These Shallow Graves (16 page)

“And
you
know that Jo's the most suitable match for Bram. There
is
no other young lady,” Jo's mother said haughtily. “Not in her league.”

“There
is,
Anna.”

“Who?”

Jo knew the answer.

“Elizabeth Adams,” her uncle said.

Anna laughed dismissively.

“She may not be in Jo's league, but she's very determined, and determination can carry a girl a long way. I'm out and about during my mourning, as men must be. I frequently run into Bram, and I've noticed that Miss Adams has begun to keep him company. …”

Phillip lowered his voice and Jo could no longer hear what he was saying. She risked parting the palm fronds and saw her mother give her uncle a curt nod. Her heart sank. She didn't need to hear more to know what had happened.

Thanks to Grandmama, that old battle-ax, she was going to the Young Patrons' Ball.

Jo, standing on the stoop of a tenement on Varick Street, tried not to stare at the large, naked breast in front of her. Pale and blue-veined, it spilled out of its owner's grimy blouse and hung down to her waist.

She'd never seen such a large breast. She had never seen any breasts except her own, which were nowhere near as generously sized. A small baby was attached to the breast, sucking greedily.

“
I'm
Eleanor Owens. What's this about?” the woman whose breast Jo was staring at asked. Two small children peeked out shyly from behind her skirts.

“Good morning,” Jo said, lifting her eyes to the woman's face. She had rehearsed her story carefully. “I'm looking for an Eleanor Owens who was employed as a cleaner by Van Houten Shipping. Would that happen to be you?”

“No, it wouldn't. And I don't know nothing about no Van Houten Shipping,” the woman said anxiously. “Is this other Eleanor Owens in some kind of trouble? Are there going to be coppers coming to my door?”

Jo was disappointed but forced herself to smile. “Not at all. Miss Owens recently left the firm's employ but failed to collect her last week's wages,” she fibbed. “She gave no forwarding address. We are trying to track her down and give her the monies owed.”

The woman looked relieved. “Wish I
was
her. I could use the money.”

Jo looked at the two children, still hiding behind their mother. They were barefoot. Their clothing was ragged.

“As it happens, the firm has authorized me to recompense any persons inconvenienced by their inquiries,” she said.

She hadn't rehearsed this part of the story, but the words came out smoothly nonetheless.

“Beg your pardon?” The woman looked confused.

“I can pay you a dollar for taking up your time,” Jo said. She handed the delighted woman the money, bade her good day, and returned to the hansom cab she'd hired. It was a small, two-wheeled carriage pulled by a single horse. Enclosed at the sides and open at the front, it was light and maneuverable. Its driver sat at the back, above and behind the passengers.

“One Twenty-Six East Thirty-Sixth Street, please,” Jo told him as she climbed back in.

Katie, her maid, was waiting for her.

“You'll come to a bad end, miss, if you carry on with unsuitable men,” she said in her heavy Irish brogue. “My cousin's husband's sister Maeve?
She
stepped out with an
actor.
He put her in the family way then skipped off. When Maeve's father found out, he threw her into the street. She had to go into a workhouse. Lost the baby and bled to death. Wound up in a pauper's grave at eighteen. Dug it herself, she did, and her fancy man handed her the shovel.”

“Why, thank you for that very uplifting story, Katie,” Jo said, giving her a look. “However, I am
not
carrying on with an unsuitable man.”

“Then why are you sneaking off at night? During the day, now, too. Telling your mother you'll be one place, then going somewhere else.”

“To gather facts for a story I'm working on,” Jo replied.

Katie raised an eyebrow. “What's the story about?” she asked.

“I can't tell you. Not yet.”

“Because there is no story, is there now, Miss Jo?” Katie asked.

“Of course there is. Would I be going to such lengths if there weren't?”

Katie's look of skepticism deepened to one of worry. “This foolishness all started with Mr. Montfort's passing. You haven't been the same since you lost him,” she said. “Everyone says so. Cook. The other maids. ‘Miss Jo's not herself,' they say. ‘Miss Jo's acting very odd.' ”

“Do you want that black velvet coat in the window of Lord and Taylor's or not?” Jo asked, fed up with Katie's ominous pronouncements.

