Ben frowned. Master? Didn’t that just smack of slavery, and the plantation life he had left behind? “Well, Walter, Petronius is gettin’ long in the tooth, and set in his ways. You got some comfortable accommodations for him?”
“Oh, sure do. A big corral, plentya fresh green grass, waterin’ trough new-filled. He’ll be fine.”
“Okay, then. Uh—Walter—?” as the boy was turning away.
“Yes, sir?”
“Kinda late for you t’ be out and about, ain’t it? Past your suppertime. You always work till this time of night?”
“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. I mean, sometimes, sir.” Befuddled, Walter was shifting back and forth, from one foot to the other, plainly uncomfortable about having to answer questions. “Just when the master has got somethin’ special goin’ on. Can I go now, sir?”
Ben waved a hand in dismissal. Another little thought began niggling away in his overactive cerebrum. One not so pleasant, as a prelude to this evening out.
“Doctor Yancey,” said a disembodied voice as the front door opened to his knock.
Same supercilious butler, same uppity attitude, same imperious formal wear. Fitting for the likes of New York City, perhaps, or London. But here?
Involuntarily Ben snorted as he tossed his hat to the man. Who, though surprised, quite ably caught hold, right out of the air. “Hell, Jeeves, with that arm, you’d oughta sign up for the San Francisco Eagles baseball team.”
He was halfway down the hall to the library when the words came floating behind him, in a slightly peeved tone, “My name, sir, is Barrington.”
“H’lo, Charles,” he said more as an announcement than as a salutation. His mood was rapidly deteriorating from jovial to testy, given those random thoughts ping-ponging from brain cell to brain cell. Maybe he wouldn’t last long in this paradise on earth, after all. “I decided not t’ stand on ceremony and let myself in.”
Holcomb, seated in his favorite over-padded chair, seemed amused. “Of course, Doctor. I would have expected nothin’ less. C’mon, sit down. Catch me up on what you been doin’ lately. Oh—pour yourself a hefty drink, there. Got no doubt you deserve it.”
Over a Waterford lead crystal glass full of excellent brandy, the two men carried on their conversation in a business matter: one gives, one takes—not too little, not too much. Careful. Wary. Testing the waters. No matter how affable a string of words, underlying might be all sorts of rampant emotion.
Until Ben decided it was time to throw caution to the winds.
“I see you have a lotta help around the place.”
Holcomb shrugged. “Got a big spread here, Doc. It takes a lotta people to keep things runnin’.”
“Kids. Maybe doin’ some hard things, or dangerous things, they shouldn’t be doin’.”
From across the expanse of the low table between them, where sat the cut glass brandy bottle, Holcomb narrowed his eyes. “They’re all supervised,” he answered shortly. “Watched over, while they learn a trade, gettin’ ready for jobs in the future.”
“Indentured, then,” said Ben. “Like slave labor.”
Holcomb bristled. “Look ahere, young man, I spend a lotta time and money helpin’ out over there at the orphanage. You go ahead and ask Madonna about my financial contributions. I’m just helpin’ set these kids up in somethin’ they can do the rest of their lives.”
“Ahuh. Noble of you.” Ben’s lip curled. “Anybody else around Whitfield teachin’ these orphans what they need t’ know?”
A sudden sucked-in lungful of air, as if to slow an angered heartbeat and stifle aroused impulses. Ben could sometimes have that effect on people, especially while riding a wave of righteousness. Then his host made a conscious effort to seem conciliatory.
“That sounds a bit like demagoguery, my friend. Not the sort of thing to discuss here and now, nor over the supper table. Speakin’ of which, let’s head on int’ the dinin’ room, see what my cook has fixed for us t’night.”
What the cook had fixed was a pork roast, simmering in spice and juice; and Ben, realizing he might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, plunged in with gusto.
Once again Roy was there to clear away after each course, and to bring in a coffee tray after the meal was finished.
No halting gait this time, Ben quickly noticed. Not a permanent deformity, then; perhaps truly due only to the scuffle Holcomb had alluded to on his past visit to the house.
“You doin’ better, now, son?” he asked in a quiet, non-carrying tone.
