Toward the Sea of Freedom (14 page)

Little Lizzie—found on a street in the East End where she clung, howling, sniffling, and crying, to the legs of passersby—was a scrawny, recalcitrant child no one wanted. She did not discover her smile until later, at thirteen or fourteen, once she was already back on the street.

She used to dig discarded clothing out of the trash in order to sell it, and she remembered how once she had gone into a sweetshop with her hard-earned pence. She should have bought bread, but she couldn’t resist sugary treats. In sheer happiness at the sight of all the wonders in the glass cases and dishes, she had smiled at the seller—and had promptly gone out with a whole bag of sweets. They were broken candy canes and stuck-together bonbons—nothing the man could sell. But he did not have to give them to Lizzie.

“Here,” he had said, with a smile to match hers. “Sweets for a sweetheart.”

Lizzie lowered the mirror and went on her way. Now, where could she scrounge something to eat? She considered first going to the pier and trying to pick someone up, but just the thought turned her stomach. What was more, the scents from the bakery a few streets over had her spellbound.

She could do nothing else; she had to follow the scent of fresh bread. It would have been much smarter to go begging at the back door. The baker’s wife might have had some leftover bread, and perhaps she had woken up on the right side of the bed. It happened; now and again, she had given Hannah some leftovers when Toby and Laura had looked too hungry. But something had gotten into Lizzie. She entered the shop through the front door.

The baker was standing there, which was good. Men often fell for Lizzie’s charms, whether her smile worked or not. In front of her, another customer was buying two rolls. Lizzie waited until the baker had helped him. Then she smiled, greeting him politely. However, she noticed that her magic was not working that morning. She could manage a pleasant smile, but nothing more.

Nevertheless, the baker responded amicably. “Well, my lovely girl, what can I do for you?”

What could he do for her? Lizzie let her starving gaze pass over all the baked goods on the shelf. “A loaf of bread,” she said longingly, “and two sweet rolls for the children, and some croissants.”

Lizzie was not serious; she simply whispered the objects of her longing. It was so warm in there, so wonderful. She was surprised when the baker handed a bag across the counter.

“There, that’ll be three pence.”

Lizzie took the bag. “I,” she whispered, “I don’t have any money right now. Is it possible for me to come by later with it?”

“You don’t have any money?” The baker’s previously friendly demeanor darkened. “Dear, you don’t have any money, and I don’t have anything to give away. So what are you doing here? Give me back that bag and get out of here. Pay later? I can just mark that down as a loss.”

The bag in her hand was real. And the counter was high. The man could not leap over it. What madness was this?

Lizzie pressed the bread and pastries to her chest. “I’m, I’m sorry,” she stammered. “But I’ll come back with the money.” Then she ran out of the store.

The baker yelled “Thief!” after her.

She ran down the street as fast as her feet would carry her. Not toward her shed, since they could find her there, but to the market. Surely it was already bustling; she could disappear in the crowd and then return home the long way to give the children something to eat.

Lizzie was afraid, but she also felt a prickling of power. She would never have thought herself capable of such a brazen theft. Yet it seemed to be going well. The baker would not catch up to her quickly, and the few passersby at that early hour seemed too tired to chase her.

Then suddenly, a hugely fat police officer stood in front of her like a wall. She had never before seen the police in this quarter of London. An unlucky coincidence.

“Well, aren’t we in a hurry, lovely.” The officer held her with one hand. “I’ll bet your husband’s waiting for his breakfast?”

Lizzie tried to smile. “My children, sir, I, I, they should have something in their stomachs before they go to school.”

“I see, I see. You’ve already got children who go to school. Good, very good. And your husband makes plenty of money—and the call from over there is for a whole different thief.” The officer pointed toward the bakery, where the baker was still yelling.

The baker’s wife ran down the street to Lizzie and the officer. “That’s her! I’m sure of it; that’s her!” she yelled. “Bring the little thief back so my husband can look at her. Everything should be done proper. But I know her. Walks around here haughty as can be. How could my husband have ever been fooled? You’d think her a proper girl, but really she whores herself. Everybody knows that. A pretty face, and the fellows get weak. Don’t let the beastie go, officer. She’ll just run away.”

Lizzie made no move to run. It would have been senseless anyway. The officer was much stronger. If anything could help her in this unfortunate moment, it was begging and pleading.

“Sir, hear me out, please!” The baker seemed inclined to listen to her. “I was in a daze; I did not mean to order anything I can’t pay for. I meant to ask from the start if you would put it on a bill. But the children, sir, if you let them lock me up, then they’ll get nothing to eat. And I would have brought you the money, without fail. I’m not, not some . . . I’m honest, I . . .”

The baker’s wife answered Lizzie’s words with a mocking laugh.

The baker breathed out sharply. “So, hungry children, is it? And a loaf of bread wouldn’t have been enough? You had to take some pastries?”

