Thursday, October 25, 1888
“Since the Christmas season is just around the corner,” Mrs. Carrigan said at that evening’s L.A.E.W. meeting, her authoritative voice carrying over the low rumble of chatter in the room, “we need to start thinking about our annual Christmas fundraiser. I challenge you to come up with something new and innovative and we will discuss further next week.” She smiled at the hushed audience. “Does anyone else have anything to add before we take a little break?”
I was out of my seat before I fully realized I had stood up. I had considered bringing my idea to the group, but I was not sure if I would have the courage to actually go through with it. Dozens of pairs of eyes landed on me curiously and my cheeks went red.
“Yes, Mrs. Baxter?” Mrs. Carrigan smiled sweetly at me.
I moved to the end of my row so I could face everyone at once. Clearing my throat and swallowing, I caught an encouraging nod from Esther.
“As I am sure you are all aware, many women of the East End are in a particularly difficult situation right now. So many of them are unable to work because it could be a matter of life or death. A woman must be in desperate circumstances to turn to that sort of work in the first place, and now they are in danger every time they are in the street at night.” I cleared my throat again and continued. “What if we prepared next month’s charity baskets for—” I considered my phrasing carefully. “—a select group of women in Whitechapel?”
Every woman in that room knew what type of woman I meant—the fallen kind.
Esther beamed at me, but even Esther being proud of me did not make up for the vast array of meaningful glances exchanged among the other League members just then.
After a dreadfully long and uncomfortable silence, Mrs. Carrigan was the first to speak. “My dear, those women are in that … predicament … because of their own sinful choices.” She looked at the other ladies. “Our charity can be better spent elsewhere.”
The rest of the women nodded in agreement, adding an “Indeed” here and a “Quite right” there.
I persisted. “I only make this suggestion because if a handful of these women do not have to go out at night to work, they might not be—” Killed. Violently murdered. Slaughtered in the street. “—harmed.”
I was met by a room of blank expressions.
“And-and-and there is evidence that suggests not all of the victims are, in fact, prostitutes,” I sputtered. “Not that it matters either way, as they are still human beings and in need of our assistance.”
“We understand your concern for these poor wretches,” Mrs. Armstrong, another society member, said gently. “However, these women have turned their backs on God with their trade, numbing themselves with liquor. Any food we give them would just be traded for liquor.”
I fought hard not to roll my eyes at her. Mrs. Armstrong had, on several occasions, tried to persuade the rest of us to add temperance to the society’s mandate. I told Simon about it later that night over a glass of sherry and we both had a good laugh about it.
“Your heart is in the right place, Mrs. Baxter,” Mrs. Carrigan added, keeping her voice soft so not to hurt my feelings. “However, if we provide charity for women who live unlawfully, it sends the wrong message about our society.” She looked back at the rest of the ladies and I was greeted by several somber nods of agreement. “Now, unless anyone else has anything else to add, let’s break for tea and some of my delicious cucumber sandwiches.”
Smiling weakly and feeling utterly defeated, I retook my seat.
I know exactly what you should do with your cucumber sandwiches, Mrs. Carrigan.
After the meeting, Esther suggested we take a walk in Hyde Park.
“So, do you legitimately fancy a chat, or do I just look like I need to complain to someone?” I sighed as we promenaded. “I was fairly certain the idea would be rejected but I knew I had to at least try.”
She sighed. “It was a good idea and I am glad you brought it up. Even if it gets one other woman in that room thinking about the dire situation, perhaps some good will come of it.”
The air was crisp, and the grass had yellowed with the changing seasons.
“I keep having nightmares about Jack the Ripper,” I admitted. “I suppose that comes from thinking about it all the time. I have tried to stop picturing it all in my head, but the details keep creeping in.”
“Those women are not just names in a newspaper. They were people with friends and families,” Esther said, her eyes fixing on a patch of bare trees nearby, their twisted fingers reaching for the sky. “A lot of people do not understand that.”
“Imagine how different the murders would be treated if they were women from Mayfair or Belgravia or Marylebone.” My long sigh escaped as a cloud from my lips into the brisk fresh air.
Esther paused for a moment. “I thought I would have seen another article from you concerning spiritualism by now.”
I shrugged and watched as Esther retrieved something from her reticule. She unfolded a clipped newspaper article and handed it to me.
I read the headline aloud. ““Famous spiritualist Miss Margaret Fox admits hoax.”
Esther nodded, urging me on.
Having always been a fast reader, my eyes flew over the words. Margaret and Katie Fox were famous for hearing rapping sounds in their New York home when they were young ladies. The noises were said to be communications from ghosts who haunted their house and they began holding séances and going on speaking tours, becoming rather famous from it all. Although their fame had dwindled in the forty years that had passed, the sisters were credited for starting the spiritualist religion and inspiring many others to try their own hand at communicating with the “other side.”
It was all complete hokum, of course.
“She admitted to making the noises … with her ankles?” I looked at Esther again.
“Then she goes and demonstrates how she made the cracking sounds in front of an audience,” she said with a laugh. “I suppose that’s one way of getting your name in the press again.”
“It might be time I write a follow-up to my article about Madame Pringle,” I said.
“I believe so.” She grinned and nodded to a nearby hansom cab. “Go and write something good.”