November 9, 1888:
I guess the correct way to start this account would be to tell you my name, as worthless as it is. I am Mary Kelly, and I am a woman of unfortunate circumstances in the Whitechapel district of London.
I cannot quite explain what has compelled me to take up my pen and write these words; not only to write them, but to spend my last coin on this paper, coin that would be wiser spent on food and a more pleasant smelling doss for the night. I have made it a habit to create embellished stories about my life, an exercise of distraction. I create tales about my past, where I have lived, the makeup and the fate of my family. It helps, I think, to view a part of me as always separate from my life now. It is not really Mary Kelly in her cups with a tired friend after a day scouring Whitechapel for coin, but the Mary Kelly I invented. The dirt and the grime and the shame don't touch me.
But now, I wish for some parts of it to be known. I feel that the real me may be slipping away like old whiskey into the gutter. Soon, I'll just be a dried-out old husk, a stranger even to myself.
I realize that my experiences and life would not be of any interest to any respectable person, but a permeating fear of the future has overtaken me, and I cannot quite stop myself from writing these deeply personal and painful notes. As I write, I feel each jotted memory is moving me closer to death. But that is just the seconds rushing by and, in truth, I am merely sailing on the flood of time with no oar or anchor. But yet I cannot help but feel a petty terror at my own shadow lately.
Perhaps it could be that The Ripper has made a pretty good ruckus here in my streets.
Four women of ill repute have been slain so far, two of whom I knew personally and regarded as fine women, if not genteel, who led kind-hearted but dismal lives. But, then again, is not all life pathetic and futile? We reach. We grasp. And what is left in our hands at the end? A shadow. Or worse than a shadow - misery.
Maybe this is the reason that a silhouette of death has seemed to gather behind me and looms there during all my waking hours. Walking these filthy and fog-filled streets, I cannot rid myself of the feeling of stepping over my own grave.
That is why I felt the need to write these words, though I do not wish them to ever be public knowledge. Society as a whole has eschewed me, and I regard it in the same harsh and perhaps unfair light as it regards me.
When I bought this paper, it was actually with the full intent to write to him.
But I could not bring myself to do it. I could not risk the chance of disrupting his life now. I will not be the one to remind him of the bitter past that he has successfully escaped to become the great man I knew he would be.
Even now as my pen flows, I do not wish to expose him or spread out parts of his life that are privately his. I am torn even now as to how to continue this tale. I will just let my pen decide for me because I cannot bring myself to set it down now.
It was the first week in March, in the year 1875, when my mother and I were sacked from a small dress factory in East London. Being half-blind was apparently not conducive to sewing intricate beads on fine dresses for the London elite.
Our employer, while a practical man, was not bereft of fellow feeling and had sent a recommendation to a small country home that was in need of a maid and housekeeper.
I took the news with a sense of anxiety that was dulled by how accustomed I had grown to my circumstances changing abruptly. It was an unstable life I lived with my mother and had been such ever since we had been evicted by my brothers from our flat in Ireland ten years ago. I was only eight at the time, and I did not understand how my own flesh and blood could be so cruel. Years had not alleviated my confusion, but my mother was characteristically tight-lipped about her estrangement from her sons.
In any case, within the hour we were on a train to the country with directives on how to get to North Yorkshire, to a small estate outside of York. We were assured that there would be a ride for us when we disembarked.
Sitting back in the crowded box car, I observed my mother's lean form as she sat across from me and fidgeted her knee impatiently. I marveled at how much had changed about her over the years. She had been from a middle-class family before I was born. While not entirely privileged, she had a good future ahead of her depending on the path she chose to take.
Of course, true love is not so easily dismissed and far from practical. My father was an Irish laborer who was well beneath my mother's station. But there would be no dissuading her after she had fallen prey to his darkly handsome looks and charming disposition.
