Away in a Manger

by Rhys Bowen

  “She’ll throw us out,” Tig said bleakly. “We’ve nowhere else to go and Mummy wouldn’t know where to find us.”

  Then the situation was decided for me. Liam had been really good until now, sitting up, strapped into his pram, and watching the world go by. But he had been confined longer than usual and was presumably feeling cold, trapped, and miserable now that wet snow was blowing into his face. He suddenly let out a squeal of frustration and rage.

  “Mama. Up,” he screamed. “Up. Up.” And he reached out to me and he threw himself around, kicking off covers and flailing arms and legs.

  Clearly I was in no position for a quiet and calm chat with the aunt with a screaming baby in the background. I supposed I could ask Bridie to push him around for a while, but she also looked so miserable that I didn’t want to keep them out in the cold and snow longer than I had to. Liam was reaching the stage when he would become inconsolable. His needs had to come first at this moment. I unstrapped him from the buggy and took him into my arms, attempting to wrap his blanket around him to keep out the icy blast.

  “Listen, Tig,” I said, turning to the boy. “I’m going to trust you this time and hope that you won’t ever let me down. Tell your aunt that there was a disturbance and you had to bring your sister home so that you didn’t get involved—all right? And give her the dollar that I just gave you. Tell her an important-looking lady gave it to you and said that she thought you needed a good nourishing meal.” When Tig looked skeptical about this I added, “And the lady said she’d come back and check that you’d been fed properly.”

  “All right.” It came out as little more than a whisper.

  I had another thought and struggled to open my purse with a wriggling baby in my arms. “And Tig. Can you read?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “Mummy taught me to read when I was Emmy’s age. But Emmy hasn’t learned properly yet.”

  “I can read C-A-T,” Emmy said. “And D-O-G.”

  “I’d keep teaching her but we don’t have any books,” Tig said.

  I fished a card from my purse. “Tig, this is my calling card. It has my name and address on it. I live near the Jefferson Market building. That’s the building that looks like an old castle. You’ll recognize it. If you need me at any time you can come and find me.” I handed it to him. “Don’t show it to your aunt. It can be our secret.”

  He took it and tucked it into a pocket.

  “Thank you very much,” he said. “Come on, Emmy.”

  He took her hand.

  She looked back at me with that angelic smile. “You’re a very kind lady,” she said, then directed her smile at Bridie, who was busy straightening out the blankets in the pram as the wind whipped at them. “And you’re a very kind girl too,” she added.

  Bridie grinned shyly. “You’re welcome,” she said. “I’m sorry about your scarf. I hope your mom comes back soon. My dad and brother have gone far away too, and they don’t write. But I have Molly and Mrs. Sullivan to look after me.”

  As they started to walk away, toward the ramshackle house, another thought occurred to me. That young lout who had blamed Tig for the purse snatching. Maybe he was a gang member on the lookout for junior pickpockets and Tig would be a likely recruit, easily threatened or bribed into doing the gang’s bidding. “And Tig—” I called, and he turned back to me again. “Come to me if you’re in any kind of trouble.”

  “What sort of trouble?”

  “That big boy on the street corner,” I said. “The one who told the constable you’d taken the purse. I didn’t like the look of him. If he or one of his friends tries to get you to do something bad, you would come and tell me, wouldn’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t do anything bad,” Tig said. “But I would come and tell you. I promise.”

  I put the protesting Liam back into his buggy, much to his dismay, and tried to tuck up his kicking legs. “We’re going home,” I said. “Going home for din-dins and a nice warm fire.”

  I let Bridie push him ahead and at the street corner I lingered and looked back. I watched the children go up the front steps. Tig rapped on the door. As I watched, the door opened and a woman appeared. She stood there, hands on hips, head thrust to one side. I could see her mouth moving, but we were too far away to hear what she was saying. Whatever it was, it was angry and hurtful. Then she took Tig by the shoulder and almost flung the children inside before slamming the door. And in spite of everything, I resolved to do what I could to find out the truth about those children and their mother.

