by BJ Hoff
“All right, then,” Michael agreed reluctantly. “But we’ll be taking another man along. Stay here and rest until I see who’s available.”
Denny Price, fuming and impatient, approached the Franklin Street entrance of the Hall of Justice, pulling a mulish Quinn O’Shea along beside him.
“Will you let go?” she demanded. “I’m not one of your drunks to haul about however you please!”
“I told you, we’ll be going to the station so you can tell your story to the captain! A formal complaint is needed before we can get an investigation under way.” Denny attempted to tighten his grip on her arm.
“And I told you,” she snarled, yanking her arm away from him, “that I’ll not be talking to anyone else this night! I need a place to stay and a job, before I can go worrying about that sour old Ethelda Crane and her Shelter house!”
Denny turned, hoping to put out her fiery defiance with his sternest glare, but it had no more effect on her than an icicle on a firestorm.
Hardheaded!
“I’ll be giving you a place to stay in the lockup if you don’t cease your foolishness! And wasn’t it yourself who said you wanted justice done? Well, the place to start is with a complaint—in writing.”
The blood pounding in his ears, Denny reached again to grab her arm.
Fending him off, she stood her ground. “Perhaps I don’t write,” she said. Preening like a duchess, she gave her immense mane of hair a toss.
Watching her, Denny tried not to think about how small and young she looked. Just a wee thing, she was, appearing half-starved in that disgraceful sack of a dress. She had hair enough for two lasses—an odd color, like sand—and a thin band of freckles, not much darker than her hair, running across her nose. The enormous brown eyes were flecked with gold, like a cat’s, and Denny suddenly realized what she had reminded him of all along: a scrawny, wee kitten, set out in the cold on its own keeping. Now here she was, bravely prowling about in search of the means to survive—too wounded to trust, too proud to beg.
“It strikes me,” he said, careful to keep the slightest note of pity out of his voice, “that any girsha with such a saucy mouth would be clever enough to write her name. Now, will you come along like a good lass? After we tend to business, I promise I’ll help you find a place to stay.”
For a moment he saw the flint in her eyes spark, the defiance blaze up. Ah, she didn’t like being obligated, that was clear.
Pulling herself up to her full height—which was not all that impressive—she regarded him with a look that took his measure. “And will you promise as well to help me find my friend, Bobby Dempsey?”
A wave of remembrance, followed by sympathy for the girl, hit Denny hard. As if she hadn’t had enough, he was now about to increase her troubles. “I’m sorry to have to tell you, lass, but your friend—well, I’m afraid there was an accident. Your friend, Bobby Dempsey, is dead.”
She stared at him as if he had struck her. “Bobby? Bobby Dempsey is dead?” she finally choked out. “But, how—”
“’Twas an accident on the docks, lass,” Denny said gently. “I doubt he ever knew what hit him.”
She stood, unmoving, staring down at the street for a long time. Denny tensed, anticipating a bout of tears, and altogether uncertain as to how he would go about comforting this strange lass with the wounded eyes.
“There’s no justice,” she said in a low voice. “None at all. Bobby, he never hurt a soul. He would have risked his hide to save a wee bird. He was a good, simple soul, and what does he get for it?”
She looked at Denny, and he flinched at the mixture of pain and anger in those startling eyes. But then she surprised him by motioning to the doors, saying, “Well, then, let’s have it done with. Let’s be seeing to your formal complaint.”
Denny followed after her, trying not to notice the faint slump to her thin shoulders as she walked through the doors of the Hall of Justice.
Inside, Quinn’s sorrow for the loss of Bobby Dempsey was quickly crowded out by a fresh wave of apprehension. “The Tombs,” as Sergeant Price referred to the place, was a huge, mausoleum of a building, daunting in its very size and stateliness.
Quinn was keenly aware that this was a police station. It would have a gaol—a large one, from the looks of the place—where criminal offenders were incarcerated.
She knew an instant of panic. This was the very thing she was running from—first in Ireland, and most recently the Shelter, which to her way of thinking was as much a prison as any gaolhouse.
