Of course no one her age dressed like that in the red-light district was all right. “I mean. What can I do to help?”
“You want to help me?” Instead of sounding tough like Pepper, the girl’s voice held uncertainty and . . . hope, perhaps?
“Yes, if I can.”
“I’m past help.” She sniffed. “Certainly from a lady like yourself.” Her eyes narrowed again as she took in Lydia’s clothing.
This girl’s low-cut silk confection couldn’t be providing her much warmth, especially since she was sitting on concrete and clinging to an iron banister.
Lydia tugged off her coat and held it out to her as she came closer.
“I can’t take that.”
“Sure you can.”
She didn’t reach for it, but yet, she didn’t flee either.
Lydia took the last step to reach her and draped it around her shoulders.
The girl fingered the lapel now resting against her neck. “Why are you here?”
Lydia wrapped her arms against herself. She might not have needed the coat as badly as this girl, but giving it up for a good reason hadn’t magically made the cold wind bearable. “I’m looking for some children I know.” She forced herself to keep her teeth from chattering. “One’s about your age.”
If someone’s expression could testify to a person’s insanity, this young lady’s countenance could have sent Lydia to an asylum. “You know people here?”
She shook her head, her frown as heavy as her heart. “Barely.”
“And what do you want them for?”
“I was hoping to take them away from this place if I found them.”
The girl stared at her intently, making Lydia squirm.
“I’m looking for a girl named Pepper, her sister, Angel, and a boy about this tall who doesn’t speak.”
The girl shook her head.
Lydia closed her eyes as disappointment washed over her. But maybe God could use her to help someone else. She took a deep breath and squatted beside the girl, who immediately backed up a step.
Lydia touched her lightly but firmly on her shoulder. “What’s your name?”
The girl shook her head. “Don’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
She swallowed hard and after a moment whispered, “Dainty Bit.”
Hopefully she hadn’t seen her wince at such an awful name. “I mean, what did your mother name you?”
She shrugged. “Sadie.”
At a sound behind her, Lydia startled and looked over her shoulder. Her heart slowed upon seeing a cat climb out of a crate full of trash. But Mr. Parker would be back any moment . . . and who knew who else might see her if she stayed in the alley much longer. “Do you have family?”
She shook her head.
“Did you mean it when I overheard you ask God for help?”
She only blinked up at her as if she couldn’t believe someone had actually listened.
Lydia turned to look over her shoulder again. “I can’t stay much longer, but I know of a place you can go where you don’t have to work. You can go to school and—”
“School?” The girl swallowed hard.
“Yes.”
“I’ve always wanted to go to school.” She clasped her knees and hugged her legs close.
The door behind Sadie opened and Lydia shot up.
A large woman with a dirty apron over her worn dress and arms as portly as ham hocks came out holding a scrap bucket. Her eyes grew hard at the sight of her. “What you doing here?” She glanced down at Sadie. “Get inside.”
Lydia stepped between them and thrust out her hand. “Don’t touch me or Sadie.”
“Sadie?” A moment of confusion contorted her face.
“Yes, Sadie. I’m taking her somewhere safe. Somewhere she can go to school.” She looked down hoping Sadie wasn’t as hard as Pepper, who’d fight such forwardness. But the girl only bit her lip and turned to stare at the beat-up coach Lydia had abandoned a few minutes ago.
The hefty cook’s hand upset the gray curls flattened under her white gauzy cap. “You’re asking for trouble, miss. More trouble than you know.”
Lydia stepped forward, trying to look as convincing as possible. “For the love of this child, pretend you saw nothing. Let her disappearance be discovered without your help.” When the woman only blinked at her, she turned to the girl and helped her up, hoping Sadie wouldn’t take the fact that she was trembling uncontrollably as a reason not to come with her.
After noting that the cook hadn’t moved, Lydia nodded her head in dismissal and nearly tripped down the stairs with Sadie. With each step, her heart pounded harder until it sprinted along with her legs as they ran down the alley, hand in hand.
What if they were seen or the cook alerted someone before Mr. Parker returned?
Lydia glanced over her shoulder. The cook was gone. Gaining the coach, the door handle jammed under her slippery hands. How could she be sweating in this cold? Was she mad? Surely she was. But certainly God would frown on leaving this child behind no matter what.
“I don’t know about this . . .” Sadie’s eyes were round in her paling face. The light red outline of a few fingers decorated her white cheek. Her curls blew forward with a gust of wind, hiding the remnants of a slap.
Squeezing the handle tight, Lydia finally opened the door. “It’ll be all right.” Or at least it would be . . . could be . . . hopefully. “We won’t let anyone know where you’re going.” She pushed her gently into the coach then took a step to haul herself in behind her.
Footsteps approached on the cobbled street.
Her body trembled harder. “God help us.”
“For crying out loud, Miss King!” Mr. Parker yelped behind her. “You’d like to give an old man a heart attack. I told you to stay put.”
“Not this time you didn’t.” She pulled her skirts inside and slammed the door shut. “Drive, Mr. Parker. Drive now!”
