— You, girl! Rose, isn't it? I need a word with you. —
Heart sinking, Rose turned to face the foreman. What criticism would Mr. Smibart have of her today? For surely there would be criticism, delivered in that annoyingly nasal voice that made the other seamstresses giggle behind his back.
— Yes, Mr. Smibart? — she asked.
— It has happened again, — he said. — And it cannot be tolerated. —
— I'm sorry, but I don't know what I've done wrong. If my work's unsatisfactory —
— Your work is perfectly adequate. —
Coming from Mr. Smibart, perfectly adequate was a compliment, and she allowed herself a quiet sigh of relief that, for the moment, her employment here was not in jeopardy.
— It's the other matter, — he said. — I cannot have outsiders disturbing me, inquiring about matters that you should deal with on your own time. Tell your friends you are here to work. —
Now she understood. — I'm sorry, sir. Last week, I told Billy not to come here, and I thought he understood. But he has a child's mind, and he doesn't understand. I'll explain it to him again. —
— It wasn't the boy this time. It was a man. —
Rose went very still. — Which man? — she asked quietly.
— You think I have time to ask the name of every fellow who comes sniffing after my girls? Some beady-eyed fellow, asking all sorts of questions about you. —
— What sort of questions? —
— Where you live, who your friends are. As if I'm your private secretary! This is a business, Miss Connolly, and I will not tolerate such interruptions. —
— I'm sorry, — she murmured.
— You keep saying that, yet the problem remains. No more visitors. —
— Yes, sir, — she said meekly and turned to leave.
— I expect you to deal with him. Whoever he is. —
Whoever he is.
She shivered as she fought the piercing wind that whipped her skirts and numbed her face. On this cold evening, not even the dogs were about, and she walked alone, the last of the women to leave the building. It must be that horrid Mr. Pratt from the Night Watch asking about me, she thought. So far she'd managed to avoid him, but Billy had told her the man was inquiring about her around town, and all because she had dared to pawn Aurnia's locket. How had such a valuable piece of jewelry ended up in Rose's hands when it should have gone to the dead woman's husband?
The fuss is all Eben's doing, thought Rose. I accused him of attacking me so he retaliates by accusing me of being a thief. And of course, the Night Watch believes Eben, because all Irish are thieves.
She moved deeper into the warren of tenements, shoes cracking through ice into stinking puddles, the streets funneling into narrow alleys, as though South Boston itself were closing in around her. At last, she reached the door with the low arch and the stoop where the refuse from various suppers, bones gnawed clean, bread black with mold, lay awaiting the attentions of some starving dog desperate enough to eat a putrid meal.
Rose knocked on the door.
It was opened by a child with filthy cheeks, his blond hair hanging like a ragged curtain over his eyes. He could not be much older than four, and he stood mutely staring at the visitor.
A woman's voice yelled: — Fer God's sake, Conn, the cold's gettin' in! Shut the door! —
The silent boy scuttled off into some dark corner as Rose stepped in, closing the door against the wind. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimness of the low-ceilinged room, but little by little she began to make out the shapes. The chair by the hearth, where the fire had burned down to mere coals. The table with its stacked bowls. And all around her, the moving shapes of little heads. So many children. Rose counted eight at least, but surely there were others that she could not see, curled up sleeping in the shadowy corners.
— You brought your payment for the week? —
Rose focused on the enormous woman seated in the chair. Now that her eyes had adjusted, Rose could see Hepzibah's face, with its bulging double chin. Does she never leave that chair? Rose wondered. No matter what time of day or night Rose visited this grim address, she'd always found Hepzibah sitting like a fat queen in her throne, her little charges crawling about her feet like grimy supplicants.
— I've brought the money, — said Rose, and she placed half her week's pay in Hepzibah's waiting hand.
— I just fed 'er. A greedy girl, that one, 'bout emptied me breast with just a few sucks. Drinks more than any babe I've nursed. I should charge you more for her. —
Rose knelt to lift her niece from the basket and thought: My sweet baby, how happy I am to see you! Little Meggie stared up at her, and Rose was sure that her tiny lips curled into a smile of recognition. Oh yes, you know me, don't you? You know I'm the one who loves you.
There were no other chairs in the room, so Rose sat down on the filthy floor, among toddlers waiting for mothers to return from work and rescue them from Hepzibah's indifferent supervision. If only I could afford better for you, dear Meggie, she thought as she coaxed coos from her niece. If only I could take you home to a snug, clean room where I could set your cradle by my bed. But the room on Fishery Alley where Rose slept, a room she shared with twelve other lodgers, was even more grim, infested with rats and foul with disease. Meggie must never be exposed to such a place. Far better that she stay here with Hepzibah, whose fat breasts never ran dry. Here at least she'd be warm and fed. As long as Rose could keep the money coming.
It was only with the greatest reluctance that she finally laid Meggie back in the basket and stood to leave. Night had fallen, and Rose was both exhausted and hungry. It would do Meggie no good if her sole support fell ill and could not work.
— I'll be back tomorrow, — said Rose.
— And same again next week, — Hepzibah answered. Meaning the money, of course. For her, it was all about the money.
— You'll have it. Just keep her safe. — Rose looked back with longing at the baby and said softly: — She's all that's left to me. —
She stepped out the door. The streets were dark now, and the only source of light was the glow of candles through grimy windows. She rounded the corner and her footsteps slowed, stopped.
In the alley ahead waited a familiar silhouette. Dim Billy waved and came toward her, his impossibly long arms swinging like vines. But it was not Billy she focused on; it was the man standing behind him.
— Miss Connolly, — said Norris Marshall. — I need to speak to you. —
She shot an irritated look at Billy. — You brought him here? —
— He said he's your friend, — said Billy.
— Do you believe everything you're told? —
— I am your friend, — said Norris.
— I'm without friends in this city. —
Billy whined, — What about me? —
— Except for you, — she amended. — But now I know I can't be trustin' you. —
— He's not with the Night Watch. You only warned me about them. —
— You do know, — said Norris, — that Mr. Pratt is searching for you? You know what he's saying about you? —
— He's been saying I'm a thief. Or worse. —
— And Mr. Pratt is a buffoon. —
That brought a grim smile to her lips. — An opinion we have in common, that. —