Post by Liessel on Mar 22, 2024 13:32:04 GMT -5
As my previous examples have shown, life in Victorian London did not favor the women who lived within the Empire very much. Men could do almost all that they pleased, holding sway over any rights that a woman might have possessed. Elizabeth Stride was no exception to this rule. But she was an exception to the rules of Jack The Ripper.
Mrs. Stride had found herself a comfortable life when she had first married. She and her husband found life in the West End of London to be a good place to start themselves. Her marriage was a happy enough one. She was well taken care of, but she never had children. Though, if she were asked, she would have told the story of how her children had all drowned in the tragedy of their deaths aboard the Princess Alice in 1878.
Her claim was that in their efforts to flee the sinking boat, she was tripped up and lost track of her children. All of whom went down with the ship. This fallacy was one that she carried with her throughout her married life. She had never been aboard the doomed vessel as it met the bottom of the river. Neither had her children. She had none to lose.
Her childhood hadn’t been an easy one. She had grown up living rough and off the streets. But she had found love, and that had helped to lift her out of the gutter. But like so many lower-class couples, it was a tenuous affair. Money was tight, and in an effort to pinch a little extra for themselves Mrs. Stride and her husband moved into the East End, into White Chapel, where they opened a small coffee shop with the hopes of building something of a meager fortune.
Not too long after, though, Mr. Stride became ill. It was a sickness that he could not overcome, and after a few short years he left Mrs. Stride alone to struggle with their business. It did not take long for it to fold.
Without a husband, and without an income, Mrs. Stride was left with little recourse. She began working the streets for her wages.
Dutfield’s Yard was where she heard the bell sound shortly after midnight on September 30th, 1888. She was out, on her way to her usual haunt when it came to her. The dark and heavy mist made it hard to see as she turned, hoping to catch sight of where it had come from.
She never saw her attacker, and no one heard her scream. Not even Mrs Stride, herself. Her ears were ringing too loudly from the second chime of an unseen bell.
Mrs. Stride had found herself a comfortable life when she had first married. She and her husband found life in the West End of London to be a good place to start themselves. Her marriage was a happy enough one. She was well taken care of, but she never had children. Though, if she were asked, she would have told the story of how her children had all drowned in the tragedy of their deaths aboard the Princess Alice in 1878.
Her claim was that in their efforts to flee the sinking boat, she was tripped up and lost track of her children. All of whom went down with the ship. This fallacy was one that she carried with her throughout her married life. She had never been aboard the doomed vessel as it met the bottom of the river. Neither had her children. She had none to lose.
Her childhood hadn’t been an easy one. She had grown up living rough and off the streets. But she had found love, and that had helped to lift her out of the gutter. But like so many lower-class couples, it was a tenuous affair. Money was tight, and in an effort to pinch a little extra for themselves Mrs. Stride and her husband moved into the East End, into White Chapel, where they opened a small coffee shop with the hopes of building something of a meager fortune.
Not too long after, though, Mr. Stride became ill. It was a sickness that he could not overcome, and after a few short years he left Mrs. Stride alone to struggle with their business. It did not take long for it to fold.
Without a husband, and without an income, Mrs. Stride was left with little recourse. She began working the streets for her wages.
Dutfield’s Yard was where she heard the bell sound shortly after midnight on September 30th, 1888. She was out, on her way to her usual haunt when it came to her. The dark and heavy mist made it hard to see as she turned, hoping to catch sight of where it had come from.
She never saw her attacker, and no one heard her scream. Not even Mrs Stride, herself. Her ears were ringing too loudly from the second chime of an unseen bell.