She had entered of her own volition—but for what? Something called justice? She was mad entirely! What had she ever known of justice back home? Growing up in Ireland, a body didn’t see much in the way of justice, other than the relentless cruel hand of the Brits grinding the Irish into the bogs. Had she really thought to find anything better here in the States?
“Come along, lass. We’ll see if the captain’s still here.”
The sergeant moved as if to take her arm, but Quinn jerked away, shaking her head. “I’ve changed my mind,” she said, still backing off toward the door.
“Ah, no, and you can’t!” protested the sergeant. “Now come along. Everything’s going to work out all right—”
Quinn darted a glance over her shoulder, gauging the distance to the door. Bitterly, she realized that if she could only have found one of the ladies from the mission society before now, she might not be in such a fix. That Mrs. Burke, for example—the one who claimed to be married to an Irish policeman—had appeared more than kind. If only she had come back!
“There’s someone else I want to talk to,” she said abruptly, facing the sergeant. “A lady.”
He eyed her with suspicion. “A lady, is it? And just how would you be knowin’ a lady?”
Quinn stiffened, a queer heaviness settling over her chest at his words. Did he think her such a slattern, then, that a lady would avoid her altogether? Involuntarily, she glanced down over herself, feeling wretched at the sight of the wrinkled brown dress, hanging loose as a horse blanket over her frame.
She shook the feeling away, resisting the wave of shame that threatened to sweep over her. It wasn’t her fault, now was it, that she had lost her clothes in the river, and later her one remaining dress to Ethelda Crane’s greedy hands!
Lifting her chin, she leveled her frostiest look directly at the policeman. “How I’m knowing her is none of your affair. As I said, I will speak with Mrs. Burke or no one at all.”
“Mrs. Burke?” The man stared at her as if she’d said something most peculiar.
Quinn nodded, curious as to what accounted for his startled expression.
“The lady you’re asking to speak with is Mrs. Burke?”
“Didn’t I just say as much?” Quinn snapped, impatient with his thick-headedness.
For a moment the sergeant said nothing, but merely stood there, regarding her with an odd expression. Now that she’d had a long look at him in the light, Quinn grudgingly admitted that perhaps the man didn’t appear quite as simple as she’d first thought. His face was pleasant enough, bronzed and wind-whipped, with a slightly arrogant jaw and unusual gray eyes, with lashes as thick as any woman’s.
He might have appeared to be a good-natured man if only he wasn’t so insolent. But, him being a policeman, no doubt he thought he had a right to be insolent.
“I don’t suppose you’d happen to know this…Mrs. Burke’s…given name?” he asked her abruptly.
“I don’t,” Quinn replied.
“I see.” Still watching her, the sergeant raked a hand over his chin, then glanced back at another policeman coming out of the office across the room. “And what did she look like, your Mrs. Burke?” he asked.
Thoroughly annoyed with him, Quinn frowned. “She looked like a lady. She was dressed grand and had kind eyes.” She hesitated, then added less sharply, “I believe she limped a bit.”
The other policeman walked up to them, and Quinn said no more. She had had more than enough
of the sergeant’s insolent questions for one night. Besides, it was perfectly obvious he didn’t believe anything she had told him about Mrs. Burke.
Ignoring her entirely, Sergeant Price turned to the other policeman. “Mike—Captain,” he said with a grin.
The other policeman arched one eyebrow, then nodded. He barely glanced at Quinn. He was a big, handsome man, taller than Sergeant Price, though perhaps not quite so brawny. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, he sported a roguish black mustache. He looked, Quinn decided with a shiver of misgiving, like a man who could be very dangerous. He also looked very angry.
“Evan Whittaker is in my office,” he said shortly. “He needs help.”
Sergeant Price’s expression quickly sobered. “He’s still looking for the little Hogan lad, is he?”
The other gave a curt nod. “I’m going back to Five Points with him.”
Abruptly, he turned to look at Quinn, then back to the sergeant, as if expecting an explanation.
“Captain Burke,” the sergeant said, also turning to eyeball Quinn, “this is Miss Quinn O’Shea. She hails from the Chatham Charity Women’s Shelter.” He paused. “It would seem that she has urgent business with your wife.”