  Eight

  Back at Patchin Place I went about my household tasks, changing and feeding Liam, getting potatoes and carrots peeled for the evening meal, and counting the minutes until Daniel came home. I couldn’t get those children out of my mind. I looked at my own son, fat, healthy, laughing as he played with Bridie. Those children had been loved and cared for once by a gentle mother about whom they spoke lovingly. Why would a loving mother ever leave her children to the care of a woman like that one? Where could she have gone? My gut instinct told me that something was very wrong.

  I had just made us some tea and toast when Sid and Gus knocked at the front door. They came bursting in with excited faces. “We’ve been experimenting with fudge. You can be our guinea pigs,” Sid said, and held up the plate of fudge balls ranging from dark brown to white, some drizzled with chocolate and some wrapped in chocolate sprinkles.

  They went ahead of me into the kitchen. “Look what we’ve got, young ’uns,” Sid said. “Much more fun than plain old toast.”

  “Are you sure they are suitable for babies?” I asked. I knew Sid and Gus’s way of cooking only too well. The fudge could be half brandy if they had made it.

  “Of course,” Gus said. “What could be wrong with cream, butter, chocolate, and cocoa?”

  “Except for this one,” Sid said, pointing at the darkest brown ball. “This one did have a little bourbon in it, remember?”

  “Only a little,” Gus said with a grin. But she put a pale coffee-colored ball in front of Liam, who took it cautiously and then almost stuffed the whole thing into his mouth.

  “Careful.” I stopped him just in time. “Take a tiny bite,” I warned.

  He did so and an expression of wonder came over his face. Wonder and pure delight. We laughed. Bridie was offered one, then I took a bourbon fudge for myself, and poured us cups of tea.

  “We thought we’d give these to everyone as Christmas gifts this year,” Sid said as I ate mine, almost gasping at the richness and intensity of it. “It saves battling those crowds at the stores, doesn’t it? And who could resist?”

  “Good idea,” I replied. “I haven’t made anything yet. My mother-in-law will be arriving in a couple of days and I thought I’d wait until she gets here. She’s a much better cook than me and the children will have fun making things like gingerbread men with her.”

  “But you’ve made your Christmas puddings, surely?” Gus said.

  “No. I haven’t.”

  “But we understood that in Britain it was a tradition to make them on pudding Sunday, last Sunday of November.” Sid turned to Gus for confirmation.

  I gave an embarrassed chuckle. “At home they were too much of a luxury for us. We’d have a regular steamed pudding with jam on it or currants in it most years. And there was never brandy in our house—my father being the drinker that he was, my mother made sure that he was kept far from all liquor. So I’ve never really learned to make puddings. But it can’t be too late, can it?”

  “The brandy won’t have as much time to impregnate the fruit but I’m sure it will be all right,” Sid said. “We could come over and help. We’ve never really made a good English plum pudding—just read about them in Dickens.”

  I reached out to stop Sid from giving Liam a second fudge ball. “He won’t want his supper if he eats any more of that,” I said. “But they are delicious.”

  “So what were you doing today?” Gus turned to Bridie, who had been sitting silently until now. “Y
ou’re looking sad, young lady. What’s wrong?”

  “We went to see my beggar girl and a mean old lady took away the scarf I had knitted her.” Bridie looked as if she might cry.

  “Beggar girl?” Sid looked at me. I explained how we had heard the child singing and Bridie had given her some outgrown clothes and knitted her a scarf.

  “There are too many people suffering in this city,” Sid said. “It breaks my heart to see them every time we go out. Especially the children. But taking away a scarf. That’s just downright cruelty. Do they know who this woman was? A gang member?”

  “No, it was their aunt—or the woman they call aunt. Their mother left them in this woman’s care.”

  “So there’s nothing you can do, is there?” Sid said. “They have a guardian, even if she’s a bad one. And they have a place to sleep that’s not on the streets, and presumably they are fed. That’s a lot better than most, Molly.”

  “I know.” I glanced across at Bridie and sighed. It was better than most but it wasn’t good enough.

