I tell them the truth. They’re so warm and kind that they deserve it.
When I finish, Dorchy says, “You better get back to work, Ralph.” She points to a line of restless kids. “I wish I could catch up with you at Barnstable, but we’re heading for New York.”
“Give our regards to your uncle,” Ralph says, “and if it doesn’t work out with him, come find us on Long Island. We’ll be at the Mineola Fair on September 27. We skipped Expo this year. We do better at the smaller fairs.”
Dorchy nods and squeezes their hands. She looks sad. I’m thrilled she isn’t staying with them. And angry at myself for doubting her.
“They are really nice people,” I say as we walk back across the green.
“Carnies are.” She ducks her head. “I didn’t know how much I missed those two.”
“They knew your parents?”
“Best friends. I’m glad you met them.”
I think how good lemonade would taste right now. Dorchy has the same idea so we line up outside the refreshment tent—“Lemonade 5 Cents.” As we wait our turn to order, a woman behind us, her voice pitched low, says, “It’s them all right.”
My blood turns to ice.
Dorchy steps up to the counter, and the woman calls out, “Dorchy! Rowan!”
Chapter 26
“Run back to Ralph,” I whisper.
Instead Dorchy turns around and a second later I do too.
Two Council ladies.
“I told Gladys it was you,” says the tall, younger one in a navy-blue suit.
“You remember us,” says the plump, middle-aged one in a lilac dress with a wide, white collar. “I’m Mrs. Clarke and this is Miss Latigue, from the Boston Chapter of the Council. We met you at the Exposition.”
“We have to go.” I grab Dorchy’s arm and start to pull her away. But after two steps, I trip over my crutch and sprawl facedown in the trampled grass.
“Oh, be careful,” says Miss Latigue. She and Dorchy help me up and brush off my dress. She holds on to my arm, but her voice is kind. “We’ve had a hard time finding you. Let’s sit and have a lemonade, shall we?”
“We want to hear your side of the story,” says Mrs. Clarke.
They guide us to a table inside the tent. Miss Latigue brings a pitcher of lemonade and four glasses. Sitting there on a wooden folding chair, I feel completely drained. We tried so hard, but they found us anyway. What they don’t know is that Dorchy can get away. Why, oh, why doesn’t she run to the carnies?
Mrs. Clarke speaks first. “The Ogilvies want to press criminal charges for thefts committed by you, Dorchy. And they blame you for the fire, Rowan.”
“The fire?” I feel faint and gulp my lemonade.
Dorchy looks around. “They’re here? On the Cape?”
“No.” The two women exchange a glance. Mrs. Clarke continues. “As far as we know. We refused to let them join in our search for you.”
Miss Latigue jumps in. “The Council has severed its connection with them.”
Dorchy catches my eye. “But they’re hunting us on their own.” It isn’t a question.
“Everything Dorchy did was to protect me,” I say. “Mr. Ogilvie said he was taking me to Boston, but he drove into a cemetery…” My voice trails off.
“We know what he did.” Mrs. Clarke refills my glass. “We cut our ties with them in part because of Mr. Ogilvie’s…”
“…habit of photographing you and other young girls,” finishes Miss Latigue. “A most unsavory man. And then there’s his wife Fanny’s drinking.”
“His sister,” Dorchy and I say in unison.
“No,” Mrs. Clarke says. “That’s what they wanted everyone to believe, but in fact they are man and wife, married fifteen years, with no children.”
Dorchy says, “But I lived with them during the Expo. They have separate bedrooms.”
“That may be,” Miss Latigue says, “but they are married. Another mark against them for lying about it.”
“Why would they lie?” Dorchy says.
I know the answer to that. “Because being married so long and not having children makes them look unfit,” I say.
“What will happen now?” Dorchy helps herself to more lemonade.
You’re going to run to Ralph and Maggie. I stare at her, willing her to get the message.
Mrs. Clarke says, “It is in our interest to avoid any publicity about the fire, which means protecting you from the Ogilvies.” She blots her damp forehead with a small lilac handkerchief.
