The Ripper's Wife

Prologue

Mary Ann tugged her new, only slightly worn, black bonnet over her mousy brown hair. She felt nicer with it on - like one of the higher-bred London ladies that she'd taken it from. Whoever its previous owner was had tossed it in the trash, apparently due to the string that had begun to fray and a few unraveling threads. Their loss was her gain.

Straightening her back, which ached from the long hours she put in at the workhouse, Mary Ann entered the Thrawl Street Inn through the heavy wooden door.

The innkeeper looked up from his newspaper, peering at her over his spectacles. "No room." he said shortly, his pudgy face lit only by a few candles flickering in the evening dimness.

"But...it says 'Vacancies' on the door." Mary Ann protested, noticing she had trudged mud into the inn with her entrance.

"No room for your kind." the man clarified, laying the paper down. "No dollymops, dippers, or sharps in 'ere. Owner's policy." His eyes took in the middle-aged woman's appearance, and she felt ashamed of her scummy rags and knotted hair. His words were sharp as he spat the London slang words for prostitutes, pickpockets, and card swindlers.

"But I ain't got nowhere else to -"

"This is a respectable place." the innkeeper interrupted. "Not one of your brothels."

"I never was gonna use it for that," Mary Ann said quickly, pulling at her bonnet strings nervously. "I just need a place to stay. 'onest."

The innkeeper looked up at the clock that ticked above his head, noting the late hour. Outside, cold London rain pelted against the window. His face softened somewhat. "Alright." he sighed. "'tis fourpence a bed."

Mary Ann's face tightened as she dug in her worn purse. She pulled out two coins - the only two coins inside - and her heart sank.

"All I 'ave is two 'alfpennies." she said nervously, regretting having spent so much at the pub."But I can earn more tomorrow and pay you back." She added the last part quickly as she saw the innkeeper's expression harden again.

The innkeeper's lips pressed together firmly in annoyance. "I'm sorry ma'am." he said, rolling up his newspaper in preparation to head up to his own room. "But the fee is nonnegotiable and required up front. You have to go."

"Please!" Mary Ann begged, twisting her fingers desperately. "I can't never go back to the workhouse. Me 'ands are bleedin' from all the washin' and mendin' they got me doing."

She held out her palms, rubbed raw from the harsh soap the women used in the workhouse laundry, pricked and bruised blue from textile machinery and sewing needles.

The innkeeper's gaze didn't linger - he'd seen far more pitiful members of London's inner city in his years operating an inn in the slums of Whitechapel. "Go back to the poorhouse." he said firmly. "Eat some of their gruel and rest until the mornin'. It may be hard work there, but 'tis honest work." His hard gaze landed on her again. "More honest than what you're doing now, I say."

Mary Ann wilted away from his judgmental glare, her cheeks burning with shame. Turning to the streets for a living had been her way of surviving after her lackluster marriage had fallen apart and left her alone and penniless.

"Just one night, sir."

Her plea fell on deaf ears. The innkeeper shook his head, pinching out the candles that lit up the room. "I'll have to ask you to leave."

Mary Ann bit out a sharp curse entirely inappropriate for a lady to say, and stomped her booted foot. "Fine!" she hissed, fueled by the watery pints of ale she'd consumed prior at the Spitalfield pub. "Fine. I don't need to stay in this dank old inn anyways. I thought to me self that this place looked like a right 'ole in the ground. Turns out I was right!"