Sometimes Evangeline looked down at her hands and thought: these same fingers plucked flowers and arranged them in a vase. Drew Latin letters in chalk on a piece of slate. Traced Cecil’s face from his forehead to his Adam’s apple. Hovered over her father’s still features and closed his eyes for the last time. And now look at them—dirty, grasping, defiled.

Never again would she describe something as unbearable. Almost anything, she now knew, could be borne. Small white vermin infested her hair, lingering sores developed from small scrapes, a cough burrowed into her chest. She was exhausted and sick to her stomach much of the time, but she wasn’t dying. In this place that meant she was doing all right.

Newgate Prison, London, 1840

In the eternal gloom of the cell it was hard to tell how much time had passed, or even what time of day it was. Outside the small grated window, though, and in the shadow of the spiked wall of the exercise yard, the light from the sun grew warmer and lingered longer. Evangeline’s morning sickness subsided and her belly began to swell. Her breasts, too, grew larger and more tender to the touch. She tried not to think too much about the child she carried inside her—visual proof of her degradation, a mark of sin as unambiguous as the Devil’s red claw tracks on flesh.

Some time after breakfast one temperate morning, the gate at the end of the hall clanged open and a guard shouted, “Quakers here. Make yourselves presentable.”

Evangeline looked around for Olive and, seeing her a few feet away, caught her eye. Olive pointed toward the cell door: Get there.

Three women in long gray cloaks and white bonnets materialized in front of the cell, each carrying a large sack. The one in the middle, wearing a plain black dress with a white shawl under her cloak, stood taller and straighter than the other two. Her eyes were a milky blue, her skin unrouged, her gray hair parted neatly under her bonnet. She smiled at the women inside with an air of benign self-possession. “Hello, friends,” she said in a quiet voice.

Remarkably, except for a fussing baby, the cell had gone silent.

“I am Mrs. Fry. The ladies accompanying me today are Mrs. Warren”—she nodded to her left—“and Mrs. Fitzpatrick. We are here on behalf of the Society for the Reformation of Female Prisoners.”

Evangeline leaned forward, straining to hear.

“Each of you is worthy of redemption. You need not always be stained by your sins. You may choose to live your lives from this day forward with dignity and honor.” Reaching through the iron grate with two fingers, Mrs. Fry touched the arm of a young girl staring at her wide-eyed. “What doest thou need?”

The girl shrank back, unaccustomed to being spoken to directly.

“Would you like a new dress?”

The girl nodded.

“Is there any poor soul here this day,” asked Mrs. Fry, tilting her chin toward the larger group, “who wants to be saved from sin, so that you may be saved from woe, saved from misery? Friends, hold fast your hope. Remember the words of Christ: ‘Open the door of thy heart, and I will overcome that by which thou hast been overcome.’ If thou dost trust in the Lord, all will be forgiven.”

When she finished speaking, a guard unlocked the door and the prisoners jostled to make room. Entering the cell, the Quakers handed out oat biscuits from a cotton sack. Evangeline took one and bit into it. Though hard and dry, it tasted better than anything she’d eaten in weeks.

With the help of the guards, Mrs. Fry identified the new prisoners and gave each one a parcel tied with twine. Pressing a bundle into Evangeline’s arms, she asked, “How long have you been here?”

Evangeline half curtsied. “Nearly three months, ma’am.”

Mrs. Fry cocked her head. “You are—educated. And from . . . the South?”

“Tunbridge Wells. My father was a vicar there.”

“I see. So . . . have you been sentenced to transport?”

“Yes.”

“Seven years?”

Evangeline winced. “Fourteen.”

Mrs. Fry nodded, seemingly unsurprised. “Well. You appear healthy. The journey is about four months—it’s not easy, but most survive. You’ll arrive at the end of the summer, which is the end of their winter. Much preferable to the reverse.” She pursed her lips. “In all honesty, I am not convinced that transport is the answer. There are too many opportunities for abuse—too many ways, I believe, for the system to corrupt. But it is the system we have, and as such . . .” She looked at Evangeline intently. “Let me ask you something. Would your father have approved of”—she gestured vaguely toward Evangeline’s belly—“this?”

