by Jody Hedlund
“Just think of the grand time we’ll have going after the ladies,” Thornton added.
“Very true, my good man. Then I claim Dorthea van Alstyne.”
“If you want to have a poodle, be my guest.”
Bradford shoved him good-naturedly. “She’s a beautiful and wealthy poodle.”
“I myself prefer someone like Rosalind Beaufort.”
“If you want to have a great Dane, be my guest.”
Thornton laughed at his brother’s sparring. “If only we knew what they called us behind our backs.”
“Peacocks?”
“More likely mules.”
They shared another chuckle before Bradford held out his hand. “If you insist on going through with this, then may the best man for the job win.”
Thornton grasped his brother’s hand, feeling the firmness and surety that belonged to Bradford. “May the best man win.”
Chapter 3
A bump against Elise’s elbow sent her needle too deep into the fine white linen. In the wrong spot.
“Oops. I beg yer pardon” came a voice behind her.
From where Elise sat at the end of the worktable, she didn’t need to look to see who had jostled her. She knew it was Fanny O’Leary, the redheaded Irishwoman.
Elise neatly folded the shirt and set it on the table next to a pair of new scissors, a nearly empty spool of thread, and a cushion that was stuck haphazardly with dozens of silver pins.
“No, Elise,” whispered Marianne next to her. “Ignore her.”
Elise pushed her chair back from the table. The scraping of the wooden legs against the cement floor issued Elise’s declaration of frustration. She was done ignoring Fanny and everyone else who’d bullied her during her first week at the Seventh Street Mission. She’d sat meekly long enough.
She stood, her hands fisting at her sides. The rest of the women had grown silent and fixed their attention on her, reminding Elise of the first day she’d stepped into the workroom.
She pivoted to find Fanny slipping into her seat two tables away. Elise glared at the young woman who, in spite of the freckles peppering her nose and forehead, had one of the prettiest faces among the workers, fuller and more vibrant than the pale hollowness of the others. She clearly did her best to tame her unruly red curls under a scarf. But even so, runaway curls wisped around her face.
The woman picked up her needle and began to thread it. The waver of a smile told Elise that she was well aware of the frustration she was causing and that she enjoyed it.
“I won’t quit,” Elise said into the silence that was framed by the clatter of wheels and horses on the street outside the open windows. “You can keep on with your rudeness and unkindness to me, but I’m here to stay.”
“Elise.” Mrs. Watson, the manager, rose to her feet, her lanky frame overshadowing Elise’s. “I am truly sorry you feel we are rude to you, especially after we have made room for you and your sister at the table.”
Elise knew Mrs. Watson wasn’t in the least sorry. Perhaps she didn’t encourage Fanny’s behavior, but neither did she attempt to stop it or any of the other spitefulness. When Elise had returned from her lunch break yesterday, the front panel she’d been working on all morning hadn’t been at her spot. From the exchanges of snide glances between the women, Elise guessed someone had purposefully hidden the garment. No amount of searching revealed it. And Mrs. Watson was of no help whatsoever in demanding its return.
“I’ve hoped to prove myself by my hard work, my quick, even stitches, and my attention to detail.” Elise lifted her chin. “But I can see you’ve already judged me and are determined to make my time here miserable regardless of what I do.”
“That is simply not true,” Mrs. Watson said. She darted a glance toward the open doorway, likely worrying Miss Pendleton would overhear them.
Elise hadn’t spoken a word about the mistreatment to Miss Pendleton. She had too much pride to run to her benefactor, not after everything the kind woman had already done. Even if the other women made the job troublesome, the eleven-hour workday and pay were better than any she’d known before.
“I know you don’t think we deserve to work here,” Elise said, “but we have no parents, no place to live, and no one else we can turn to.”
“Poor babe” came a sarcastic mutter from the direction of Fanny’s table, although this time Elise suspected one of Fanny’s friends spoke them.