“I'd trade a seat in heaven at the right hand of God for that coat.”

“Then keep quiet or you won't get the extra dollar I promised you.”

Katie pantomimed locking her lips and throwing away the key.

“We'll see how long
that
lasts,” Jo said.

Katie glared. She smoothed her skirt. Inspected her boots. Straightened her hat. Finally, the words burst out of her. “Why do you have to get up to such tricks—”

“Ten whole seconds. A new record.”

“—when you have the ball coming up and a dress to decide on and new shoes to buy? Who could want more than that?”

“Anyone with a brain,” Jo replied.

“You should have stayed at Miss Addie's. With Miss Jennie and Miss Caroline. That's where you told Mrs. Montfort you'd be,” Katie said reproachfully. “I was to walk you there, wait for you, and see you home. Mrs. Montfort didn't say anything about gallivanting through the city.”

“I'd hardly call this gallivanting. And besides, I couldn't stay at the party. It was too dangerous. I nearly died.”

“From what?”

“Boredom.”

Addie Aldrich had invited Jo, Caroline, and Jennie for tea. The purpose of the gathering was to talk about the Young Patrons' Ball and what everyone would be wearing.

Her mother had been of two minds about letting her go to Addie's tea, but as usual, her uncle intervened. He said young ladies in mourning needed time with friends, and her mother relented. Jo had been glad. She didn't care about the tea, but she was very excited at the thought of leaving it—early.

After spending an hour talking about ball gowns, which interested Jo not at all since she couldn't wear one and had to go dressed in black, she'd excused herself, saying she felt fatigued. Her friends had traded anxious glances. Jennie said maybe she ought to see a doctor. Jo thanked them for their concern and assured them all she needed was a rest. As soon as she and Katie turned the corner, though, she'd hailed a cab. She had three hours until she was expected home and intended to put them to good use.

“Headstrong girls
always
end badly,” Katie said now.

“Headstrong is just a word, Katie—a word others call you when you don't do what they want,” Jo said.

She reached for the notebook that was resting beside her on the seat and flipped it open. She'd had Katie buy it for her at Woolworth's. It was just like Eddie's. Six addresses were written on the notebook's first page. Four had been crossed out. Jo drew a line through
84 Varick Street
now. That made five dead ends.

Eleanor Owens b. 1874,
Jo's father had written in his agenda. She assumed the
b.
stood for Eleanor's birth year, which would make her sixteen, but wasn't positive, so she decided to pursue every Eleanor Owens in the city, regardless of age, to see if they had any connection to Van Houten. She'd found some of the addresses in a city directory Theakston kept in the butler's pantry, and a few more during an outing that was supposed to have been made to the Metropolitan Museum to contemplate the statuary but had been secretly diverted to the Bureau of Vital Records.

After leaving Addie's house and crisscrossing the city all afternoon to knock on doors, Jo had determined that none of the Eleanor Owenses whose addresses she'd written down was the one she was after. One of them was fifty, one was seventy-eight, one was six, one was two, and the woman she'd just interviewed looked about thirty. Jo had used her cleaner story with all of them, except the two children. None had any connection to Van Houten.

Now Jo had one last address to try. She'd found information for this last Eleanor at the Bureau of Vital Records. According to her birth certificate, her parents were Samuel Owens and Lavinia Archer Owens, and they lived on Thirty-Sixth Street. At least, they had in 1848, the year of Eleanor's birth. Hopefully, they were still there. The address was in a genteel section of Murray Hill. Jo knew that no cleaning woman would live there. She'd have to devise another story.

“Mr. Theakston knows you're up to something,” Katie said, interrupting her thoughts. “I heard him tell Mrs. Nelson. You're lucky he didn't catch you the last time you snuck out. He will sooner or later, though. He'll go straight to Mrs. Montfort, and
then
you'll be in for it!” She narrowed her eyes. “What did you do that night, anyway?”