The boy might just as well have been poked with a red-hot sword, for his start of confusion. Prickles of apprehension rode up and down Ben’s spine at the look of fear on Roy’s face: white-rimmed eyes that instantly slid sideways; trembling lips; hands that shook enough to rattle the tray.
Of course Holcomb was watching. As a hawk, flying high overhead, watches its prey weaving for safety through meadow grass. “Well, go on, answer the man,” he ordered sharply.
“Uh—yes, sir. Yes, sir,” Roy proclaimed, “I’m doin’ just fine, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“All right, be off with you. Let us enjoy our coffee in peace.”
Ben was stirring sugar into his cup with more force than necessary, so that the spoon clinked noisily against the porcelain rim. “I s’pose they fake injuries, too, for the attention,” he suggested nonchalantly.
Holcomb grunted. “Oh, hell, all the time. Then you just gotta take ’em in hand.”
“Ahuh. Everybody else on staff in good health?”
“Now, Doctor,” a deliberately placating gaze from the head of the table, an appeasing tone, “whydja wanna mix int’ somethin’ ain’t none of your concern?”
Clamping down on his own burgeoning anger, Ben seethed internally until he was forced to loosen the brown bow tie that suddenly seemed too tight around his throat. Now is not the time, came a silent warning from somewhere. Gather your forces, first. Let prudence prevail for once, you hot-headed fool.
By eight o’clock Ben was ready to leave this mansion with its mysteries and its uncomfortable atmosphere of pain and distress. He was, in fact, feeling a little sick at his stomach as he thanked his host, made his farewells, and climbed into the saddle. Petronius, sensing his mood, did no cavorting on the way home, but held to a slow sensible walk that allowed thinking time.
The status and condition of these orphans was worrisome, eating at his insides like a flock of crows pecking a corpse. How many were involved in whatever was going on here? What were their ages, and the state of their health? What perilous jobs were they being forced to perform?
All questions that could provide no answers. Not yet, anyway. Ben meant to do just that.
During his visits to the mansion, he’d spied a couple of housemaids, radiating fear, scuttling away from both the butler and Holcomb himself, as if by hiding no unwanted attention would be drawn. He’d seen children laboring in the garden and the outlying field, handling equipment they had no business handling. He’d served as first-hand witness to some sort of damage done to Roy, and to Nicholas. How many others, and in what horrible ways?
These were youngsters: innocent, defenseless youngsters, quite possibly being taken advantage of, and with, apparently, no one to speak out on their behalf.
Until now.
As he rode through the heart of town, several businesses stood open and hustling even at this time of night. Several well-lit saloons, of course, with music banging loudly away and hearty laughter ensuing; the newspaper office, setting late type for an early morning edition; and the telegraph office.
“Good evenin’,” said Ben, opening the door to the accompaniment of a jangly bell overhead. “You’re keepin’ overdue hours, ain’tcha?”
From a corner of the small room, its employee, wearing a green visor against the light, glanced up, clearly none too thrilled by the interruption. “Yeah, got some last-minute stuff to send. Something I can help you with?”
“I’m Doctor Ben Yancey. Wonder if I might ship off
a telegram?”
“Doctor Yancey?” The man surged upright, messages put aside to reach out for a cordial handshake. “I’m delighted to meet you, sir. I’m Jerusalem Talbot, but most folks just call me Sal. Fairlady Halliwell is my sister.”
Good God. Was everybody in this town related to everybody else? Or had he just had the good fortune to stumble upon those families he’d been able to help?
“Well, Sal, delighted t’ meet you, too. Haven’t seen Mrs. Halliwell in a few days, so I’m hopin’ that means things are on the mend.”
Talbot frowned, shifted to glance around the room as if expecting to find it suddenly peopled by invisible beings, and grimaced. “Well, she would be, sir, if—”
“Ahuh,” said Ben into the sudden pause. “If—?”
Another grimace, then a reluctant, regretful head shake. “No. Never mind, Doctor. Fairlady just needs to take better care of herself, that’s all. Here, this is the form; just fill it out and give back to me, and I’ll be happy to send your communication straight off.”
One more puzzle piece. Best to leave this one alone for a while.
“Much obliged, Sal. Back in a coupla minutes.”
