by Deeanne Gist
“He’s lying!” She looked at the chief, clearly horrified. “You’ve got to believe me.”
Pilkerton sighed. “Better take her in, too.”
CHAPTER
Twenty-nine
Tillie expected the hike to Asheville to be cold and miserable. Instead, she found her heart buoyant and her steps lively. The sun made its first appearance in days, having burned off the stubborn fog sometime during church.
A little gray bird with a small body and long legs raced across her path, its tail tipped up. She smiled, well remembering the days she, Allan, Clarence, and R.W. would chase after them. Try as they might, her brothers could never catch one.
But she could. She’d scoop one up and put it in her apron. Before she could catch another, the captured bird would have long since run out the side. Still, it was one of the few times she could best the boys, making her one step closer to being the big toad.
The king of all songbirds swept into view, cawing and heckling, cooing and croaking. She watched the raven dive toward her, then swoop back up, filing a saw with its throat.
Poor Noah, she thought. No wonder he let the raven out first chance he had. There’d be no peace with that show-off on board.
She enjoyed the evergreen trees and surveyed the bare branches of the deciduous ones, longing already for spring and summer, when the forest would once again be garbed in a profusion of colored blossoms and budding trees.
The closer she came to town, the more evidence there was of loggers. They’d descended like grasshoppers, consumed all within sight, and left devastation in their wake.
She didn’t even bother going through town but headed straight for the southern edge, Sloop’s orphanage, and Irene. She couldn’t wait to give the girl her first sewing lesson. Had been looking forward to it since her visit on Friday.
She’d brought a basket of sewing supplies to leave behind with the girl. Her first lesson would be a straight stitch and a hem stitch. If she happened to see Mack, well, that would be an extra bonus.
She hoped Mrs. Sloop wouldn’t give her any difficulty in spending time with Irene. Surely with it being Sunday, the children would have more freedom than on school days.
The orphanage came into view, and to her surprise, its yard was filled with boiling pots, washtubs, clotheslines, cots, and children. Every door was flung wide, every window open.
She walked through a labyrinth of clotheslines hung with blankets. Girls with baskets and clothespins added more to the lines, their chatter gay. Laughter rang out as boys disassembled cots and piled the bedding in a heap by boiling pots of water. Mack’s sister, Ora Lou, oversaw those cauldrons and the girls who stirred them.
Younger girls knelt over washtubs scrubbing blankets against washboards. Homer and a few of his friends wrung out the wash, making no effort to keep from saturating themselves, even though the air was nippy. She looked for Irene but couldn’t spot her in the confusion. Mack’s deep voice came from behind the orphanage.
She circled the building, then paused. He wore no hat, no jacket, and no collar. Red long johns peeked through his unbuttoned shirt. Dark suspenders crisscrossed his blue shirt.
A boy stood beside him. With an ax in hand, Mack showed him how to grip the handle while using shoulders and legs to arc the ax into the wood. His hair fell across his forehead and curled along the back of his neck.
Propping a log end-up on a stump, he caught sight of her out of the corner of his eye and straightened, his face sobering.
He was still angry with her, she supposed. For refusing to leave Biltmore. She girded her heart, preparing to ask about Irene’s whereabouts, then retreat as gracefully as possible.
Saying something to the boy, he set down the ax and headed toward her.
“I’m here to tutor Irene.” She lifted her sewing basket. “But I couldn’t find her amidst all the activity.”
His brows drew together.
She sighed. “If you’ll just point me to where Irene is, I’ll leave you to your business.”
Swallowing, he cupped her elbow. “This way.”
He led her to the front door and escorted her into the parlor. She’d never been in this part of the orphanage. It was a far cry from the back.
Clean and cozy, the upholstered furniture grouped about the fireplace evoked warmth and intimacy. To Tillie’s keen eye, she saw immediately that the floor and the legs of the chairs had not been properly polished. Still, they’d been dusted. She wondered who took care of the room. Mrs. Sloop?
