Elizabeth Stride's Arc

Chapter 5 of 5

Elizabeth counted the coins in her small wooden box for the third time that morning. Seventeen shillings and fourpence. Just three months ago, she'd had only eight. The matches had sold well, and she'd added flower selling on Sundays when the theaters let out. She tucked the box under her arm and walked toward the bank on Commercial Street. The building stood three stories tall with columns at the entrance. Outside, a massive iron vault door leaned against the brick wall, displayed like a prize. The metal gleamed even in the gray morning light. Heavy bolts ran across its face, and the maker's mark showed in raised letters. Elizabeth stopped to study it. This was where wealthy merchants kept their money safe. Where shopkeepers deposited their weekly earnings. Where property owners stored deeds and rent payments. She pressed her hand against the cold metal. One day soon, she'd walk through those doors with her own savings to lock away. Inside, the teller counted out her coins and wrote the amount in his ledger. Seventeen shillings and fourpence, now recorded in ink. He gave her a small paper receipt with the bank's stamp. Elizabeth folded it carefully and slipped it into her pocket. The wooden box felt light and empty in her hands, but the receipt meant more than loose coins ever could. Her money sat behind locked doors now, growing instead of disappearing to rent or food. She'd open an account, just like the merchants did. Just like respectable business owners did. On her way back through Spitalfields, she passed a flower seller's stall. Baskets overflowed with fresh blooms, bright colors arranged to catch the eye. The woman behind the counter smiled at customers and wrapped bouquets in brown paper. Elizabeth watched how quickly the coins changed hands. Theater crowds paid well for flowers, especially on Saturday nights. She touched the receipt in her pocket and made a plan. Next week she'd buy her own basket and fill it with the best blooms she could find. The bank account was started. The path to twenty pounds was real now, marked in ink and locked behind iron doors.