He came over to the door window and pulled at the curtain. “Now why are you . . .” His mouth worked, but no sound came out as he stared at Sadie huddled in the corner of the coach.
Lydia worked the curtain from his grip. “Take me to Nicholas right now. I’m in big trouble.”
30
Nicholas rushed toward Queenie’s shack. The yelling he’d heard for the past block certainly seemed to be coming from that direction.
What man had dared to go in there? It seemed to be an unspoken rule here that women seeking temporary refuge at Queenie’s were given it.
Was Caroline in there still tending to her sick sister with some man going off his rails? If he dared to lay a hand on her . . .
He flung the door open to see a seething Henri throw his hands up in the air.
“You expect me to believe that!” His voice was breathless and dangerously low.
He’d never heard the man so filled with hate.
Caroline held out her arms in front of her sister like a protective shield. Moira was curled up on Queenie’s extra cot, her face pale and sweaty.
In the midst of the chaos, Queenie was on her knees at the end of Moira’s sick bed, eyes closed. “Dear Lord, let this man find peace despite—”
A guttural cry loosed from Henri’s throat.
Well, that prayer certainly hadn’t worked. Nicholas launched himself across the room just as his friend grabbed a lamp and brought it up over his head. “Cease this instant!” He wrestled to extricate the lamp from Henri’s grip. “Breaking stuff will not fix whatever’s the matter.”
Henri only growled and tried to yank his arm out from under Nicholas’s, then tried to escape his hold by sending an elbow into his gut.
He deflected another flailing limb before it could damage his internal organs. “Let’s talk about this elsewhere.”
Raining down curses with every jerky movement, Henri struggled against him.
Suddenly, Henri let go. “Fine.”
Nicholas stumbled backward, a table’s corner jabbing him in the ribs as
he fell. “Ugh.”
“I knew I recognized you.” Henri, out of breath, pointed at Caroline, his scowl deepening.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Beauchamp, for not reintroducing myself.”
“Well, no wonder. What with Moira being a trollop now!” He spat.
“Enough!” Nicholas scrambled onto his feet despite the pain in his side to push Henri toward the door.
But the thick man planted his feet as if he were an ancient rooted oak and turned his accusing finger toward Moira. “You said I wasn’t good enough. But dozens of filthy men every night are?” His face turned as red as a tomato and he sweat profusely, as if he’d just run ten miles in the summer’s heat.
“Let’s go.” Nicholas grabbed Henri’s arms.
Henri shrugged out of his hold. “I can take myself out.” He stomped to the door and yanked it open. “All women should rot!”
Nicholas cringed as the door slammed shut, but the hinges held. The nerves that had held his body in check while trying to keep his friend from strangling Moira burst. His hands started shaking.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Lowe.” Caroline glided over to him, tears on her cheeks, though her voice was steady. “I should have told you the moment I saw him, but I hadn’t thought they’d meet. And he didn’t seem to recognize me. I’ve added weight and I’m no longer, well . . .” A look so heartrending crossed his housekeeper’s face that her silent tears looked happy in comparison.
Moira, also known as Irish Mary, groaned from her cot as she turned to face them. “I’m sorry, Caroline.”
Caroline wrapped her arms about her stomach and stumbled into the closest chair. “We did this to him.”
“None of this is your fault. I chose this path. Even if I had loved—”
“Stop!” Caroline slashed her hand through the air, sneaking a glance at Nicholas before facing her sister. “Don’t say any more. It’s over. If you hadn’t put me ahead of yourself . . . and then chosen this . . .” She slumped. “This . . .”
Moira struggled to push herself to the side of the cot and puked into a waiting bucket. Queenie rushed to assist her while Caroline wept.
The smell and the emotions in the tiny cabin were overwhelming. Nicholas opened the door to let in some cold, cleansing air while a sobbing Caroline moved to help Queenie tend her sick sister.
He was torn between making sure Caroline was all right and running after Henri before the man did something stupid. “Miss O’Conner, I—”
“Go.” She turned to him, holding a wad of her sister’s limp blond hair. “He’ll need you.”
“I’ll check on you tomorrow morning, then.” He rushed out before waiting for a reply.
Henri was a block away, heading toward the brightly lit streets, where he’d find a saloon to drink away his anger—or make it worse. Oh, if only he hadn’t asked Henri to help him search for Pepper and her siblings this evening, things wouldn’t have gotten so out of hand . . . and he didn’t even really know why. “Henri!”
His friend stopped, and Nicholas jogged to catch up.
Henri didn’t turn to face him. His fists were tightly clenched at his sides, and his stiffened back muscles strained at his coat’s seams. “Don’t ask, Nick.”
“I won’t, but don’t go on a binge. It won’t help.”
“Nothing will help.” He whirled and gestured toward Queenie’s dilapidated shack. “Your playing Robin Hood to these people is a waste of time.”
“No, it’s not.”
“I no longer want to be involved. It’s been entertaining to sneak around, annoying people with your crazy schemes, gathering information for blackmail—but I’m through.”
Nicholas felt the wind rush out of him. “That’s why you’ve been helping me?” He staggered over to a nearby tree to keep himself upright. “Blackmail?”
