'Til Morning Light

by Ann Moore

  Abigail listened for a moment to the silence of the house, the ticking of the clock, the creak of timber as the wind picked up, a cough from somewhere beyond the kitchen. The kitchen, she remembered; that was where the cook lived, the Irishwoman, Missus Donnelly. She paused, her hand on the front latch. It had been Missus Donnelly who drove Hopkins away; she’d admitted as much when she’d spoken to Abigail up in the room! But Abigail didn’t care about that—she only cared that Hopkins had left no message, none at all. She’d felt desperate about that, and her brother had come to try to calm her and she’d almost told him everything, confessed everything, but then it had occurred to her—Hopkins left no note because she wanted Abigail to come herself! After that realization, Abigail had only wanted everyone to leave her alone so she could listen to God’s voice and figure out what to do. The house was quiet. Upstairs, Enid lay on the floor, sound asleep; Abigail had only to step over her to leave the room.

  It was chilly in the damp early morning, and a mist hung over the harbor. Abigail crept carefully down the drive, keeping to the grass on one side so that her footsteps would be muffled. The skyline of the city had changed since she’d taken to her bed, Abigail realized; fires and new development had altered the look of the town, the layout of the streets—how would she find the right room? But then she calmed herself. She would go down to the water. She would find the right building among those on the waterfront, and then she would climb the right stairwell, and then she would find the right room; she would open the right door and Hopkins would be waiting. Hopkins and the child. Abigail’s child, Eden. Eden would be waiting for her, and Abigail—at last—would hold the little girl in her arms.

  Heart now bursting with euphoria, Abigail picked up her skirts and began to run.

  Twenty-eight

  The entire house was in an uproar after Enid announced that Abigail was not in her room. Wakefield sat stunned for fully five minutes before asking Enid if she’d any idea where her mother might’ve gone.

  “She may know something about Abigail.” The doctor’s face was pale with anxiety.

  Enid stood quietly, wringing her hands in front of her apron. “To my father,” she said at last.

  Grace looked at her, startled. “Did you not tell me you had no father, that he’d died?”

  Enid nodded miserably. “Mother insisted we keep it a secret. He lives down on the waterfront. With my brother.”

  “You’ve a brother, as well?”

  “William. He’s afflicted.” Enid hesitated before going on. “He was always sickly, but then it got worse. Mother said no decent man would have me with a brother like that, and no one would hire us to live in if they knew she was married.” Her mouth trembled again. “She wanted Wills put away, but Father wouldn’t do it, so she said she’d give them money for food and rent if they kept to themselves. They call themselves ‘Smith.’”

  Grace and Wakefield locked eyes; there were hundreds of Smiths in the city, but how many were old men caring for afflicted sons?

  “I think I’ve met them,” Wakefield told her. “They’ve been sick lately, haven’t they?”

  Enid’s eyes filled with fresh tears. “Dad’s afraid of dying first and then who’ll look after Wills? Mother promised him she’d hire a nurse for Wills if I married Mister Pennywhistle.” Her face crumpled and she buried it in her hands. “But I couldn’t do it! She has Miss Wakefield’s money! She doesn’t need any more!”

  “Money from my sister?” Wakefield stood now, agitated. “I pay the household wages. Why would Abigail give your mother money?”

  Enid took a deep breath and opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

  Grace sat down beside her and took her hand. “You must tell us, now, Enid,” she urged gently. “No one’s blaming you. You’ll not be in any kind of trouble, aye, Doctor?”

  “No trouble,” Wakefield agreed at once. “Why did my sister give your mother money, Enid? Was she being blackmailed?”

  Enid opened her mouth again, then turned away from him and looked into Grace’s eyes, her own filled with sadness and remorse.

  “Miss Wakefield had a child,” Enid confided fearfully, and Grace recalled the marks along Abigail’s belly. “A girl. I never saw it myself, but mother said it was a black baby and had to be hidden.”

  “No.” Wakefield shook his head. “No, that’s not right. The baby died at birth.”

  “She kept it a secret, sir.” Enid was able to face him now that the hard truth was out. “She was afraid you’d sell the child away if you knew. Your own grandmother helped her; she sent the baby out with a servant when it was old enough.”

  “No! It can’t be true,” Wakefield insisted. “She would never have kept that child, born out of what it was.”

  “It was born out of love, sir. Mother said the man was a Negro, and when they were found out, he was accused of attacking her. Miss Wakefield was afraid and didn’t defend him. And then they hung the man, sir! Before her very eyes!”

  Wakefield sat down abruptly.

  “Dear God in Heaven.” Grace stared at him. “Is she right?”

  The doctor’s eyes were glazed. “Thomas Eden. We knew him in our childhood. He was my … friend.”

  “Were you there, Doctor?” Grace asked carefully. “Were you part of the lynching?”

  “Good Lord, no!” Wakefield appealed to them both. “It all happened before I got there. I never thought for one minute that the story was other than what I’d been told, that they were … that she …” He reached for the decanter beside him and, with trembling hands, poured a splash into the glass, then downed it in one swallow. “She could have trusted me to help her. She should’ve known I would never, ever sell her child. Where are they, Enid? Do you know?”

