the harsh serge of her filthy gown.
“There,” said Mab with satisfaction. “Give ‘em that t’ lay theys shit-eyes on, and I kin kipe a dozen apples.”
Flavia stared at her in astonishment. For several long moments Flavia hesitated, dangling from the silken thread of indecision. Cling to her principles and starve, sicken? Perhaps die and never see Garth or the baby again?
She swallowed. She gave Mab a decisive nod, and the trio trooped up into the winter sunshine. As Flavia’s foot hit the deck, she wavered, squeamish. Suppose we get caught? We’ll be whipped! Oh, the humiliation—
“Come on!” Mab ordered.
Numb with fear, Flavia set her mind to obey. It wouldn’t do to endanger Mab by failing her part. But she felt her face go scarlet. The rush of blood to her head only seemed to enhance her prettiness. On the crowded deck where produce was being hawked, several men turned sharply to gawk at her. Their eyes traveled to her small revealed bosom. And when she bent over, raising her skirt at Mab’s signal, hardly an eye went anywhere but to her shapely stockinged calf.
“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” wailed Sarah Bess.
Flavia gulped and raised her skirt all the way to her knee.
In the ensuing days they ate well. Mab’s repertoire of ruses was large. Potatoes, onions and even cabbages followed hard on the heels of the apples. Flavia was appalled at how little shame she felt wolfing the life- saving food. The small amount of shame that she did retain she banished by sharing with others who were too sick or too penniless to buy.
As for Mab, Mab felt no shame. Obadiah’s holiness had worn off. She was hardened by her rape. Once again she became the London drab who must either live by her wits or cease to live at all.
In a matter-of-fact fashion, she taught Flavia her street craft, offering it as fair exchange for the reading lessons she received from Flavia. Aghast at Mab’s casual attitude toward crime and yet unwilling to hurt her feelings, Flavia listened with fascination. Mab instructed her on everything from how to steal a loudly cackling hen (Thrust it into a thick sack; the hen will think it’s night and will go to sleep) to how to pick a pocket (Choose a fat man; he will get winded chasing you and will soon abandon pursuit).
In turn, Mab devoured all Flavia taught her. Flavia found her quick, intelligent. Mab rarely made the same mistake twice. She could read now, write and do simple sums. For practice, she ciphered on the rolling floor with a piece of chalk she stole. Earnestly, she studied Flavia’s mannerisms and speech. She aped her walk, her carriage. She grilled Flavia about society parties. She stole a piece of parchment, folded it into a fan and spent hours practicing ladylike fan flutters.
Eager to learn lady ways, Mab still dug her heels in and balked at basics.
“Bathe? All over? In the altogether? Jane, it ain’t decent! I’ll jist dab at m’ face with a cloth every week or so.”
Flavia sighed. It was a recurrent argument and one she had no hope of winning.
“Ladies bathe, Mab.”
“But why? What fer? It ain’t healthy.”
“Isn’t healthy.”
Mab blinked.
“That’s what I said, Jane.”
Flavia threw up her hands. She tried again.
“A lady takes care not to smell bad, Mab. A lady never has lice in her hair.”
Mab drew her knees up. She hunched in the bunk, hugging her long legs. She rested chin on knees. She drifted in stubborn thought.
“A few cooties never hurt nobody.”
“Anybody.”
“Yes,” she agreed, brightening. “M’ Uncle Ezra, he took a bath once. Come down with the ague and turned up his toes not a week later.”
Flavia tried a new tack.
“Mab, if you washed your hair and bathed and perfumed yourself, I’m sure you would be quite lovely.”
The young woman sat up, startled. A slow, incredulous smile lighted her face.
“Naw!” she said, then quickly, “Y’ think so, Jane?”
Flavia smiled.
“I know so.”
The Schilaack sailed
“There,” said Mab with satisfaction. “Give ‘em that t’ lay theys shit-eyes on, and I kin kipe a dozen apples.”
Flavia stared at her in astonishment. For several long moments Flavia hesitated, dangling from the silken thread of indecision. Cling to her principles and starve, sicken? Perhaps die and never see Garth or the baby again?
She swallowed. She gave Mab a decisive nod, and the trio trooped up into the winter sunshine. As Flavia’s foot hit the deck, she wavered, squeamish. Suppose we get caught? We’ll be whipped! Oh, the humiliation—
“Come on!” Mab ordered.
Numb with fear, Flavia set her mind to obey. It wouldn’t do to endanger Mab by failing her part. But she felt her face go scarlet. The rush of blood to her head only seemed to enhance her prettiness. On the crowded deck where produce was being hawked, several men turned sharply to gawk at her. Their eyes traveled to her small revealed bosom. And when she bent over, raising her skirt at Mab’s signal, hardly an eye went anywhere but to her shapely stockinged calf.
“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” wailed Sarah Bess.
Flavia gulped and raised her skirt all the way to her knee.
In the ensuing days they ate well. Mab’s repertoire of ruses was large. Potatoes, onions and even cabbages followed hard on the heels of the apples. Flavia was appalled at how little shame she felt wolfing the life- saving food. The small amount of shame that she did retain she banished by sharing with others who were too sick or too penniless to buy.
As for Mab, Mab felt no shame. Obadiah’s holiness had worn off. She was hardened by her rape. Once again she became the London drab who must either live by her wits or cease to live at all.
In a matter-of-fact fashion, she taught Flavia her street craft, offering it as fair exchange for the reading lessons she received from Flavia. Aghast at Mab’s casual attitude toward crime and yet unwilling to hurt her feelings, Flavia listened with fascination. Mab instructed her on everything from how to steal a loudly cackling hen (Thrust it into a thick sack; the hen will think it’s night and will go to sleep) to how to pick a pocket (Choose a fat man; he will get winded chasing you and will soon abandon pursuit).
In turn, Mab devoured all Flavia taught her. Flavia found her quick, intelligent. Mab rarely made the same mistake twice. She could read now, write and do simple sums. For practice, she ciphered on the rolling floor with a piece of chalk she stole. Earnestly, she studied Flavia’s mannerisms and speech. She aped her walk, her carriage. She grilled Flavia about society parties. She stole a piece of parchment, folded it into a fan and spent hours practicing ladylike fan flutters.
Eager to learn lady ways, Mab still dug her heels in and balked at basics.
“Bathe? All over? In the altogether? Jane, it ain’t decent! I’ll jist dab at m’ face with a cloth every week or so.”
Flavia sighed. It was a recurrent argument and one she had no hope of winning.
“Ladies bathe, Mab.”
“But why? What fer? It ain’t healthy.”
“Isn’t healthy.”
Mab blinked.
“That’s what I said, Jane.”
Flavia threw up her hands. She tried again.
“A lady takes care not to smell bad, Mab. A lady never has lice in her hair.”
Mab drew her knees up. She hunched in the bunk, hugging her long legs. She rested chin on knees. She drifted in stubborn thought.
“A few cooties never hurt nobody.”
“Anybody.”
“Yes,” she agreed, brightening. “M’ Uncle Ezra, he took a bath once. Come down with the ague and turned up his toes not a week later.”
Flavia tried a new tack.
“Mab, if you washed your hair and bathed and perfumed yourself, I’m sure you would be quite lovely.”
The young woman sat up, startled. A slow, incredulous smile lighted her face.
“Naw!” she said, then quickly, “Y’ think so, Jane?”
Flavia smiled.
“I know so.”
The Schilaack sailed
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