Cinders to Satin

by Fern Michaels

  Some of his findings had been extraordinary, revealing that while one particular organization could be a haven for the needy, others could be closer to hell. He’d already outlined his first two articles and had enlisted the aid of Bennington Brown, a reporter, to do some of the footwork.

  It was the opinion of many officers and officials connected with the Metropolitan Police Force that all efforts at reforming the fallen and indigent of the city were useless or nearly so. Byrch found it dourly amusing that the word “poor” was interchanged with “wayward” or “fallen.” Regardless of what these officials believed, social reformers founded and maintained numerous benevolent institutions throughout the city.

  The largest and best-known of these societies was the Midnight Mission at 23 Amity Street. It was a large, four-story brick house, two short blocks from Broadway. Byrch considered the mission a success.

  Every Thursday and Friday evening meetings were held at the mission. Advertisements of these meetings were distributed among the houses of prostitution, which abounded in the neighborhood. Missionaries, clergymen, and church elders would walk the streets at night and give the cards to those women who would accept them. The meetings were very successful, attendance was popular. Plain, simple refreshments were served, and there was a religious service. The women were persuaded to tell their stories, unfolding the troubles of their lives, receiving advice, direction, and comfort.

  Of all the charities Byrch had investigated, the Midnight Mission seemed to be the best. The committee readily opened their books to him, and Byrch found them to be in order. He was impressed with the dedication the members of the society possessed. While they tried to help those who sought it, they did not labor under the belief that they would bring a halt to all prostitution and crime in the city.

  Of the worst of the institutions, Byrch was already mapping out his article. The Home of the Merciful near the foot of Seventy-fifth Street was solely for the reformation of fallen women. It was headed by a zealous woman who called herself Mrs. Harper and claimed to be the widow of a Reverend Joseph Harper from Cincinnati. In Byrch’s opinion, the woman had come from the midwest for the sole purpose of lining her pockets with the contributions donated to her organization. Mrs. Harper was reluctant to discuss the workings of her institution, and she refused to open her ledgers. While she herself seemed to be particularly well-fed, there were several girls, hardly more than children, who were in advanced stages of malnutrition. Upon inquiring, Byrch discovered they’d been living at the House of the Merciful for almost a year. Captain Gordon of the Eighth Precinct was now in the process of investigating Mrs. Harper’s origins and reputation as a favor to Byrch.

  Byrch knew he had his work cut out for him. Although he had already visited nine or ten organizations for the needy, he knew he hadn’t even scratched the surface. So it was with grave suspicions that he now went to 23 Bleecker Street to learn about Kevin and Bridget’s favorite charity.

  He took a hansom cab to the corner of Broadway and Bleecker, walking down the street to get his bearings and a feel for the neighborhood. The windows in the brick houses were dark for the most part, except for an occasional halo of lamplight. Dusk was fast approaching, and pedestrian traffic was increasing with the flow of the masses returning home from work. Minuscule front courtyards surrounded by pretentious iron fencing broke the monotony of the identical brick houses, as did several sapling trees flanking the street.

  Byrch crossed Bleecker Street and stood in front of number 23. The yard and walk were clean of debris; the narrow slate stones leading around to the back of the four-story house were swept and tended. Warm yellow lamplight peeped from between cracks in the drawn draperies. The house itself was like any other on Bleecker Street, except for the shield near the front door that read MAGDALENE FEMALE SOCIETY.

  Byrch decided on the spur of the moment to follow the walk around to the back of the house. A kitchen could tell an entire story about the people who lived there and how well they were cared for, especially near dinnertime.

  He rapped smartly on the worn back door and waited. When there was no response, he knocked again. He hadn’t formulated what he expected in the way of a greeting, but it certainly wasn’t the woman who stood almost as tall as he and outweighed him by at least forty pounds. Her pale white face was in direct contrast to the raven blackness of her hair, which was pulled back into a severe knot making her angular features even less attractive.

