Friday, August 10, 1888
Mrs. Harris stayed with me while I waited for Everett to return. I explained everything to Mrs. Harris, even including the complicated situation with Everett’s charade and such.
She stayed quiet until I was finished. After a moment to take in all that I’d said, she commented, “I have to admit, I’m relieved he’s not your brother.”
Only half listening to her, I drummed my fingers on the tabletop. “Hmm? Why is that?”
“Because of the way he looks at you.”
Just as I was about to ask what she meant, someone knocked on the door loudly. “It’s me,” Everett said from the other side.
Unlocking the door, I let him in. “Where did you go in such a hurry?”
Everett leaned his back against the wall. He just looked at me, his eyes heavy with concern, as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I went to the theater to beg for my job.”
“Whatever for?”
“Tom Lindsey is a theatrical investor. Half the shows the Princess Royal puts on are because of his money,” he explained. “I wanted to get to the theater before Lindsey did and persuade the manager to keep me, to explain why you are here and explain that you and I are not married or living sinfully, and that the whole situation is a misunderstanding.” He closed his eyes and slid down to the floor. “Lindsey got there first.”
I quickly took a seat, my legs feeling weak underneath me. “Oh, no. Everett.”
A crease formed between Mrs. Harris’ eyes as she watched him. “What happened?”
“I got sacked, that’s what happened.” He thumped the back of his head against the wall. “The bloody bastard threatened to pull his funding if they didn’t get rid of me. He gave them no choice.”
She put a hand on her chest. “You poor dear. You’ll land on your feet, surely.”
“I don’t know if I will,” Everett said, a glint of a tear in the corner of his right eye. “Lindsey knows everyone in London theater so he’ll make sure nobody hires me. I’m finished.”
Mrs. Harris stood. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll go talk to Mr. Harris right now and get him to keep an ear out for anybody looking for a capable pair of hands.”
Frowning, Everett nodded up at her as she left. “Thank you, Mrs. Harris. I appreciate that.”
The flat went silent after Mrs. Harris closed the door. I didn’t know what to say to comfort Everett. He eventually spoke up but his eyes stayed planted on the floor. His words were quiet and slow. “You should go to Lindsey as soon as possible and tell him we are not married and swear to him that our conduct was never unseemly.”
“Do you think he would get you your job back if I did?”
“No, but he would consider taking you as his wife.”
“I am not marrying that ogre,” I said. “Why would you think I would?”
He finally looked up to meet my gaze. “I can’t afford to take care of you anymore. Mr. Lindsey can provide a home for you. Security, influence. The finest gowns and jewels you could ever want. He can give you those things.” Everett ran a hand through his hair. “Waiting for a letter from your aunt may no longer be an option.”
Sickened by the notion, I shook my head. “No. Everett, no. I will not marry him.”
“Cora, you must—”
“I must do no such thing and I will ask you to never suggest it again.” I rose and stepped to the window, watching the busy street below. “What happens now?”
He took a moment to consider. “If I can find work doing odd jobs, perhaps we can keep the flat for another month. I expect we will need to relocate.”
“I can sell two of my dresses,” I said, turning back to him. “I hate wearing black anyway.”
He frowned at me. “You should keep your mourning dresses.”
“I will mourn not having a roof over my head,” I said. “The dresses will fetch a few pounds.”
“Fine,” he said. “Do you have any skills we can make use of? Do you sew or cook or bake? Can you make anything?”
I thought about my life back in Molesey, before everything was done for me. Even back then, we had a cook and a housekeeper. “I am afraid I am useless with a needle and thread.”
“Perhaps you could find work as a governess.”
I scoffed. “No, thank you.” Thinking of my childhood aspirations, I tapped my lip. “What if I auditioned for a play?”
Everett’s mouth tightened as he considered this. “Surely you are not serious.”
“I assure you, I am quite serious.”
“You have no experience,” he said. “If Lindsey can get me banned from working at theaters across London, he will certainly make sure you won’t be an actress.”
“He cannot possibly have that much sway all over London.”
“You might be surprised,” he said, his knowing and condescending look burrowing into me. “Besides, you must know how many actresses support themselves when they’re off stage.”
I winced at his vulgar reference. “Well, yes, but—”
“I know that world far better than you do. Yes, a few actresses succeed but many, many do not and it is not a road I would recommend you try.”
“I only need a temporary solution,” I reminded him. “Give me one good reason why I should not at least try—”
“You are too old.”
His face stiffened as soon as the words left his lips and he winced so subtly that his lids barely moved—but I noticed.
I glowered at him. “Too old? I am only two and twenty.” I turned away from him, white hot rage snaking up my body like vines. “How dare you.”
“Most actresses start when they are much, much younger—”
My eyes darted back to him. “Everett, I quite understand you. I am far too old and withered to be an actress. I am an ancient witch, too hideous to even be considered for a part. You need not go on.”
