by Jody Hedlund
He dug a hand inside his pocket and came up empty. From a second pocket he pulled out two peppermints, three pennies, and a fabric flower that had fallen off Rosalind Beaufort’s hat yesterday when they’d watched the regatta. She and her parents had been delightful company. They enjoyed watching the rowing and sailing races put on by the Regatta Club. Bradford had been there too with Dorothea.
Apparently, Bradford was as anxious to get started on finding a wife as he was. Finding was the easy part, Thornton realized yesterday when he watched Miss Beaufort smile and laugh at everything he’d said. There were plenty of nice girls like Rosalind Beaufort. He could woo her with his charm and money. He might even be able to make her fall in love with him, if he worked hard enough at it. But how could he make himself fall in love with her? He’d heard that love could grow over time, but could it develop in just six months?
Thornton rubbed his thumb over the soft flower. It was delicate and blue and he’d hoped to remember Rosalind every time he touched or saw it. But now, grazing his thumb across the soft petals, he could only think how the blue was the same shade as Elise’s eyes.
“A token from the woman you love?” Elise asked, looking pointedly at the flower.
“No,” he said too morosely. If only he could lay that claim. “Sadly I’ve never been in love.”
One of her thin brows rose.
“Have you?” he asked.
“Have I been in love?”
The moment she repeated his words, he was embarrassed for having asked them. “I’m prying where I shouldn’t.” He jingled the items in his palm and then held them out to her, flower and all. “Here. My bargain and apology all in one payment.”
She started to shake her head, but he dumped the contents into her hand before she could finish her protest. The peppermints had left a sticky residue on his palm that he wiped on his trousers.
“You’re far too generous.” She pocketed the items. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
The seriousness of her expression took him by surprise for only an instant before he interpreted the sarcastic lilt of her tone. He always appreciated wit, but Bradford was usually the only one who could match him spar for witty spar.
“Don’t worry about feeling indebted to me,” he replied with the same seriousness. “I’m sure you’ll find some way to repay me for the sticky peppermints covered in lint. Eventually.”
“I’ll repay you now.”
“I suppose you have a sticky gumdrop covered in lint that you’d like to share with me in return?”
Her lips inched into the beginning of a smile. “Sorry. I don’t have anything so grand as that. But I will help you tend your wound.”
“My wound?”
She lifted a hand to just above his ear. Her touch brought a sharp sting, making him wince. When she pulled back and showed him her fingers, they were slickened with blood. “Looks like maybe you were grazed with a piece of glass.”
He skimmed the spot for himself, feeling the oozing blood and a thin but neat split in his skin. “I didn’t realize I’d been cut. I wonder when it happened.”
“With all the senseless violence, it could have been at anytime.”
The stomping of footsteps coming their way signaled the reverend’s return. “The women are all doing well.” As the burly man made his way down the hallway, he glanced first in one workroom and then poked his head in the other across from it. “They’re a little scared, and worried for their families, but they’re safe.”
“Good—” Thornton’s words were cut off by slamming and cursing against the door. Elise had her knife out before he could even fumble for the handle of his.
The reverend brushed past them both with the kind of confidence that said he knew his size and strength could easily intimidate. He peered out a crack and yelled, “Go away before you find a bullet in your backside.”
The rattling and banging of the door came to an abrupt halt. Thornton had no doubt the reverend’s booming voice had scared the perpetrator away as much as the threat of a gunshot.
After a minute of silent vigilance, the reverend turned. “I think we’re in for a long day.”
Thornton nodded. He obviously couldn’t go back out on the streets until the rioting and looting stopped. “I’ll help in any way I can.”
“You’ve already been a big help,” the reverend said.
“Are there any other doors that need guarding?”
“Only two at the back of the building near a loading dock. But I’ve got them padlocked.”
Elise glanced at his cut again. “Then you’ll spare Thornton—Mr. Quincy—a moment so I can doctor his wound?”
“By all means,” the reverend said. “I didn’t know Mr. Quincy was hurt or I wouldn’t have imposed on him.”
“Don’t feel bad, Reverend,” Thornton reassured with a grin. “I didn’t know I was hurt either. It’s a good thing God made women so they can show us all the things right in front of our faces—or on our faces—that we miss.”
The reverend gave a hearty laugh. Even though the man was older than him by at least a decade, if not more, Thornton found himself appreciating the man—his kindness, his ready smile, and his sense of humor.
Thornton followed Elise to the second floor. Immediately he was assaulted with the stench of mold, rotting wood, and dust. Floorboards were missing in some places, the ceiling crumbling in others. There were holes in the soot-covered walls, and cobwebs dangled from the beams.
Elise led him into a large room that had been converted into a dining room, complete with tables and chairs that were filled with women huddled together in groups, talking among themselves. At the sight of him, they grew silent and stared at him too boldly.
With untidy hair, pale faces, and faded garments, they were lusterless, like brass buttons that had been rubbed too hard, until they’d lost their shine. These were the kind of women he expected had lived loosely and immorally. Standing on the fringe of their midst, Elise looked like a dove among house wrens. He was struck again by how lovely and innocent she appeared by comparison.
