They both dissolved into slightly hysterical laughter.
“I never expected to find my family,” Lil admitted as they made their way back through crowded Mallory Street. “But I had to look, miss. I’m glad we came.”
Garish light from a gin palace shone out as the doors opened on reeling patrons. Francesca tried not to stare.
“Don’t give up hope, Lil.”
“They probably wouldn’t want to know me anyway,” Lil muttered.
“Whyever not!”
“I was a poor wretch when Miss Vivianna found me, different to what I am now.” She flicked a glance at Francesca. “You won’t judge me, miss?”
“Of course not. Who am I to judge you? You know my story, Lil, and it’s hardly a moral example to hold up to others.”
“I was sold,” Lil said stiffly.
Francesca was too overwhelmed to speak.
“To one o’ them places that men go to.”
“Oh Lil, that’s awful. That such a thing could happen in England!”
“It happens all the time, miss. Even now. Look around you and you’ll see what I mean. Look, over there…”
Francesca looked in the direction Lil was pointing. The scene before her didn’t really register, not at first. There were lots of people and noise, and then she saw the young girl, a child really, standing on the steps of a house. The door to the house was open and there was a man inside. The child stood, hands clasped before her, eyes downcast, while a soberly dressed woman bent to speak to her. She was small, probably nine years old, with her fair hair brushed out over her shoulders. She was wearing a pinafore over a cotton dress, and petticoats with lace edging that reached to mid-calf, and on her feet were ankle boots. Someone had dressed her up in her best clothes.
Someone must love her, Francesca thought. Then why did she feel such a sense of dread?
The man came out of the house and seemed to be saying something to the woman. He gestured at her, telling her to go. She backed away, down the stairs toward the street. The child went after her, but the man grabbed at her, to stop her. The little girl began to cry.
“Oh dear Lord,” Francesca breathed.
“She’s sold her,” Lil said woodenly, “that’s what she’s done.”
Francesca saw then that the girl’s lips had been colored with rouge, and there were circles of it upon her cheeks, so that she looked like a little doll—or a caricature of the unfortunates who were shrieking outside the inn farther down the road.
“She knows no one’s gonna help her.” Lil sounded outraged and sick. “No one cares.”
The sober woman was gesturing, too, now. She looked frantic. She was shaking her head. Then she snatched something she’d tucked into the bosom of her dress and threw it at the man. Coins rattled on the stairs, rolling and tumbling. As if it was a signal, street urchins came running from all sides, a melee of desperate, shoving bodies.
Francesca didn’t remember making any conscious decision, but suddenly she was moving forward, pushing through the crowd that had gathered from nowhere to watch the fun. The little girl was jammed against the wooden stair railing, and Francesca slipped in beside her, grasped her around the waist, and swung her up and over the railing and the backs of the squabbling urchins. The next moment she was running, the child clasped in her arms.
Behind her someone began to shout. Francesca ran faster. The girl was clinging around her neck, her arms squeezing so tightly, her body pressed so close, that Francesca could feel her heart’s rapid b
eating.
“They’ll catch us,” Lil gasped, and that was when Francesca realized the maid was running beside her.
“No, they won’t.”
“Where we going with her?” Lil cried, wild-eyed. “What’s your plan, miss?”
“I don’t have a plan.”
“Then Gawd help us!”
The raised voices were a little distance behind them, mixed with the heavy pounding of boots. A woman was screaming, “Run, run!” Was it the child’s mother? Had she changed her mind?