Elise bristled. “I dare you stand up and repeat that to my face.”
Marianne tugged Elise’s sleeve, attempting to pull her down into her chair. But Elise straightened her shoulders and prepared for battle. If she had to defend herself with her fists, so be it.
“Go on, Dimna,” Fanny said, prodding the woman sitting next to her. A straw-thin woman glowered at Fanny, revealing a missing upper tooth next to several other gray teeth. Fanny nodded at her curtly, her freckled face hard and commanding.
Elise wasn’t sure what control Fanny had over the other women, but she was apparently their leader, and when she spoke they did her bidding. Dimna rose from her chair. Her mouth was set grimly, her eyes flashing with resentment. Her garments were too big for her shapeless, bony frame.
“We got no pity for ye,” Dimna stated in a brittle voice. “Not when Miss Pendleton has made ye her pet.”
“Pet?” Elise was surprised at the accusation.
“We can all see that she’s giving ye special favors that none o’ the rest of us get.”
Elise couldn’t deny Dimna’s accusation. Miss Pendleton had extended help to her family in a special way. “Then you’re jealous.”
Fanny shoved Dimna, sending her several steps toward Elise. The young woman squared off and held up balled fists.
“Don’t fight, Elise.” Marianne’s whisper was threaded with desperation. “They’re goading you into this.”
Dimna’s knuckles were white from the tightness of her clenched fingers. Her eyes narrowed and taunted Elise. “Yer too scared to fight me.”
Elise’s fingers twitched with the need to show these women her strength. But her gut told her Marianne was right. These women were hoping she’d take the first swing. If she did, they could report her to Miss Pendleton.
She dropped her arms to her sides. “I don’t want to involve Miss Pendleton in our dispute, but you may leave me no other option—”
“That will not be necessary,” Mrs. Watson interrupted, once again glancing at the door. “A short break is in order. I shall send you on an errand to D. and J. Devlin for more thread since we’re running so low.”
Elise didn’t argue. Within moments she was out on the street, a few coins from Mrs. Watson in her pocket for the purchase, along with directions on how to reach the clothing manufacturer. Elise had already learned from listening to the other women that Mr. Devlin was an associate of Miss Pendleton’s deceased father. He’d agreed to Miss Pendleton’s risky proposal of starting a sewing workshop in her mission, even though nothing like it had been done before.
Apparently, the venture had been mutually beneficial. D. and J. Devlin provided the precut shirts, and the women in the workshop sewed the pieces together into the finished product. It was the same kind of arrangement many of the tenement sweatshops had with the manufacturer. Trained cutters worked at the company building to cut the material into the various pieces needed for a garment, and then most of the sewing work was contracted out and supervised by the sweater, the middleman who was in charge of the stitching work done in his home.
Miss Pendleton was their sweater. She paid the contract fee for the unmade clothing and received payment for the completed garments. Out of that she paid everyone who worked in her shop.
Elise sighed, releasing the tension of the past week. The summer sunlight rarely made it past the tall buildings, strings of drying laundry, and storefront awnings to touch the sidewalks of the city. Nevertheless, she was grateful for the blue sky overhead.
She wove around a woman pushing a baby buggy and past an eld
erly man hobbling along with a crutch. For midmorning the street didn’t seem as busy as usual, with scant children milling about, not as many omnibuses clattering past, and fewer peddlers attempting to sell their wares from carts.
She supposed much of the populace had been up late last night celebrating the Fourth of July. The riverfronts would have been crowded with people vying to watch the fireworks. She had no doubt many were still in their beds, sleeping off drunken stupors.
Elise and her family hadn’t ever participated in the festivities. Although many in Kleindeutschland, their German immigrant community within New York City, were curious about the American holidays, Elise never had a desire to join in, especially for a holiday that rang so hollow. Independence Day. Her people weren’t independent. In fact, they were stuck here in the bowels of the city, laboring all the time but never able to climb out of the pit of poverty and despair they’d fallen into.
