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“He brought me here.” The girl wrapped her arms around herself, making herself as small as she could. “I wouldn’t have come if I’d known he meant to— He said there was a lady and gentleman coming to look at some linens he had and he wanted me to come and scrub his room for him.”

“In the night?” Hope took a cautious step closer. As the small light of her candle reached the girl, she could see more bruises on her wrists, her shoulders.

The girl flinched back, away from the light. “I didn’t know— He told my mamma I could sleep with a servant girl here so I could get started scrubbing early in the morning.”

“Your mamma?”

“Mrs. Stackhaver—she adopted me. He wants her to get rid of me, they’ve no need of me now, unless I prove I can earn my keep. I only was here to scrub the room!” Her voice rose in incipient hysteria.

“Hush, hush. It’s all right,” said Hope nonsensically, since it clearly wasn’t all right.

“I didn’t know!” the girl repeated. “He took me upstairs to a room in the third story. He told me the servant girl would come and sleep with me and then he locked the door, and took me and undressed me and put me on the bed—”

Tears were streaming down her face.

“Thee poor child!” Hope hurried toward her, her mind working furiously. “It’s Mr. Croucher thee speak of?”

“Yes—no—I never meant— Oh, pray—pray don’t say I said!” The girl’s voice rose again, the words coming out in a bubble of hiccups and snot.

“What is all this?” The door on the other side of the stair opened and Caty came out, wearing her shift with a shawl about her shoulders, squinting in the light of Hope’s candle. “Hope? And who is this?”

Hope put her arm protectively around the girl, who shrank at her touch but didn’t push her away. Her bones felt like twigs. In a flat, hard undertone, she said, “This is Mrs. Stackhaver’s girl. Mr. Croucher took her here and robbed her of her virtue.”

“Robbed her—”

“He took her upstairs and took her to bed—against her will. We need to go to the constable—now! While he sleeps. We need to go to the constable and bring him up on charges.”

“No!” The girl yanked away from Hope. “No! You mustn’t! You mustn’t tell! I only want to go home, please let me go home. . . .”

“No one is going to the constable,” said Caty soothingly. “Come, I’ll get thee a warm posset and wash thee and thee can go home.”

“A warm posset?” demanded Hope indignantly. “He raped her! Look at her! She looks younger than Rachel!”

“That’s why,” said Caty, in a low voice. “If she complains of him, the taint will follow her. . . .”

“She did nothing wrong!” Hope whirled back toward the girl. “If thee won’t go to the police, go to Mr. Colden, the attorney general. He’s a kind man. He’ll listen to thee.”

The girl shrank back, her face transformed with blank terror. “I can’t.”

“I’ll go with thee if thee like,” said Hope. “Thee needn’t go alone. I will stand with thee.”

“No!” The girl’s eyes were dark holes in her white face. “I can’t tell him. I can’t tell anyone. I wouldn’t have told you if—if you hadn’t been here.”

“But if thee go home, won’t he be there? What if he attempts thee again?” Hope burned at the thought of that creature upstairs abusing this poor child. She wanted to whisk her away and make her safe—and see that Croucher hanged. “Won’t thee at least tell thy mistress?”

“I can’t! I can’t tell anyone.” The girl’s back hit the wood of the door. With nowhere left to go, she looked from Hope to Caty. “He said—he said if I told anyone, he would do to me what was done to Elma Sands.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Quite lately I heard Croucher say he did not like her and she should not stay in the house, she was a very bad girl, and he was not going to keep a bad girl in the house; he was sure he said that she was a bad girl, he could prove it, he knew it himself. Then he said she was a whore and he could prove it. He had lain with her one night himself. He said he had heard she was a bad girl, and he was determined to know if it was so, and therefore he had lain with her one night and was satisfied it was so.

—From the trial of Richard D. Croucher for the rape of Margaret Miller

New York City

July 8, 1800

“He used force. He did what he would, and hurt me very much, so much that I could hardly get home the next morning.”