by Jody Hedlund
“You know that’s my land.” A gleam sparked in Higgins’s eyes. “I claimed it first.”
Higgins had shown no interest in the farmland across the creek until after Reinhold had brought it up a couple of months ago at dinner. Even though Higgins claimed he wanted to purchase the land too, Reinhold always suspected Higgins was only saying so to aggravate him.
What if he’d been wrong? What if Higgins was serious about buying the farm? Serious enough to steal from him?
“Reinhold and Higgins!” Mrs. Turner had risen to her feet and taken her wooden spoon from her apron. Her large face, framed by a puffy mound of brown hair, made her even more menacing.
She’d have no qualms about slapping him with the spoon, but he couldn’t make himself let go of Higgins’s shirt. “I see what you’re doing. You’re stealing from me so you can try to get the land first.”
Higgins jerked away, trying to free himself. Although the young laborer was strong, Reinhold knew in a battle of fists, he’d win. Not that he’d ever hit the man. Even so, Reinhold had earned his muscles from years of construction work and was the bigger man, which was apparently why Higgins had found another, more passive way to fight him.
“Go ahead, look through my stuff,” Higgins said. “I ain’t got nothin’ to hide.”
“Where did you put it?” Reinhold yelled. If he didn’t find the money, he’d have to start over again saving up. What if he didn’t have enough for a down payment by autumn? And what if Higgins beat him to buying the land?
“Boys!” Mrs. Turner towered over them, the spoon raised.
Higgins’s expression was unrelenting in its taunting. His lips quirked in the beginning of a grin, and his eyes were alight with satisfaction.
Reinhold started to shake Higgins, but Mrs. Turner swung the wooden spoon between them. The large end cracked against Reinhold’s hands. Pain radiated through his skin down to his bones, forcing him to release Higgins.
Mrs. Turner lifted the spoon and brought it down again, this time grazing Reinhold’s shoulder. As new pain sliced through him. A clatter and then crash of porcelain against the floor startled them all to stillness.
On the other side of the table, Lucinda’s eyes were fixed on her mother’s wooden spoon and round with terror. She was so focused on the spoon she didn’t seem to notice she’d dropped the plates, platters, and bowls and that now they were shattered into dozens of pieces at her feet.
“Lucinda May Turner!” Mrs. Turner gaped at her daughter, her eyes bugging out.
Reinhold didn’t waste the moment of distraction. He backed toward the kitchen, his shoulder and hand throbbing with each step.
“What has gotten into you, girl?” Mrs. Turner said.
Lucinda’s eyes darted from the spoon to Reinhold. And then her gaze dropped to the table, and her cheeks flamed a bright red. “I’m sorry, Mother.” The young woman’s voice was a breathy whisper, hardly audible.
For a moment, the scrape of Mr. Turner’s spoon against his bowl was the only sound. He was apparently intent on eating every last drop of honey without any concern for the tumult circling around him.
Higgins had also used the opportunity to dart from the table in the opposite direction into the front sitting room. The click of the front door meant that Higgins had gotten away. Again.
Frustration coursed through Reinhold. Unless he had solid proof Higgins had been the one to dig through his belongings and take the money from his leather pouch, what could he do? Higgins would only continue to deny having a role in the thievery.
The shock on Mrs. Turner’s face over her daughter’s accident was turning into hard lines of anger. “I ought to turn this spoon on you and teach you not to be so clumsy. But we all know that won’t do any good, will it?”
Lucinda’s chin dropped a notch so that it almost touched her chest. Her black hair was pulled back into a tight bun and parted down the middle in a perfectly straight line showing her white scalp.
“No matter how hard I’ve tried and no matter how much I’ve disciplined you over the years, you’re destined to be the clumsiest girl I’ve ever met.”
Except for the dinner hour, Reinhold rarely saw Lucinda. Even though she hardly ever spoke, he’d learned plenty about her from Mrs. Turner, who had a lot to say about her daughter, particularly about her failings. Not only did Mrs. Turner criticize Lucinda for being clumsy but also for being inept, lazy, ungrateful, too shy, and the list went on.
He’d learned she was of marriageable age, perhaps a year or two older than him, but that somehow she’d failed to win the heart of one of the local neighbors, a young man Mr. and Mrs. Turner had hoped would come live on their farm and perhaps take it over someday since they didn’t have any sons of their own.
Reinhold wasn’t sure what had happened to deter the match, except the young man had ended up marrying another woman, and now Mrs. Turner lamented the lost beau at least once every meal, along with making a point of telling Lucinda she would end up a spinster.
At times, Reinhold felt sorry for the young woman. While he’d never spoken more than a dozen words directly to her, he tried to show her a modicum of kindness whenever he could. It couldn’t make up for Mrs. Turner’s harshness, but it was a small token. After all, he knew what it was like to be the despised, scoffed, and rejected one. He’d experienced that enough to never wish it upon anyone.
Ignoring the ache and sting in his body from where he’d been lashed, Reinhold retraced his steps to the table and crossed to where Lucinda stood accepting the tongue-lashing from her mother without a word of protest.
“I’ll help you clean up,” he said quietly.
