Cinders to Satin

by Fern Michaels

  From that moment on Byrch devoted every waking hour to his investigation. It was six and a half days before he had what he thought was the entire picture.

  The house on Bleecker Street was a society supposedly operating as a non-profit organization whose committee consisted of several known businessmen as well as the duo of Mrs. Jeanette Slater and Mr. Matthew Hatterchain. It had become fashionable to be among its contributors. Most of the women it claimed to care for either worked for no pay or their wages were turned over to the society for payment of room and board. If a child was involved, a women had to work extra hours to pay for his keep. Jimmy Riley had been instrumental in locating a woman who was once a resident of 23 Bleecker Street. She attested to the poor food, the wresting of her wages, and the sorrowful fact that she’d been separated from her child and denied the privilege of seeing him unless she worked double shifts. Another astounding fact was that Matthew Hatterchain’s brother-in-law, John Cullen, owned and operated the Cullen Button Factory where most of the women were sent to work. Those who were pregnant were sent to work in a sewing room where they accomplished piece work for slave’s wages.

  A thorough search of the records gave Byrch the names of the society’s wealthy backers. Again he was staggered by the prominence of the names. In the end, thousands of dollars were being raked in in the name of charity, and most of it found its way into the already lined pockets of the committee.

  Byrch leaned his head onto his arms. Lord, he was tired. He tried to remember the last time he’d had more than a two-hour catnap or something other than a sandwich washed down with a cold beer. Too long.

  A second thought struck him. Would he have delved into the internal workings of the Magdalene Society if he hadn’t seen Callie James there? He knew it wasn’t just an expose or an editorial any longer—it was an obsession. The waif from Dublin had wormed her way into his life, and he felt responsible for her. He had already formulated a rescue for Callie.

  He was also determined to save Callie’s reputation. The Clarion wasn’t the only newspaper in the city, and he wanted her out of that terrible place before the story broke. Being connected with known prostitutes and a scandal would stigmatize her for years to come. She had already borne enough hardship. Byrch made his plans carefully.

  Today was a Friday, and his sources told him it was pay day. Jimmy Riley had discovered that the women were escorted home by burly employees of the button factory, no doubt a concession by Cullen to his brother-in-law, Matthew Hatterchain.

  It was a gray, dark afternoon and was nearing four o’clock when Byrch stationed himself within sight of the factory entrance. Soon the women would be exiting, escorted home by several men. In the dark peacoat and knit hat Byrch looked like a dock worker waiting for someone.

  Within the hour a pelting rain began to fall, and Byrch could feel it penetrating his clothing. The rain would work to his advantage, he decided, pulling his collar farther up against his chin. He still didn’t know what he was going to do with his “damsel in distress” once he rescued her. He wasn’t exactly the white knight, and there was no such thing as happy ever after. Callie was so young, and on top of that, she didn’t seem to be in good health. He remembered the hacking cough and had noticed the weight loss and the dark hollows under her eyes. He knew he’d have his hands full.

  The door of the button factory opened. The women filed out, heads bent against the rain. Alongside, two men accompanied them. Byrch clenched his hands into fists. If it was a fight he was in for, he was ready for it. Shoulders hunched, head down, he crossed the street, sidestepping a passing dray. Moving at a fast pace, he came abreast of the women, having already picked Callie out of the group. The smallest and slightest, she had her shawl pulled over her head. Her hand covered her mouth as she coughed. Thank you, sweetheart, Byrch thought, now I know for certain which one you are.

  Byrch swallowed hard and reached out an arm, literally dragging Callie off the ground, and for one crazy moment he thought they would both topple over backwards. Regaining his balance, he pulled the frightened Callie toward him. “Shut up! If you know how to run, now’s the time to do it!”

  Callie was taken by surprise, and it was only at the last instant that she recognized this stranger with the knit seaman’s cap and coat. She saw his cat-green eyes. Mr. Kenyon! He gave her a not-too-gentle push to send her streaking off ahead of him.

  “Hey! What’s going on there?” a man’s voice shouted, reaching out to capture Callie as she ran past him.