She took him to the blind man first. Isaiah was seated at the end of one of the tables, eating a thick piece of bread slathered in butter. He paused in eating his meal and thanked Thornton profusely for leading him out of harm’s way. When Thornton shook the man’s blackened hand, Elise’s comment came back to taunt him. “Do you not wonder what kind of world we live in that allows a blind beggar to fend for himself on the streets?”
After leaving Isaiah, Elise led him over to a group of children sitting in a corner by themselves. “Marianne,” she said to a pretty brown-haired woman holding a little boy on her lap. “Allow Mr. Quincy to sit in your chair while I tend to his cut.”
Thornton guessed Marianne to be a younger sister since her features so closely resembled Elise’s. As she rose and hoisted the infant to her hip, Thornton offered her a grateful smile. Her brown eyes widened in return, but she didn’t smile back.
“Sophie.” Elise waved at a young girl sitting on the floor playing a string game with another much smaller girl. “Go find Miss Pendleton and ask her for the doctoring bag.”
As the girl did so, Thornton could see the clear resemblance between Sophie and Elise. Both had the same blond hair and blue eyes, only Sophie had slightly more delicate features. “So you have four siblings?” he asked as he lowered himself to the chair.
“Marianne and Sophie are my sisters.” Elise dipped a strip of cloth into a cup of water that was sitting on the table. “Olivia and Nicholas are orphans who we’ve been taking care of. Their mother was living with us. But one day she disappeared, supposedly to look for work. No matter how hard we tried to find her, we never could. The two have become a part of the family now.”
He wanted to say that Elise and her sisters looked like orphans themselves, hardly old enough to be taking care of someone else’s children. But she touched the cloth to his cut, and the painful pressure stopped all words and thoughts.
She held the linen firmly to his wound. He closed his eyes for a moment, squeezing back an unmanly desire to suck in his breath. When he opened his eyes, the frayed edge of her black sleeve filled his vision. It was only then that he noticed both Elise and Marianne wore all black, customary for someone in mourning.
“Who did you lose?” he asked softly.
She removed the pressure against his cut, returned the linen to the cup of water, and added more water. With her lips pressed together, she touched the linen to his wound again. He was afraid he’d offended her with his prying and that she would repay him by pushing against his cut roughly. So when she dabbed at the area more gently, he was surprised.
“I beg your pardon,” he started. “I shouldn’t have asked—”
“Our mother died in May. Over six weeks ago.”
“And it seems like just yesterday?”
Her fingers stilled. He glanced at her face hovering above him and saw her swallow hard before nodding. “I’m sorry” was all he could think to say. He knew how it felt to lose a mother. Though it had been years since his mother’s passing, there were times when he keenly missed having her encouragement, her spiritual guidance, and her unwavering belief. She’d always accepted him regardless of how he differed from Bradford.
He wanted to say something more to comfort Elise, to tell her that eventually the pain would become more bearable, even if it never truly went away. Before he could find the words to express himself, Sophie returned with not only the doctoring bag but also the petite Miss Pendleton.
From the moment he’d met the woman, he recognized her name. Her father, Ambrose Pendleton, had been one of the most ruthless businessmen in New York City. Very few men were sad to see him die. His own father had despised Ambrose for his cheating and underhanded ways.
Nevertheless, Thornton liked to give people a chance to prove themselves. He’d been lumped together with Bradford too often in the past, had been judged for Bradford’s deeds—both good and bad—instead of being measured for his own. He decided he didn’t want to do the same to others.
While Miss Pendleton and Elise applied salve and bandaged his wound, he discovered Miss Pendleton to be very forthright about her plans for the mission. She spoke of her desire not only to hire more seamstresses, but to provide a dormitory for them as well. She claimed she was modeling her mission after the place Charles Loring Brace, the founder of the Children’s Aid Society, had started for homeless boys several years ago.
She said she’d gone over to The Newsboys’ Lodging House and toured it to see how it was run. The New York Sun had contributed the space, a loft, at the top of their office building on the corner of Fulton and Nassau Streets. The facility had forty beds, a large washroom, and a dining area that could be converted into a schoolroom. The boys had to pay six cents for a bed and four cents for a meal, cheaper than even the most unsanitary and unsafe of hotels, which usually charged seven cents a night for a bed.
Miss Pendleton said her goal was to set up the mission in a similar fashion. She wanted to provide a safe place for her workers to board and for a low fee. Already she was offering simple meals to them during the workday and hoped to expand that to an evening meal.
“Such an endeavor must be very costly, Miss Pendleton,” he said, standing and lightly touching the patch of gauze above his ear.
“It is,” Miss Pendleton replied. Elise tucked the bandages back into a leather case. “God has provided for us every step of the way.”
“The brewery itself must have cost a fortune.” Even if it was a run-down piece of real estate, the property was in a prime location.
“I sold my home in order to purchase it.”
For a moment, he was speechless. What would lead someone to make such a sacrifice for women who would never be able to repay her, those who had lived such vile lives? Why had she chosen to help them?
He wanted to voice his questions, but Elise and her sisters were watching him with wide, curious eyes. He was sure they were wondering about him by now, where he’d come from and what he was doing in this part of the city. Truthfully, he was a bit embarrassed to admit to who he really was, especially in light of how little they had.
