“I think we’ll take our leave.” Amelia broke into the tense silence.
“Miss Hart,” Mrs. Chisom said, her chin nearly vibrating with suppressed anger. “I believe our methods of charity are not aligned. It would be best for both of us if we discontinue our association.”
“Very well,” Amelia agreed.
Mrs. Chisom blinked, as if she’d expected Amelia to beg for another chance.
Ellen lifted the box in her arms. “Thank you for the booties.”
Mrs. Finley gave a timid wave.
They left together, back out into the rain. Mrs. Chisom said something sharp after them, but Ellen couldn’t make it out over the sounds of traffic on the cobblestone street.
They didn’t speak until Amelia hailed a hack and they were ensconced inside. The seat and floor were already wet from previous passengers.
Ellen popped open the wooden lid and peered inside to checkthe donations. Baby booties, bold pink for boys and delicate blue for girls, lay interspersed with white knee-high socks. She fingered one, grudgingly impressed with the high quality of the work.
As much as Ellen disliked Mrs. Chisom, she knew that attitude—to varying degrees—was terribly common. Even her own mother likely believed that poverty for some was essential to the smooth workings of society, and that those below even the laboring poor—the paupers who received relief—must be at fault for their own circumstances.
It was a sort of armor, Ellen realized. It wasn’t only the justification of Mrs. Chisom’s life:I deserve much because I am good, but also the inverse.The paupers are in dire straits because they’re lazy, dishonest gin-drinkers.An assurance that she’d earned her comfortable lifestyle by her morals and manners, so as long as she kept her morals and manners, nothing too terrible could happen to her.
“I suppose we’ll look elsewhere for a wheeled chair.” Amelia sighed as the hack rattled across uneven cobbles.
Ellen laughed. “I suppose so.”
The next morningbegan normally enough. But then the dispensary door swung open and a redheaded girl stumbled through. “We need the doctor.”
All three women straightened. “Why do you need a doctor, luv?” Mrs. Daugherty asked.
“Aoife O’Malley?” Ellen set her tea down. Her heart skipped a beat. “What’s wrong?”
“Mam isn’t breathing. She hasn’t woken up this morning. Sean says she's dead, but I want a doctor to come look.”
Ellen’s stomach flipped, and the bitter aftertaste of tea surged back up her throat. “Where is your father?”
The grubby child shrugged. “Dunno. Didn’t comehome last night.”
Amelia’s jaw clenched. “Let me grab my bag.” With utter calm, she went to her exam room, then came back with the brown leather bag, a pencil, and blank death certificate. The two women walked down the street from St. Giles to Seven Dials, slipping in mud and frozen puddles as they followed the little girl. Ellen didn’t hear the din around her. Instead, all that echoed in her ears was shock and fury.
She’s dead. The unborn child is dead too. Is baby Opal still alive? He killed Tina. He killed her just the same as if he’d taken a knife to her. I knew this would happen. Iknewit.
“Careful of that scowl or you’ll scare the children,” Amelia murmured as they reached the rickety stairs of the O’Malley flat.
Ellen scarcely heard her. They walked into the cold, quiet room together. It was as if a wind had torn through it. If Ellen thought it was dirty and cluttered before, it had nothing on now. An oily smell came from one corner of the room, and the chamber pot underneath the one bed had overturned. Thank goodness it was cold, or else the smell would be suffocating.
Sean, the eldest, was bravely trying to change Opal’s nappy on one corner of the moldering bed. The little baby shivered in the cold, her bare legs exposed and shaking. The toddler sat on his mother’s chest, thumb in his mouth, silent. Tearstains tracked down his face. How long had it been since they’d last eaten?
And Tina O’Malley lay on her back, head turned toward the room, eyes shut. Her chest did not rise. Her belly did not move. Her eyes did not twitch.
Ellen was no stranger to infant deaths. Nor was she unaware of the tragic accidents that often occurred due to poor safety measures, lack of hygiene, and illness in the rookeries. But this was Tina, who’d fought to keep her older children in school until ten years old, who slipped money from her drunk husband to pay for goat milk to keep her baby fed, whose four children depended on her completely. Tina, who'd once been a shining, bright-eyed girl fresh from the farms in Ireland, eager to make a better life for herself in London.
And Seamus O’Malley, who put his desires ahead of his wife’s own safety. Who fucked her, again and again, against the advice of Ellen and Mrs. Daugherty and Amelia, who thought he deserved sex more than Tina deserved to live. Or his children deserved a mother.
Unspeakable rage swept over Ellen as she stared at the cold, pale face.
“Steady,” Amelia murmured, and put a hand on Ellen’s shoulder. “Sit if you feel faint.”
Ellen was shaking. She wanted to track Seamus O’Malley down and drown him in his own tankard of ale.