He passed away a few years after I was born, and I do not remember him much. Upon our eviction, my mother relocated here in London with her sister, and it has been my home for as long as I can remember. It was also a blessing since we were able to remain in Aunt Irene's flat after she passed on. Finding respectable work was hard but with ethics and a business sense not often found in the fair sex, my mother had succeeded. We were never well-off; in fact, I cannot even imagine what being well-off feels like. But we were healthy, and we had our dignity. I knew how to read and, occasionally, we had music. What more does one really need?
I watched her now as she stared out of the dirty window. The outside scenery was a blur. I wondered if everything my mother saw was like that now, fuzzy and indecipherable. She had told me once that she wished I could see through her eyes.
I looked out at the passing blur of Whitby. The land was near the ports. I could see the ships in the distance, either ready for departure or still being built. The water in the distance glowed in the broad daylight like little pockets of white fire or sparking clusters of diamonds. The water always had a way of making me feel small. I knew there was a much larger world outside the window of Aunt Irene's deserted flat - a world that shone with a dusty radiance through our dirty windows. The world I dreamed of was full of estates and theaters and balls. But the water reminded me of a universe even vaster than that. I thought little of the shops of Paris, the museums of New York, the cathedrals of Italy until I looked out at the water and wondered what the boat deck would feel like under my feet as it sailed away.
"Mary, there are a few things I need you to keep in mind." My mum's strong voice cut through my straying thoughts, "You are to curtsy to all in the household and never refer to them by their Christian name. Use their titles at all times. Do not get too familiar, especially with the men of the house."
"You know me better than that, mother," I argued.
My mum waved away my indignation, "Despite all innocence, Mary, maids are looked at distrustfully from the outset. There are things they have come to expect from the help, and we mustn't live up to that in any respect. It is much easier to dismiss maids than explore the truth behind rumors." I fell quiet at this, and she reached over and patted my hand, "Do not worry, my Mary, I trust your judgment in all things." She paused and then continued softly, "And Mary, I trust that you will tell me of any impertinence towards you."
"Of course." The thought daunted me. Was that common? How was I to know when it was okay to disobey an order? I suppose it would be clear enough, though I admit my experience in that area was limited, thanks to my ever-conscious mother.
After we disembarked from the train, we mounted a rickety cart and asked the driver to take us to our new employment. A petulant and quiet man, whose face reminded me of an emaciated pig, drove us to our destination. He seemed to have been waiting for us. My mother inquired as to whether he was the family's permanent driver or if he were hired specifically to escort us, but she was met with a curt nod that did not answer the question at all. We were silent the rest of the way, and I occupied myself with drawing flowers on the seat next to me with my forefinger and contemplating my mother's advice.
The scenery of Yorkshire was much different than what I was used to. The brown cloud that afflicted London was refreshingly lacking here, and I had never seen so much grass. Whitechapel was all cobblestones and concrete, sullied and mired with things that were better not probed or pondered over. Yorkshire, though, reminded me of the vague memories I had of Ireland.
It was a brief drive from the train station to the manor, perhaps only ten minutes, and when we arrived at the gates, we were met by a lovely woman of about five-and-forty years. Fair hair that looked like it would be unruly if it weren't for the meticulous care that was obviously invested in it, was swept expertly up into a classic and subtly intricate bun. Her dress was subdued but expensive, and as she walked, she lifted her hem to avoid getting the petticoat dirty. She nodded curtly at us, but her eyes crinkled around the corners like tiny seams.
"I know it is not customary for the lady of the house to come out to meet you, but we are bereft of a housekeeper or butler at the moment," she explained succinctly as she reached us. Her voice was feathery but firm; it was a mother's voice.
She extended her hand to me, but I was too disarmed to respond. It was highly unbecoming of me to speak to such a woman as an equal. After gaining some equilibrium, I curtsied, as my mother had advised, and tried not to look as if I were ignoring her outstretched arm. She stared at me for a bit before smirking in the most un-ladylike fashion and curtsying back.
"You must be Martha and Mary Kelly. I'm Violet Holmes."