Miss Latigue leans forward. “You are Council employees until Labor Day. For all of our sakes, it’s best that you come to Boston with us. In September when the school year begins, we believe the Ogilvies will give up trying to find and charge you.”
Dorchy tips her chair back. “We’re not afraid of the Ogilvies.” She smiles at me. “We have insurance.”
What?
“Insurance?” Miss Latigue’s tone is sharp.
“We have something Mr. Ogilvie wants very badly,” Dorchy says calmly. “We’ll simply tell him that we’ll hand it over if he agrees to leave us alone.” She is practically smirking but doesn’t meet my eye.
“Dorchy, what…?” I begin.
“Explain yourself,” Mrs. Clarke says.
“Here, I’ll show you. It’s in my shoe.” Dorchy bends down and comes up waving a small photograph.
A girl dressed in white, eyes closed, lying in a coffin. Edith.
“You took it,” I gasp. I don’t know whether to slap her or applaud. She’s right about it being valuable to him. The memory of Mr. Ogilvie’s fury when he realized his wallet and this photograph were gone still terrifies me.
“Who is that?” Mrs. Clarke fans herself vigorously, sending scraps of cool air across the table.
I explain about Edith and describe Mr. Ogilvie’s visit to Narda in the tent on the midway.
“Well, well. Still waters run deep.” Miss Latigue studies me. “So off you went to the midway on your crutch without so much as a by-your-leave.” She sounds impressed.
Mrs. Clarke leaves the table and comes back with a plate of pastries. As she offers the plate to us, Dorchy says, “How did you find us?” She pats her mouth with a paper napkin.
“The day after you disappeared, we showed ticket sellers at the Springfield and Boston railway stations a photograph of Rowan,” Miss Latigue says.
“One of Mr. Ogilvie’s many photographs of her.” Mrs. Clarke smiles grimly.
I squirm and bite into a ladyfinger, remembering those awful, prying pictures.
Miss Latigue nods. “For once his picture-taking came in handy. He turned his photographs and negatives over to us, and in return we agreed not to press charges for endangering lives and our reputation by locking you, Minnie, Jimmy, and Gar in the cottage at night.”
“Why do they think I had something to do with fire?” I ask.
“Why?” Mrs. Clarke sniffs. “To distract us from accusing them, I suppose. The fact that you and the others could have died doesn’t seem to register in their small minds.”
I shift in my chair and look around the tent. It’s filling up with people escaping the hot sun. At the counter, two of the artists are accepting glasses of lemonade. I duck my head, and a chill runs through me. What if the Ogilvies are here asking questions? If the Council ladies could find us, so could they.
“We can’t stay here.” I avoid looking at Dorchy. She believes her insurance will protect us. I don’t.
“Then you’ll come with us back to Boston,” Miss Latigue says, wiping her hands on a paper napkin.
“To work for the Council,” Mrs. Clarke adds. “But first we need assurance that you will not steal.”
Dorchy sits up straight. “I only took what we were owed. Not one penny more.”
“Not paying you was wrong o
f the Ogilvies,” says Mrs. Clarke. “But you should have complained to the Council, not taken his wallet and his car.”
“I had to protect Rowan.” Dorchy sounds about to cry.
Miss Latigue pats her hand. “You are a loyal friend, Dorchy. We appreciate that. And you will be paid for the work you do for us.”
“What work is that?” Dorchy sounds suspicious.
“Assisting the staff at our Camp for Unfortunates in Maine,” says Miss Latigue. “We’ll pay you two dollars a week. When the camp ends in September, we’ll arrange for you…”
“I’ll be going home to New York,” I say firmly, “as soon as my father, Franklin Collier, returns from Europe. I expect you will arrange for that.”
Dorchy clears her throat.
“Dorchy’s uncle is there too,” I continue. “We’ll both need train tickets to New York.”
Mrs. Clarke nods. “We agree, pending good reports about you from the camp.”
“Why do you need us so late in the season?” Dorchy asks.
She’s right. It sounds fishy. Why should we trust these women?
Miss Latigue says, “They’re shorthanded and have asked for help. There have been cases of flu among the campers and some of the staff left.” She puts her hand to her mouth. “Oh dear, we should have asked you this first. Have you had the flu?”