Her family had moved to America, the land of no kings, to be free of oppression. They’d thought they could begin a new life without the same kind of distinction between classes, without the fear of injustice and unfairness. After all, didn’t the American Declaration of Independence state that all men were created equal with certain inalienable rights, life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness? It was hailed as the land of opportunity.
But after seven years in her new homeland, she was no closer to that elusive opportunity than when she’d first arrived. In fact, her family was in a worse state. Father’s bakery had floundered from the beginning. With so much competition, he’d struggled to invest the small amount of capital he’d managed to retain from the sale of his bakeshop in Hamburg. He’d taken loans to purchase the equipment he needed. And when he died suddenly, the debts had been too numerous to repay. The bank foreclosed on the bakery and cast Mutti out without a cent to her name.
It felt as though they were reliving the nightmare with Count Eberhardt all over again. Elise had learned that even in America, the wealthy were calloused, cold, and merciless. They didn’t care about what would happen to a mother and her children without a home or job. They only thought about their own interests, and it didn’t matter whom they hurt in order to assure their own security.
“Penny for the poor?” A feeble call came from the street corner. A man in rags held a tarnished tin cup in his gnarled, blackened hand. He stared straight ahead, his glassy eyes not focused on anyone. Instead, he rotated his position to the sound of nearing footsteps.
“Can you spare a penny?” He jangled the cup in the direction of a young boy trotting past. The youth slapped the tin cup, and it clattered to the sidewalk several feet away, causing the coins inside to roll out in all directions.
The boy scooped up two of the coppers before scampering across the street without a backward glance.
How dare the boy steal from a blind beggar? Even if he was hungry and without a home, surely his situation was not as helpless as that of a blind man. “Stop!” Elise called out, racing after the boy. “Return those coins!”
The youth increased his pace until he was sprinting down the sidewalk, dodging vendors and pedestrians as if he made an everyday exercise of running through New York City’s streets. Likely, the young thief did make an everyday occurrence of stealing and running. After all, there weren’t many other ways for children here to earn money. Elise had learned that from personal experience.
Yet even when she and her siblings had lived on the streets, they’d never resorted to stealing. No matter how hungry and desperate they’d been.
As the boy turned the corner into an alley, Elise halted. It was futile to chase him. He probably knew every hiding spot in Lower Manhattan, and if he didn’t outrun her, he’d disappear before she could catch him and demand he give the money back to the beggar.
Elise returned to the blind man, who was on his knees skimming his hands back and forth on the ground, frantically searching in spite of the soles that landed on his fingers. Elise surveyed the area and saw the cup wedged against the brick front of a millinery, likely kicked there carelessly by a passerby. She retrieved it and scanned the sidewalk, not expecting to see any of the beggar’s coins. With no luck, she approached the man. “I found your cup.”
He pushed to his knees and peered in her direction with unseeing eyes. “Thank you, miss.”
She pressed the tin into his bruised fingers. He fumbled for it, his cracked fingernails scraping the metal. Beneath his hat, his hair was greasy and unwashed, and his cheeks were hollow. She guessed he was about the same age her father would have been if he were still alive.
Didn’t he have anyone, family or friends, who cared what became of him? How did he survive on his own without anyone to help him? It was difficult enough to live on the streets with the ability to see. Elise couldn’t imagine how hard it must be without sight.
The beggar sat back on his heels. He wasn’t wearing shoes. Rather, his feet were wrapped in damp newspaper. The newsprint had blackened his big toes, which poked through the layers.
“I’d like to give you something,” she said, “but I have nothing . . .” Her hand strayed to her pocket. If she gave this man a coin or two, would she still have enough left over to purchase the thread?
She shook her head. The money wasn’t hers to give. It belonged to Miss Pendleton. Besides, if she dropped it in his cup, what if another thief came along?
“Don’t worry, miss,” the man said giving her a shadow of a smile. “Your kindness is enough for me today. And I thank you for it.”
