A Family Apart

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  Books by Joan Lowery Nixon

  FICTION

  A Candidate for Murder

  The Dark and Deadly Pool

  Don’t Scream

  The Ghosts of Now

  Ghost Town: Seven Ghostly Stories

  The Haunting

  In the Face of Danger

  The Island of Dangerous Dreams

  The Kidnapping of Christina Lattimore

  Laugh Till You Cry

  Murdered, My Sweet

  The Name of the Game Was Murder

  Nightmare

  Nobody’s There

  The Other Side of Dark

  Playing for Keeps

  Search for the Shadowman

  Secret, Silent Screams

  Shadowmaker

  The Specter

  Spirit Seeker

  The Stalker

  The Trap

  The Weekend Was Murder!

  Whispers from the Dead

  Who Are You?

  NONFICTION

  The Making of a Writer

  A FAMILY APART

  Frances felt herself drawn to look at the people in the room, fearfully searching one face, then another, for hopeful signs. Round or long, wrinkled or plumply red-cheeked, bushy-eyebrowed or scruffily bearded, no matter; every pair of eyes in every face stared intently at the children. Frances couldn’t tell what they were thinking. She tried to look away, but couldn’t. For a moment she felt dizzy, and her stomach churned. Desperately, she held Petey even more tightly. Who were all these strangers? Would any of them choose the Kelly children to be their own? What if no one wanted them? What would happen to them then?

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 1987 by Joan Lowery Nixon and Daniel Weiss Associates, Inc.

  Cover art copyright © 1988 by Nigel Chamberlain

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York. Originally published in hardcover by Delacorte Press, New York, in 1987.

  Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Random House LLC.

  Visit us on the Web! randomhouse.com/kids

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  ISBN 978-0-553-05432-3 (trade) — ISBN 978-0-440-91116-6 (pbk.) — ISBN 978-0-307-82755-5 (ebook)

  First Delacorte Press Ebook Edition 2013

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v3.1

  To my friend

  Dan Weiss

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  A Note From the Author

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  About the Author

  A Note From the Author

  During the years from 1864 to 1929, the Children’s Aid Society, founded by Charles Loring Brace, sent more than 100,000 children on orphan trains from the slums of New York City to new homes in the West. This placing-out program was so successful that other groups, such as the New York Foundling Hospital, followed the example.

  The Orphan Train Quartet was inspired by the true stories of these children; but the characters in the series, their adventures, and the dates of their arrival are entirely fictional. We chose St. Joseph, Missouri, between the years 1860 and 1880 as our setting in order to place our characters in one of the most exciting periods of American history. As for the historical figures who enter these stories—they very well could have been at the places described at the proper times to touch the lives of the children who came west on the orphan trains.

  1

  JENNIFER SHOOK BACK her long, dark hair, damp from the summer’s heat. “I wish we were home,” she snapped so suddenly that she startled her younger brother Jeff, who was sitting on the steps of the front porch. “It’s so boring. I miss the city. I miss my friends. I wish, oh, how I wish, we were home.”

  “Stop wishing,” Jeff grumbled. “We haven’t got a home.” He squinted and slowly aimed, preparing to throw a pebble along the gravel path that led from the front porch of Grandma Briley’s house to the road.

  Just as he let it fly, Jennifer deliberately nudged his shoulder, causing the pebble to flop onto the grass.

  “Hey!” Jeff shouted. “Cut that out!”

  “Then don’t say dumb stuff like that. We do too have a home. At least we will when Dad gets through with his assignment overseas.”

  “You know what I mean,” Jeff said. He quickly aimed and threw another pebble before Jennifer could interfere.

  “I miss Dad,” Jennifer said.

  “I miss Mom, too,” Jeff said.

  “Mom? How can you miss Mom? She’s right here.”

  “No, she’s not. She’s upstairs working away on that novel that never seems to get finished.”

  “That’s not her fault. She keeps getting interrupted. Anyhow, that was the whole point of our spending the summer here in Missouri, so Mom could concentrate on her writing and we could get to know Grandma better.”

  “Grandma’s almost as busy as Mom,” Jeff complained. “In the morning she’s jogging, in the afternoon she’s working for that historical society, and at night she goes to City Council meetings.”

  Jennifer nodded. “And here we are stuck out in the middle of no place with nothing to do.”

  She heard a chuckle behind them, then a click as the screen door opened. “ ‘Out in the middle of no place’?” Grandma said as she squeezed onto the top step between them. “Well, I’ll grant that northwest Missouri doesn’t have all the excitement to offer that Washington, D.C., has, but you could hardly call it ‘no place.’ ”

  Jennifer felt her face grow even warmer. She pushed at the hair that clung damply to her cheeks and stammered, “I didn’t mean—uh—that is—it’s different in Missouri, and—”

  Grandma tilted her head and studied Jennifer. “You know, you’d be a lot cooler with that lovely long hair off your neck.” She got up, tugging down her shorts, and held out a hand to help Jennifer up “Come with me—both of you. I’ve got something to show you that ought to relieve your boredom.”