What didn't I do?
Jo thought, thinking back a week ago to her trip to the waterfront.
I went to the waterfront, met a lock picker and a pickpocket, broke into Van Houten, and kissed Eddie Gallagher.

The memory of the kisses they shared still warmed her, but she frowned now, recalling something he
hadn't
shared with her. Something that still puzzled her.

“Katie, have you ever heard of a woman called Della McEvoy?” she asked.

Katie turned white. “God in heaven, miss, is
that
where you went? Please tell me it wasn't.”

“It wasn't. I told you, I'm working on a story. Della's name was mentioned by one of my sources. Who is she?”

“I can't tell you,” Katie said. “It's not proper. I wouldn't feel right about it.”

Jo took a dollar note out of her pocket and dangled it in front of her maid. “Would this ease your troubled conscience?”

Katie snatched it. “Della McEvoy sells girls,” she said. “To men.”

Jo remembered the scantily clad women in the doorway of Della's; she remembered George Adams and Teddy Farnham stumbling down the stoop.

“What do you mean
sells
women?” she asked, mystified. “To work for them?”

“No, not to work for them. At least, not in the way you're thinking. Della sells girls for the night.”

Jo thought of Theakston and the many jobs he did after dark. “To do what? Polish silver?” she asked. “Wind clocks?”

“No! Della keeps a disorderly house.”

“I don't care how messy she is,” Jo said, growing irritated. “What does she
do
?”

“For goodness' sake, miss,” Katie said, exasperated. “Della McEvoy is a procurer. A madam. A female pimp. She runs a brothel. The girls who live in it have sex with men for money. They're called prostitutes. Does that explain it plainly enough?”

Jo sat back in her seat, shocked. “How do you know this?”

Katie snorted. “How could I not? Della's only one of many. Disorderly houses are all over the city. You'd know that if you had to walk everywhere instead of taking a carriage. Stroll through the Tenderloin sometime. The girls are practically hanging out the windows—and their corsets. They'll come right up to you on the street, bold as brass.”

Jo recalled a conversation she'd had with Trudy. “Are they like mistresses?” she asked.

“A mistress has it easy. She's only got to contend with one man. He pays her rent. Pays her bills. Some do quite well for themselves. Della's girls, they go with whoever wants them,” Katie explained.

“But what becomes of these girls? After they … they …” Jo wasn't sure how to say what she meant.

“After they lie down for every Tom, Dick, and Harry with a dollar in his pocket? They don't last long, most of them. They catch diseases,” Katie said.

“How
awful,
” Jo said, shuddering. “Why do they do it?”

Katie looked at Jo as if she were an idiot. “Because they've got no choice, miss. Maybe someone's abused them—a funny uncle or stepfather. Maybe they're hungry and can't find a proper job. Maybe they're addicted to drink or dope, and the madams give it to them. There are hundreds of reasons. As many reasons as there are girls.”

Jo was suddenly embarrassed that she'd ever asked Eddie about Della. Her embarrassment deepened as she remembered the man at his boardinghouse who'd thought she was from a house like Della's. He'd assumed she was a prostitute simply because she was walking on her own in the city at night. Men could walk the city at night and no one thought the worse of them, but a woman walking alone … that was scandalous enough to get oneself labeled a prostitute.

Jo bristled at the unfairness of it, but then her cab arrived at Thirty-Sixth Street and she had to put her feelings aside. The Owens house was situated midway between Lexington and Third Avenues on the south side of the street. A narrow alley ran between it and the house on its west side. After telling the driver to wait and Katie to stay put, Jo alighted, climbed the stoop, and knocked.

A few seconds later, the door opened. “May I help you, miss?” inquired a smiling butler.

“I hope so,” Jo said. “I'm looking for Eleanor Owens.”

The butler's smile curdled. “There's no one here by that name,” he said brusquely, closing the door.

“Wait, please!” Jo said, stopping it with her hand. “Can you tell me where she's gone?”

“I must ask you to release the door,” the butler said coldly.

“Mr. Baxter, is everything all right?” A maid carrying a coal scuttle had stopped on her way through the foyer. She looked Jo up and down.