Henri rolled his eyes. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. Of course I’m happy to help people—that’s just being a decent person—but you know I don’t have any of your Jesus motivations to do this stuff. You’re the only Christian I’ve had any respect for, but you’re insane to think you’re making any headway with these people.” He rubbed his eyes and looked away.
Nicholas opened his mouth but then shut it. Here he’d been judging his fellow churchgoers against this man—a man he’d thought God was sovereignly using to do the work the church wouldn’t—yet extortion was what had driven his friend to help?
And he’d aided him.
“Nick, you’re on your own.”
He shook his head. He couldn’t let his friend go without more of an explanation. “Tell me what that was back there.”
“If I understood it myself, I wouldn’t have exploded.” Henri punched a tree next to him, then went into a rage as he yelped and cursed over his bloodied knuckles.
A coach flew around the street corner, its unlit lanterns swinging. The orange sun about to slip below the horizon illumined the coach just enough to recognize his own vehicle. “What in the world?” He stepped to the side of the road and, waving his arms, hailed Parker.
His driver pulled the horse to a sudden stop. “Boss, we have trouble.” Normally as calm as the Kansas winds were blustery, Parker wiped his hands on his pants and looked over his shoulder.
Nicholas jogged to the coach and looked up. “Is it your wife? A maid?”
“No. Miss King.”
“Lydia?” Nicholas clenched the driver’s footboard. “What happened?”
“She’s in the coach, and she’s kidnapped a girl.”
31
Nicholas thumped the top of the coach and Parker took off, leaving Henri behind.
“I’m sorry, Nicholas. I didn’t set out to . . .” Lydia wrapped her arm around the quiet woman pressed against her. “Well, I was looking for Robbie and his sisters, but even if you think running off with Sadie was wrong, I’d do it again.”
What could he say to that? He couldn’t distinguish much about the girl beside Lydia, other than her dark eye makeup and a dress with a neckline that revealed entirely too much skin. He leaned back against his seat, rubbed his eyes, and slid his hands slowly down his face.
First Henri, now Lydia. His life was complicated enough on its own, but now he had to account for other people’s actions.
He opened his eyes to look at the girl again, and when their eyes met, she pressed harder against Lydia. He tried a smile, but Sadie only pressed herself back against the seat. “I don’t think we should discuss this further until we get to my place.”
“But where should we take her for the night? I can’t take her to my parents, and she won’t want to go with you.”
“My maids will take her. They’ll understand what she’s going through.”
“How will they understand?”
He rubbed his fingers against his scalp and stared out the window. He wanted to trust her, even believed he could, but he’d trusted Henri. He cut a glance at Sadie, who’d yet to speak.
He’d hoped Lydia would grow sympathetic to those in the red-light district, but he’d never envisioned her embracing a young prostitute. He had no idea how she’d even gotten near one, and yet she was holding the painted lady close, the semblance of an overprotective mother in her expression and posture.
She’d taken the news of his late wife better than expected too. Perhaps she’d accept or even approve of his secrets.
“You’ve got the look on your face that means you’re deciding whether or not to keep something from me.”
He tried to make his face blank, but her acute perception reached into his chest and twisted. No one but his mother had ever been able to read him like that.
Though he’d been doing his best, Lydia made him want to be better. But could he do more? Could he make her believe in him enough to give up Sebastian? What did she want with that man anyway?
“Well, I don’t know what that expression means, but it’s a bit intimidating.”
She should feel in danger. Very little was preventing him from breaching what little etique
tte barriers were left—considering they were already alone together, after dark, with a child prostitute. The desire to cross over to her seat, pull her close, bury his face in her hair, and forget everything but the smell and feel of her tugged at his every muscle.
She cleared her throat and squirmed. He scooted to the opposite side of his seat, as far from her as possible, and opened the window sash.
“I closed them because I didn’t want anyone to see inside.”
Yes, they should talk about trivial things like sashes and weather. “It’s dark now. We’re driving fast enough no one will see inside.”
“I’m sorry I’ve done nothing but cause you problems.”
“No.” He jammed his hands in his armpits and hazarded another look at her. “You’re not a problem. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” He pressed his lips together and looked away.
He’d meant to say that, but until he heard it aloud, he hadn’t realized how intimate those words sounded.
He imagined her turning a lovely shade of pink in that dark corner.
“I don’t think you really mean that.”
“I stand by it.” He quickly flashed through the happy events of his life. “It’s true. But I’m certain I’ll not prove to be the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”
“How could you not?” Her whisper was so soft, he wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly above the sound of wheels and hooves flying over the brick street.
Seconds ticked by. Maybe her question had only been his imagination.
He couldn’t stand it any longer. “May I ask why you’re marrying Sebastian?”
No response from across the coach but the rustling of skirts.
“Money?”
“Yes, but—”
“Please.” He couldn’t have felt any colder right now, not even if someone dumped a bucket of ice down his collar. “You don’t have to justify yourself to me. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s none of my business.”
And she didn’t elaborate.
However, despite his words, he wanted her to. Wanted her to convince him that marrying for money could somehow be a worthy pursuit, something he could look past.
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