We both nod. I had it during my first year at the Home. I don’t know when Dorchy had it.
“Is that the only qualification to work there?” I ask.
Miss Latigue smiles. “The Ogilvies won’t vouch for either of you, which is a recommendation in itself. We heard good things about you, Dorchy, from the Council ladies in Springfield. ‘Resourceful,’ ‘helpful,’ ‘cheerful,’ and ‘a saint to put up with the Ogilvies’ are just some of them. And Rowan”—she pats my hand—“you are a hero who saved two lives during the fire.”
I like the sound of hero. “Dorchy’s a hero too. She saved me,” I say.
“I’m going to the camp tomorrow,” Miss Latigue says, “so I will accompany you.”
Dorchy nods, but I can tell she’s not convinced.
“May we talk this over?” I ask.
The ladies stand up and move away, keeping an eye on us.
“You can still run to Ralph and Maggie,” I tell Dorchy. “I’ll go to work at this camp of theirs, but you have a choice.”
“No, I don’t.” She glares at me. “We’re in this together. If you go, I go.”
“Well, I want to go. I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder for two more weeks. When we were standing in line and she said our names, my heart stopped.”
“Mine did too.” Dorchy grins. “So we’re back working for the Council.”
“No Ogres this time, Wave Rider.”
Dorchy grins. “You mean no Mr. and Mrs. Ogre.”
Mrs. Clarke arranges for Jed to drive Miss Latigue, Dorchy, and me back to the beach to collect our things. The sky is a deep, late-afternoon blue. I walk down to the edge of the surf while the others gather our belongings from the campsite. Breaking waves greet me with floods of white foam. I rode the waves today. The feeling is the same as that first time, five years ago. But now, with my weak leg, the achievement seems even greater. I make a promise to the ocean that when I leave today, it won’t be for long.
From Eastham the four of us catch the evening train back to Boston. The Council ladies were so sure they’d find us, and that we’d agree to go with them, that they already have tickets for us. On the train Miss Latigue gives us shiny color brochures about the camp, a place for unfortunates to savor the outdoors and learn life’s lessons. I’m surprised to see it’s on an island. They didn’t mention that.
“How do we get there?” I ask Miss Latigue.
“By train from Boston to Rockland, Maine, and then the camp ferry from there to a private island. The family provided it to us for the camp this summer. It’s called Loup Island. Loup is the French word for wolf.”
“Are there wolves?” I ask.
Miss Latigue laughs. “Not any more.”
Dorchy looks dubious. “An island,” she mutters.
In Boston we go by taxi to Miss Latigue’s home on Beacon Street. Dorchy and I sit up late, talking in the guest room.
“I don’t like it,” Dorchy says. “I don’t trust them. On this island we’ll be trapped.”
“We’re trapped anyway,” I say. “At least the Council wants the same thing as we do—no Ogilvies.”
“So they say.” Dorchy pulls aside the heavy curtains covering our bedroom window. “We could go now. This window opens easily enough.”
“Loup Island is where I’m going,” I say. “And so are you. It could be fun. The brochure says unfortunates deserve fresh air and fun as much as anyone. My father believes that too. We’ll be doing good.”
Dorchy turns away from the window. She picks up the brochure and waves it at me. “They use this to raise money. People feel sorry for ‘unfortunate’ orphans and make donations. Then the Council uses the money to sterilize more folks who don’t deserve it.”
“We’ll be helping the unfortunates in person,” I say. “Think about that.”
“I’ll bet you anything the camp is a con,” she says stubbornly. “Miss Fatigue is the carny; you and me and the unfortunates are the rubes. You’ll see.”
“Well, nobody can con you, Dorchy,” I say. “And you’ve taught me a lot. Look, it’s a chance to turn the tables on the Ogilvies again. You know you want to do that.”
She brightens. “You win. First this island and then New York!”
