Ripper by Amy Carol Reeves Read Free Book Online Page B

not a problem for me.
    â€œHere.” I turned back around toward her and dug in my bag for money.
    â€œDon’t take charity.”
    â€œBut you’ll steal?”
    Her eyes burned in fury. I could see that she was torn between her own pride and her very real need for the money.
    I shrugged and started to put the coins back in my purse.
    â€œAll right! I’ll take them. But I’ll find you, and I’ll pay you back.”
    As she took the money, I noticed the raggedy state of her shawl and the sharp, thin nature of her features. Her accent was Irish, and I wondered how long she had been in the city.
    A young man with a cap ran up to her, caught her elbow. “ There you are, Mary! I got the job at the docks!” He picked her up and swung her around in the air three times. “We aren’t goin’ to starve.”
    He also had an Irish accent. Recent immigrants, I assumed. I wondered how long they had been here. Finding a job was certainly something to celebrate.
    I had finally reached Dr. Bartlett’s carriage. I waved at the driver and he stopped for me. Quickly I stepped into the carriage, so as to not interrupt the happy scene.

    Once inside the carriage, my mind plunged back into thoughts of my mother and the visions. I was hungry and exhausted, but everything in me recoiled from going to Kensington at the moment. It was Monday afternoon, which meant that Violet and Catherine would be at the house for tea and cribbage. I would be expected to visit with them, at least for a little while. Even five minutes seemed like too much.
    But where to go?
    I needed to be alone with my own thoughts for a little while. As the carriage progressed, I knew I had to make a decision. Highgate Cemetery, one of the quietest places in London, instantly came to mind. Without thinking any further, I called out to the driver, telling him I had plans to meet Lady Westfield in the Highgate area that afternoon. I felt relief when he asked no questions.
    I entered the open front gates of the west part of the cemetery. The place was heavily shrouded in trees, encircled by a wrought-iron fence and thick shrubbery. The busy noise of the streets disappeared as I stepped inside.
    I began wandering along the first path in front of me and observed the haunting, quirky beauty of the cemetery. I stood within a plethora of chalky, looming, unusually shaped tombstones. Gingerly, I touched a giant grave marker shaped like a lion before I spotted another one shaped like a dog. I had seen the place once before, immediately after arriving in the city with Grandmother. Even then, I had felt an immediate attraction to Highgate Cemetery; it had a strange aura about it, as if it channeled the cryptic, the unbidden.
    I took side paths that meandered haphazardly, and, as I pushed away branches and brambles, I only vaguely worried about becoming lost. I saw and heard no one. After so much time in the city, where even the parks seemed crowded, I embraced the solitude.
    Mother had mentioned Highgate Cemetery a few times. The tomb architecture had intrigued her, and she had shown me some of her sketches of the place. I felt her haunt me now, felt deeply the void she had left for me. I knew I was enough like Mother that I could not calmly accept the path in life that Grandmother would have for me: the upcoming dinner party, the person she wanted me to meet. I saw my life before me, flimsy and uncertain as a house of cards, and I knew that it was up to me to fight for what I wanted for my future. Mother had been an artist. I was not inclined in that direction, but I knew that I needed responsibilities and activities that stretched beyond running a household. I had only worked at Whitechapel Hospital for two days, but I felt excited about the challenges there and wondered about the possibility of working in a hospital for my vocation.
    Many of the side paths I took led to isolated clusters of graves, lone family plots, or single mausoleums.