His letter of ten days ago, sent to John the Pinkerton Man via stagecoach in what was promised to be “fast mail,” had garnered no response as yet. Tonight’s missive would be more urgent, as well as more cryptic. Because Ben suspected that very little took place in Whitfield without Charles Holcomb being aware of it. And possibly involved, every step of the way.
So what would be sent was a reminder as to wanting to hear about the situation with an old friend and ended with “Your loving brother, Benton.”
There. If that didn’t do it, nothing would, mused Ben, returning to the darkness outside and a swing back into Petronius’ saddle.
“Your loving brother.” Used from early teenhood on, at one time or the other, by each of the ten brothers as code. Occasionally to keep parents from delving into their sons’ planned mischief; often, during the War, to keep the Union and / or the Confederacy from knowing any personal arrangements; lately—well, not at all, lately. He hoped John would remember. And respond.
If nothing else, the signature of his full name should bring familial troops a-runnin’.
VI
“Doctor! Dr. Yancey, come quick! Please, Dr. Yancey!”
Sobs, cries, frantic pounding at the front door.
The noise yanked Ben from his exhausted slumber with the force of a hurricane wind, and he tumbled out of bed and down the stairs with almost the same amount of force. Jake, instantly aroused, had begun barking like the good watchdog he was, which in turn aroused Adam. Within seconds the whole household, including Mrs. Langley, was alight and awakened.
“Miss Lassiter!” Of all the people in the world who might have shown up at this ghastly hour, she was the last he would have considered. “What is it, what’s happened?”
For just a moment she stood stock-still, stunned and disbelieving. Jessamine was fully dressed for this emergency excursion into the night; he was half-naked in a short nightshirt, feet and hairy legs bare, unshaven face showing the effects of worry and imported brandy.
At Mrs. Langley’s appearance from the kitchen area, the girl found her voice again.
“It’s Mattie. Oh, dear God, it’s Mattie. She—she—” Unable to go on, Jessie broke off with another involuntary sob.
Ben could only guess. His heart plummeted to somewhere amidships, and his veins ran cold with slush. “C’mon in. You have a carriage? Good. Let me get dressed and grab my things, and we’ll go see what can be done. Jess—” Now he paused, dreading to ask, needing to know. “Is she still alive?”
“Barely. Just barely. Oh, Ben, what could have—” she broke off, eyes filling with tears.
“Not now. Later. Jess,” he realized then, holding her arm, “you’re in shock, you’re shakin’ all over. Mrs. Langley, please pour this girl a brandy while I get ready. Yes, I wancha t’ drink it; every last drop. Doctor’s orders. Adam—dunno when I’ll be back. Man the fort.”
The carriage might have held only two human passengers, as they pelted away, but the interior was crammed full of black insentient beings: worry, and anxiety, and recrimination. Shoulda talked t’ Mrs. Bellini when I had the chance. Shoulda nipped this in the bud. Shoulda told her what was goin’ on. Shoulda, shoulda, shoulda…
Much as the director had tried to keep things quiet at the orphanage, enough students had been awakened either by muffled commotion or by intuition that it would be a hard job getting everyone settled down again, once the excitement of the unknown had been dealt with. Leaving Jessamine to escort the doctor inside, Mrs. Bellini started upstairs to restore order.
Mattie had been moved to the infirmary, and there she lay, on a single cot, two o’clock lamplight casting a soft glow over the white waxen features, the motionless form, and the blood. The red gore, everywhere.
“Jesus,” muttered Ben. Bending down to check for a pulse, he glanced over his shoulder at Jessamine, still shaky but determined. “Where was she found?”
“In the flower garden, her—her favorite place. The ground was—” Jessamine hissed in a breath between her teeth, “—the ground was soaked…wet…”
“Okay. Don’t think about that now.”
“Nicholas went looking for her,” she babbled on, unable to stop now that the vents had been opened, “and then he rushed to get me. We were able to find enough people to—to carry her inside, here.”
Although he continued speaking with her, Ben’s attention was focused on his unconscious patient as he began a cursory examination. “I figure a knittin’ needle.”
Nodding, Jessamine gulped down a sob. “So—so Madonna told me.”