She stood at least two inches taller than him and didn’t look at him. But she nodded, and her cheeks flushed a deep red again.
He knelt and began to gather the broken pieces of pottery.
“This is all your fault, Reinhold,” Mrs. Turner said, stuffing her spoon back into her apron. “I think we should charge you for the cost of replacing everything that was broken.”
“No, Mother,” Lucinda said in her whispery voice. “I’ll buy it.” She knelt next to him, and as she reached for the first shard of porcelain, her fingers trembled so much that Reinhold was afraid she’d cut herself.
Mrs. Turner snorted loudly. “And just how are you planning to buy me new dishes?”
Lucinda’s chin dropped again, and her hands fell idle to her lap.
Mr. Turner’s chair scraped across the floor as he pushed away from the table.
Reinhold willed the man to rise to his daughter’s defense and ease her embarrassment, but he only stood, scratched his belly, released a loud belch, and then lumbered toward the front room.
“Take the cost of the broken dishes out of Reinhold’s next earnings,” Mrs. Turner called after her husband.
He grunted a reply.
Reinhold reached for another jagged piece of plate, and his spirit deflated. He wanted to protest, but the honorable thing to do was to take responsibility. Lucinda wouldn’t have dropped everything if he hadn’t stormed into the room and picked the fight with Higgins.
He swallowed the words that burned in his throat, the words about how unfair life was sometimes. Instead, he finished picking up the pieces. At least he had plenty of experience at it since his life had been a series of broken mishaps.
If only, for once, something would go right.
Chapter 4
Marianne checked her list again—for the twentieth time. Three jars of raspberry jam, six loaves of bread, two heads of cheese, and five bundles of newly picked carrots she’d managed to purchase yesterday from a farmer selling his produce out of the back of his wagon. There were the raisins and figs, and she’d even snuck in a package of peppermints.
The food was stored in several boxes they would have with them in their passenger car. She’d also been responsible for packing the rest of the supplies that would see them through the next week of travel. The two other boxes that needed to fit into their train car c
ontained knives and spoons, bibs, towels, washcloths, soap, a small sewing kit, blankets, knitted shawls for the little ones, and an assortment of medicine and remedies for ailments the children might suffer.
The younger children each would have a bundle of clothing on the train—the second of the two new outfits provided for them by the Children’s Aid Society. But the older children’s extra clothing was stowed in the Society trunk. She’d packed a trunk of her own personal items as well. Although she hadn’t been given a set return date, other agents had remarked that the trip could last anywhere from weeks to months.
Not only would she be helping to situate the orphans in new homes at stops along the way, but once the children were placed, she would have the responsibility of revisiting each of them and making sure the placement was suitable. At least that was what she’d been told.
Marianne closed her notepad and stuffed it into the valise she planned to carry with her on the train. She counted the boxes on the platform again and prayed she’d remembered everything. She’d hardly slept the previous night because her mind had raced with all the details for the trip. Not only that, but she could admit she was nervous about traveling with close to thirty children, all of whom were strangers to her.
Yes, she’d met many of them yesterday when they started arriving at the office. But she’d been so overwhelmed with the many aspects of getting them ready that she’d scarcely been able to remember their names.
Two other agents had come to the train station to help oversee the departure. They stood with the children near the train car, herding them together much like shepherds with their sheep. With the busyness of the depot, the people milling about, the various train workers shouting instructions and calling to one another, it would be easy for one of the children to wander off and get lost in the crowd. Some of the younger boys seemed particularly fond of wrestling with each other, and in a place near trains that had such speed and power, Marianne dreaded to think would could happen if they weren’t careful.
That dread only escalated every time she thought about the fact that within the hour, the other two agents would leave and she’d have to handle all these children by herself, especially if Andrew Brady didn’t show up. She chewed on the inside of her cheek and glanced around again for at least the tenth time, hoping to catch sight of Drew. His handsome face wouldn’t be hard to miss, even in a busy train station. But she hadn’t seen him anywhere.
Last night, after the physician had sewn six neat stitches into Drew’s arm, he’d left with the doctor, claiming he needed to return to the Newsboys Lodging House. She, on the other hand, had spent the night at the Children’s Aid Society building, along with the other two ladies in order to supervise the children.
She’d expected Drew to do the same, but maybe sleeping on the floor was beneath him. For her, bedding down wherever she could find a spot was nothing new. She’d done it for many years while living in her uncle’s tenement in Kleindeutschland. Of course, she wouldn’t complain about her bed at the boardinghouse. She had to admit she rather liked having a bed again after so many years without.
Whatever the case, she’d been restless and had held her breath at every strange noise throughout the long night. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the drunken father who’d shot Drew or wondering if there were any other irate parents who might show up.
Everyone knew and accepted that the orphanages and Children’s Aid Society program weren’t just for true orphans—those who’d lost both of their parents. Rather, some only had one parent who’d given them up. Many of those parents did so with no intention of ever reclaiming them.
Other mothers and fathers placed their children in orphanages or asylums during times of crisis. If parents lost jobs or became ill and couldn’t feed or clothe their children, they would take their children to orphanages or to the Children’s Aid Society for placing out. The separation was usually only temporary, and the children were brought back home as soon as the parents could provide again.
