Lyddie

“But where will you go?” Don’t worry for me. I can’t stand it if you are kind, I might break down.

“Back to housekeeping, I reckon.” That

was it. Triphena would be sure to take her in.

She went to the bank and withdrew all her money—243 dollars and 87 pence. Then she went to the bookstore. She wanted to give Brigid a copy of Oliver Twist even if the girl couldn’t really read it yet. She’d be able to in time.

“Will there be anything else for you today, Miss Worthen?” They were friends now, the bookseller and she. She hesitated, but what did it matter? She would never be in again. “Do you have a book that—that tells the meanings of words?”

“Ah,” he said, “We have an old Alexander dictionary, of course, and then there’s Webster’s and Worcester’s, which are more up-to-date.”

“I think I need a up-to-date one,” she said. She didn’t want to risk buying one that didn’t have the one word she needed.

The bookseller got down two fat books, Parts I and II of An American Dictionary of the English Language and then a third. “Many people prefer the Worcester,” he said, indicating the third book. “It’s a bit newer. And all in the one volume.” Lyddie paid for the Worcester and forced herself to take it out of the shop before opening it.

As soon as she was out of sight of the bookshop window, she rested her parcels on the sidewalk and opened the dictionary. It took her some time to find the word. The pages were thin and her fingers calloused and clumsy, and she did not know the spelling. But she found it at last.

What? She would have howled in the street had it not been so crowded with passersby. She was not a vile or shameful character! She was not base or depraved. She was only ignorant, and what was the sin in that? He was the evil one to accuse her of such. She had done nothing evil, only foolish.

She rushed back to her room. What could she do? The damage was done. If only she had known what was going on when she was in the agent’s office, how that vile man was lying. Oh, the agent was quick to believe him. When I cried out, it was I who was made to seem in the wrong! I was unladylike. That was my crime.

She wrote the letters in a fury, burning herself with sealing wax, her hand was shaking so. She rushed out of the house, her bonnet ribbons loose, her shawl flying. By the time she got to the Acre she was out of breath and could hardly ask the children playing in the streets where Brigid’s house might be.

The first child she asked looked up with wide, frightened eyes and ran away without speaking. She stood long enough to tie her bonnet properly and catch her breath before asking another. He pointed dumbly to a shack that turned out not to be Brigid’s house at all, but the housewife inside knew Brigid and gave Lyddie proper directions.

Brigid herself answered the door. “Oh Lyddie, what have they done?”

“I’m dismissed,” Lyddie said.

“No, it cannot be.”

“It can’t be helped. It’s done. But they must not dismiss you. I’ve already written a letter to Mr. Marsden. I told him if he dismissed you or bothered you in any way I would tell his wife exactly what happened in the weaving room. Now here is the letter addressed to her. If there is any problem you must mail it at once.” Brigid stared at her, mouth open. “At once. You must swear to me you will.” The girl nodded. “And now, I’d like to sit down if I could.”

“Oh, I’m terrible rude.” Brigid stepped aside and let her into the tiny shack. The smell was strong of food and body sweat. It was dark, but Lyddie could see children’s eyes large and staring. “Me mother’s housecleaning today.” Brigid picked up a pile of what looked like rags, but might have been clothing, off a rough stool, and Lyddie sat down gratefully. She was still tired from last night. Tired as she had been after her sickness, her bones aching with it.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Where will you be going? Not far from here, I hope.”

“They didn’t give me a certificate, so I have to go.”

“And it’s all me fault.”

“No, you musn’t blame yourself.”

There was no place else to sit except the beds, so Brigid stood, watching her. In the darkness of the room, the only noise was the rustle of the children shifting, staring.

She had stopped gasping for breath. It was time to leave. “I’ll be going, Brigid. Oh, yes. I nearly forgot.” She handed the girl the parcel containing Brigid’s old primer and Oliver Twist. “So you won’t forget me altogether, ey?” she said, and fled so she wouldn’t have to listen to Brigid’s sobs.

That evening, just at the closing bell, she made her way down the street beyond the boardinghouse row to the trim, frame houses of the overseers of the Concord Corporation. She didn’t know which house was his, but it didn’t matter. He would have to come this way. She stood in the shadow of the first house and waited.

There was no mistaking his walk. Like a little bantam rooster, he came, all alone. Does he have any friends at all? She shoved the thought aside. She mustn’t let anything dilute her anger. “Mr. Marsden?” She stepped out of the shadow and stood in his path.

He stopped, alarmed. They were nearly the same height and she stood close to his face and spoke with deadly quiet, the long brim of her bonnet nearly brushing his cheeks. “Yes, it’s me, Lydia Worthen.”

“Miss Worthen.” He breathed out her name.

“I am mean and I am cheap. Sometimes I am a coward and often times I’m selfish. I ain’t a beauty to look at. But I am not vile, shameful, base, or depraved!”