The victim’s heartbeat was weak and thready, but at least still viable. Even in the dim light, some faint movement could be seen: an almost imperceptible lift of the breast, a flicker of the blue-veined eyelids.
“No, by God,” Ben suddenly rasped out, furious at the fates that decreed such suffering. “Not another one. This ain’t gonna happen again.” Tearing off his coat, ready to take action, he pulled back Mattie’s coverlet to reveal a thin scarlet-stained nightgown. Then halted short, looking up. “You know what happened, doncha? You know why she’s hemorrhagin’ like this?”
“I—I believe so,” she whispered.
“Ahuh. Think you’ll be able t’ stay on with me and help out?”
Her words gathered strength even as her spine straightened and set. “Yes. Just tell me what I need to do.”
“Good girl, Jess,” he approved quietly. “First, go find yourself an apron. This is gonna get messy.”
What seemed like an eon of time crept by, during which Ben’s work proceeded briskly, efficiently, but temperately. Clean sheets were torn into strips, then folded as pads to stop the bleeding; blankets were heated by the kitchen fire to add warmth to the small chilled body.
If Jessamine were shocked or disgusted by what was being done, she hid it well. In fact, she showed a real propensity for nursing that boded well for the future. However, Ben sent her out of the room while he was conducting an internal exam. Even absorbed as he was, he knew this gently-raised young woman could handle only so much of an infirmary nightmare.
Dawn was painting the sky with pale brushes of pink and gold when Ben finally declared limited success. Whatever might have been left inside the girl’s limp form had been scraped out and cleaned away, and the slow drain of blood loss had at last been stopped. While Mattie was nowhere near out of the woods yet, at least the situation was no longer as dire as it had been a few hours ago.
Both he and Jessamine were slumped, exhausted and spattered with gore, on chairs beside the cot when the director slipped inside, almost terror-stricken by what she might find.
“Still alive,” reported Ben with a weary smile. “Touch and go, still, but she’s got a fightin’ chance now.”
Mrs. Bellini’s dark eyes filled with tears that overflowed wit
h heartrending slowness. “Thank you, Doctor,” she whispered. “When I saw her, earlier, I—I truly feared the worst.”
“Sit down here, Madonna.” Jessamine patted the chair beside her. “I know you’re tired, and worn out with worry.”
Obeying, because her legs no longer agreed to hold her upright, she asked about the prognosis.
“A long recuperation,” said Ben frankly. “A lotta bed rest, a lotta fluids, a lotta good rich broth to rebuild her strength. You know what happened here, doncha?”
“I’m afraid—I’m afraid I do.” The thin, work-worn hands had twined together until the knuckles turned white.
“Mattie Jamison was pregnant, Madonna. That was the cause of the morning sickness, and the fainting spells. I wanted to tell you, to discuss what could be done, but she begged me not to.”
“Oh, dear God,” moaned the director, deeply distressed. “That poor child.”
“She wouldn’t tell me any details,” Ben continued in a low, intense voice. “God damn it, she wouldn’t even tell me who the father was.”
Jessamine shivered. “You believe she was—she was—”
“Raped? Yeah, I damn well do.” Frustrated anger rumbled up through Ben’s chest and into his throat. “Dunno who attacked her, but I mean t’ find out. Then I’m goin’ t’ the sheriff.”
“Oh, but, Doctor—” The beginning of an automatic protest, with thought of the scandal brought down upon a once-fine institution, then a ragged sigh. “Mattie came to us only a year or so ago, after her mother died of consumption. She was only just beginning to settle in, to—to trust me…and I failed her. Lord above, I failed her.”
“We both failed her,” said Ben heavily. “I shoulda done more, right at the beginnin’, once I figured out what was wrong. Well, she aborted the pregnancy, and I think she’ll live. But what shape she’ll be in, once she recovers, is yet t’ be seen.”
Eventually it was time to clean up, to discard all the soiled wrappings, to gather together what had been thrown aside. While all that was being done, the Whitfield Orphanage daily routine began, supervised by a very quiet, very introspective Madonna Bellini: the children rose, washed, ate breakfast, and proceeded to their chores or studies.
A Western Romance: Benton Yancey: Taking the High Road (Book 7) (Taking The High Road Series) Page 7