  Byrch blocked the effort with a solid blow from his shoulder, knocking the man to the sidewalk. He heard the shrieks of the women behind him, heard the first tentative footfalls of the second man giving chase. Byrch followed Callie’s small figure as she darted into an alleyway and out the other end onto Prince Street. When the running figure ahead of him slipped and fell, sprawling into a puddle, he caught up with her, picked her up, and kept running. On the corner of Wooster and Spring Streets he was successful in hailing a hansom, and he pushed Callie inside. She heard him instruct the oilskin-garbed driver, “St. Luke’s Place.” Shivering with the cold, teeth rattling, Callie cuddled against the warmth Byrch offered. Arms wrapped around her, aware of her fragility, he murmured over and over, “It’s all right, Callie James. You’re with me now, and I’ll take care of you.”

  Callie closed her eyes, nestling her face against the wet of his peacoat, hearing his promise, feeling safe for the first time in what seemed like a lifetime.

  Within thirty minutes the hansom pulled onto St. Luke’s Place, and Byrch stirred to tap upward on the canvas roof to give the driver directions. Jumping down onto the wet cobbled street, he turned and lifted Callie into his arms, carrying her across the walk to his front door. He used his booted foot to pound on the polished brass kickplate, cursing aloud for Edward, his manservant, to hurry.

  The door swung open to reveal a tall black man with an astonished expression on his face. “Mr. Kenyon!” he exclaimed in the clipped accent of the British West Indies. Stepping aside, he admitted his employer and his burden.

  “Go out there and pay the driver, Edward, and put in extra for him. Another hansom driver probably wouldn’t have stopped for us, considering the way we look.”

  “Yes, sir.” Edward peered at the space between his employer’s neck and his shoulder, seeing the pale little face and the tiny upturned nose. He was too well-trained to display his astonishment or curiosity.

  “Then put on your oilskins and go down the street for Dr. Jameson. We’ve got a sick little girl on our hands.”

  Byrch carried Callie up the stairs to the second floor and took her into a bed-sitting room where a fire was burning with a cheery glow. He rushed around like a doting mother bringing towels and an assortment of dry clothes. “I’m going down to brew us some hot tea,” he told her, wincing inwardly as she coughed. “Can you get yourself out of those wet things and into dry clothes? Don’t worry if they don’t fit, this isn’t a fashion parade. Dry your head before you catch your death. Do it now!” he commanded before closing the door.

  Callie was exhausted, wet, and too disoriented to notice her surroundings. She followed Byrch’s orders as best she could, stripping out of her dress and petticoat and undergarments, standing before the fire, and allowing its warmth to penetrate her skin. The soft cambric shirt fell past her knees; warm knitted stockings came up to fill the gap. A warm, fleecy robe trailed along the floor, but it was a fine wool and so warm and clean. She rubbed briskly at her curls, and knew if she sat before the fire, her hair would be dry within minutes.

  Byrch came back to the room, knocking before entering, carrying a tray bearing a teapot, cups, and a tall, brown bottle of whiskey. He placed it on the small pie-crust table to one side of the hearth and poured, lacing the tea liberally with the whiskey. “Drink this while I change into something dry,” he ordered. “Where the hell is Edward and Dr. Jameson?” he wondered aloud, wishing for reinforcements. The sudden responsibility for this girl was weighing
heavily on him, and when she choked on the strong brew and continued hacking, he watched her in misery and helplessness.

  Changing hurriedly into dry trousers and a fresh shirt, Byrch stepped into house slippers and quickly returned to the bed-sitting room where he’d left Callie. Questions flooded through his brain: How had she come to America? Why had she left Ireland? Had she finally gotten herself into serious trouble with the law? When had she arrived? How long had she been here? How did she come to be in the Magdalene Female Society? What did that bastard Hatterchain mean when he’d said Callie had been rescued from a brothel? And most of all, where in hell were Edward and Dr. Jameson?

  “Are you hungry?” Byrch asked. Callie nodded her head, the chestnut curls almost dry now, wispy tendrils still clinging to the sides of her face, giving her the look of a gamin. It was then that he saw the huge eyes fill with tears, welling glassily before tumbling down onto her softly curving cheeks. Poor little thing.