38
Angels Unaware
God’s presence surrounds you,
His angels around you,
The light of his love falling soft
On your face…
A heaven above you,
A family to love you,
Sleep, child, in your cradle
of blessing and grace.
OLD LULLABY
It was dark by the time Nora finished nursing Teddy. As she stood waiting for Johanna to light the oil lamp between the changing table and the crib, she tried to shoo Finbar off her skirts.
The wee cat’s life seemed to revolve about Johanna and the baby. He liked nothing better than to find them together in the same room—an appreciative audience for his mischief.
After laying the baby on the table for changing, Nora caught Johanna’s attention. “Take Finbar out of the room, dear,” she said, signing the words as she spoke. “Otherwise, he’ll be trying to jump up on the table with Teddy.”
Johanna scooped up the cat in her arms and left the room. A moment later Aunt Winnie entered. “Here, Nora, let me do that. You go and sit down, dear.”
Invariably, Nora tried to dissuade Evan’s meticulously groomed aunt from changing the baby’s messy didies—and just as invariably, Aunt Winnie dismissed her protests as utter foolishness.
“How many times have I done this by now? And I haven’t swooned yet, have I? Just you sit and rest while I take care of Teddy.” Frowning at Nora, she added, “Perhaps you should lie down, dear. You look quite exhausted.”
“Oh, no, I’m perfectly fine,” Nora insisted, sinking down onto the side of the bed as she tried to ignore the weakness that had plagued her all afternoon. “I might be just a bit tired, is all.”
Aunt Winnie darted a glance over her shoulder. “Well, there’s nothing for you to do in the kitchen. Daniel is being treated to dinner by that nice Dr. Grafton, so he won’t be in tonight. I have everything quite in hand. We can eat as soon as Evan comes, though we really don’t know when that will be, do we?”
“He thought he would be late. He said we should go ahead without him, but I’d rather not.” Nora watched the older woman lift Teddy into her arms. “I do hope he doesn’t stay in the Five Points after dark,” she went on. “That frightful place. But he’s so worried for the little boy, there’s no telling what he’ll do if he can’t find him.”
“Well, he was going to ask one of the policemen for help, so I’m sure he’ll be quite safe,” said Aunt Winnie. She smiled down at Teddy squirming in her arms. “This little man seems restless tonight. You don’t think he’s caught cold?”
Nora attempted to shake off the old familiar lethargy stealing over her. “I hope it’s not my milk. Evan says I fret too much about everyone. I do worry about him, I confess. He’s so very busy of late, and his lungs aren’t all that strong. And Johanna—she troubles me as well. She’s so unhappy.” Her eyes went to Teddy. “Some say worry can turn a mother’s milk.”
Aunt Winnie’s eyes were kind, her voice gentle. “I don’t pretend to know much about babies, dear. But perhaps you should take Dr. Grafton’s advice and begin to wean Teddy. It might be better for both of you.”
Nora gave a reluctant nod. “Perhaps. It’s just that he’s my last one, don’t you see. It might be that I’m altogether selfish, but I find myself wanting to keep the closeness between us as long as possible.”
Evan’s aunt put Teddy down in his crib and soothed his whimpers of protest. At last he quieted and, with a tiny sigh, lay studying his surroundings.
“I don’t think you’re being selfish at all,” said Aunt Winnie, coming to sit beside Nora on the bed. “I’ve never been a mother, but I think I understand what you mean. Still, dear, if it would be best for Teddy—and for your health—then perhaps it’s time.”
She took Nora’s hand. “Try not to worry about Evan. I’m sure he’ll be home soon. As for Johanna”—she glanced toward the door—”I doubt that anything but time will help her very much. She’s still grieving, I’m afraid.”
“You’ve seen her resistance to Teddy?”
Aunt Winnie nodded. “Yes, and it’s heartbreaking. But grief can’t be rushed, Nora. You know that as well as I do. Some of us simply take longer to heal. Goodness knows, that poor child has suffered enough loss in her young life to destroy a weaker spirit. I really do believe she’ll be all right, in time.”