  Sid and Gus took their leave then, saying they had to make the next batch of fudge while they had all the ingredients out and ready. I cleaned up Liam and put him in his playpen in front of the fire, but I couldn’t get those children from my mind. Sid was right, of course. If this woman had been assigned as a guardian, then there was nothing I could do. Women beat and abused their children all the time while society looked on. But I couldn’t let it go. I had to see that woman myself, to find out what the situation was and where their mother had gone.

  * * *

  Daniel arrived home in time for supper. This was still amazing to me as most of the time we hardly saw him. I was beginning to hope that we’d actually be able to enjoy a real Christmas together for once, without a constable showing up on our doorstep saying that Captain Sullivan was needed urgently.

  I served our hot pot and poured Daniel a glass of beer. He was in a good mood, feeding Liam by saying, “Here comes the choo-choo train into the tunnel,” then bringing the spoon into Liam’s opened mouth. Then he turned to Bridie. “And what did you do today, young lady?” he asked. “Did your girl like the scarf you knitted her?”

  Bridie had been quiet since we returned home, but she had clearly been brooding on this. Without warning she burst into tears. “The old woman took it away from her,” she said between gulping sobs. “And she’s so horrible. She yells at them and she shook Tig and their mother has gone away and they don’t know when she’ll be back…”

  The words came pouring out in a torrent. I got up and put my arm around her. “It’s all right, my darling. Don’t cry. We’ll try and do what we can.”

  Daniel was sitting there, his fork poised in midair, looking shocked and mystified. I explained about the children and recounted what had happened. He gave a long sigh. “I’m sorry about the scarf,” he said to Bridie. “But there’s really nothing we can do. The children have an aunt. They have a place to stay. A roof over their heads.”

  “That’s what Miss Goldfarb said,” Bridie said, still sniffing. “I just feel so bad, knowing that they are in a place where nobody loves them and takes care of them.”

  “You have a kind heart,” Daniel said. “But I expect their mother will come back soon and all will be well.”

  Bridie shook her head. “She’s been gone for ages. They don’t know where she is.”

  I still had my arm around her shoulder. “Perhaps we can take them some food—something special. A Christmas treat. And they can eat it while you watch. The aunt can’t stop that, can she?”

  Bridie nodded, her eyes still brimming with tears. But she got up from the table and lifted Liam from his seat. “I’ll get him ready for bed then,” she said, and trudged up the stairs with him on her hip.

  “Poor little thing,” I said when she was gone. “She sees herself in that girl, you know. If it weren’t for us she could easily have been on the streets. She could have been living with her cousin Nuala, who would have treated her in the same fashion.”

  Daniel nodded as he cut himself a hunk of cheese. “It’s a hard city, Molly.”

  “But you know, Daniel,” I said thoughtfully as I carried plates over to the sink, “I’ve been thinking. Those children are so well-spoken, so well-mannered. Is it possible that they have been kidnapped from an upper-class family and brought to this country and this woman is being paid to hold them until the ransom is paid?”

  Daniel frowned. “But didn’t Bridie say they had come over with their mother?”

  I wrestled with this complication. “She might not have been their real mother. What if she was one of the kidnappers, and she told them she was their mother now?”

  “Then they wouldn’t be sad when she left, would they?”

  He was being too darned logical. “There has to be an explanation,” I said testily, realizing as I said the words that some of the explanations I’d come up with might sound a little far-fetched. “Something is so clearly wrong. Could you at least look into any recent kidnapping cases? Here and in London?”

  “If it was a kidnapping of a society child then it would be in every newspaper in creation,” Daniel said.

  “What if the family were keeping quiet because the kidnappers threatened to kill the children if they went to the police?”

  “Then we wouldn’t know about it, would we?” He gave me a slightly patronizing smile that annoyed me.

  “Why do you always have to be so right?” I demanded, making him chuckle.

  I turned back to my washing up, taking out my frustration by clattering the pots and pans as I washed. I knew very well that my annoyance wasn’t with him. It was with myself. I wanted to do something to help but was infuriated with my powerlessness.

