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Prologue

The deceased was a young girl, who till her fatal acquaintance with the prisoner, was virtuous and modest. . . .

—William Coleman, Report of the Trial of Levi Weeks

New York City

December 22, 1799

The shadows were gathering in the back of the house in Greenwich Street.

It had been one of those clear, bright winter days, when the sun shone pitiless as the Last Judgment, all light without warmth, but the early winter dusk was finally falling. Elma welcomed it, even if it did make it hard to see her reflection in the scrap of mirror Caty had allowed was permissible to make Elma neat and tidy.

Elma draped a kerchief across her bodice, studying the effect of the fichu. Whatever she did, her calico gown and dimity petticoat looked decidedly provincial. There was only so much one could do with old patterns, cheap fabrics, and a Quaker cousin with an eye for propriety.

Soon. Soon she’d have dresses of fine muslin and gauze, embroidered all about with this season’s whimsies; she’d have clocked stockings of sheerest silk, and shawls so fine one could draw them through a ring. Oh, and she’d have the rings too, starting with one tonight. He’d not shown it to her; he wouldn’t. Let it be a surprise, he’d said, a surprise for their wedding night. Surely he should be allowed some surprises.

She’d surprises of her own, Elma had countered, trying to sound like the lady of the world she meant to become, not the poor cousin from Cornwall, New York, everyone’s drudge and morality tale.

She’d taken his hand in hers and kissed each finger, one by one, her eyes on his all the while.

He’d liked it well enough, she could tell, because his breath had quickened, and he’d nodded and said a quick, “Tonight,” before a step on the stair behind them signaled—

“Elma?”

The kerchief slipped from Elma’s grasp at the sound of Caty’s voice, so rudely intruding into her own private place.

Elma took her time retrieving the kerchief. “Did you want me?”

“No. . . . That is . . .” Caty hovered at the threshold, neither in nor out. Caty was never still: always up and down the stairs, in and out, seeing what needed doing; seeing who wasn’t doing what they were meant to be doing.

Watching. Always watching. Pretending concern. Oh, Elma, thee will take a chill. Let me give thee a kerchief. Stuffing thick fabric into the neckline of her dress, muffling her in shawls. She’d like to muffle Elma out of existence, Elma had no doubt. The family embarrassment.

Somewhere, far to the south, in Charleston, Elma’s father lived with his other family. Elma used to dream he would come and sweep her away, dress her in silks and laces, put her at his right hand. My daughter, he’d call her.

For all she knew he had other daughters. He’d had another family already, that’s what Elma’s uncle David said. A sinner leading Elma’s mother like a brand to the burning. Twenty-three years Elma’s mother had been burning, acknowledging and acknowledging and acknowledging her sin, but never any closer to salvation.

Elma’s mother had been sixteen when she’d fallen from grace with a soldier in the Continental Army. Six years younger than Elma was now.

Elma was older and she knew better. If Elma were to burn, she’d made up her mind to do it in grand style.

“Which do you like?” Elma held up two handkerchiefs, alternating them against her bodice to show the effect. “This one? Or that one?”

A furrow appeared between Caty’s pale brows. “The second kerchief—is that Peggy’s?”

Elma shrugged. “Peggy will never mind. Besides, I don’t mean to mop my nose with it. She’ll have it back none the worse for wear.”

By then Elma would have finery of her own, a doting husband to shower her with the niceties of life, not clothe her in calico and set her to drudge like Caty: minding the children, boiling the linens, feeding the boarders, trimming hats in the millinery that supplemented the income of the boardinghouse.

Caty hesitated, and Elma could see her struggling with the desire to read Elma a lecture on coveting thy neighbor’s kerchief. Easy enough to divide between mine and thine when one had something of one’s own. Elma’s entire life had been pieced together like a quilt from scraps begged from others. If there was one thing she’d learned, it was that it was better to take than to beg.

“Thy fichu is crooked,” said Caty at long last, and Elma knew she’d won. Caty crossed the narrow room, beneath the slope of the gambrel roof, and with sure fingers tugged the fichu into place, tucking it into Elma’s bodice, higher than Elma liked. “Thee are determined to go out tonight?”

Like the good Quaker she was, Caty minded her thees and thous.

“It’s a fair, fine night.” Elma deliberately misunderstood her.

Caty’s fingers hesitated on the linen. “After thy illness. Should thee take a chill . . .”