CHAPTER ONE

London, 1832

If Vivian had known that the apple would be the cause of the ruination of her life, she never would have stolen it. But desperation held a higher note in her mind that day, and the circumstances seemed perfect. The crowd was thick, so thick indeed that she felt as if she would lose herself if she did not keep constant vigil of her body.

The stall was only a foot away; she could touch the fruit if she reached through the wall of sweaty bodies that blocked the way. And she did just that. Her hand closed around the apple and snatched it away. The angry shout barely registered while she stuck her treasure into the pocket of her soiled apron. But soon there was the angry stallholder, gaining towards her through the crowd and all she could do at that moment was spin away and hurl herself against the people in order to clear a path.

She slipped twice on rotten fruit and vegetable that littered the ground, yet every time she would have fell she was shoved away. Vivian continued to run as fast as the throng permitted, but it was all in vain. Not far behind, the stallholder yelled: “Stop her! Stop the wench! Thief!”

A few paces in front of her, she could make out the road. At that moment, however, a pair of hands seized her by the shoulders and twisted her around. Like an animal, she was held by the collar of her blouse at the back of her neck as the man summoned the police in a very loud and triumphant way.

There were no windows in the cell, only the stone walls and iron bars. The straw mixed with dirt she sat on was rotten and smelled of something vile that she did not dare comprehend. She wore no shoes, only dirty stockings with numerous holes through them. It was these holes she studied as she sat down with her legs stretched out before her, skirt hitched to her knees.

A man walked past her cell and stopped when he saw her. His face was cruel and distorted with the shadows, the flickering of oil lamps looked like the fires of hell burning in his eyes. Vivian promptly got to her feet, brushing her dark hair over her shoulder. She grasped the bars and stuck her face between them, scowling. “Let me out of here, you.”

“Afraid I can’t do that.” He replied in mock disappointment. “Thieves get what’s coming to them.”

Vivian slammed her hand into one of the bars as if to knock it over, then reached through and grabbed the collar of the man’s shirt. The man threw his head back to get away and pushed sideways at her arm as if to break it against the bar. Vivian screamed in rage and stumbled back, nursing her arm.

The man pointed his finger at her in anger, jesting no more. “You keep those dirty paws to yourself, you hear me?”

Vivian picked up a handful of straw and muck and threw it at him. “I ain’t a thief!” she hollered.

“You stole from one of the stalls at the market,” the man said, brushing his shoulder from the dirt. “You’re a blight upon this society – scum like you – all of them – should be wiped out!”

Making a noise in her throat, Vivian spat at him.

The man looked livid. “You’ll pay for that whore, you mark my words.” And with that he left.

And she did pay. Only fifteen minutes later she was hauled out of her cell and taken to a bare cellar where she was stripped of her blouse and shackled to the cold wall, facing it. With her breasts pressing painfully against the hardness, she struggled and writhed. A shrill scream escaped her mouth as she felt stinging pain of a whip against the flesh on her back. It cracked again, and again, and she winced each time – but after a while such was the pain that it numbed her, and she stood there, gritting her teeth and bearing it all. The shackles chafed her wrists and ankles each time her body jolted.

The walk back to her cell was just as unbearable, for her feet were reluctant to move and the warden pushed at her scarred back every time she slowed down. She could feel the stickiness, the material of her blouse plastered to her flesh. “Dear Lord, please forgive me for - ”

“Shuuut uuup…” The warden drawled as he shoved her into her cell and locked the door.

Alone again, Vivian painfully lowered herself to the ground, sobbed once, and then sighed. She wondered about Marty, her younger brother. What would he do after he realized that his sister wasn’t to return? Would he come searching for her? Vivian swallowed the lump in her throat and prayed that he would find a way to survive without her.

Caroline watched as her husband signed the house away to the buyer, the quill shaking in his hand. She was tight-lipped, expressionless, but inside she could not quell the flaring anger at Steven. Everything they had worked for, gone, all the lovely furniture, the manor, the carriages and the horses. Even the bloodhounds! Her teeth ground together and she narrowed her eyes.

“If that is all, Mr. Denis …”

Steven nodded reluctantly but Caroline did not stay any longer to watch. She whirled around and stormed out of the drawing room and outside onto the porch where she raked her eyes over the distant woods and the green fields. It hurt her to the very core, knowing that none of it was theirs anymore.