Evangeline flushed.

“Perhaps it reveals a certain lack of . . . judgment. You allowed yourself to be taken advantage of. I urge you to be careful. And alert. Men don’t have to live with the consequences of their actions. You do.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

When Mrs. Fry and her helpers turned their backs to hand out more parcels, Evangeline rifled through hers, pulling out and inspecting the items: a plain white cap, a green cotton dress, a burlap apron to wear over the dress. After the parcels were distributed, the Quakers came around to help the prisoners into their new clothes.

Mrs. Warren unbuttoned the back of Evangeline’s soiled dress and helped her extract each arm from its sleeve. Evangeline was acutely aware of the stink under her arms, the sour tang in her mouth, her sludgy hem. Mrs. Warren smelled like . . . nothing; like skin. But if she was repulsed, she gave no hint of it.

Once the prisoners were clothed, Mrs. Fry asked if any of them were interested in needlework or quilting or knitting stockings. Evangeline raised her hand. Though she had little interest in stitchery, a break from the cell would be nice, and she missed being productive. Three dozen prisoners were divided into groups and led across the open courtyard to a large, drafty room filled with tables and rough benches, with tiny open windows cut high in the wall facing the courtyard. Evangeline’s group was assigned knitting, which she’d never learned to do. Mrs. Warren settled on the bench beside her, gently guiding the long wooden needles in her hand through the coarse wool. Feeling this woman’s soft, warm hands on hers, the touch of a person who was neither scornful nor contemptuous . . . Evangeline blinked back tears.

“Oh, my dear. Let me find a handkerchief,” Mrs. Warren said, rising from the bench.

As Evangeline watched her cross the room, she ran her fingers down the slight bump of her midsection and over to her hipbone, tracing the faint outline of Cecil’s handkerchief under her new green dress. After a moment she felt a flutter, like a tiny fish swimming at the bottom of her stomach.

It must be the baby. She felt suddenly protective of it and absentmindedly cradled her lower belly, as if holding the child itself.

This child would be birthed in captivity, in disgrace and uncertainty; it faced a future of strife and toil. But what had at first seemed like a cruel joke now felt like a reason to live. She was responsible not only for herself, but for another human being. How fiercely she hoped it would have a chance to overcome its unhappy beginnings.

The rattle and click of locks at the end of the long, dark hallway. The glow of lanterns splashing across stone. The clanking cart filled with chains and irons. The harsh voices of jailors: “Let’s go now! Make it quick!”

“It’s time,” Olive said, poking Evangeline’s shoulder. “They’ve come for us.”

In front of the cell door stood three guards. One held a piece of parchment; another raised a lantern above it. The third ran his stick back and forth across the iron grate. “You lot listen up,” he said. “If I call your name, step forward.” He squinted at the paper. “Ann Darter!”

A rustle, a murmuring, and then the girl whose baby died crept to the front. It was the first time Evangeline had heard her name. “It’ll be a miracle if that one makes it,” Olive muttered.

“Maura Frindle!”

A woman Evangeline didn’t know crept out of the shadows.

“Olive Rivers.”

“I’m ’ere, hold your horses,” she said, her hands on the grate.

The guard with the stick ran it across the grate again, rat-tat-tat-tat, forcing Olive to let go. “Last one. Evangeline Stokes.”

Evangeline smoothed a strand of hair behind her ear. She ran a hand under her belly and stepped up.

The guard with the lantern held it up to get a better look. “This one’s a jammy bit o’ jam.”

“She don’t like fellas,” Olive said. “Too bad fer ye.”

“She liked some kind of fella,” the lantern holder said, to general laughter.

“And look where it got her,” Olive said.

With one guard in front and two behind, the prisoners trooped across the courtyard, up another set of stairs, and down the wide corridor with its hissing oil lamps to the matron’s quarters. The matron, sitting behind her oak desk, appeared in no better mood than she’d been on the night Evangeline arrived. When she saw Evangeline she frowned. “You’re too thin,” she said accusingly, as if Evangeline had capriciously decided to lose weight. “Would be a pity to lose the child.”

“Prolly be better off,” a guard said.