She had stopped gasping for breath. It was time to leave. “I’ll be going, Brigid. Oh, yes. I nearly forgot.” She handed the girl the parcel containing Brigid’s old primer and Oliver Twist. “So you won’t forget me altogether, ey?” she said, and fled so she wouldn’t have to listen to Brigid’s sobs.

That evening, just at the closing bell, she made her way down the street beyond the boardinghouse row to the trim, frame houses of the overseers of the Concord Corporation. She didn’t know which house was his, but it didn’t matter. He would have to come this way. She stood in the shadow of the first house and waited.

There was no mistaking his walk. Like a little bantam rooster, he came, all alone. Does he have any friends at all? She shoved the thought aside. She mustn’t let anything dilute her anger. “Mr. Marsden?” She stepped out of the shadow and stood in his path.

He stopped, alarmed. They were nearly the same height and she stood close to his face and spoke with deadly quiet, the long brim of her bonnet nearly brushing his cheeks. “Yes, it’s me, Lydia Worthen.”

“Miss Worthen.” He breathed out her name.

“I am mean and I am cheap. Sometimes I am a coward and often times I’m selfish. I ain’t a beauty to look at. But I am not vile, shameful, base, or depraved!”

“Wha-at?”

“You accused me of moral turpitude, Mr. Marsden. I am here to say I am not guilty.”

He stepped backward with a little puff of a gasp.

“I have here a letter I wrote. I will tell you what it says. It says if you cause Brigid MacBride to lose her position I will see that your wife is informed about what really happens in the weaving room after hours.”

“My wife?” he whispered.

“Mrs. Overseer Marsden. I figure she ought to know if there is moral turpitude occurring in her husband’s weaving room.” She jammed the letter in the overseer’s hand and closed his reluctant fist around it. “Good night, Mr. Marsden. I hope you sleep easy—before you die.”

*  *  *

She took a stage to Boston. Hardly anyone did these days. The train was so much faster. But she had nowhere to go in such a hurry, and the ride gave her time to compose herself. Boston was a terrible place, older and even dirtier and more crowded than Lowell. The streets were narrow and Lyddie stepped gingerly around the refuse and animal droppings, lifting her skirt with one hand and trying to balance her new trunk under the other arm. She should have found a safe place to leave it, but how did one do that in an unknown city?