Mack guided her to a settee upholstered in gold and green cotton tapestry.
“Is it all right for us to be in here?” she whispered.
Nodding, he seated her, then lowered himself beside her.
She glanced at the arched entryway. “I don’t think the Sloops will like it, Mack. Can’t you just tell me where Irene is?
I don’t mind fetching her myself. And you shouldn’t be sitting there. You’re getting the couch dirty.”
He took the basket from her lap and placed it at her feet. So grave.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
“Bad news?”
Taking both her hands into his, he rubbed her knuckles with his thumb. “Irene’s dead, Tillie.”
She jerked back.
He squeezed her fingers. “I’m sorry.”
“What?” She looked about the room. Heavily fringed draperies of the same fabric as the couch hung over two front-facing windows. Beyond them, children filled the yard. Laughing.
Chattering. Working.
“But that’s impossible. I just saw her two days ago. I’m giving her a sewing lesson today. We were going to do the straight st – ”
“Tillie.”
Her chin began to quiver. “You’re mistaken.”
“I’m sorry.”
She shook her head, scooting back. “I don’t understand. How could . . . it was just a broken bone.”
He said nothing.
Tears filled her eyes. “Are you sure? Are you absolutely positive?”
Lifting one hip off the couch, he withdrew a handkerchief and handed it to her. “I saw her myself.”
She dabbed at her eyes. “What happened?”
He heaved a great sigh, propped his elbows on his knees, and hung his head. His hair tipped forward, the ticking in his jaw outpacing the mantel clock. “She was killed.”
“What!” She pressed the handkerchief to her mouth, the smell of burnt wood and lye soap strong against her nose. “How?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “They’re trying to determine that now, but when I found her she’d been hung by the neck.”
An involuntary moan keened from her throat. Surging to her feet, she skirted around the couch as if placing the piece of furniture between him and her would shield her from his words. “I don’t believe you. We’re in Asheville, not some Wild West town. And who would do such a thing, anyway?”
He lifted his gaze. “The Sloops.”
The blood plummeted from her head straight to her toes. She could feel it. Actually feel it draining. The room began to fade. Black spots appeared in her vision.
“Easy.” Mack jumped to his feet and encircled her waist, leading her back to the couch. “I’m sorry, Tillie. I didn’t know how else to say it other than straight out.”
Helping her stretch out, he grabbed a throw pillow from a nearby chair and placed it beneath her head.
She resisted and tried to sit up. “I can’t. My shoes will get the cushion dirty.”
She heard how ridiculous that sounded compared to what he’d told her, but her body had a will of its own.
“Hush. Just close your eyes.” He pressed her back down, then removed her hat.
She lowered her lids, but it was as if they were somehow attached to her knees the way the call buttons were attached to the old annunciator boxes. When one was lowered, the other rose.
Her knees drew up to her chest. Her back curled. And her tears began to flow.
Kneel
ing beside her, he tucked her skirts about her legs, then wrapped her in his arms and pulled her against his chest. He rocked her. Kissed her hair. Murmured words of comfort.
The mantel clock struck three. Then the quarter hour.
Her tears slowed. “Tell me,” she whispered.
He told her all he knew. About Irene. About the abuse.
About Sloop’s story of an accident. About the couple being in the county jail. “Several of the older girls have come forward now. If they didn’t comply with Sloop’s demands, he’d beat them. Sometimes he beat them anyway.” He shook his head.
“It sounds as if the only thing protecting them was an agreement Sloop had with the brothel owner, of all people. Seems the madam wanted chaste girls. But there was plenty Sloop could do without endangering that.”
Tillie moaned. “No, Mack. No.”
“I’m sorry.” He rubbed her arm.
“Ora Lou?” she asked.
“He left her alone, thank God. But she’s devastated about Irene and has some misplaced guilt over it.”