“Although we are able to maintain all we’ve started at the mission,” Miss Pendleton continued, “I regret I’m not able to move forward with repairs and improvements as quickly as I’d like.”
“That is regrettable.” His attention crept to the discolored stains on the floor where various brewery mechanisms had once stood. An opening in the floor, now covered by a grate, had probably contained a chute distributing malt into a mash tun and boil kettle somewhere on the first level of the building.
“However, the reverend and I are seeking donors,” she said, “people who might be interested in contributing to the mission on a regular basis.”
“That’s a good idea.”
She raised her brows at him. “I was hoping you’d think so, Mr. Quincy.” She stressed his last name. When her gaze met his, it was clear she was well aware of who he was and just how much wealth he had.
At a whimpering, Elise reached for the little boy they called Nicholas. Thornton wasn’t accustomed to being around children or babies. Even so, as Elise hugged the boy close, kissed his downy hair, and tucked his head under her chin, a strange, tender warmth spread through his chest.
Maybe his meeting with Elise hadn’t been so accidental after all. Maybe God had brought him here today for a reason. After all, if Miss Pendleton could sell her home to help these women, certainly Quincy Enterprises could support their cause.
“I may know of a donor, Miss Pendleton,” he finally said, cautiously, hoping Miss Pendleton read in his tone and expression his desire to keep the matter private.
“Excellent.” She picked up the medical case and snapped it closed. “Then let’s be sure to talk more later.”
He nodded, and she gave a curt nod in return. As she made her way across the room with her short steps, his momentary satisfaction was interrupted by one glaring thought. He didn’t have time for charitable efforts. And he didn’t have time to sit around the Seventh Street Mission all day and help guard it.
He had a challenge to win and he couldn’t waste a single minute if he hoped to come out on top. Yet another part of him demanded he stay and do the right thing, even if it cost him dearly.
Chapter 5
Elise balanced a plate and a cup of coffee in one hand and a lantern in the other. The hallway was dark with the coming of night, and she didn’t know the mission building well enough to traverse its corridors without adequate light.
“Hello?” she called, lifting the lantern higher to illuminate the hall.
A shadowy figure moved away from the wall. “Elise?”
“You’re still here?”
“No, I’ve left. What you’re hearing and seeing is only a figment of your imagination.”
She couldn’t keep from smiling. “Then I suppose the imaginary person won’t need the food and coffee I have.”
“Oh no,” he said. “Don’t you know that even figments need sustenance too?”
She drew nearer until the light fell upon him, turning his dark hair to a blue-black, the color of a starling in the sunlight. His face was pale, his eyes exhausted, yet his jaw was set with determination.
He’d discarded his hat, tie and coat, and had unclasped the top button of his shirt. Earlier in the day, she’d decided he was a business owner of some kind or perhaps rented properties here in Lower Manhattan. From his finely tailored garments, clean hands and fingernails, and self-assured way of conducting himself, she could see he wasn’t a common laborer or tradesman.
But now, with his shirtsleeves rolled up, his hair mussed, and his forehead lined with weariness, he seemed less lofty and more like an average man.
He took the coffee from her and tested the liquid with a sip before gulping several swallows.
“Sorry it’s not hot anymore,” she said.
“I’m not complainin
g.” He tipped the cup up and drained it.
She exchanged the empty mug for the plate of food. “The meal isn’t hot either.”
He dug into the potato dumplings and chicken in gravy she’d prepared for dinner. The cook Miss Pendleton had hired to come once a day to prepare a meal for the workers hadn’t shown up. Elise finally offered to make something out of the chicken delivered earlier that morning before any rioting started. Miss Pendleton eagerly agreed, admitting she’d never cooked a meal in her entire life.
Even if the coal-burning stove had been small, the workspace cumbersome, and the choice of ingredients sparse, Elise relished every moment of preparing the meal. She hadn’t had the opportunity to cook anything since Christmas Day, back when they were still living with Uncle Hermann, when she helped Mutti and Aunt Gertie make a special dinner out of the few items they’d managed to purchase.
Elise enjoyed cooking meals and experimenting with new recipes, applying all she’d learned from Vater. Her opportunities to practice her culinary skills in recent years had dwindled to almost nothing. She’d worked such long hours in the sweatshop that she had so little energy after returning to Uncle’s apartment each night. But even if she’d had the energy, they survived on the simplest of fare with little variety—fried fish, bread, and occasionally sauerkraut.
“This is really good,” Thornton said between bites.
“Everything is good when you’re hungry.”
“Perhaps.” His spoon scraped the plate as he scooped up the last remnants of gravy. “But this was especially tasty.”
His praise warmed her heart.
“Give my regards to the cook,” he said, handing the plate back to her.
“I will.” Elise placed the empty cup on the plate that was practically licked clean. “She thanks you and wants to know if you’d like a second helping.”
He studied her, his tired eyes crinkling at the corners with a smile of understanding. “Tell her I’d love to have more if she can spare it. And let her know it was one of the best meals I’ve eaten in a very long time.”