I took the bags from my mother as we were beckoned to follow up the pathway to a large two-story house that, I have to concede, was not as large and imposing as I had imagined it to be. We traipsed up the porch steps and followed her into the house. The grounds were impressive, more so than the house, in fact, and possessed all the haunting aspects that were so characteristics of the inspirational moors that were in multitude. It was spring and the dew still cleaved to the grass rallying from the blanket of snow and frost that had swathed it a few months prior. The chill in the air was, to my perception, much balmier and bitingly refreshing than the murk in London. The soil of the unpaved driveway was still damp and clung to the sides of my boots as I marched through it, holding my bag high to avoid dirtying it.
Inside the house was large and breezy. High ceilings loomed overhead as I stepped into the foyer. Tall, vertical windows lined each wall; all looking out to the sprawling grounds that surrounded the residence. The windows to the north showed the distant trees magnificently; the view resembled something from an artist's hand more than a place in reality. I felt suddenly off-kilter as if I had stepped into another world.
Adding to this eerie feeling that the house provoked was the strange and bewitching melody that was emanating from somewhere in the quarters, muffled by the walls. It was beguiling to me; somehow taking hold of half my mind as I tried to listen to the woman in front of me and take in my surroundings.
Standing in that vast foyer, listening to the haunting and doleful music wafting towards me, I was a little girl, standing in the rain, being told I had to leave my home. My mother's voice was strained, tear-filled, and her head was tilted to mine, whispering words to me that I did not understand as the rain soaked through my thin dress and pooled on the cobblestone under my small feet.
I was startled out of my reverie by my mum who had taken a light hold of my elbow for support in this new and unfamiliar place. I patted her hand distractedly, trying to trace where the tune was coming from. The notes themselves added to the difficulty; choppy and varying between wild recklessness and calm sadness, they seemed to be besieging me from all different directions.
Mrs. Holmes took me gently by the arm, misconstruing my pleasure for irritation, and patted my shoulder comfortingly, though her keen blue eyes were sharp, dissecting me. "Do not worry; if you ever have short patience with him twiddling on that cursed thing, just tell me, and I'll put a stop to it."
I started to correct her, to tell her that it did not bother me in the least, but bit my tongue. "Who exactly is this 'he' you speak of, Ma'am?"
Her stoic face brightened perceptibly as she responded. "My eldest at home; he's been playing since he was a child. Quite frankly, the only thing that kept him still. Let me show you the kitchen and your quarters."
I leaned into my mother as we followed, whispering in her ear, "They have no other servants. Is that not out of the ordinary?"
My mum pushed back a wayward strand of hair from her forehead and frowned. "The problem with out-of-the-ordinary things is that it is very hard to figure if they are good or bad."
The servants' kitchen was connected to the dining room and was larger than our rooms in London.
"It's a modest size," the lady commented as if reading and contradicting my thoughts, "but we are a small family, and it should suit you just fine."
I glanced around. There was a small wooden table evidently meant for the servants, sufficient counter space for cutting and preparing food, and a clean stove complete with an assortment of pots and pans. An icebox stood near the entryway under a row of wall cabinets.
We were then shown our room, a small area under the stairs with a bed and a washing table. It was adequate for our needs and much cleaner than many other places we had bunkered down in over the years.
She brought us into the hall and ordered us to wait. "I'll introduce you to the children."
I watched her ascend the stairs and tried to calm my heart from racing. I was feeling overwhelmed by our new prospects, and the thought of meeting children that I may be required to watch over sent a wave of, admittedly irrational, panic through me.
My mother pressed a comforting hand against my elbow. "Are you all right, Mary? I heard you gasp. I was worried that you might be having another of your attacks."
I shifted uncomfortably. It bothered me to hear her speak of my occasional spells. I never remember any of it after they had passed; I would simply open my eyes to see my mum's aged and worried face hovering above me. She once told me that I jerked around like a woman possessed. I commanded her never to mention it to anyone.
I frowned at her and then shook my head dismissively, "I was just listening to the music, mum."