  “No, sir. They used to live in a building near to my father, but then the cholera come and the servant woman died. Miss Wakefield didn’t know what to do. She was so sick, you know—so Mother found a family outside of town who agreed to board the child, though the price was high.”

  Wakefield sat, dazed, glass dangling in his hand.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, sir. Please forgive me,” Enid begged. “I thought Mother was doing right by Miss Wakefield, that we were right to help her keep the secret. But then—”

  “Then your mother realized she had her own private gold mine at her disposal,” Grace interjected.

  Enid nodded forlornly. “Miss Wakefield has her own money. After her grandmother died?” She looked to the doctor for confirmation.

  “A trust,” Wakefield acknowledged quietly. “Paid directly into her account. I knew your mother drew out for her occasionally, but I assumed it was for women’s incidentals, clothing, things she didn’t want to bother me with.”

  “It was for the child’s board, but Mother kept raising the price and putting the difference in her own pocket, saying it was her due for all the trouble. She wants to go back to England, you see. Buy a lodging house in Cornwall and live with her sister.” Enid looked down, her voice now low with shame. “Miss Wakefield gave my mother everything she asked for. She believed her soul was corrupt, you see, that her lust for pleasure—begging your pardon, sir—had tempted an innocent man and caused his death, and had brought a bastard child into the world. My mother let her believe it, told her that if she deprived herself in this life, if she suffered enough, then God would finally forgive her and have mercy on her child.”

  “Does Abigail know where the child is?” Grace asked.

  “I don’t think so. She’d ask for it sometimes, cry even, but Mother never gave in. She said she had to be strong for Miss Wakefield because Miss Wakefield was so very weak, that she was saving the woman from the torments of Hell.”

  “By making her live out a hell on earth,” Grace concluded grimly. “Broken in body as well as spirit. So you think Abigail’s gone after your mother now for fear of losing the child forever?”

  It was all too much for Enid; she could hardly bear her own culpability in the life she’d just descri
bed. The color drained from her face, her eyes rolled back in her head, and she began to slide sideways off the divan. Grace caught her just in time.

  “Enid! C’mon, Enid.” Grace shook her gently. “’Tis a shock to us all. But you can help us now. Enid?”

  “Enid.” Litton’s voice came quietly out of the corner where he’d been standing, listening to the whole story, awaiting orders.

  The girl’s eyelids fluttered, then opened; she turned her head and saw George standing there, saw the compassion in his eyes. He crossed the room, knelt beside her, and took her other hand.

  “Time to be strong now, Enid. I’ll take you to your dad, and we’ll do what we can, eh?”

  Enid nodded, trusting him, then allowed him to help her to her feet and escort her to the door.

  “Doctor?” Litton stopped. “We’ll need you, sir.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Wakefield moved quickly, pausing in the hall for his medical bag. He turned, and Grace was right behind him. “You’ll stay here, Missus Donnelly? In case she returns on her own?”

  “Aye.” Grace opened the door for him and handed him an extra coat. “And, sir”—she put a hand on his arm—“if you find her, remember she’s been living in a place ’tis dark and cruel. Be gentle with her. We’ll sort it all out once she’s safely home.”

  The muscle in Wakefield’s jaw jumped as he fought the emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. He nodded tightly, and then he pulled her to him, hugging her fiercely before letting her go.

  “Thank you,” he whispered, and then he climbed into the carriage, took the reins from George, and urged the horses to make good speed.

  Twenty-nine

  “She’s not here,” Mister Hopkins told his daughter at the door, then eyed Wakefield and Litton warily. “You’d better come in. Don’t talk loud, now. Wills is having a bad time of it.”

  The young man lay awkwardly on his cot, moaning, banging his head on his pillow, eyes rolling in his head.

  “There, there, son.” Harry comforted him, laying a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “No more trouble now. Just lie still. Enid is here. Do you see it’s Enid?”

  The shaking diminished as the young man arched his head back to see his sister. Enid sat down beside him on the cot, rubbing his back until he calmed himself.

  “It’s all right, Wills,” she soothed. “These are my friends. No trouble here.”

  “You see the way of it,” Harry said bluntly, motioning to the chairs at the table. “Please sit down.”

  Wakefield crossed the room in two long strides and pulled out a chair. “We’ve met before,” he began.

  “I know who you are.” Harry crossed his arms over his chest.

  “And this is Mister Litton, my driver. We’re looking for my sister. I believe your wife might know where she is.”

  “I know nothing of your sister. Agnes came yesterday, saying she’d quit the place for England. Said Enid was set to marry and staying. William and I could stay or go.” Harry glanced at his son. “He’d never survive it, she knows that. Left us a bit of money and said she’d write when she got there.” He turned to Wakefield. “Are you thinking she took your sister with her?”

  “No.” Wakefield was positive about that. “It wouldn’t serve your wife at all. No, I think Abigail’s wandering around trying to find her. Trying to find the child,” he added pointedly.

  Harry looked at his daughter. “You told him, then.”