“You know that is not what I meant.”
Sitting at the table, I crossed my arms over my chest. It was rather presumptive to think I could not make it as an actress. It was true, I had no formal experience. However, much of my adult life had been spent acting—acting as if I came from a wealthy and well-connected family to impress my social circle, acting like I enjoyed the company of influential people in order to win their approval even when they disgusted me, acting like a woman who loved her husband when I had come to feel numb to his presence.
I had certainly never stepped foot onto a playhouse stage but I knew myself to be exemplary at playing a role.
I bit my lip, searching for solutions, my eyes landing on one of the coins on the table. I slowly slid it closer to myself and picked it up, moving it smoothly between my fingers, watching as the sunlight from the window glinted off its metallic contours.
“I am going back to the pub tonight to make a little money.” I glanced at him. “It was easy when I was intoxicated. Think of how effective I could be reading palms sober.”
I expected Everett to protest but the day had beaten him down too much to bother. In any case, he knew there was no point in trying to persuade me once I had made up my mind.
Everett came with me to the pub that night, taking my fee for me as I traced the lines of calloused hands and the wrinkles of aged fingers. Mrs. Harris spoke to her husband on our account to make sure we would not be evicted from our makeshift in-house business. He agreed to keep us indoors and off the street in exchange for fifteen percent of our takings.
I did my best to vary the imprecise predictions I gave to my patrons, especially since many of them watched as I palm read for others before handing over their own four shillings.
“This line here,” I said to a middle-aged woman, likely my twenty-fifth customer of the night, “this tells me you are soon to have a bout of good luck.”
“What, like wiv money?”
“It is unclear, madame.” I inspected her dry hand closer. “Oh, wait. This line. This shows me that you have lost something important to you. Yes, yes! That must mean you will get lucky and find something you have misplaced.” I smiled sweetly at her.
Her captivated eyes widened further. “But what have I lost?”
“Your marbles,” hollered someone from behind her, sloshing a bit of beer onto the wooden plank floor.
“Your five minutes are over, ma’am,” Everett said, nodding to the man behind her in line.
She reluctantly slid out from the booth, looking confused, muttering something about not knowing what she misplaced.
My next customer was a burly gent with round shoulders, sausage-like fingers, and arms the size of tree trunks. He tossed a coin at Everett, who deftly snatched it out of the air, and squeezed into the booth, his size making it a struggle. He plopped his massive hand out in front of me.
“What say you, missy?” He grinned, his gaze lingering on my bosom.
Between the gloom of the pub and the layer of dirt on his hands, it was hard to tell where the lines on his palm actually were. Forcing back my urge to cringe, I raised his hand and peered at it closely.
“Oh. Oh, dear,” I said. “This line says not of your future, but of your past. How interesting.”
The man looked down at his hand and then back up at me. “What?”
I looked into his eyes. “You did something bad many years ago. I cannot say for certain what happened but this line here—this line tells me you got away with it.”
A few of the spectators whispered among themselves.
His face stiffened as he glanced at our audience. “I ain’t done nothin.”
They immediately went quiet but I continued.
“This small line here, do you see it? It forks in the middle. This one is about your future. It’s a cautionary line. You can either keep a low profile, watching yourself, and live a long life. See how this line is long? Or you can go the other away,” I pointed to a shorter broken line, “and meet an untimely end.”
He blinked a few times and raised to his feet, his still face failing to hide his worry. “Alright.”
As he returned to his table across the room, Everett glanced at me and gave me a subtle nod. Earlier that evening when he had seen the brute come in, Everett had whispered to me.
“Everyone knows he roughs up his wife. If he comes over here, you put the fear of God into him, but don’t mention his wife specifically.”
A few customers later, a young woman joined us at our booth. She slid her coins over to Everett and shyly stretched her open palm out to me. Before I could take her hand in mine, she pulled back.
“God won’t be cross with me for this, will ’e?” Her voice was high and quiet.
“Well,” I said, quickly searching for a response, “I cannot speak for God, of course, but I see far more sins occurring in this very room and just outside. Perhaps God should focus on those more and less on a bit of fortune-telling that does not hurt anyone.”
Biting her lip, the young woman slowly brought her hand forward again and I surveyed the creases in her delicate palm.
“This line here tells me of a great romance—a true and boundless love.” I looked at her. Her eyes were fixed on her palm, her eyes soft, her pink lips curving into a weak smile. “This line shows that you and your true love will have happy times together. It will not be perfect all the time, but it will be a strong marriage and this line means a happy family.”
Of course, all of the contours on her tiny palm were just random lines that meant nothing. But I had apparently struck a meaningful chord, as the young woman suddenly burst into tears.
Between heavy sobs, she eventually squeaked out the words, “How did you know?”