  Byrch found himself forcing a smile. “I’m Byrch Kenyon from the Clarion-Observer. I’d like to do a story on your organization. It might help you get additional funding,” he added as bait.

  “You would, would you? Why didn’t you knock on the front door like a gentleman? Back doors are for tradesmen, or didn’t you know?” Byrch was taken aback by the depth and volume of the woman’s voice.

  “I did go to the front door,” Byrch lied. “No one answered.”

  “I find that hard to believe. I have excellent hearing, and I was in the front parlor.”

  Byrch smiled what he hoped was an enchanting smile. “I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure of an introduction.”

  “Mrs. Slater to you! And don’t try your charm on me. That smile will get you nowhere. Go around to the front door, and I’ll speak to Mr. Hatterchain about admitting you. We don’t just let anyone in, you understand. This is a decent house for unfortunate women.”

  “I understand that, Mrs. Slater. Mr. and Mrs. Kevin Darcy, who are so enthusiastic about the work you’re doing here, convinced me to do a story.” He tried to peer into the kitchen beyond her, aware of the aroma of roast pork and fried potatoes. This doubled his suspicions. Even the Midnight Mission couldn’t afford such quality food, and they were the most generous he’d found yet.

  “That’s very nice, Mr. . . . . Kenyon was it? Well, don’t just stand there, go around the front.”

  Byrch smiled again, this time a wide, boyish grin. “Hmmm! Sure smells good in there.” He tried to pass her into the kitchen, but she moved her bulk, blocking his view. “Couldn’t I just come through this way?”

  “Impossible. And if you continue to be impertinent, I will not ask Mr. Hatterchain to see you.” There was a finality to her words, and stepping backward into the kitchen, she slammed the door between them.

  He didn’t fail to hear the snick of the bolt and the hook into the screw-eye. It was the second shot of a bolt being sent home against its brass housing that puzzled him. Three locks on one door! Did the Magdalene have so much to protect within its walls? Were they keeping people in—or keeping them out? Perhaps Mr. Hatterchain would give him a clue.

  When the front door was finally opened to admit Byrch, he was face-to-face with a small, benign-looking gentleman wearing spectacles. He greeted Byrch warmly, extending his hand in welcome, his peculiar high-pitched yet raspy voice bidding him to “Come in, come in!” Mr. Hatterchain was unduly jovial to the point of Byrch’s irritation.

  Once settled into the opulent front parlor, Byrch explained that he was with the Clarion-Observer, doing a feature article that could speak well of the Magdalene Society, and also hinted at a windfall of new and generous donations.

  Matthew Hatterchain leaned forward, elbows on knees, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. The man’s small eyes danced with glee, and he was so free and open with information and the names of their present patrons that his very innocence made Byrch suspicious.

  “I wish you had arranged for an appointment, Mr. Kenyon, so we could have prepared for your visit. I would gladly give you a tour of this establishment if you would come back again tomorrow. Say just after noon? It is the end of the day, and the women are tired . . .” He shrugged and threw up his hands. “You know how women are, Mr. Kenyon, so protective of their privacy.” This last he said in a conspiratorial tone as though he, along with Byrch, were all too familiar with the female psyche.

  “It wouldn’t take long, Mr. Hatterchain. I merely want to see what accommodations you offer. I’m af
raid I have an early morning deadline, and I can’t include the Magdalene Society in my article if I don’t see for myself what I write about. Of course, I would like to speak to several of the women—for direct quotes, you understand. However, since you say it’s impossible, I’m sorry to have taken your time. Perhaps we’ll be doing a feature article on these charitable institutions at a later date. Your organization could be included then.”

  Matthew Hatterchain thought about the missed opportunity. “Please, don’t misunderstand. I’m certain the committee will be most delighted with your interest in us. We do have some very prestigious sponsors, as I’m certain you must know. Why, two weeks from this very day they are sponsoring a charity ball, and all the proceeds come to the Magdalene Female Society.” Hatterchain’s voice rose in pitch. “Please excuse my bad manners. You want to see what we offer here and, of course, you must. We have women waiting to come here, but we simply don’t have the accommodations necessary. With additional funding we could possibly extend to other buildings. Ah,” he sighed, “it always comes down to money.”

