“Can you tell me?” I whisper to the window, my warm breath making a foggy snowflake pattern upon the glass. It melts quickly away, as if I have never said a word. The train slows and the hills disappear behind billowing clouds of steam. The porter calls the station. We have arrived, and now our true test begins.
Mademoiselle LeFarge delivers us to Mrs. Worthington on the platform. With her fair hair and cool gray eyes, Mrs. Worthington is like her daughter, but finer. She lacks Felicity’s bold, sensual features, and it gives her an air of fragile beauty. Every man takes note of her loveliness. As she walks, they turn their heads or hold her glance a second too long. I shall never have this sort of beauty, the sort that paves the way.
Mrs. Worthington greets us warmly. “What a nice day we shall have. And how lovely to see you again, darling Nan. Did you have a pleasant trip?”
“Oh, yes, quite pleasant,” Ann answers. They fall into polite chatter. Felicity and I exchange glances.
“She really believes Ann is your cousin,” I gloat quietly. “She didn’t notice anything amiss!”
Felicity scoffs. “She wouldn’t.”
On the street, we pass an acquaintance of Mrs. Worthington’s and she stops to chat. We stand idly by, not seen, not heard, not noticed. A few feet away, another group of women makes a bid for attention. The women wear sandwich board signs that announce a strike. Beardon’s Bonnets Factory Fire. Six Souls Murdered for Money. Justice Must Be Served—Fair Wages, Fair Treatment. They call to passersby, imploring them to have a care for their cause. The well-heeled people on their way to the theater and the clubs turn away, their faces registering distaste.
A girl of about fifteen hurries over, a tin can in her hands. Her gloves are a farce. Ragged holes eat at the wool like a pox. Her knuckles peek through, red and raw. “Please, miss. Spare a copper for our cause?”
“What cause is it?” Ann asks.
“We work at Beardon’s Bonnets Factory, miss, and a sorrier place there never was,” she says. Dark half-moons shadow her eyes. “A fire took our friends, miss. A terrible fire. The factory doors was locked to keep us in. What chance did they have, miss?”
“Bessie Timmons and Mae Sutter,” I whisper.
The girl’s eyes widen. “Did you know them, miss?”
I shake my head quickly. “I…I must have read their names in the accounts.”
“They was good girls, miss. We’re striking so it won’t happen again. We want fair wages and fair treatment. They shouldn’t’ve died in vain.”
“I’m sure that wherever your friends may be now, they would be proud of your efforts.” I drop a shilling into her cup.
“Thank you, miss.”
“Come along, girls.” Mrs. Worthington clucks, ushering us on our way. “Why were you speaking to those unfortunate women?”
“They’re striking,” I answer. “Their friends were burned in a factory fire.”
“How horrid. I don’t like to hear such things.” A gentleman passes, giving Mrs. Worthington a furtive glance. She responds with a satisfied smile. “They should have husbands to look after them.”
“What if they don’t?” Felicity asks, her voice harsh. “What if they are alone? What if they have children to feed and wood to buy for the fire? What if they have only themselves to rely upon? Or…or what if they have no wish to be married? Do they have no merit on their own?”
It is astonishing to see the fire in Felicity’s eyes, though somehow I doubt this display is born of a reformer’s zeal. I believe it is a way to goad her mother. Ann and I dare not enter this fray. We keep our eyes on the ground.
“Darling, there shall always be the poor. I don’t very well see what I can do about it. I’ve my own obligations.” Mrs. Worthington adjusts her fur stole until it sits high against her neck, soft armor for her soft world. “Come now. Let’s not talk of such unpleasant business on such a beautiful spring day. Ah, a confectionary. Shall we go in and see what sweets there are for us? I know that girls enjoy their treats.” She smiles conspiratorially. “I was a girl once, too.”
Mrs. Worthington steps inside, and Felicity stares hard after her.
“You will always be a girl,” she whispers bitterly.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
MRS. WORTHINGTON TAKES FOREVER TO DECIDE ON HER sweets, and we arrive at the Drury Lane with barely a moment to spare. The dusk particular to theaters descends, a romantic twilight that takes us away from our cares and makes the fantastic possible. The Drury Lane is known for its spectacle, and we are not to be disappointed. The enormous curtains part, revealing an extravagant set—a forest that appears as real as can be. In the center of the stage, three old witches tend a cauldron. Thunder crashes. This is only a man banging a large piece of copper, but it produces shivers anyway. The wizened crones speak to us: