by DiAnn Mills
Dora set the coffee-filled silver teakettle, which matched the coffeepot with which she would serve Vernetta’s parents, on the tray for the boarders. Vernetta reached for it and smiled at Dora. “I’ll serve the boarders.”
Dora’s eyes grew large. “Oh no, miss, you mustn’t! Your mother would never approve.”
“Nonsense. It is the boarders’ first evening in our home. It wouldn’t be proper not to welcome them. Besides, Mother and Father are waiting for you in the parlor.”
With a brass poker, Thomas pushed at the bottom log in the fire grate. It broke quickly with crackling sounds into charred pieces that glowed a cheerful orange.
The Wibbey sisters were seated on the plush mauve sofa on the other side of the room. Old Captain Rogers was reading the Minneapolis newspaper in the matching stuffed chair.
“Tell us about your war adventures, Captain Rogers,” Cornelia was urging in a sugary voice that didn’t match her lined, narrow face.
“Maybe the captain doesn’t care to discuss the war,” Cora reprimanded. “Might be his memories are too gruesome for women’s delicate natures. Isn’t that so, Captain?” She smiled at him in a manner Thomas thought oozed “understanding female.”
Thomas thought he caught a sigh as the captain lowered the paper to show gentlemanly politeness to the women. “Some memories might be, some might not. The war was a long time ago. I prefer to live in the present.”
Cornelia straightened her shoulders beneath her crocheted shawl and darted a “see, I was right” look at her sister, who ignored her.
Thomas’s gaze dropped to the captain’s right leg. There was something wrong with it, something that caused the captain to walk with a cane. Had he injured it in the war? Was that one of the reasons he preferred to live in the present instead of rehashing old war stories with other veterans as so many of the veterans of the War between the States liked to do?
He set the poker back in its brass holder and shifted his shoulders. His brown sack jacket was almost too warm to wear inside this evening, with the fire going. At the last place he’d rented, he would have removed his jacket without a thought while he relaxed after dinner.
A smile tugged at his lips. Miss Vernetta Larson didn’t live at my last boardinghouse. Not that she’d give me a second look. A woman of Miss Larson’s stature wouldn’t have anything to do with a mere newspaper reporter. He likely wouldn’t even see her this evening. Mrs. Larson had made it clear the boarders were to eat in the kitchen, relax in the living room, and generally stay as far from the Larson family members as possible. He understood Mrs. Larson’s feelings, but he didn’t like the unworthy way they made him feel.
He glanced up as Vernetta entered. “Let me help you with that.” He quickly replaced the poker and hurried across the cabbage rose carpet. “Those cookies look mighty tempting.”
“Thank you,” she murmured as he took her tray. “You may set it here.” She indicated the marble-topped table in front of the couch.
Settling herself in a delicate chair, she reached for the teapot and smiled at the Wibbey sisters. “Do you take cream or sugar in your coffee?”
“Both, please.” Cornelia’s gentle smile shone through her wrinkles.
Cora’s back straightened. “You needn’t be serving us, deary. You should be visiting with your family not us boarders.”
Thomas could see, however, that Cora was pleased at Miss Larson’s service. So was he. He’d thought from the moment he met her that Miss Vernetta Larson was a young woman with a large heart. He liked the way she treated himself and the other boarders as guests. Especially the others, he hurriedly assured himself. It gave his heart a warm glow to see Miss Larson welcoming them as friends.
Thomas had just taken his cup from her when the door chimes rang. A couple minutes later, the maid entered. To his surprise, she handed him a small envelope.
He noticed the notepaper’s fine quality as he removed the note with “Mrs. Jonathan Johanson” written in script across the front. Quickly he scanned the contents. His heart sank.
Vernetta’s sweet voice cut through his disturbed thoughts. “I hope it’s not bad news.”
“Nothing irreparable,” he assured her, “but it is a problem. I work with a newsboys’ Sunday school each week. As part of the program, we supply a lunch for the children. It’s an important part of the ministry, as many of the children aren’t adequately fed at home, especially during these hard times.”
He lifted the note slightly. “The woman who was to supply the lunch tomorrow informs me she is down with the grippe.” He tried to smile. “I wonder if any of you has a suggestion as to how I might arrange lunch for a bunch of hungry youngsters on short notice?”
“Why, how thoughtless of the woman!” Cora’s eyes flashed. “Surely she would have made arrangements for the food before the last minute. Perhaps she only means that she’ll not be able to be there to serve the food. You can surely find a way to transport it from her home to the mission.”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid that isn’t the case.”
Vernetta’s face looked troubled. “The children mustn’t go without lunch. Dora,” she addressed the maid, who was leaning over the tray, “do we have anything we can prepare for the children?”
Dora hesitated. “I could probably find something, miss, if Mrs. Larson would allow it.”
Thomas’s hopes disintegrated. Mrs. Larson didn’t appear the type of woman whose heart would be touched by the children’s plight.
Determination fixed itself upon Vernetta’s features. “I will speak with Mother about it. Perhaps it would be best if we had a menu in mind when I do so. Mr. McNally, how many children do you expect?”
“There’s usually about forty, all together.”
He saw the surprise and concern flash across her eyes, but her training didn’t allow it to show in her manners, words, or tone. “Dora, what do we have to feed forty hungry youngsters?”
Dora rubbed the palms of her hands over her starched white apron. “We haven’t enough meat to serve so many. I could make a hearty stew or soup though. And maybe doughnuts. Doughnuts are always popular with children and filling, too. The cost wouldn’t be too great,” she assured.
“Thank you, Dora. I’ll speak with Mother immediately.” Vernetta rose gracefully.
Thomas stood, too. “I don’t wish to cause trouble. If you think your mother wouldn’t approve—”
“Not approve of feeding hungry children? Nonsense.”
He wasn’t as certain of Vernetta’s mother’s generosity as he was of hers. “I’ll be glad to pay for the food. It’s the preparing of it that’s beyond my abilities.”
Her laughing eyes lit his heart. “I’m sure that can be remedied with Dora’s help.”
Dora blinked in surprise, then fell in with Vernetta’s spirit. “To be certain, miss.”
Thomas’s cheeks heated as the Wibbey sisters chuckled their approval of Vernetta’s plan to educate him in the art of cooking, but he only grinned at Vernetta. “I’ll be grateful for the lesson.”
It wasn’t long before the large, modern kitchen was bustling with activity. The shining black stove with its fancy grillwork poured forth welcome heat. While Dora prepared the doughnut batter and heated oil, Thomas and Vernetta washed and dried the dinner dishes, and the Wibbey sisters browned meat and cut vegetables for the soup.
For Thomas, the most fun was watching the doughnuts plump up crispy brown and fat in the hot oil. The doughnut making had just begun when Mrs. Larson called Dora away to prepare the family’s Sunday clothes for church the next day, brushing and pressing outfits and polishing shoes and boots. The remaining ladies and Thomas took turns retrieving the bobbing golden circles, rolling some in powdered sugar.
“Don’t you be eating the young ones’ dinner!” Cornelia slapped lightly at Thomas’s hand when he reached for a cooled doughnut. Her eyes were laughing like those of a grandmother teasing a hungry grandson.
Thomas winked at her. “I’ll sha
re it with you. Just one, to make sure they are fit for the newsies.” The women laughed at him as he split the doughnut four ways.
“Tell us about the newsboys’ club,” Vernetta urged.
He glanced at her. Powdered sugar dappled one cheek, flushed red from the heat of the stove, and the tip of her chin. Her eyes sparkled with the fun of cooking with the others. She looks delectable, he thought.
“Well,” he started, “the club was started by the church I attend. The churchmen were concerned for the newsboys’ welfare and souls. Most of them come from poor homes. Many don’t have families, and their entire support comes from selling newspapers.”
The women nodded. Sympathy replaced the sparkle in Vernetta’s eyes.
“We struck on the idea of starting a Sunday school for the boys. We were afraid they wouldn’t attend with the other children. We were right. They wouldn’t even come to the church for a class. Then one of the churchwomen, who has a store downtown, offered the use of the store basement. We jumped at the opportunity. It was right in the boys’ neighborhood, and they started coming. It didn’t take long to find out a lot of them don’t get enough to eat, especially in these hard times, so to sweeten the draw, we added the lunch. We also give away books for those who attend regularly.”
“What a wonderful ministry,” Vernetta said.
The Wibbey sisters murmured their agreement.
“Perhaps…” Thomas hesitated. Would Vernetta think him bold or ungentlemanly in his request? Surely she would take it in the manner he offered it. “With the woman who was in charge of the lunch ill, we could use another volunteer tomorrow. Would you care to assist us, Miss Larson?”
“I should be glad to.” Vernetta’s immediate response and the warmth in her eyes assured him of her sincerity.
He smiled at her across the hot stove, but it was her generous heart that warmed him.
Chapter 4
Vernetta was glad her father hadn’t yet sold all of their horses and carriages. She didn’t know how they would have managed if they’d had to transport the soup and doughnuts downtown by streetcar. Though her father gave permission to use the carriage, her mother did not agree to Vernetta’s request that Dora be allowed to help at the mission. “She is needed here. Surely you don’t expect me to prepare and serve the boarders’ Sunday meal?”
In front of the mission storefront, Thomas lifted a large basket and handed it to Vernetta. She could smell the fresh, yeasty scent of the doughnuts hidden beneath the large oatmeal linen towel. She followed him as he carried the heavy soup kettle.
“Watch your step,” he warned. “The snow has mostly been cleared, but there are a few icy patches left.”
They went down the steps that were protected from the sidewalk by a castiron railing and entered the basement of a millinery shop. Immediately Thomas was surrounded by noisy boys, ranging in age from ten to sixteen.
“Hi, Mr. McNally!”
“Need some help there?”
“Thought ya mighta got lost in a snowdrift! What took ya so long?”
They greeted Thomas with friendly pats on the back or slaps on his shoulders, in the manner men and boys have that is so incomprehensible to women.
Vernetta smiled at the boys, who swarmed between her and Thomas. They came in every size and shape, but their clothes were the same: hip-length coats over vests, cotton shirts, corduroy trousers—all ragged.
One boy, taller than the others and with broader shoulders, bumped his shoulder against Thomas’s. “Who’s the new lady?” He whisked his hat off politely, but his brown eyes met hers boldly, in a manner to which she wasn’t accustomed. Vernetta swallowed a gasp and took a small step backward.
Thomas introduced her. “Miss Vernetta Larson. Miss Larson, this is Erik Johansen, leader of the newsboys in this part of the city.”
Vernetta could tell he hadn’t noticed the boy’s ungentlemanly gaze. She nodded cautiously. “How do you do, Erik?”
The boy reached for her basket. “Let me help ya with that, Miss Larson.”
Vernetta allowed him to take it from her. “Thank you.”
She followed Erik and Thomas into another room. It was small, with wooden barrels and crates piled along the cold walls. An old wood-burning cookstove was already giving off heat. Thomas set the soup on it. Erik set the basket of doughnuts down on a long, well-worn wooden table, then slid his hat back on.
Thomas slid it off in one smooth move. “You forgot, it stays off while you’re inside.”
Erik flushed, and Vernetta turned away, glancing over the bare kitchen, not wanting to embarrass the proud lad further. “Will you get a couple of the other boys together and see that the classrooms are set up, Erik?” she heard Thomas ask. Then Erik shuffled out of the room.
Vernetta was glad to discover that there were other women at the mission to help serve the lunch. Thomas introduced her to them, then invited her to join him in looking over the rest of the Sunday school.
Children were milling about everywhere: not only boys, but girls, too. They looked like feminine versions of the boys with their tattered, misfitting clothing and dirty faces and hair.
“I thought this was a newsboys’ Sunday school,” she whispered to Thomas. “What are the girls doing here?”
Thomas turned surprised eyes to her. “Didn’t I mention the flower girls? Not long after the school for the newsies started, it was expanded to include the girls.”
