Chapter One

Marianne

Edinburgh— Thursday 2nd August 1877

T he day began as it always did. I woke with a start, and the first thing I was aware of was the stench. Unmistakable, like nothing else, an acrid mixture of bleach, damp blankets and stale air, mingled with urine and over-boiled cabbage, resonating of fear and dread. There it was as usual, a tang on my tongue and in my nose, making my stomach roil, my breath come fast and shallow.

A cold sweat coated my body, making the thin cotton of my clammy nightshift cling to me. My fingers were like claws, pawing at the bedding, clutching it high up to my neck. And as usual I lay completely still, eyes scrunched shut, ears straining to catch whatever noise it was that woke me. The scratching and scuttling of vermin behind the skirting? Moaning? Howls of pain? Screams of fear and panic? Barked orders demanding silence?

Silence!

I listened intently, struggling to hear over the thudding of my heart, but there was nothing. I forced myself to take a deep breath. Another. Yet another. All the time straining to hear. Still silence reigned.

It happened slowly as it always had since I arrived in Edinburgh, the fog of terror dispersing in my mind, the dawning awareness of my true surroundings. There were sheets on my bed as well as blankets. My pillow was soft, not scratchy with rough straw filling. I eased my glued-shut eyes open to see a watery grey light filtering in through the window, the curtains open to reveal the lack of bars. My heart slowed. My mouth was dry, but the vile taste was gone.

I breathed deeply again, easing the tension in my shoulders, and sat up in bed. My bed. In my own bedroom. I could see the reassuringly familiar outline of the chest of drawers, the stand with my ewer and bowl.

I shivered then, as I always did as the sweat cooled on my skin, and I placed my feet on the floorboards, easing stiffly upright like a woman much older than my thirty-three years, stumbling to the window to push up the sash. Cold air rushed in. There was a light misting of rain, the kind that soaks into your bones without you even noticing. They call it a smir here in Scotland. A soft word for soft rain.

‘Smir...' I murmured under my breath. The word, in my English accent, sounded harsh.

The last echoes of the past that haunted me every morning retreated as I leaned out of the window as they did every morning. The memories would be locked away again until my guard was down, when sleep claimed me again. I had another day of freedom to look forward to, I reminded myself, as I did every day without fail. I would never, ever again take for granted the simple pleasure of opening a window, feeling the elements on my face, sucking in the fresh air. Not that the air in Edinburgh was fresh, not by any means. It's smoke-filled, sulphurous, and I knew the rain would leave smut on my skin if I continued to lean out of the window, but I didn't care.

The Old Town tenement that I called home was at the eastern end of the Grassmarket. The more respectable end, or perhaps the least disreputable would be a more accurate description. There was no trouble at night in the close, my neighbours locked their doors at nightfall, and if I met them during the day, they'd nod politely with their gazes averted. The close itself was clean, the roof in good repair, the rent dearer than the lodgings on the farther side of the square near the meat market and the West Bow, made notorious by Burke and Hare, the infamous resurrectionists. All in all, the Grassmarket was not the type of area you'd expect a woman of my upbringing to inhabit—which was, of course, one of the reasons I chose it.

It was a far cry from the large salubrious town houses of the New Town where I earned my living. My various employers would be appalled if they ever discovered where it was I lay my head at night, but when they asked—rarely, and only ever the wives—I would prevaricate. They never persisted, instinct or experience telling them that such questions were rarely rewarded with anything other than unpalatable answers. I could have told them some unpalatable truths myself, had I chosen. Not about my circumstances, but about their own, the injustices and betrayals which they unwittingly endured. I never volunteer my insights, not any more. I have suffered too much to risk the consequences.

Aware of my mind skittering back to the past, I focused on the view. Across the Grassmarket, rising high above the cobbled square loomed the castle, grey, solid, imposing, perched on a huge crag of volcanic rock. In the shadow of that seemingly impenetrable fortress, the square below me was metamorphosing from night into morning. It was a ritual I loved to watch, for it was full of noise and bustle, a daily affirmation of life in all its various forms.

On the opposite side from my four-storey tenement, the dray carts were rumbling down the steep incline of the Bow, bringing in supplies from the railway and the canal and the docks at Leith for the many taverns and traders whose businesses were in the process of opening up for the day. Wooden casks of ale for the White Hart and the Black Bull, a multitude of goods for the other warehouses and carriers.

That morning there was the distinctive smell of tobacco leaves being delivered to the manufactory. I could smell the roasting beans too, wafting up from the coffee houses, as ever overlaid by the stench coming from the meat market known as the Shambles.

I kept well away from that end of the Grassmarket, even during daylight. The crowded, vermin-infested rooms of the cheap lodging houses down there doubtless continued to harbour other types of vermin, criminals and ne'er-do-wells of all types, but mostly they were home to the poor and displaced, those newest incomers to the city. Vagrants, they were commonly labelled, but they were simply destitute and desperate. They moved on quickly if they could, those people, away from the Grassmarket if not from the Old Town. I preferred to remain here, among the immigrants and refugees, being one of them myself, though I kept myself apart.

On cue, regular as clockwork, the young woman with her plaid shawl over her head appeared from the Cowgate and crossed the square to the Black Bull. I reminded myself that I was fortunate to be able to support myself doing work that I enjoyed, for I have always loved children. I named the woman Flora, for the plaid she wore made me think of Flora MacDonald. I watched her as she, a woman of habit as I had become, entered the tavern.

In my imagined version of her life, she ordered coffee and bread. It was more likely she drank strong spirits to help her sleep after the night she'd spent earning her living up near the castle. That part of the story I invented for her was unfortunately accurate, for I'd spotted her once, making her way there as I returned late from my own employment. She was not morning-tired as she was now, but evening-bright, her plaid draped to reveal the low cut of her gown, her eyes darting about in search of custom. I called her Flora because I would not call her harpy or slut. People, especially women, must do whatever it takes to keep the wolf from the door. It was dangerous work. Brave Flora.

Her arrival at the Black Bull was my signal each morning that it was time to prepare for the day. I shivered as the rain started to fall more heavily, and closed the window. My robe was faded blue wool. I wrapped it round me, pulling the sash tight. I had purchased it second-hand, like all my clothes, and made it good with my mending. I once loathed having to wield my needle, despite the fact that in that vile place there were times when my neat stitching saved me from more arduous tasks in the laundry or the kitchen. But every stitch I set reminded me, back then, that there would be no end to them. I was being stitched into the very fabric of the place.

The darns in my clothes were different. My stitches made the garments mine. The smell of vinegar and carbolic soap and lavender water made these two rooms in the old, creaking tenement mine too. My sanctuary. I was safe here. Every morning, that was the final part of my waking ritual, to remind myself of this.

‘I am safe here,' I told myself firmly.

As time passed, the odds were more and more in my favour that it was true. Three years had passed, after all. But I knew, that morning, as every morning before, as I dressed, as I made myself my cup of breakfast coffee, as I prepared to go out into the cold morning air, to cross from the Old Town to the New Town, I knew that my resolve would falter as night fell. In my bones, in my heart, I didn't believe I would ever be safe. I would always be waiting for that dreaded hand on my shoulder.

I locked my door and descended the close stairs, and made my usual final check of my surroundings, though after three years I wasn't sure who or what I was checking for. Then I set out for my current place of work. Today was another day like every other, I thought. I had no idea how wrong I would prove to be.