“I hope so. I had thought Teddy might make a difference, but I’m beginning to wonder. I know she cares about him—you can see the longing in her eyes! You can sense her wanting to touch him, to pick him up—it breaks my heart to watch! I’ve prayed and prayed for her, but she’s still frightened…and in such pain.”
Evan’s aunt gave an understanding nod. “No doubt the child is frightened,” she agreed. “Frightened that she might somehow hurt Teddy. Poor dear—she’s still blaming herself for what happened to her brother,” she said with a sigh. Getting to her feet, she took Nora gently by the shoulders. “Johanna will be all right. She just needs time. And you, dear heart, need to rest. I want you to lie down now,” she said, gently pressing Nora back onto the bed and pulling the comforter over her legs. “Just for a little while. And no arguments.”
“But Teddy—”
“Teddy will more than likely be fast asleep in no time. But Johanna and I will keep an eye on him, never fear.”
Feeling too lightheaded and weak to protest, Nora sank back against the pillows and closed her eyes. She was only vaguely aware when Johanna came back into the room and sat down in the chair beside the crib.
In the kitchen, Winifred made a last, unnecessary inspection of the ham and cornbread. Reassured…again…that all was well, she permitted herself a smile of satisfaction.
She hoped the Lord would forgive her a certain amount of pride where her cooking was concerned. For years, she hadn’t been allowed near a kitchen. She had outlived two husbands, both men of means, whose estates had been glutted with servants. Until the death of Neville, her second husband, her culinary abilities had consisted of pouring tea and passing scones.
In the midst of her second widowhood, however, Winifred decided she had had quite enough of being helpless. To the outrage of Neville’s family, she departed the drafty, creaking country house and took rooms in London, where she proceeded to teach herself the womanly arts of cooking and keeping house. She now managed both with a certain flair, if she did say so herself.
She had already determined that after she and Lewis were married—the thought brought a smile—she wouldn’t allow herself to slip back into uselessness. He had Ginger and plenty of other servants, of course, but she intended to play an active part in managing the household.
Going to the sink, she began to wash up the dishes she had used in preparing the meal, smiling r
uefully as the hot, soapy water reddened her hands. She doubted that she’d ever feel any particular domestic satisfaction about washing dishes.
Her thoughts returned to Lewis—a frequent occurrence these days—and it struck her that she might suggest he lend one of his own servants to Nora and Evan, at least temporarily. More and more she saw the need for Nora to have help on a daily basis, certainly more help than Winifred herself could provide.
For a moment she stood, unmoving, her hands still submerged in hot water. Lately, every thought of Nora seemed to bring an accompanying heaviness of heart and a dark shadow of fear. Something was very wrong with Nora; Winifred was sure of it. She thought Evan suspected as much, too, but was doing everything he could to deny it, poor lamb. How could he do otherwise, devoted as he was to her? Nora was his life.
She bit her lip and gave a long sigh, then went on sudsing the bowl in her hands. She wondered if Nora knew about Evan’s appointment with Dr. Grafton today. She rather doubted it. Evan would keep his silence rather than worry her.
The fact that the doctor had asked to speak with him was frightening. Surely it hinted at something serious.
How would they ever manage if Nora was indeed, as Winifred had begun to suspect, seriously ill? They would have to get domestic help then, perhaps someone to live in. There would be medical bills, perhaps hospital costs.
They had Evan’s salary, of course, and she was sure Lewis would increase it in an instant. But Winifred knew from her experience with Neville that a lingering illness most often demanded exorbitant sums of money. Even for the wealthy, prolonged illness could be a terrible drain on finances.
Johanna’s uncle in Ireland sent a generous living allowance for her each month, but there was still little Teddy to provide for—and the matter of an education for Daniel John, who hoped to become a physician.
Winifred stood, unmoving, her hands still plunged beneath the dishwater. For some time now, she had been formulating a plan that would ease things considerably for Evan. She’d been uncertain as to how to go about it, for Evan was terribly independent, but she thought she had finally found the answer.