Page 148 of If Looks Could Kill
Pearl nods. “Right.”
“Apparently, she came ashore while his ship was in port here,” Tabitha says. “Though why he came from France is a mystery to me.”
Pearl sinks back into her pillow. “Now it fits.”
Tabitha shakes her head. “I’m glad you think so.” As a postscript, she adds, “She says she has a friend here in the city to stay with.” She pauses.“Or to meet. I wasn’t sure. A new friend, I think she said. Anyway, the point is, she’s not going back.”
Pearl takes this in. “Good luck to her. I hope she’s safe.”
“You should hope her new friend is,” Tabitha mutters darkly. Pearl smiles.
Tabitha notices Pearl shivering and tracks down a nurse to request another blanket. After she’s tucked Pearl in more snugly, she lies down on the bed beside her. This leaves Pearl fairly pinned under a straitjacket of blankets, but the effect is warm and cozy.
“Oscar told me, last night,” Tabitha says in a low voice, “what you did, once you saw me. Even though you were bleeding so badly.” Her voice chokes with emotion. “You should’ve gone to the hospital. You could’ve died. Why did you do that to yourself?”
Pearl shakes her head slowly. “That was easy,” she says. “I was dead already.”
“No, you weren’t,” Tabitha protests. “Your life wasn’t worth—”
“It was to me.”
Tabitha hunts for a handkerchief and wipes her eyes.
Pearl’s unfocused gaze peers through the wall to some distant point beyond.
They lie there for a while, heads tucked close together.
“Did we get her, Tabitha?” Pearl asks the silence. “Did we get Mother Rosie?”
Tabitha sighs. “She was arrested by cops who don’t know her like they do in the Bowery. But her money and connections will probably spring her out soon.”
Pearl frowns. “How did we manage to get her arrested?” She presses a hand to her temple. “I don’t remember much after—”
“Oscar went for the police, and Mike stayed behind, with Rosie’s gun, until they came.” Tabitha smiles. “To pop anyone in the nose who woke up.”
“Rosie too?” Pearl asks.
“We can only hope.” Tabitha laughs.
Pearl feels sleepiness steal over her. It feels as though sleep might be all she’ll ever do. The room settles into a peaceful quiet, which, naturally, presents Tabitha with an almost-unbearable temptation.
“Pearl,” she whispers, “what about Jack?”
Pearl squints away the interruption. “Hmm? Who?”
“Jack,” repeats Tabitha. “The Ripper. Dr. Francis Whatever-His-Name.”
Pearl takes a long, slow breath, then another.
The clock ticks.
“Pearl?” Tabitha breathes.
Pearl burrows down deeper under her covers and murmurs her reply.
“He got away.”
The Bowery, Lower East Side, ManhattanThe French Girl(Tuesday, December 4, 1888)