Part 3
Undaunted
Loup Island, Maine,
August 1922
Chapter 27
The wind grabs me by the throat as I stumble out of the hatch and suck in wet, salty air. Every few seconds, it seems, a horn bellows above my head. It must be almost noon, but the fog is so thick it’s impossible to tell. Behind me the cabin stews in the stink of vomit. Dorchy is one of the sickest. When I tried to get her to come out on deck, she shook her head and moaned, “I hate the ocean.” I wanted to remind her that she loved riding the waves but thought better of it.
Using my crutch, I cross the tilting deck, brace my right leg, and lean over the railing. Fog rubs a clammy hand over my face and burrows through the wool blanket wrapped around me and into my clothes. My stomach calms down. Father always said fresh air prevents seasickness. For once he’s a help to me, even if only in memory.
The taste of salt on my lips reminds me of Eastham. Maybe we should have risked everything and stayed there. Too late now.
When my right leg gets tired, I move back across the deck and sit on a bench, gripping the wet wooden slats as the ferry rolls from side to side. I breathe deeply, determined not to give in. Sickness is weakness. Another lesson from Father.
A wave sluices across the deck. I lift my feet just in time.
Dorchy and I haven’t talked much since we left Boston with Miss Latigue. On the train we were never alone. Ten campers, five girls and five boys, joined us in Boston. Dorchy and I tried to sleep, but Miss Latigue needed our help as the train crawled from Boston to Portland to Rockland with long stops at each station. The two older girls who sat together speaking Italian were no problem, but the twin girls, who seem much younger than fourteen, either cried, fought, or ran up and down the aisle. Posy, a plump girl of fourteen, was very frightened, so Dorchy spent time distracting her with stories about the midway.
When we finally got to Rockland, very early this morning, we had to wait three hours for the ferry in the damp chill of the ferry house. The twins had run out of steam by then, and the other girls fell asleep. The boys played cards for most of the trip and went on playing while we waited. Dorchy decided right away that all the boys were boring. I disagreed because a scrawny one called Ratty, who walks with two crutches
because of a clubfoot, can whistle any tune perfectly.
Boys first, we shuffled onto the ferry, everyone except Miss Latigue holding a blanket and a canvas duffel bag. Once the ferry left the harbor, it began to roll and everyone except me got seasick.
The sun tears open a window in the fog. And there’s the heaving gray-green ocean flecked with foam. It looks angrier than it did on our last day at Eastham.
The ferry crests a wave, and I spot an island on the horizon. It disappears as we slide into a trough. As we inch closer, a heap of dark rocks, rimmed in white foam where the waves hit them, comes into clearer view.
The ferry slows and details emerge—a rocky point with a battered wooden lighthouse perched on the end like a seabird on its nest. Cliffs topped with spiky fir trees, a weathered one-story building with a wall of windows blindly reflecting the sky. A cove with a sailboat tied to a dock. On a cliff high above, a three-story red house with a wide porch overlooks the ocean. A shift in the wind brings the scent of warm pine needles and woodsmoke. Steam rises from my damp clothes.
My heart stirs. Maybe we’ll stay in that house. Sleep in real beds. Eat real food off china plates with silverware at a cloth-covered table.
The ferry rounds a rocky point into the calm green water of a small bay. The boat is steadier now. Dorchy, Miss Latigue, and the campers straggle out on deck. Boys and girls cough, shiver, and open their mouths to gulp clean air. They’re all orphans, Miss Latigue told us, but not all are from orphanages. Some are from institutions for the incorrigible, crippled, or feebleminded. The girls wear shapeless gray or tan shifts; the boys, gray or blue trousers and shirts.
Dorchy and I stand out in our new blue-gingham Council dresses and our sweaters from Eastham. The dresses are an awful reminder of the Ogilvies, but they were all that Miss Latigue could provide at short notice. We don’t have to wear the aprons today, but we will wear them on the island to remind everyone that we work for the Council.
The twin girls cling to each other, worn out from the ferry ride. When one howls, an Italian girl slaps her. The other twin starts to whimper.
Posy comes out on deck with one hand covering her harelip. The other clutches her woolen blanket around her like a shawl. She told us on the train, “It’s my harelip got me sent to this camp. My folks were going to get it fixed by a doctor before they died. Matron at the orphanage says it’s a punishment for their sins.”
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