  “It wasn’t as Mother said, Dad. He’d never sell the child or put Miss Abigail away. He only wants to help her. But now she’s gone missing and only Mother knows where the child is.”

  Harry crossed the room to the rickety desk, pulled open the drawer, and withdrew a piece of paper. “I thought Agnes was doing right by your sister, seeing as how she couldn’t keep the child, being a white woman and unmarried. And so fearful of you.” He handed the paper to Wakefield. “The girl lives with a Mexican family on a small ranchero. Sweet child. Stayed here while Agnes arranged it, and I was sorry her mother couldn’t know her.”

  Wakefield stared at the name on the paper. “Eden Wakefield?”

  The old man nodded.

  “Would Abigail know where this ranchero is?”

  “I don’t think so,” Enid answered. “She knew the first place, of course, but Mother said she wouldn’t be tempted to go and see the child if she didn’t know where the little girl lived.”

  “You said she knew the first place,” Litton repeated in his low, hesitant voice. “Where was that?”

  “Not far from here. Quarter mile south. But it’s all been rebuilt since the fires. She wouldn’t know it now.”

  “She’s not living in ‘now.’” Recalling Grace’s words, Wakefield jumped up and rushed to the door. “Mister Hopkins—thank you for this.” He held up the piece of paper, then looked at Enid and George. “Let’s go.”

  They raced down the stairs to where the Mulhoney boy stood, holding the harness of their carriage.

  “Are you looking for the lady?” Davey queried. “The one as visits Mister Smith? Because I followed her this time and I know where she went!”

  Wakefield halted in his tracks, unsure. “Where?”

  “To Chinatown, to a shop there. And then to the ticket agent. She made them cry.” The boy jerked a thumb toward the upper story. “I don’t like her.”

  “I want to hear more.” Wakefield flipped the boy a silver coin. “We’ll be back.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll wait here, sir!”

  Davey watched as the doctor climbed into the carriage and it took off down the narrow, rutted street. She’s in for it now, he thought to himself and was glad—whoever she was, she’d only made life miserable for those two lonely souls upstairs.

  Grace paced the house from kitchen to dining room to parlor to library and back again, looking out every window she passed. Liam had come to the house, expecting a hot meal and a good visit, and instead she’d pressed the children upon him and asked him to take them back to town, to Peter’s house for the night. Liam hadn’t minded a bit, and Mary Kate had been delighted; only Jack had scuffed his feet, wondering aloud who would feed his puppy. Grace had reassured him and sent along fresh bread and jam for their dinner.

  The afternoon was passing now, and the low clouds had trapped the air, making even the outdoors feel muggy and close. Grace had done everything she possibly could in readiness of what she fervently prayed would be Abigail’s return. Windows had been opened to catch any breeze that might drift through and, in Abigail’s room, the bedding had been changed and turned down; fresh flowers sat in a vase near the bed, and the room was cleared of clutter and debris. The sheets had been marred with hundreds of dots and smears that looked like blood, and this concerned Grace, as it had nothing to do with a woman’s monthly flow. She’d found further evidence of outrage in the room—the scissors Abigail had used to chop off her hair hung from a ribbon above her dressing table, still marred with dried blood and hair from where she’d nicked her scalp; the Bible beside her bed was dog-eared, but only in the Old Testament, where entire passages had been underlined with a heavy hand; in the wardrobe, Abigail’s finest dresses had been slashed and her silk slippers ravaged; there was no jewelry in any of her cases, only an old-fashioned brooch and a thin gold chain with a simple cross hidden in the very back corner beneath the paper that lined the drawer. When unstopped, perfume bottles revealed the nasty stink of rancid fish oil; grime lay across her dressing table, its mirror draped with an old piece of stained muslin. Most of this was not obvious to the casual observer, and that which was would not have seemed extraordinary, but as Grace stood still in the middle of the room and considered the consequence of sleeping and waking within these four walls day after day after day, she felt the heaviness of despair settle upon her shoulders, the sharpness of torment pierce her heart, and the prickle of madness behind her eyes. She could not get out fast enough.

  Later, as she began to light the lamps, Grace heard the carriage come up the drive. S
he held open the back door for Doctor Wakefield, who was carrying his sister in his arms.

  “Put her in the middle bedroom,” Grace directed. “The guest room. Not her own.”

  Wakefield grunted and passed through the kitchen, then out into the hall and up the stairs. Enid and George stood silently in the doorway.

  “I’ll go with him,” Grace offered. “You two look done in. There’s food on the table, and cider besides.”

  She left them and took the stairs two at a time, reaching the middle bedroom just as Wakefield was laying Abigail on the bed.

  “Here, sir,” Grace said quietly as he collapsed in the chair. “I’ll take care of her now. You go down and eat something.”

  “She’d never have lasted another night.” Wakefield’s voice was hoarse with exhaustion. “She’s cut herself, you see. With this.” He pulled a bloody letter opener out of his pocket and set it on the bedside table.

  Grace’s heart began to pound as she looked from the instrument to Abigail, saw the bandages on the woman’s wrists, noted her shallow breathing, the pallor of her skin. “Where was she?”