Elise straightened, determined to do something more. “Will you be here later?”
He hesitated, and a cloud of fear crossed his face. Did he think she would turn him in to the police? As a vagrant he could be put in prison or carted off to Blackwell’s Island Asylum. With rumors of overcrowding, rotten food, and frequent outbreaks of disease, just the thought of the asylum was enough to make a person shudder.
“Don’t worry,” she quickly offered. “I’ll bring you food and money.”
“That’s very kind of you, miss. Very kind.” The trembling of his hand told her he wasn’t convinced.
“I mean you no harm, I promise.” She touched his hand, already deciding she would bring him her noon meal. She could go without today, just as she had plenty of days in the past.
She resumed her walk along Seventh Street, but her footsteps dragged. She had so much for which to be grateful—considering she had been begging for her food last week. Yet anger and lingering bitterness still warred within her. “It shouldn’t be this way,” she muttered to herself. “Blind men. Children. Young women. They should not have to live on the streets.”
She caught the faint scent of pumpernickel and sesame seed, which brought back a rush of memories of her father, of his hands covered in coarse flour, his apron tight across his middle, his nose and cheeks red from the heat of the ovens. She passed a cabinetmaker’s shop, the shoemaker, barber, and a locksmith.
Finally she was standing before the open door of a bakery. Inside, a woman was busy kneading dough at a worktable behind the counter. A few brown loaves remained in a basket on the counter, along with hard-crusted rolls. Elise guessed most of the freshly baked goods had already been delivered to patrons in the early hours of the morning.
She and Marianne had been in charge of delivering their father’s breads to his customers. Though she’d done her part to help with the business, she always liked it best when Vater allowed her to work alongside him as he created some of his more delectable pastries: apple strudel, marzipan tart, and Berliner Pfannkuchen. She could almost smell their sweetness emanating from the bakery before her.
At a shout and the banging of a door somewhere inside, the woman behind the counter rested her hands on the dough and glanced at the stairs leading down to the cellar and the oven. She wiped a sleeve across her forehead to staunch the flow of perspiration, which was constant in the summers as a result of the sweltering heat that rose from the oven.
Vater had worked
long hours in his tiny shop here in America, tromping down the rickety wooden cellar steps to his oven. In the poorly ventilated and cramped hovel, he’d tend his baked goods. He’d always come back up, his face dripping with sweat and blackened from the soot of the burning coal. Sometimes he worked around the clock, barely sleeping at all. While he earned enough to keep food on the table in their apartment home above the shop, he’d never been able to make their life as comfortable as it had been back in Hamburg.
“Can I help you?”
Elise realized the woman behind the counter had turned from her lump of dough and was looking directly at her.
“No,” Elise started. “I was just—”
“Then get out of here.” The woman’s voice was angry, and she reached for the long handle of a nearby peel.
Elise backed out of the doorway and darted past the storefront window. She suspected the baker’s wife had to threaten lingering urchins bent on stealing from her. But life in the city hadn’t left the woman so hardened and skeptical that she would think the worst of everyone, had it?
Is that what bitterness did to people, drain them of all goodwill? Maybe it did with other people, but it wouldn’t with Elise.
She walked several more blocks before turning onto Centre Street with its overflowing taverns and breweries. She’d traversed a short block when shouts filled the street. She watched as people—men, women, and children—ran in her direction. Their eyes were wild, their expressions frightened, their movements frantic. A young boy rushed toward Elise. Under the brim of his cap he kept tossing terrified glances over his shoulder so that he wasn’t fully aware of where he was headed. Elise was too startled by the coming onslaught to move out of his way.
Even though he was small, perhaps five years old, his shoulder rammed against her stomach and rib cage, and the momentum made her stumble backward. She was surprised when strong arms caught her.
“I’ve got you,” said a man behind her. Instead of landing painfully on her backside, she found herself being propelled by the man until she was standing straight again.