Lizzie bit her lip. “I didn’t want . . .”

“Do you want to report the theft or not?” the officer asked.

The baker’s wife ripped the bag from Lizzie’s hand. “Of course we do. It just gets better and better! Look at these rolls and croissants. All smashed; we can’t even sell them now. And more than that, she’s a whore; I’m telling you, officer. Just ask around.”

Lizzie turned one last time to the baker. “Please.”

But he knew no mercy either. He shook his head. “Take her away,” he said to the officer.

“Get that dumb thing out of his sight before he gets weak again,” his wife said.

Lizzie closed her eyes. Now all she could hope for was a merciful judge. And for Hannah. She would at least confirm Lizzie’s story about the children.

Newgate Prison was filthy and crowded. Lizzie felt she could hardly breathe when they pushed her into a long room lit only by a small barred window high up on the wall. At least fifteen other women were in the room, and for all of them together there was only one toilet in the corner, which stank abominably. For furniture there was only a bench, and two powerful women occupied it. Some women leaned against the walls; others sat on the dirty straw-covered ground. Lizzie stood at the door and lowered her gaze. In the straw were fleas; she was sure of it. She hated fleas.

A nagging voice suddenly called out: “I must be mad. Lizzie Owens, who always thought ’erself better.”

Lizzie looked up.

Candy Williams, a prostitute from her neighborhood, smirked at her. “What did you do?”

“Got caught stealing bread,” Lizzie said. Why deny it? Besides, Candy was not mean. She was simply teasing Lizzie.

A few women laughed.

“What a dumb little girl,” one of the women on the bench said. “If you’re going to steal, it ’as to be worth it. Look, that girl there.” She nodded her head toward a beautiful dark-haired girl staring, unresponsive, at nothing. “She pinched a gold watch. Would ’ave gone fine, but the fence snitched.”

“My man will come get me,” whispered the girl.

More of the women snickered.

“That fine knight of yours probably got you into this mess,” said the fat woman on the bench. “Didn’t ’e make a deal with the fence? Couldn’t ’e have taken the blame? Nah, girl, ’e’s washed his ’ands of you.”

“What happens to someone who steals bread?” Lizzie asked quietly.

The fat woman grinned. “The same thing that ’appens when you steal a watch. Theft is theft. Depends on your lawyer too. If ’e lets your kids in the court, and they ’owl a bit—”

“She doesn’t ’ave any children,” Candy said.

The fat woman furrowed her brow. “No? Didn’t I see you on the street with two brats? I’d wanted to talk to you about my cathouse. You’ve got something about you. But I don’t take anyone with brats; that’s only trouble.”

Lizzie now remembered having seen the woman once before. Franny Gray. She owned a brothel on Hanbury Street.

“How did you land here?” Lizzie asked. “I thought . . . if you had a house . . .”

The whores on the street had always envied Franny Gray’s girls a bit—not to mention the brothel owner herself, who seemed to be raking in money.

“I’m asking the questions here,” Franny clarified. “And don’t you worry about me. I’ll be out of here before you can even say ‘bail,’ though that’s not as fast as Velvet can pull a watch out of a man’s pocket.” She indicated the dark-haired girl again, and the others laughed. Then she returned to interrogating Lizzie. “So, where’d you get the brats? Stole ’em? Showing ’em the ropes? Did you already sell ’em? Love, I wouldn’t ’ave thought you the kind.”

Franny frowned disapprovingly.

Lizzie exploded. “How dare you talk to me like that! As if, as if . . . My God, yes, I whore and sometimes steal, but that doesn’t mean I’d teach children to do so. The little ones are Hannah’s—the redhead who works Dorset Street. I live with her, and the children, damn it, the children always . . .”

With that, Lizzie turned away. She could well imagine what would become of Toby and Laura if Hannah had to care for them alone.

Candy laughed. “I told you, I did, Franny. A sweetheart. An angel. She’s just hiding ’er ’alo. It just won’t ’elp you, Lizzie. And as for Hannah, I wouldn’t rely on ’er either.”

Lizzie had hoped Hannah would soon come visit her—word of arrests spread quickly in the neighborhood, and everyone knew about the comforts a few pence could buy a prisoner. If it had been Hannah who’d been caught by the police, Lizzie would have taken another customer so she could help her friend.

Suddenly two guards appeared to let Franny out. “It proved to be a mistake, the matter with the gentleman’s wallet,” one of them explained reluctantly. “He had misplaced it after all. Anyway, he has his wallet now and regrets the misunderstanding.”

Franny signaled her triumph and rushed out of the cell. Lizzie wondered how the woman had arranged the matter—from a cell, no less. But she was probably always prepared for such eventualities. The customer who had been robbed had gotten his wallet back. How Franny’s people had made him apologize on top of that defied Lizzie’s understanding.