  As soon as they reached their grandmother’s bedroom, she pointed to the bed. “First, we’ll take care of that long hair,” she said. “Have a seat, Jennifer. Just give me one minute, and you’ll see what I mean.”

  Jennifer stared at Grandma’s own short-cropped curls and opened her mouth to protest. “You’re not going to—” she began, but she relaxed with a grateful sigh when Grandma simply picked up a silver-backed hairbrush. The rhythmic strokes of the brush were soothing, and soon Jennifer’s hair was swirled over her grandmother’s left hand.

  “Jeff,” Grandma said, “will you please hand me a few bobby pins from that box on my dresser? There ought to still be a few of them in there.”

  “Bobby pins!” Jennifer gasped. Nobody used bobby pins! What in the world was she going to look like?

  Her grandmother poked and patted a
t Jennifer’s hair. Finally she said, “Stand up and look in the mirror, Jennifer. My, I’ve got a beautiful granddaughter.”

  Jennifer stared at the face in the wood-framed mirror that hung over Grandma’s dresser. Her hair was parted in the middle and caught in a bun low on her neck. She looked older than fifteen. It wasn’t so bad—kind of old-fashioned, but actually pretty nice. Lightly touching her hair, she sneaked another look, then met her grandmother’s friendly grin. “Thanks,” Jennifer said.

  “Now,” Grandma said, “wait till you see this.” She bent to reach into the low cedar chest that stood in the corner of the room and took out a book covered with faded blue fabric. She opened it carefully and removed a sepia-toned photograph. Without a word she handed the photograph to Jennifer.

  Jennifer felt prickles dart up her backbone as her eyes met those of the slender, dark-haired girl in the photograph. “Who is this girl?” Jennifer asked. “She looks like me.”

  “The young woman was my grandmother’s mother,” Grandma explained, “and when she was your age her name was Frances Mary Kelly.”

  Jennifer studied the photograph. “How old is she here?”

  “About eighteen, I would guess.”

  “Do you know anything about her?”

  “When Frances was thirteen years old—about your age, Jeff—she was an Orphan Train child, sent from New York City to St. Joseph, Missouri,” Grandma said. “That was in 1860, just before the beginning of the Civil War.”

  Jeff took another look at the photograph. “What’s an Orphan Train child?”

  “I believe I’ll let Frances Mary tell you,” his grandmother said. She held out the book to Jeff. “Frances Mary wrote about her own life and the lives of her brothers and sisters and friends. If you think Missouri is a dull place, wait until you hear these stories. They’re full of bandits and runaways and battles and all sorts of excitement. Why, one time Frances was almost arrested!”

  Jeff eagerly opened the book, allowing Jennifer to bend close to him.

  “It’s too hard to read this,” he finally said. “The writing looks like little spider tracks.”

  “And in places the ink’s faded.” Jennifer peered intently, surprised at her disappointment. “I can’t read it, either.”

  “Never mind,” Grandma said. “I’ve read these stories over and over, and I’ll be glad to tell them to you. Let’s find a comfortable place on the screened porch where the breeze will cool us, and I’ll tell you about Frances Mary Kelly, your own great-great-great-grandmother.”

  Jennifer and Jeff followed their grandmother to the shaded, breezy room with the wide-open windows. Jeff plopped on the floor, and Jennifer—remembering the graceful girl in the photograph!—sank slowly into a plump-cushioned wicker chair.

  “Even this journal has a story in itself,” Grandma said, “so I’ll read some of Frances Mary’s own words.”

  Early this morning, as the sun rose on the anniversary of my birthdate, my dearest love gifted me with two silver-edged combs and this book, bound in blue.

  He gently took the hairbrush from my hand and wound my dark hair around his fingers. “The combs are to capture this silken hair of yours, Frances Mary,” he said, “and the journal is to capture all the stories you carry in your heart.”

  “But I’ve told you the stories,” I said.

  “You’ve told me, yes. But there will be others who will want to hear them.”

  I held the book on my lap, sliding the tips of my fingers over its soft, smooth cover. “I’m not sure where to begin.”

  “Begin with your family,” he said “Begin when you were very young in New York. Begin with your own story.”

  2

  FRANCES MARY KELLY ran into the cobbled street, carefully dodging between two polished and shining hansom cabs. Hurry! She had to hurry. Mr. Lomax, who managed the office building where Frances and Ma worked as scrubwomen, had given her an errand and told her to run. Usually he didn’t complain; but the last time, after he’d sent her to pick up a package, he had grumbled that she had dawdled and had docked ten cents from her weekly pay. She was terrified that he’d do it again. The family needed every penny.

  Late September’s warm weather had been swept away by a sudden chill wind from the north. Frances tightly clutched her thin, black shawl in one hand and the envelope Mr. Lomax had given her in the other. She darted forward across Fifth Avenue just as the huge, rumbling, iron-rimmed wheel of a cab dropped into a rut in the street in front of her, drenching the skirt of her faded brown dress and her bare feet with cold, muddy water. She jumped backward, crying out.