"Yes," she murmured, "it was beautiful was it not?"
Mrs. Holmes returned, trailed by two figures. We curtsied as she introduced them.
"This is my son, Sherlock."
When she mentioned children, I had expected exactly that. This was decidedly not a child. He was at least my age, though I guessed him to be a few years older than me. He was exceedingly tall, six feet at least, broad-shouldered but lean in figure. His hair was dark enough to blend into the shadows around him and his facial features were lost to me in the sunlight streaming through the windows. My gaze traveled down his arm, and I noticed that he held a violin, the hue of it rich like blood.
"Oh," I spoke up without thinking, "was that you playing a moment ago?"
I was answered with a brusque nod. I nodded back, face suddenly aflame when I realized I had spoken to him without being addressed first.
Mrs. Holmes allayed my fears and waved in his direction, "You have to excuse him. Proper social behavior is sometimes lost to him."
He cut her a sharp glance but bowed respectfully as my mother and I were introduced.
An elegant hand reached out to me from my side. The young girl now smiled and introduced herself boldly. "My name is Mary-Jane but everyone calls me Jane, which is good now that you are here because we might get confused."
I smiled back and, this time, shook her hand.
"Perhaps Mary could be my lady's-maid," Jane suggested excitedly.
"She is not your lady's-maid," Mrs. Holmes corrected matter-of-factly and did not seem to notice her daughter flush at the reprimand. "We'll find a lady's-maid for you as soon as the master approves-" she broke off as if realizing we were still standing there. I imagined it was a financial matter she was on the precipice of referencing and understood it was not our place to hear any of it.
"Perhaps a list of our expected duties would help ease our transition, ma'am," my mother said boldly after a heavy moment of strained silence, and I struggled to keep my face neutral at what could be perceived as her impertinence.
To her credit, our new employer seemed not to care at all and simply nodded. "Quite right, that would be efficient. I'll have that drawn up by the end of the day."
To my utmost surprise, she came forward and picked up our small bags. "I'll place these on your bed. Perhaps Jane can show you around the yard, as well as the laundry room and storage rooms."
She had stepped into her son's space, forcing him to move back. I glanced upwards at him; the shift had brought his face out of the glow of sunlight, and I could see him clearly. To my embarrassment, he was looking intently at me, as though I were the only arresting thing in this infinitely dull situation. Hair, of the same dark black of my mother's mourning dress, was neatly swept back from a wide brow. He was pale but not in a sickly way. The aspect that caught my attention, however, were the most remarkably sharp, grey eyes I had ever seen. Quite frankly, they were intimidating.
But the most striking thing of all was the detachment I saw on his face. There was no heat - something I was accustomed to in Whitechapel - but also no coldness. There was what I can only describe as merely unemotion. His gaze was unwavering, and I looked away, trying to dispel the feeling that he was peering right through me.
I clasped my hands together in hopes that no one would notice the trembling of my fingers.
When I glanced back, he had quirked a dark eyebrow at me, his face suddenly expressive; I could see a sort of commiserating but amused embarrassment for how uncomfortable I appeared.
Mrs. Holmes was addressing me.
"Miss Kelly?"
"Mary. You can call me Mary," I spluttered, trying to cover over my distraction.
"Very well. Mary. Sundays will be your day off, which will work out well since that is our usual day to go to our weekly religious services." She turned her attention to my mother also, "Today you can settle in and become familiar with the house."
Jane agreed to show us around the grounds, and we were instructed to follow her. The young man lent my mother his arm in the usual gentlemanly fashion as we exited the sitting-room. There was something about the way he guided her though, that made me worry that he was quite aware that he was steering her around things.
When we reached the foyer, he, in a tone that could only be considered ordering, directed his sister to take my mum's arm.
Either the children in this house had been taught very good manners about respect for their elders, or Jane was simply in the habit of obeying everything her brother requested of her, because she automatically took hold of my mum with no question.
He and his violin vanished back down the hall.