  Then I remembered something. “There was a pickpocketing incident today,” I said. “Just across from Wanamaker’s. A woman screamed that someone had taken her purse. The little boy we’ve been telling you about was accused of doing it by a bigger boy. Of course he was innocent and during the kerfuffle the big boy slipped away. I’m pretty sure he must have taken it himself. But I’d recognize him again, Daniel, and I’m wondering if he might be connected to one of the gangs.”

  “Probably,” Daniel said.

  “Don’t you want a description of him?”

  He smiled. “They are becoming very slick, Molly. Using smaller boys, not connected to a gang, to do the actual dirty work, and the purse is passed down a chain, so that if they are stopped and searched we can never catch them with the stolen purse on them.”

  “There must be something you can do.”

  “We have to catch them in the act, like I did yesterday. And we have to make them squeal. Not easy. They’re all more frightened of men like Monk Eastman than they are of me.”

  “Monk Eastman? So you think he’s behind this?”

  “Wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Not those Italian ruffians?”

  Daniel shook his head. “They’d use Italian boys. The ones we’ve spotted have been mainly Irish, or English—” He broke off when he saw what I was thinking. “Children can be quite charming and quite devious, Molly, as you’ll find when our own son is older. They can look at you as if butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths.”

  “I know,” I said. “I raised three brothers. But I’m sure the little English boy was not a thief.” And even as I said it, I wasn’t sure. If he was somehow mixed up with a gang, if they had threatened him or his sister, wouldn’t he do what he was told? Wouldn’t the gang be using him just because of his innocent air and well-spoken manners? And that awful woman—Aunt Hettie—might she not be the brains behind a gang of street children, like a New York version of Fagin?

  I decided I had to pay a visit to her and see if I could get to the truth.

  Nine

  Saturday dawned bleak and miserable, with a hard driving sleet that peppered the windows. Not the sort of day one would want to be outside. Although it was Saturday Daniel had to work this weekend, and he lef
t early. As I served Liam and Birdie their porridge my thoughts went to Tig and Emmy. Would they be sent out into this weather, with no proper coats or shawls to keep them warm? I put a pot roast in the oven to cook slowly for us, then I remembered that we had some hot pot left over from the day before. I’d heat it up and take it to the children myself around midday. That way at least they’d have one good meal.

  Knowing that my mother-in-law would be arriving the next day, I went about last-minute scrubbing and polishing so that the house would be up to Mrs. Sullivan’s standards. The weather was still too miserable at lunchtime for me to want to take the children out, so I put Liam down for his nap and left Bridie to watch him, knowing that she could run across the street to Sid and Gus in an emergency. Then I wrapped the bowl of hot pot in a towel to keep it warm, and put on the long wool cape that Gus had given me. It was nothing like as warm as the cape with a fur-lined hood I’d once owned, but I had lost everything in a fire earlier in the year and was grateful for any donations to my meager wardrobe. I pulled the hood over my hair and set off. It was treacherous going underfoot, with the sidewalks icy and passing carts and carriages sending up sprays of muddy slush. Broadway was suspiciously quiet, the carol singers and bell ringers having been defeated by the elements. But I spotted Emmy in her doorway, hugging her knees to herself, and Tig, standing with the other boys at the crossing, stomping up and down to keep his feet from freezing. I hurried over to them.

  “You must be freezing,” I said. “I’ve brought you something to warm you up.” And I removed the towel from the bowl. The rich aroma of herbs and vegetables wafted into the air and Emmy’s face lit up. I handed her a spoon. “Here, dig in.”

  “But what about Tig?” she asked.

  But Tig was already on his way over to us.

  “She brought us food,” Emmy called to him. He broke into a trot, almost snatched the spoon I held out for him and started eating as if he hadn’t had a meal in weeks. I stood over them, keeping out the worst of the sleet, while they made short work of the stew. Only then did he look up at me. “You are very kind,” he said. “I’m sure when our mother comes back she’ll be very grateful.”