  “Watch where you’re goin’!” The driver leaned from his high perch at the back of the cab, yelling and brandishing his whip.

  Shivering, her wet legs aching from the cold, Frances scrambled onto the sidewalk. Two more blocks to go. Fighting back tears, she ran down the sidewalk, ducking in and out among the pedestrians, until she came to her destination, a dark brick building with ornate cornices over the doors and windows. Frances shoved open the heavy paneled door and, after checking the names on the inner doors, found the right one and knocked.

  “Come in,” a deep voice called.

  She pushed open the door and peered into a large, cluttered room. One wall was lined with bookshelves that were filled with dusty books bound in red, brown, and black leather. Frances gasped to see them all. Oh! If only she had so many books to read!

  “What do you want?”

  She whirled to face a bald, round gentleman who sat in a tall chair behind a desk that needed a good cleaning. An inkstand balanced precariously on top of a stack of scattered papers; and a greasy china plate, which held a dried crust of bread and a scattering of cheese crumbs, topped a stack of long, green, leather-bound books. Frances closed her eyes, inhaling the cheese’s pungent odor. She’d had potatoes, cabbage, and the sausage her brother Mike had brought home at noon, but her stomach rumbled hungrily. There wasn’t ever quite enough food to stop that.

  The carpet was warm, and she curled and uncurled her bare toes against it. Ma was putting aside as much as she could to buy shoes for everyone for the winter, but the cold had come early this year, and there wasn’t enough money for shoes yet.

  “Speak up!” the man ordered.

  Frances’s eyes flew open in fright. What would happen to her job if the gentleman told Mr. Lomax that he’d been obliged to speak to her twice? “I’m sorry, sir. Are you Mr. Waterfield?”

  “Of course I am,” he muttered. “What business do you have with me?”

  Resentful that she had no choice but to be polite to this horrible, greasy-lipped person, she thrust the envelope toward him, and he half rose from his chair to snatch it. His vest strained to stay fastened over his stomach, and one of the buttons had popped.

  To keep herself from staring, Frances looked down at the floor. A crumpled newspaper lay near her toes. She picked it up and skimmed the headlines: “Discussion of treaty with China” … “Lady Elgin Sunk!!! 400 Lives Lost!!!” … “From Missouri: Mr. S. Harbaugh, Lexington newspaper publisher, was run out of town by fifteen proslavery men and his printing office destroyed.”

  An advertisement offered, “The Life of Abraham Lincoln by an Illinois Republican who knows well the man and his history … a compact pamphlet … 4 cents a copy … address the Tribune, Tribune Building, New York.” Abraham Lincoln was running for president of the United States, and the voting would be the next month. Da had admired the man and had told her about him. How she would love to read that pamphlet!

  Frances blurted out, “Sir, if you no longer want this newspaper, may I have it?”

  Mr. Waterfield raised his head from the letter he was reading and scowled at her. “That newspaper is of no use to me, but just what do you think you’d do with it?”

  Frances stood as tall and straight as she could. Stupid man! What did he think she would do? “I would read it,” she said firmly.

  He laughed loudly, then jeered, “Read it? Ha! As if you urchin
s could read! Toss it over there—in that basket.” He reached for the inkwell and soon was penning an answer to Mr. Lomax’s letter.

  I hate you! Frances thought as she followed his orders. You’re a fat, horrible bully! Who are you to decide whether I can or can’t read? You don’t know me! She clenched her fists, wishing she could speak the words aloud.

  She still treasured the memory of when she was a very little girl and Da had held her on his lap, the newspaper before them.

  “What’s this word?” she’d asked, pointing. “And this one?” she’d insist as soon as he answered. “And this one?”

  “Ah, Frances Mary,” Da had said one day, “I think you’re after learnin’ to read.”

  She had nodded vigorously. “Teach me to read, Da,” she had begged, so he did. She loved to read and was proud of her reading because it was pleasing to Da.

  Since they were unable to afford the clothes or books that sending the little ones to school demanded, Frances had tried to pass on her father’s teaching to the others. Mike had learned eagerly, gulping in words as hungrily as he gulped in food at supper. Danny had learned, too, following Mike’s example; but after a few mistakes, Megan had hung back, unsure of herself, and could read very little.

  Mr. Waterfield suddenly stood up, breaking into Frances’s thoughts. He tucked his sheet of paper into an envelope and held it out. “Get this answer to Mr. Lomax right away,” he snapped. “And no dawdling!”

  “Yes, sir,” Frances said. Still furious, she took the envelope, threw open the door, and ran down the hallway to the street. She walked briskly, this time able to notice the people around her. There were gentlemen dressed in ankle-length topcoats that swung around their legs as they walked. Many of them wore top hats and carried canes, some with heads of polished silver. The women wore long coats or capes that covered their full skirts almost to the hems. Most wore gloves, but a few had tucked their hands inside fur muffs. Tilted over their foreheads were hats, decorated with silk flowers and tied under their chins with matching ribbons.