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Chapter One
In the churchyard of St. Pancras, Rose Parker huddled underneath the protection of a yew tree as the rain poured down in bitter droves. Still, droplets leaped from the canopy overhead, refusing to allow her an escape from its icy touch.
She trembled ferociously in her too-thin dress and soaked woolen shawl, tucking her knees up to her chin as she stared out upon the shadowed landscape. Grave-robbers and body-snatchers favored this churchyard above the others in London, for its central location and sprawling site. And she was determined to protect her mother’s, though there was little to be thieved from her casket.
“We are ruined, Mama,” she whispered. “We are ruined without you.” She closed her eyes to picture her mother’s resting place nearby, which she could not see in the petulant darkness. The soil was not yet entirely overgrown with grass and determined daisies, the withering bunch of roses that Rose had placed there a week ago likely growing soggy in the rain, as the water trickled down the newly engraved headstone.
Rose hid her face in her peaked knees as heaving sobs overtook her. Her mother had passed not a month ago from tuberculosis, but the grief felt as fresh as though she had lost her yesterday.
“I don’t think anything will ever be the same again,” she murmured miserably. “He spends his days in the public houses and taverns. He has lost what little business he had left, and now we are without a home. I don’t think he wants to make things better. I think he just wants to forget, so he doesn’t have to think about life without you. I don’t want to, either, but one of us must. Tell me what I should do, Mama?”
Even her mind did not dare to reply as the churchyard echoed with the sound of raindrops and silent ghosts. It was an impossible question, for whatcouldshe do when her father had already chosen a course of self-annihilation? She could not even remember what he looked like sober, his eyes now perpetually bloodshot, his cheeks and nose spider-webbed with scarlet thread veins, his breath stale with alcohol, and his pockets forever empty after spending everything he had—and she had—at the gambling halls.
Just then, a voice split the air like a musket shot, startling her out of her sad reverie. “Rose! Rose, where the devil are you? Rose!” Her father’s voice, warbling with the effects of the whiskey he had undoubtedly drunk to the bottom of at least one bottle. “I know you’re out there somewhere! Old Riley said he saw you running in! Rose! Don’t you be hiding from me, else I’ll tan your hide!”
She sank back into the shadows of the yew tree and prayed he would not find her. For that seemed like the only way she might have a peaceful existence again. And if exposure claimed her before dawn rose… Well, at least she would have a warm place to go and her mother’s open arms to welcome her.
* * *
Nine Years Later…
Rose toiled away in the sweltering heat of the sewing house, her fingers stiff from driving the needle in and out of the endless fabric. A year ago, her hands had been smooth and delicate, prepared for a fine future that would not require much in the way of labor. Now, they were as rough as tanned leather, peppered with tiny silver scars where the needle had poked holes in her skin instead of the material.
“Miss Parker, what are you still doing here? It’s already past nine o’clock.” A gruff voice shouted down from the balcony above, where the overseer’s office took pride of place, giving a bird’s eye view across the sewing house.
Rose glanced up. “I don’t mind, Mr. Jennings. I can keep working.”
“Aye, well, I’ve told you, again and again, you earn the same as everyone else. I can’t be paying you past your time.” Mr. Jennings was the overseer who cracked the whip over the women who worked here. Rose knew he had something of a soft spot for her. That was the very thing she hoped to manipulate for a bit more coin to put in her pocket, though not by using the tawdry tactics that she had seen other ladies use to add to their income.
She widened her hazel eyes in desperation. “A sixpence more, and I’ll stay until midnight.”
“Out, now!” He jangled his keys as he headed down the stairwell from his office. “You might not mind staying until midnight, but I’ve got places to be. I’m sure you do, too.”
No, actually, I don’t.
As she did every evening, she would wait in the one-room lodgings that she shared with her father until he came home safely from whichever gambling hall or tavern he had gone to, to squander her hard-earned money. He did not care if she stayed up to make sure he was all right or not. Half the time, he was too inebriated to recognize her.
Sensing defeat on the horizon, she made a final effort. “Tuppence, and I’ll stay for another hour?”
“Out. Now. If you make me say it again, I’ll carry you out over my shoulder,” Mr. Jennings threatened.
Reluctantly, she set down her work and got to her feet. Her back ached from being hunched over the workbench since five o’clock that morning. “Very well, but only because I don’t want to have to contend with the obvious scandal.”
Mr. Jennings chuckled. “What would be the scandal? A handsome fella like me and a pretty bird like you? Sounds more like wedding bells to me.”
“Or a death knell for me,” she retorted.
A flicker of irritation passed across his face. “You still think you’re all high and mighty, don’t you? Let me give you a bit of advice, Miss Parker. The sooner you get it into your head that your pa ain’t some powerful businessman with a fancy house no more, and you’ll never be anything but a seamstress, you’ll see that your choices in life aren’t as broad as you might think.” He smirked. “I expect that’ll be the day you come begging for me to wed you and give you a half-decent life.”
Rose held her tongue. As dearly as she might have wished to rail at him for his insults, she could not afford to lose her employment for the sake of her wounded pride. In truth, there was nothing he had said that was not true. Even now, she occasionally awoke on her thin straw mattress in confusion, wondering why she was not waking in her soft bed in the apartments they had once rented.
Now, their income relied solely on Rose. Not that she got to use a penny of it. No sooner had Mr. Jennings handed it to her than her father snatched it away to spend on drowning his sorrows in alcohol and wagers. Perhaps, he thought he could find his dead wife at the bottom of a glass or in the triumph of a win. Perhaps, he merely wished to join her but feared the fires of Hell too much to end his life directly. Rose no longer dared to ask which it was.
“I didn’t mean to cause any offense, Mr. Jennings. I’m sure you’d make a fine husband for any woman,” Rose said sheepishly. “I just wouldn’t want you tarnishing your good name by settling for a lousy sort like me. You deserve loftier heights.”
His expression relaxed. “Looks like I misunderstood you. For what it’s worth, you don’t look downtrodden. You keep yourself neat. I admire that.”
“That doesn’t change my situation, though.” She felt the urge to remind him, realizing she was in a somewhat dangerous position. All of the other women had left the sewing house a good half an hour ago. There would be no-one to hear her call for help if Mr. Jennings decided to take what was not willingly given, though she hoped she was right about him not being the kind to do so.