Later that night (their last in the house) at dinner, Caroline picked at her food, pushing it around the plate. Steven sat on the opposite side, reading a newspaper and sipping on a glass of brandy. He had eaten his food recently but remained at the table since his wife would get displeased at his lack of etiquette if he left before she, or anyone else for that matter, was finished eating.

“Denis, I pray you have thought this decision out carefully,” she said quietly, coldly. “After all, it is still a strange land. We shall know no one, we shall be all alone.”

“Don’t fret, it’s a new beginning, that’s all. A new chance to start afresh.” Steven barely looked up from the article he was reading.

Caroline looked skeptical. “In that case, I also pray that they do not have any gambling houses.”

Her husband gave her a bitter look this time. “Caroline, that’s enough. What’s done is done. It may even be a blessing in disguise.”

She flared up again, taking a quick breath through her nose. “O, indeed! Forgive me if I do not think that gambling away our entire lives is a blessing! Our reputation is ruined! Everything is ruined, Steven, we have to flee our home! How is that a blessing, pray?”

“Enough, Caroline.”

She shot out of her seat, threw her napkin onto the table and stormed out of the dining room as fast as her wide hoops would permit her. To Caroline, their exile to that Godforsaken Southern landmass seemed more like a death sentence than a blessing in disguise.

In their bedchamber, Caroline pulled out a piece of parchment from a drawer, sat on an upholstered chair and dipped the quill into the inkwell. She hesitated for a brief moment and then set about writing a letter:

Dearest Christina

You must forgive my rushed words, for I am deeply upset over what has transpired between Steven and I. My husband is all the more insistent on moving to this country called New Holland, and I am afraid that I am powerless to change his mind. I admit that I shall no longer be able to mingle in London’s society as a consequence of my husband’s large gambling dept and adultery, yet moving away from all that I have grown accustomed to is even harder for me to deal with.

I shall never again see this house and this land, nor the streets I used to walk every day. And you, my dear sister, how can I leave you and my lovely niece? Nevertheless, I want you all to know that you have my deepest affection, you and Richard and little Amy. Tell Mother I am sorry for not writing her, as I am deeply ashamed of my current situation.

Affectionately yours,

Caroline Anne Denis

Something vaguely resembling a lump of brown bread was thrown into Vivian’s cell. She scurried over to it on all fours, starved, for they had not even let her keep the apple she had stolen. She bit into it ravenously, her gums hurting from the pressure; the lump was extremely hard. It made a slow and painful path down her throat and she closed her eyes meanwhile before taking another bite. She ate thus in the darkness, rarely pausing for breath. When the food was gone, Vivian remained crouched on the ground. She felt something cold crawling up her leg and she recoiled in fright, letting out a sudden gasp. Moving back to the corner she had come from, Vivian closed her eyes and leaned her head against the wall, every now and then scratching her scalp.

After a while, to her horror, her bladder grew uncomfortable and she realized that she had to urinate. But where? In the corner? Vivian tried to think of something else, but half an hour later the discomfort turned into a pain. Grudgingly, she shuffled to the opposite corner, slipped down her stockings and squatted. Finally relieved, she scooted back, closing her eyes again. Her scalp itched, like tiny little animals crawling around up there.

Vivian began to hum a random tune, rocking back and forth. She dug her fingers into her hair and scratched, as if tying to rip her scalp to shreds. She still hummed, the darkness cloying, the smell of the place and of her sweat sickening, her own urine only feet away. How many days had she been in there? Two? Three? She decided to keep a tally as of tomorrow.

Finally her eyes drooped of their own accord and she slipped in and out of sleep, dark dreams coming and going. It was the voices that woke her up again; two men standing right outside her cell.

“She’s just a common thief.”

“Something this city needs less of. They’ve been doing this for decades you know, trying to rid London of its refuse.”

“You say they’ll take her just on the grounds of her being a woman?”

“I’m very sure they will. They can ship her off in a couple of days, her and ten others. England’s prisons are too full as it is.”

There was the sound of keys jingling, a wooden drawer opening and closing. The men walked away again, still mumbling between themselves. The wails and angry shouts of other inmates was all that remained. Vivian hugged her knees to herself and began to hum again, one question being repeated in her head: Where are they taking me?