Tillie’s heart broke for Ora Lou and the other girls. She thought of her own sister, Gussie. The same age as the girls Sloop targeted. She could not conceive how anyone could do such a vile, nefarious thing.
“I just don’t understand.”
He took a deep breath. “I’m afraid that’s not all. There might be some embezzlement of funds, as well, but I haven’t had time to look at the ledgers because I’ve been appointed interim director until they can find a married couple to replace the Sloops.”
Opening her eyes, she kept her face pressed into his shoulder. Her eyelashes brushed against his shirt. The feel of him, the smell of him, the whisper of his breath against her cheek brought comfort and strength.
“That’s why the place is being cleaned out,” she said. “Because you’re in charge.”
“Yes.”
“And that’s why the children are so happy. Because the Sloops are gone.”
“Yes.”
“Do they know about Irene?”
“Only that she died. They were already in the schoolroom when I found her.” He pulled away, smoothing back her hair. “You all right?”
Tears spurted to her eyes again. “When is the funeral?”
“Tomorrow.”
“I need to go home. I need to ask for time off.” She started to rise.
He held her in place. “Shhhhh. Let’s take it slow, okay?”
Drawing in a choppy breath, she nodded.
He continued to stroke her. His fingers ran along her hairline. His knuckles down her cheeks. His thumb across her lips.
I love him, she thought. I love him still.
It was too much to contemplate all at once.
“I want to go home.” She pushed into a sitting position.
This time he let her up.
“How did you get here?” he asked.
“I walked.”
“From Biltmore?”
Nodding, she felt her hair, pulled out the pins, and stuck them in her mouth.
“I don’t want you walking back alone.”
“Awl be fawn.”
He removed the pins from her mouth and handed them to her one at a time.
“I’ll be fine,” she repeated.
“Let me walk you.”
Reaching for her hat, she secured it to her head. “You can’t, Mack. You have to stay with the children.”
“Then let me send Artie with you.”
“Who’s Artie?”
“One of the older boys here.”
She stood and shook out her skirts. “Don’t be silly. Besides, I’d like to be alone. I have a lot to think about.”
He hovered like a bird at a feeder, afraid to get too close, afraid to get too far. “Are you sure?”
She placed a hand on his cheek.
He immediately stilled and covered it with his.
“I’m sure, but thank you.” Slipping from his grasp, she picked up her basket and walked out the door.
Mack watched her leave, comforted that he’d see her tomorrow at the funeral. Bereft because he didn’t know if he’d see her after that.
He’d accepted the position as interim director without hesitation, even though he’d be giving up his freedom. More and more the prospect of living on his mountain seemed lonely without the orphans. Without his siblings. Without Tillie.
Yet already the restrictions of the job were making themselves felt. He wanted to walk her home. Hated the thought of her going all that way after receiving such a shock. But he didn’t have the freedom to follow her. To pursue her. To do for her. His obligations were here now.
He stood at the door. Watched her weave through the yard. Stop and speak to Homer. Introduce herself to his helper.
His feelings for her ballooned. Pushing and pushing and pushing against his skin.
A burst of laughter from a group of girls hanging blankets drew his attention. They looked at each other, covering their mouths as their shoulders shook and their eyes sparkled. It was a sight to behold. He smiled just watching them.
Then the realization hit him. Came to him as he leaned with one shoulder propped against the doorframe and his ankle crossed over his foot. As if God himself had dropped down from heaven and spoken directly to him.
Freedom didn’t always equate with coming and going as he pleased. Or to living out in the open. Or to doing whatever he wanted.
Sometimes, it was simply a matter of being free to laugh. Free to help others. Free to fulfill his calling.
After the girls had long since returned to their laundry and Tillie was but a speck in the distance, he pushed away from the door and headed to the chopping block. Ah, but it felt good to be free.
