19th Century Seamstress

Eloise knew, without a doubt, that she was already dead. The last thing she remembered clearly was sitting on a bus headed to a popular scenic spot. Her company had organized a trip, and as the top-selling designer in the clothing division, she’d been invited early on. She was laughing with the marketing director, relishing the ease that success brings and trading playful banter with him. Then, out of nowhere, the bus suddenly swerved and flipped, rolling down into a lake. In that final second of consciousness, she reached out, struggling to grab the emergency hammer to shatter a window and escape, but the freezing water closed in around her. And now here she was, in a dim, icy room devoid of any light. Eloise could feel herself lying on the lower bunk of a narrow metal bed, barely covered by a thin cotton blanket. The cold was bone-deep, and she could hear the slow, steady breaths of strangers on the other bunks around her. The air reeked faintly of sourness mixed with the smells of unwashed hair, flour, and the ash of burned coal—scents she recognized only because of the strange designer perfumes she’d once used in her past life. It seemed like something straight out of a movie. Had her soul somehow transferred into a stranger’s body after death? She raised a hand and felt an inch of curly hair near her temple—when she clearly remembered having short, straight hair. She dared not move, letting memories unfamiliar to her wash over her mind in a steady stream. Eloise. Eloise Zannilon. That was her name now. She’d been born in Ireland in the 1870s and, as a child, had emigrated with her parents by ship to New York. Both her parents had been poor laborers, earning their keep as oyster diggers, and she had a thirteen-year-old brother named Thomas. In this life, Eloise had just turned sixteen. Two years ago, a fierce storm had taken her parents’ lives while they were at sea. With nowhere else to turn, she and her brother had been taken in by their widowed aunt in New York. She’d just celebrated her birthday, and though she was frail, she’d had no serious ailments, or so it seemed. Then why had her body become the vessel for a drowned soul like herself? Confused, Eloise scratched her head and lay back down, hoping against hope that this was only a dream. She searched her mind for memories of the name “Eloise,” and something stirred. It felt familiar, like a character she’d come across once while casually scrolling online in her former life—a foreign novel, set in late 19th-century New York. She vaguely recalled the plot now: a romance in which one of the supporting characters was named Eloise. In the book, Eloise also lived with her aunt and her younger brother—an uncanny match. Had she somehow become part of a book? She strained her memory, recalling what little she knew of the story. In it, the impoverished Eloise worked alongside her aunt and cousin at the famous Ritz Hotel on Fifth Avenue. She was beautiful and hoped to escape her poverty by attracting the favor of wealthy gentlemen. However, she eventually met a con man, was deceived, and fell into ruin, reduced to performing in risqué plays just to survive. A mere background character in someone else’s story, Eloise was an impoverished, pitiable, and forgotten figure—nothing but a minor character in the heroine’s world. Eloise couldn’t fathom why fate had cast her into this role. Was she here to rewrite the original Eloise’s tragic story? With a resigned sigh, she lay still, unable to fully accept her situation. As someone who had also come from humble beginnings, she could relate to the hardships. Her own parents had divorced early on, each quickly remarrying and sparing her little time or money. She had funded her own college education with loans, working her way from a small mountain town to a top-tier city, eventually studying abroad and landing a job in fashion. She’d even managed to earn a six-figure salary, enough to recently take out a mortgage on an expensive city-center apartment. But here she was, the achievement of a lifetime now a distant memory. Her heart felt colder than ever. Eloise… Elys. The names even sounded similar, as if some cruel twist of fate had connected them. So be it, she thought. If she was meant to be Eloise, then she would live as Eloise. Exhaustion overwhelmed her frail body, and she fell into a deep sleep. Around 6:15 the next morning, faint rays of light glinted off the frost-covered streets of 33rd, filtering through the windows of the small third-floor apartment on the left side of building No. 43. Mrs. Tully, as always, was the first to rise. She climbed down from the bunk, pulled on a thin woolen jacket she’d bought second-hand, mended in several places and still a poor fit, giving her a lean, worn appearance. Shuffling over to the coal stove, she added a scant handful of coal, striking a match to light it. Last night’s fire had died out within a couple of hours, leaving the room unbearably cold by morning. They were running low on flour and nearly out of coal. At least today was payday, and her boss Mr. Pengol had promised to give her a five-cent raise. A faint bubbling sound of potatoes boiling on the stove roused Eloise. She rubbed her bleary eyes, catching sight of her cousin Louise climbing down from the upper bunk. At eighteen, Louise was in full bloom, her ash-blond hair cascading around her shoulders. She wore a simple cotton shirt and petticoat, her look meeting Eloise’s blank stare. “Time to get up, Eloise,” Louise murmured, stifling a yawn. “Alright,” Eloise mumbled, fumbling with her English as she pulled the thin blanket aside. She reached for a worn cotton-linen dress. Dressing meant layering several pieces of outdated, dark-hued clothing. Eloise slipped on two petticoats, an old puff-sleeved dress, and a threadbare wool vest with double buttons. Even with three or four layers, the flimsy fabrics did little to keep out the cold. The tiny room held two sets of double-decker bunks; her brother Thomas slept above her aunt, and Eloise herself slept beside her aunt’s youngest daughter, Bella. Just under 200 square feet, the room was packed tight with barely space for a coal stove, a table, and not a single chair. Eloise glanced around, taking in the worn shoes near the door, the peeling wallpaper, and the drafty, cracked windows. The others were up and getting dressed in silence, and Eloise tried not to stand out, pulling her gaze back. A few minutes later, Louise set a tin kettle on the stove, filling it halfway with water, and tossed in a bar of fragrant soap she’d picked up from a guest at the hotel. It foamed richly, filling the air with the sharp tang of citrus. Louise turned to her, “Come wash your face, El. This soap cost a fortune; at least a few dimes at the store.” Eloise nodded, smiling as she approached the basin. The others were nearly ready. Thomas, huddled near the door, wore a determined expression as he laced his worn shoes. Thirteen years old but with the spirit of someone much older, he had a job delivering newspapers, often taking Bella along to help. "Make sure you eat enough, Thomas," Mrs. Tully called, adjusting Bella’s braids. “You’ve got to cross two districts today, right?” “Yes, Auntie,” he answered with his Irish brogue. Despite his age, he’d learned responsibility early, feeding himself after his parents’ death. After a hurried breakfast, Mrs. Tully and Louise locked the apartment door, and Eloise trudged after them into the snow toward Fifth Avenue. In her old life, Eloise had only glimpsed memories of this New York, and now, seeing the grand, bustling storefronts—fabric shops, butcheries, candy stores—she felt the thrill of something both foreign and familiar. Not a penny to her name, she huddled deeper into her layers and followed her aunt and cousin, hoping for whatever future this world would bring her.