In such situations where a parent or relative was still alive, the Children’s Aid Society was supposed to make sure the caretakers were in agreement with the plans before sending the children westward on trains.
But sometimes the agents didn’t know the whole background behind why a child was being dropped off at the Society. Most of the time the children weren’t consulted about what they wanted, at least from what she’d seen. Even if they were, Marianne suspected many children were too young to comprehend what was happening.
“Miss Neumann,” called Mrs. Trott, the elderly matron who reminded Marianne of her grandmother, who passed away shortly before her family had moved to America. “It’s time for the children to board.”
Marianne examined the boxes and supplies one last time. It was too late now to add anything she’d forgotten. She may as well allow the porters to finish loading.
She went to the children, and as she did so, their wide eyes watched her with expectation and trust. Some of the older girls were holding hands with the younger ones, having been paired by the agents with strict instructions to help guide them.
The initial enthusiasm the group had shown at the sight of the trains had abated. Now silence shrouded them. Even though their faces were scrubbed until they shone and their hair cropped and combed neatly with bows for the girls and smart hats for the boys, there was no grooming away the wariness that lined each of their faces, a wariness that perhaps reflected her own.
She wanted to believe she was doing the right thing for these children by escorting them to new homes. She wanted to reassure them everything would be all right and they would be happy wherever they were going. But would they? She prayed so.
However, a niggling of doubt haunted her. What if some of them had been ripped away from people who loved them? Family who would miss them and mourn for them each day they were gone? Family who wouldn’t know where they were or what had become of them and would search for them until the day they died?
Oh, Sophie, where are you? Why won’t you let us find you?
Marianne’s gaze flitted to each of the sweet upturned faces following her every move. She had to control her misgivings and fear. She couldn’t let the children see anything but confidence, so she forced a smile. “You all look so nice in your new clothing.”
For a moment, her comment distracted the children, reminded them of the fancy garments they’d been given—likely the first time most of them had ever worn something clean, much less new. The little girls stroked the smooth calico, the ruffled edges, the lacy ribbons. Even the boys proudly straightened their bow ties, swelled their chests against the vests and coats, and tapped their shiny black shoes. For some, the shoes were the first pair they’d ever owned.
Mrs. Trott patted Marianne’s arm. “You’ll do fine, dear. Always remember, our responsibility is to God for these children. They have the same capabilities, the same need of benevolent and good influences, and the same immortality as the little ones in our homes. We bear in mind One died for them even as for the children of the rich and happy.”
“Thank you,” Marianne responded, allowing the woman to fold her into an embrace, glad for the chance to hide her face, which would surely give away her insecurities. The other agents thought of her only as Thornton Quincy’s sister-in-law. None of them knew the more sordid details of her dismal past, of the fact that a year ago she was as desperately poor as these children, that for a time she’d been homeless on the streets and had to live off the good will and charities of others in order to survive. Even if her situation had improved—for which she was grateful—she still didn’t consider herself to be a part of the rich and happy echelon of society.
With a final pat, Mrs. Trott released Marianne. “Don’t forget when your burdens grow heavy, that God is walking alongside you, waiting for you to cast your cares upon Him.”
Marianne tried to brighten her smile. Was her fear that easy to read? “I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m worried about Mr. Brady’s
whereabouts. He should have been here by now.”
“Mr. Brady might be impulsive and irregular at times, but he has a kind heart and he’s good with the children.” The shake of the grandmotherly head spoke louder than her words. The woman was relieved she didn’t have to make the journey with Drew Brady. That thought did nothing to ease Marianne’s worries.
The whirlpool of uneasiness in Marianne’s abdomen began to swirl faster. The storm only brewed as she helped situate the children in the passenger car that had been reserved for their group. Thankfully, they had the whole car to themselves and wouldn’t have to worry about disturbing other passengers. The children had grown loud again, standing on benches, crawling under them, peering out the windows, and opening and closing the closet door at the back of the car.
Marianne stowed the food and supply boxes at the front of the car and already had to chastise two young brothers who’d glimpsed food and attempted to pilfer a snack. From all the hauling and shoving and situating, she’d become overheated and was in the process of attempting to open some of the windows when silence fell over the car.
Her spine prickled, and she craned her neck toward the entrance in time to see that several teenage boys had come aboard. She wasn’t good at guessing ages, but they looked to be young men in the range of fifteen or sixteen years. They weren’t particularly big or tall, yet there was something overly mature in their expressions, a hardness from having to fend for themselves for so long, and an anger at life that simmered beneath the surface.
One of the boys, the lankiest with smallpox blister scars on his face, fixed his attention upon Marianne. He elbowed the other two and cocked his head toward Marianne. “Well, well, what do we have here, boys?” His lips curled into a surly smile, one that told Marianne he enjoyed intimidating others. “And you thought we’d be bored.”
Marianne abandoned her effort at opening the window and turned to face the newcomers. She straightened her shoulders and attempted to lift herself to her full height, which at five-foot-five wasn’t enough to intimidate anyone in return. “Who are you boys and what are you doing here?” She tried to make her tone strict.