables, including bodies they can loot for money and other sellable items."
"Corpses!" Margo gasped. "My God, Malcolm -- " She bit her tongue. "Sorry."
"Dressed as a boy, it's not such a grave error, but I'd still prefer you said Mr. Moore. People will take you for my apprentice. You've seen enough here. We have to get to Billingsgate before the worst of the crowds do."
"Billingsgate?"
"Billingsgate Market," Malcolm explained as they neared a maelstrom of carts, wagons, barrels, boats, and human beings. "Royal Charter gives Billingsgate a monopoly on fish."
The stench and noise were unbelievable. Margo wanted to cover her ears and hold her breath. They shoved in cheek-to-jowl with hundreds of other costermongers buying their day's wares to peddle. Liveried servants from fine houses, ordinary lower class wives, and buyers for restaurants as well as shippers who would take loads of fish inland for sale, all fought one another for the day's catch.
"Salmon for Belgravia," Malcolm shouted above the roar, "and herrings for Whitechapel!"
"What do we want?"
"Eels!"
"Eels?"
After that dinner at the Epicurean Delight, Billingsgate's eels came as another rude shock. Malcolm filled their cart with the most repugnant, slithery mess Margo had ever seen. Jellied eels went from huge enameled bowls into stoneware pots. From another vendor they procured hot "pie-and-mash" pies, plus a supply of hideous green stuff the screaming fishwife called "liquor." Malcolm bargained the prices lower in an ear bending accent. The language the fishwives used put to shame anything Margo had heard on the streets of New York-when she understood it at all. Malcolm stacked the pies in their cart, layered them on boards and wrapped them in worn woolen cloth to keep them warm. Margo-under instructions to pay attention to details-tried to keep track of what she witnessed, but there was so much to take in she found it all running together in a screaming blur.
They finally escaped Billingsgate's scaly stench and set out. Malcolm did a surprisingly brisk business selling eels and pies as they entered the cramped streets of Wapping. Of Malcolm's colorful patter, however, Margo didn't understand one word in four.
"Give yer plates of meat a treat," he called out, "rest a bit, I've eels to eat!" Then, another block onward, "Yer trouble and strife givin' you worries? Tike 'ome lot eels, thankee and tip o' the titfer t' you, mate." Then, to a hollow-cheeked lad who eyed the cart longingly, "Wot, no bees 'n' 'oney? Rough days but I gots mouths ter feed meself."
He hushed her. "Not until later in the year. August." Margo shivered and eyed ill-kempt women, wondering which of them might fall victim to the notorious serial murderer. It was an unsettling thought. Kit Carson's brutal assessment of her chances in this slum rang in her ears. All right, she grudged him, you've got a point.
Malcolm sold a few eels, mostly to sleepy women whose clothing still reeked of their previous night's customers. Everywhere the stench of human waste, cheap gin, and rot rose like a miasma from the ground.
"Are all the women in Whitechapel prostitutes?" Margo whispered
Malcolm shook his head "Not all." Then in a cautious whisper, "There are some eighty-thousand whores in London, most trying to stave off starvation." Margo understood that statement now in a way that would have been impossible two hours previously.
"Do they stay prostitutes?"
"Some yes, many no. Many take to the `gay life, as prostitution was known, only long enough to find a better-paying job. Northwest of here, up in Spitalfields for instance, a woman can get work in the garment district sweat shops. If she doesn't have too many mouths to feed, she might eke out a living without going back on the streets."
They glanced at a yawning fourteen-year-old who eyed Margo speculatively, appraising the young man" for Essential business even this early in the day. She switched er attention to Malcolm and smiled. "Tumble for a pie?"
Malcolm just shook his head, leaving the girl hurling curses at them.
Margo was fascinated and repulsed at the same time. She felt as though she'd stepped into a living play whose author had no real ending in mind. Study your part, study the background. That was what Kit and Malcolm had brought her here to learn.
"With so many women in the business," Margo asked slowly, trying hard to understand, "isn't competition fierce?"
"Ye-esss ...in a manner of speaking. Officially, you understand, sex was considered extremely bad for one's health. Led to a breakdown of one's physical constitution and mental faculties. Privately, our straight laced Victorian gentleman considered sex his natural right and any woman born lower than his station was fair game. London had several million souls, recall, not to mention seafaring crews. Remind yourself to look up an eleven-volume-personal memoir called My Private Life when we return to the station library. It's available on computer now You'll find it ...revealing of Victorian social attitudes."
"What happens to all these women? When they're too old or ill to work?"
"Some go to the Magdalen for help."
"Magdalen?"
"South of the Thames," Malcolm murmured as they trundled their cart along, "you will find four kinds of `charity' institutions, if one can call them that. Bedlam, Bethlehem Hospital-is for mental patients. Old Bridewell was originally a school to train apprentices, but it turned into a brutal prison. Eventually a new school was attached to the prison grounds to house legitimate apprentices. Bridewell apprentices are notorious delinquents, the terror of the city. Then there are protected girls in the purple uniforms of the Lambeth Asylum for Female Orphans, and of course the grey of the Magdalen Hospital for seduced girls and prostitutes. A number of-the girls rescued by Magdalen go mad anyway from incurable syphilis."