  He went to her, putting the teacup to her lips, encouraging her to drink. He saw that she was shivering with cold, her full, pouting underlip faintly blue. Yanking a blanket from the bed, he wrapped it tightly around her and thought about putting her to bed, but it was so much warmer here by the fire. Lifting her into his arms, he settled himself with his bundle into the Windsor chair beside the hearth, holding her close to him, imparting his warmth.

  The dampness of her curls was pressed against his cheek; his hands felt the smallness of her beneath the bundling of the blanket. She rested quietly against him, taking his comfort. Her body trembled, quaking, and he couldn’t be certain if it was from the cold or from the tears she choked down. “I don’t know how you came to New York, little one, or how it is that you’re back in my life, and I don’t even know what I’m going to do with you, but you must know you can trust me, Callie.”

  His voice was warm, soothing, and deep; she could hear it rumbling up from his chest. “Do you remember the last time we met?” he asked softly. “I thought we became friends that day. You found out my name, even that I own a newspaper. I wouldn’t have been too difficult to find. Why didn’t you come to me, Callie? You could’ve avoided so much suffering.” At that moment he would have cheerfully killed any man who touched this girl-child. She was so young, so vulnerable, and there was such innocence in those great, soulful eyes. His protective instincts rose. In some way Callie James belonged to him, but he preferred to think of his instincts as paternal.

  After a long moment he heard her sigh, felt her relax herself against him, heard her sniffle. “Everything happened so fast,” she whispered. “I didn’t know how ugly things could be.” A shuddering sob shook her.

  Holding her close, his lips against her heated brow, Byrch felt such tenderness well up within him that it left him nearly speechless. “Hush now, sweet, don’t think about it. You’re here with me now.”

  They sat together before the fire, Callie nestled on his lap, his arms holding her close. The silence held for such a long time until, bending his head to see if she’d fallen asleep, Byrch found she was staring wide-eyed into the fire. “What are you thinking, little one?” he asked softly.

  The reply was hardly more than a whisper. “I’m thinking that if my mum could see me now, she’d go up in smoke!”

  Book Two

  Chapter Nine

  Callie felt like a fairy-tale princess in her own bed in Byrch’s guest bedroom. The sheets were the smoothest, softest muslin; the comforter the silkiest satin; her nightdress and bed jacket the frothiest, frilliest lace bedecked with pink ribbons and silk rosettes. Across the pale green and gold room a fire sizzled cheerily in the hearth, and Edward, Byrch’s manservant, seemed to take it upon himself to be sure she had every delicacy New York had to offer. Oxtail soup, fresh oranges, sweet butter, vanilla custard, fluffy yellow muffins, and pots and pots of tea and jars of jellies and jams. Chocolates, something she had never tasted until now, were packaged in lovely tins and ornate boxes and were forever within her reach.

  Callie smacked her lips and patted her tummy. She was going to grow absolutely fat! Kindly Dr. Jameson had been to see her three times, and on each of his visits he was more pleased with her, encouraging Edward to continue his good care and suggesting that Callie seemed well enough to partake of heartier fare such as beef stew and fish chowder. Edward was the one who had thought to bring her several night shifts and the exquisite bed jacket, his startling white smile spreading across his ebony face when he perceived her pleasure. Byrch came to see her several times each day and always for a few moments before leaving for the newspaper. He doted on her like a mother hen, forever touching her brow for signs of her fever returning. Only last night he had told her that Dr. Jameson was certain she could leave her bed for a few hours each day, and Byrch had promised to take his supper with her in her room to celebrate.

  Exactly as promised, Byrch followed Edward into Callie’s room that evening, directing him to serve the meal in front of the fire. Callie eyed the roast chicken greedily, smelling the pungent aroma of baked fruit torte and fresh bread dripping with creamery butter. It had been nearly three hours since she’d finished her last box of chocolates, and she was famished!