Everett and I exchanged glances, not knowing what on earth we should do.
“My husband—he died in an accident last month,” she continued. “I am carrying his child.” She moved her palm forward a bit more, closer to me. “Please, is there anything else you can tell me?”
She was dressed simply but well enough for the neighborhood. Her round cheeks and the amount of flesh on her arms were encouraging signs.
“All I can tell you is that the family line, right here, is a good one. Your family or perhaps your late husband’s family will care for you.”
“That’s not what I…” She stopped herself and shook her head, lowering it.
I cupped her hand. “I am sorry for your loss.”
She raised her head again, her big brown eyes flooded with tears. “Thank you.”
As she slid out from behind the booth and headed for the door, wiping tears off her pale cheeks, Everett leapt up from his seat. I watched through the thick glass of the pub window as he caught up with her on the street. He spoke to her briefly before putting her shillings back into her hand. She went on her way and Everett’s eyes met mine through the window. I quickly looked away and busied myself with my next prospect.
It was after two in the morning when Everett and I returned to his flat upstairs, a healthy little collection of coins to show for our work.
Everett sat at the table, counting our take for the night. He made a separate pile to give to Mrs. Harris in the morning.
“Not bad,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “Perhaps we should see if we can read palms near a theater at intermission. Maybe even near an opera house.”
“What is this ‘we’ you speak of? I believe I was the only one of us doing the palm reading.”
Everett rolled his eyes.
I yawned. “People who have been drinking are far easier with their money than patrons of a theater or opera.”
“Yes, but those people have more money to spend on a palm reading.”
I shook my head. “No, I think we are better off staying at the pub for now.”
“We made some money this evening but it’s not going to be enough to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table. Besides, that pub has the same customers almost every night. Eventually, we will run out.”
“We can find other pubs—”
“We will likely have to scrape more than fifteen percent off the top for them—”
“Is that with or without the money you give back to pretty young widows?” I snapped, raising from my chair.
“You just don’t want to go to the theaters because you might see your society friends.”
I glared at him and turned to watch out the window, the glow of the streetlight keeping the sidewalk bright. It was so late and yet the street was still busy with pedestrians and vendors. London never slept, even in the witching hour.
“Do you believe in ghosts?”
“Hmm?”
Crossing my arms, I turned around. “Ghosts. Spirits. The afterlife.”
“I never really thought about it.” He had returned to busying himself with counting our take for the night.
“You were never told ghost stories as a child?”
“On occasion, yes.”
“And never once did you consider their existence?”
“I’m sure I believed they were real at the time.” His eyes were still focused on the coins in front of him.
I joined him at the table again, finally getting his full attention. “That young widow,” I said, “I think she wanted to know more about her husband’s existence, not her own future.”
“Her husband doesn’t exist anymore,” he said. “You think she wanted to know … about his spirit?”
“Why shouldn’t she wonder if her husband is watching her? If his spirit is still haunting her?” My eyes landed on our little stack of coins and the wheels in my head began to turn. “If you could pay someone to talk to a loved one who had passed away, wouldn’t you?”
His eyes narrowed. “You are speaking of spiritualism.”
“I am.” I smiled and leaned closer to him. “I saw an ad in the newspaper a few months ago for a spiritualist who charged a pound for a one-hour session with her. She performs séances out of her home and lets her customers talk to their deceased relatives through her.”
“We don’t know how to do that—”
“We can figure it out, it cannot possibly be that hard. Surely we can put together a few clever tricks—”
“Oh, can we?”
“Yes, of course we can! And I can act—”
“Oh, can you?”
I slapped my palms down on the table. “I promise you, I can.” I folded my arms across my chest. “You are not the only actor around here.”
Everett sighed, shaking his head. “This is absurd.”
“Exactly what is so absurd about it?”
“You should not have to lower yourself to such indelicate acts. What of your social standing?” He hesitated. “I dare say, if we do this, you will not be accepted by the same class of people as you once knew.”
I felt my brows knitting together as I thought about this very real consequence. I waved the thought away with a small shrug.
“Although your concern for my reputation is appreciated, it is unnecessary. I only need enough money to stay alive long enough to hear from my aunt. Once I am in America, I will be in good company once more.”
Well, good-ish company. I do not expect my aunt and her husband rub shoulders with high society on a regular occasion. No matter. I will get there and marry up, just like before.
Biting my lip, I prepared for Everett’s further protests. Instead, he drummed his fingers on the tabletop, deep in thought. “I know a pawnbroker who has a spirit board for sale.” He slid his chair back and grabbed his coat and an empty sack. “I’ll return in an hour or so. You get some rest.”
“Wait, where are you going this time? The pawnbroker’s shop is surely closed at this hour.”
He smiled and pulled a shiny brass key from his pocket. “I need to go get you a costume.”