He shook his head, sadness filling the lines of his face. “They’re as bad off as the boys, working the streets with their wares, some of them living on the streets as well.”
“Surely not!” Her whisper burned her throat. She looked at the ill-clad, ill-cared-for children, laughing and running about while they waited for class to begin.
He took her elbow and bent toward her to say in a low voice that wouldn’t carry to the children, “They have a rough lot in life. We do all we can for them.” His touch urged her forward.
The tour didn’t take long. Thomas explained how the part of the large basement room that wasn’t used for storage for the millinery was divided into classrooms with screens and with blankets hung over wires. Simple oak chairs were set in each classroom. Easels with slates stood at the front of the rooms. A few pictures on construction paper, obviously the work of the children, were pinned to the blanket walls.
All along the tour, boys stopped Thomas. He introduced many of them to Vernetta. She was relieved that most of the boys did not look at her in Erik’s insolent manner but was dismayed by the tough way they spoke and acted. Like men in boys’ bodies, she thought.
Thomas stopped to speak to a boy, and Vernetta walked slowly back toward the public portion of the basement.
“No! Give it back!” a young girl’s voice cried out from the middle of a circle of boys. Vernetta stopped, looking to see what was the matter.
A cloth doll appeared in a boy’s hand, held above his head. The doll was passed from one high-held hand to another, amid boyish laughter and the girl’s repeated pleas.
Vernetta took a step toward them. Before she could reach the circle, someone brushed by her.
Erik reached above the smaller boys with ease and grabbed the doll. “Quit actin’ like slobs! Don’cha have anything better to do than tease girls?”
The younger boys bit their lips and backed away. Erik handed the doll to the girl. “Here ya are, Lily. Don’t mind them.”
Large, water-drenched gray eyes looked up at him. “Thanks, Erik.”
Surprise made Vernetta’s heart skip a beat. “Lily!” It was the flower girl from whom she’d bought the paper roses. Vernetta hurried forward.
Erik frowned at her and moved so he half-blocked the girl from Vernetta. “We don’t need you. I can look after her.”
Vernetta glanced at him in surprise. “I’m sure you can.” She smiled and leaned forward. “We met the other day when I bought some of your beautiful flowers, remember?”
Lily only nodded. She leaned against Erik’s leg. Her
gaze didn’t leave Vernetta’s. One small hand reached up to clutch the soft muffler about her neck.
Does she think I’ll ask her to return it? Vernetta wondered, shocked at the thought. “It’s so nice to see you again. Is this your doll? What is her name?”
“Amy.” Lily continued her hold on the muffler.
A whistle cut through the air. It was Thomas, calling everyone together for prayer and hymn singing.
“Come on, Lily.” Erik started toward the group. Lily, her hand tucked safely in his, hurried along with him.
Thomas stopped beside Vernetta. “The grippe must be taking a lot of victims. We’re short on teachers today. Would you mind helping out by teaching one of the Sunday schools for the flower girls?”
Vernetta agreed and was rewarded by Thomas’s huge smile. She was glad to find Lily among her students. By the end of the class, the shy girl even smiled at her and had removed her grip on the muffler.
The sound of the horse’s hooves were muffled by the snow and slush on the road as Thomas and Vernetta drove home in the carriage. As they passed through a residential area, the laughter of children danced through the crisp, nose-biting air.
Thomas laughed and pointed to children playing Fox and Geese on a large front yard. “They are so bundled in winter clothing that they run like penguins!”
Vernetta laughed with him. Remembering the children they’d been with earlier, her laughter died. “The newsboys and flower girls should be playing like this—lighthearted, enjoying the snow—not trying to earn a living on cold, dirty sidewalks.”
“Yes, they should be able to live like the children they are.” Thomas touched the gloved hands in her lap with one of his own. The touch lasted only a moment, but the intimacy of it surprised her. Her gaze darted to his face. His brown-eyed gaze met hers. “I knew you’d be like this—good and kind.” His voice was quiet and rich, and the simple compliment seemed very personal.
Vernetta’s breath seemed to stop. Her heart hammered in her chest.