  Byrch laughed when he saw Callie dig into the tender white meat of the chicken. “I’m glad to see your appetite has returned,” he teased. “Edward tells me he has to force those chocolates down your throat!”

  Callie blushed. “It’s just that everything tastes so good! I feel as though I’ve been empty for so long I just can’t seem to fill up!”

  Byrch laughed again, and Callie liked the sound, although it seemed to her that almost everything she said he found to be funny. Sometimes it irked her, but she was feeling so pleasantly satisfied, she decided not to argue. Let him tease her. He had saved her, hadn’t he?

  After the meal, Edward came to clear away the plates, bringing Byrch a snifter of brandy along with his pipe and tobacco. Callie walked to the far end of the room, liking the feel of her little house slippers sliding over the Oriental carpet. Her dressing gown was the palest shade of pink and fell in a straight line from just over the bosom, ending in a little flare near the hem. It was by far the loveliest thing she’d ever owned.

  “Sit down, Callie. It’s high time we had a talk,” Byrch said quietly. He found himself completely captivated by this girl whose cheeks were once again taking on the bloom of Ireland and whose rose-petal lips always seemed moist and tender. Even the unruly tumble of her glossy chestnut curls seemed coquettishly feminine.

  Something in the tone of his voice caused Callie alarm. It was the same tone Thomas James would use when he had something dire to announce to the family, something that would disappoint or injure. She’d heard herself use that same somber tone when she would tell the younger children not to believe in Granda’s stories. Was Byrch going to tell her this was all a dream and she had to go back to the Magdalene Society?

  Callie crossed the carpet on whisper-quiet feet and sat down on the edge of the tapestry-upholstered Queen Anne armchair opposite her benefactor.

  Her eyes were downcast and her expression so grim that Byrch smiled. “Perk up, Callie, it isn’t as serious as all that. It’s simply . . . simply that I don’t know what to do with you. What’s best for you, that is.”

  Inwardly Callie bristled, her temper flaring. So he didn’t know what to do with her. After he’d interfered in her life for the second time, taken her into his home, he’d decided she wasn’t worth the trouble! Forcing herself into a show of bravado, Callie lifted her chin; her clear blue eyes looked levelly into his. “I wondered when you were going to tell me what’s to become of me!” She heard the edge of temper in her voice and said, in a more indifferent tone, “Since you’ve been poking your nose in my business, I thought you’d have something in mind for me. But since you don’t, I’ll be thankin’ you to take me back to Madge’s on Cortlandt Street. No doubt, she’ll think of something.”

  Byrch stared at her incredulously. “Are you talking about that
prostitute who sent you off to the house on Bleecker Street?” He attempted to keep his voice light, took the time to puff on his pipe, but he was shaken to the quick. “Suppose you tell me the whole story, Callie. Start from the beginning, from when I left you in Dublin.”

  “Why? What difference does it make?” She felt she’d become a terrible burden on him and was ashamed of it. Her words crackled like the logs in the hearth; her voice piped high and brittle.

  “Because I said so, that’s why, dammit!” Byrch watched her shrink beneath his command. He felt he understood her. She was like a boxer he’d seen once, throwing fists and battling his opponent, jabbing and thrusting long after the bell sounded to end the round. The man had been nearly dead on his feet, and still he continued to fight. Byrch supposed Callie had been fighting and struggling for so long and so desperately that, like a boxer, she didn’t know when the round had ended, when she could retreat to her corner.

  Callie curled up in the chair, obediently and quietly, and told him about the events that had led to his finding her on Bleecker Street. When she mentioned her cousin, Owen Gallagher, Byrch choked on the pipe smoke.

  “Owen Gallagher? That pimp? You say he’s your cousin? For Christ’s sake!”

  “Now look here, Mr. Kenyon,” Callie defended, family loyalty rising, “I know just what you’re thinking! That my family is filled with thieves and whoremasters. Well, it’s just not true. We’re decent people, we are! Owen is only my mother’s second cousin through marriage—”

  “Shut up, Callie,” he scolded, finding her excuses tiresome. “Get on with what happened at the Magdalene. I’m doing a story on that society and others like them.”