  Byrch nodded appropriately. “Yes, it would be a shame not to be included in the feature.”

  Mr. Hatterchain was suddenly very accommodating. “This, as you can see, is our parlor. After dinner the women will be sewing or visiting here. There’s a box of toys behind the door for the children.”

  The room was very comfortable to the point of opulence. The good Samaritans would need a respectable front parlor to have tea when they came to call. Mr. Hatterchain signaled Byrch to follow him.

  “This is the dining room. As you can see, we’ve incorporated another room to make it as spacious as possible. Right now, there are nearly fifty women in residence, and meals are somewhat hectic. But we all do our share, Mr. Kenyon, we all do our share!”

  Here, in the dining hall, so close to the kitchen, Byrch detected the delicious aromas of fresh bread and meat roasting. It was reassuring to know that the occupants of 23 Bleecker Street ate well.

  “If you’ll follow me to the dormitories,” Hatterchain offered. “We wish we didn’t have to crowd the women into this type of accommodation, but it’s the best we can do for now. Of course, most of them come from very deprived conditions, and we don’t hear any complaints. We’re all pulling together, Mr. Kenyon, making the best of the situation. A roof over the head, food in the belly, and work. It’s the stuff of life!” he offered philosophically.

  They went up the front hall stairs to the second floor, and Byrch was surprised when Hatterchain continued to the third floor. “Mrs. Slater and myself keep rooms on this floor, and our offices, of course. The dormitories are on the third and fourth floors.” A mischievous smile played around Hatterchain’s mouth when he rapped on the door and called out that a visitor was here for an inspection. “You understand, we have to give them time in the event they are are not decently garbed.”

  Byrch was perturbed about something, and he realized it was the silence of the house. Fifty odd women living here and not a single voice to be heard.

  “How much do you know about our organization?” Hatterchain asked, lounging against the door frame.

  “Not too much. I’ve picked up dribs and drabs, but I’ve nothing first-hand. Is it true you find employment for the women and help them become established so they’re able to move out on their own? What about those who have children? Who tends to them? Are the women paid a decent wage? Do they get to keep what they earn? Where do they work? I’ll need the details and perhaps an interview with several of the women.”

  Hatterchain’s eyes clouded, contradicting his words. “I don’t see why not. Of course, you understand that will be impossible today. I’ll have to take the matter up with the committee. You see, Mr. Kenyon, we do all we can to protect individual privacy.” While seeming perfectly at ease speaking with Byrch, a thin film of perspiration beaded on Mr. Hatterchain’s upper lip, and his fingers kept going to his waistcoat to finger his pocket watch.

  “Where do you find these women?”

  Hatterchain shrugged. “Anywhere, everywhere. Some are brought here by concerned patrons of the society. From all walks of life, Mr. Kenyon, all befallen on hard times.” He allowed a mournful note to creep into his voice. “We have some who, having no other choice, found themselves in prostitution. We’re here to heal the body and save the soul, Mr. Kenyon. Er . . . you might put that little quotation in your article. Not very long ago a young girl was brought to us from a nearby house of prostitution. We hope to enrich her life and set her feet on the path of righteousness. Er . . .”

  “I know, I can quote that.” Byrch smiled agreeably, disliking Mr. Hatterchain more by the minute. The man’s pretentiousness could only be equaled by Bridget’s. “You were telling me about a young girl from a brothel?”

  “Yes. She’s fresh from Ireland, an immigrant. I’m sorry to say we’re seeing more and more of those these days,” he sighed. “At the moment, she’s recovering from a fever. Nothing more than a cold. However, she insists on working and is putting in as many hours as she’s able in a button factory. I have to say I admire her ambition to reform.”