CHAPTER
Thirty
Mrs. Winter would not allow Tillie to go to Irene’s funeral. Now that Tillie was performing Mrs. Vanderbilt’s morning toilet, nothing else – in the housekeeper’s mind – was more important. So Tillie examined the clothes worn by Mrs. Vanderbilt the evening before, removed the mud from the hem, beat the skirt lightly with a handkerchief, arranged the toilet table, lit the fire, swept the hearth, placed the linen before the fire to air, and laid out fresh articles of dress.
All the while she wondered if the children would be attending Irene’s funeral, and if they were, who in the world would help Mack get them ready? What would they wear? Who would comfort them? Answer their questions?
And if the children weren’t going to the cemetery, who would watch them while he was gone?
Tillie answered Mrs. Vanderbilt’s summons and quietly laced her lady’s stays and adjusted her linen.
If Mack were director, who would teach the girls to repair a seam, to cook a meal, to mix up furniture polish, to perform a toilet, to practice hygiene?
She brushed and frizzed Mrs. Vanderbilt’s hair. Applied pomade to it with her own hands, then dipped a brush in bandoline and smoothed the hair down. She rolled it over frizettes the same brown as her mistress’s hair and finished it behind with a plait.
Every task, every gesture was done efficiently and decorously. But her heart was not in her duties. Her heart was with those orphans. And Irene. And Mack.
By the time the toilet was complete, Tillie could barely bank her distress. Mrs. Vanderbilt thanked her and left the room.
Tillie stood in the middle of the shimmering gold and purple suite with its fancily trimmed mirrors and cut-velvet draperies, then sank onto the ivory Savonnerie rug, pressed her skirt to her face, and cried. Unsure if she cried for Irene, for herself, or for the doubts that pressed against her chest.
With all that had happened, Tillie hadn’t so much as looked at the wooden pieces she’d picked up from Mack last week. But before tomorrow afternoon, when every family and child on Biltmore Estate would celebrate Christmas with the master and lady of the manor, Tillie needed to wrap this one last gift, which her brothers would share.
Letting herself into the closet she’d used to store the p
resents, she turned on the light. Packages of all sizes and shapes filled the tiny room. Their red, green, and white wrappings were in stark contrast to Mack’s brown parcel lying on a stool.
Making a space on the table, she cut the twine and folded back the brown paper, then touched her throat. Instead of carving a few wooden animals, he’d constructed an entire Noah’s ark complete with flat-bottom boat and a house on the deck. He’d painted faux wooden slats along the side, paned windows, and topped it off with a bright red roof. The base of the boat had a wide access hatch along its side.
She slipped its latch free, lowering the hinged cutout, which folded down into a broad ramp. Tucked inside were a variety of animals. Nothing was to scale; the ducks were as big as the cows. But they were easily distinguishable and intricately painted.
She removed each and every one. Pairs of zebras, pigs, goats, raccoons, skunks, squirrels, frogs, deer, sheep, and . . .
She examined an oblong shape which arched up in the middle, a snicker escaping before she could stop it. A worm. He’d made her little brothers a pair of worms.
She arranged all the animals on the table, imagining the hours and hours Ricky and Walter would spend with the toy. She touched a pesky raven perched on the roof. Mr. and Mrs. Noah on the deck. A dove on the railing.
Her heart filled. Her vision blurred. He’d done this not for the Vanderbilts, nor even for her brothers, but for her. And, maybe, for Christ.
Even though Mack wouldn’t be at the celebration to see the boys open their gift, even though he had nothing to do with the Vanderbilts’ mission, his time and care were just as much an offering as the Vanderbilts’ sharing of their abundance.
She looked at the tissue-wrapped presents filling every available space on the shelves. Overflowing onto tables, stools, and even the floor. She considered the thought behind each gift. The tremendous effort her mistress had gone to – to not only meet each child, but to become acquainted with them. Learn their likes and dislikes.
She thought of her Father in heaven who knew all there was to know about her brothers and the rest of the children. Every triumph. Every fall. Every hair on their heads. Every hair on her head.