  Hatterchain rapped on the door again, voicing the warning, “We’re coming in!” Suddenly the door was opened by a haggard woman with large, solemn eyes. She looked first at Hatterchain and then at Byrch, moving aside to allow them to enter. There was sorrow in her eyes and a bitterness about her mouth, and the drab of her dress accentuated the sallowness of her complexion.

  All the rooms on the third floor had been opened to form one large area. Beds of every description lined the walls and were put in rows down the middle. Small cots and blankets filled every available space. Several women sat on the edge of their beds. A maudlin, suspicious silence surrounded him. The perspiration on Hatterchain’s upper lip seemed to have increased.

  Questions bounded through Byrch’s brain. Where were the children? His attention was caught by a startled gasp, and he turned to find its source. His eyes widened when he saw a slender young girl with a tousle of cropped chestnut hair and eyes as blue as the clear skies of Ireland. He would never forget those eyes and the defiance on that young face. How had Callie James come to be in the Magdalene Society? He was about to speak when she turned her eyes away and shook her head. A worried frown drew her brows together. She didn’t want Byrch to admit recognition of her. Uncertain of his next move, he made several comments and asked unimportant questions of the residents. His attention kept returning to Callie. He could feel Hatterchain’s intensity and noticed that the women all kept their eyes averted from him. Before he turned to leave, Byrch made a pretense of offering his handkerchief to Callie, who was racked with a seizure of coughing. He took the opportunity to whisper, “Is this place what it seems?”

  Callie turned her glance to Byrch, looking up at him through an intense blue stare. He watched her lips quiver and heard the strangled one-word reply: “No.”

  So his suspicions had been right. So much for the outward appearances of a charitable organization. Quickly, without advance warning, Byrch pointed his finger at several of the women and then at Callie. “Where do you work? You? You?” It was only Callie’s reply that interested him.

  “The Cullen Button Factory.”

  It was enough, it was all he needed. How in the name of all that was holy had that child found her way here from Ireland? “We’ll meet again, and we’ll talk about your stay here at the Magdalene Society,” he said expansively. “I’m certain you have Mr. Hatterchain to thank for your present circumstances!” He wasn’t certain, but he thought he saw relief on Callie’s face. How many times, whenever he thought of Ireland, had he remembered Callie and her spirit and her devotion to her family. To him, she was the spirit of Ireland, and her young pretty face and wide, defiant eyes had haunted him.

  The following morning Byrch awakened to the sudden thrumming of the presses in the basement of the Clarion-Observer building. He stretched his arms, rubbed the back of his neck, and felt the chill penetra
te to his bones. He’d spent the night in his office, rifling through old files and working on his editorial. The ancient leather sofa he’d taken from his study at home had been his bed, and since it would not accommodate the length of him, his knees were stiff and sore.

  Byrch added more coal to the cast-iron parlor stove in the corner of his office and then opened the door and called to the front desk for coffee. A few moments later young James Riley brought a cup of the steaming brew and placed it on Byrch’s desk.

  “I see you’ve spent the night,” Jimmy stated. “Have trouble putting the paper to bed last night?”

  “No trouble. The late edition came out on schedule. No, it’s something else I’m working on—those charitable societies for the needy. Do you know anything about them?”

  “Not much. But when I was a newsboy, before you brought me into the offices,” Jimmy smiled his gratitude, “I heard that some of those places have their fingers in a lot of pies.”

  This struck Byrch. “Say, Jim, d’you know anything about a Cullen Button Factory? See what you can get me on that, will you? Another thing—think you can manage to get me one of those knit caps, you know, like the longshoremen wear, and one of those pea jackets too?”

  “Sure, boss. There’s a place down at the docks that sells them. Anything else?”

  “Yes,” Byrch said distractedly. “More coffee!” Sitting down at his desk, he reviewed the notations he’d made the night before. First thing was to get a quick shave; second, he intended to call on the Beauchamps. Through them he would form a list of donors to the Magdalene Society. By speaking to those people, he would gather information, and the picture would come together. Something was wrong, very wrong, at 23 Bleecker Street.