A Bride at Last (5 page)

“Wait.” Silas jogged after him but stopped at the bottom of the steps as the boy disappeared inside. He likely needed time alone.

Silas rubbed his hand along the smooth handrail and waited for Kate to catch up.

She stopped near him, her reddish tresses fallen and plastered against her cheeks. “Is it true? Did you treat Lucinda no better?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know how Mr. Fitzgerald treated them, but I never hurt her, not with my hands anyway, but . . .” Above the crowded rooftops, the smoky remnants left by a train maneuvering through the many towns surrounding Independence hung low and wispy. He needed Kate on his side if they had any hope of a judge choosing to give the boy to him.

But anything but the truth would be a lie. “I drank. I don’t know if I remember everything I did while drunk, but I don’t drink anymore.”

“How long since you drank last?”

Oh, God, please keep me from drinking ever again, especially if Anthony comes home with me.
“Four years this time.”

“This time?”

He swallowed. “Yes.”

She only looked at him. Did she believe him? Considering he could almost feel her abhorrence for Richard, who obviously drank, would she lump him into the same category?

He likely deserved it if she did.

But he still needed to hear what she knew about Lucy and this other man. Was there a chance Richard wasn’t Anthony’s father, or was he just latching on to the hope that he indeed had one person in this world to call family? “If we want to keep Anthony away from Mr. Fitzgerald, you better tell me everything you know.”

“Fine.” She sighed and lowered herself onto the stoop. “I met Lucinda and Anthony in Hartfield two years ago.”

“Where’s Hartfield?”

“A two-days’ ride north of here. Richard gambles a lot. He was good to her whenever he was winning, gave her dresses and jewelry, whatever she wanted. We figured we could always sell Lucinda’s things if needed, but we never expected her to get sick. The medicines she needed, the medicines she kept trying . . . nothing worked.” She pulled her shawl tighter. “The doctors started demanding payment before they’d even come to see her. We ran out of stuff to sell.”

“So she must have written Mr. Fitzgerald to request money, like she did me.”

“How could she?” Kate shook her head as if trying to convince herself he was wrong. “It would’ve been better if we’d let Anthony steal.”

“What?”

“Anthony’s a pickpocket, a good one—though I won’t let him do it. Lucinda and I didn’t even know he was until a few
months ago. We didn’t have enough to pay the landlord, and Lucinda cried when I told her we had to sell her last ring. I took it to sell, but I lost it—or at least I thought I did. Anthony stayed home sick and when I came back after school to see if I’d dropped it, they were counting a stack of money, and two men’s pocket watches lay on the counter and . . . and I thought the worst of Lucinda.”

Given Lucy’s situation with Richard, he’d have thought she’d sold herself too.

“When I got upset, Anthony said, ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have picked so much.’” Kate tipped her head back and looked blankly at the clouds. “Evidently whenever Richard lost, he’d get drunk and go into a tirade . . .” She sighed, the simple action dripping with weariness. “So Anthony figured if he made up for the losses, Richard wouldn’t hurt them anymore. But from then on, Richard expected him to always make up for his losses.”

“So even if we prove I’m Anthony’s father—”

“I’m not so sure Richard would leave him behind without a fight.”

Chapter 4

Silas trudged up the boardinghouse’s front stairs. He’d sent a telegram to Lucy’s parents, so now he’d go through her things looking for some hint that he was Anthony’s father.

After going to the courthouse with Richard, he’d consulted a lawyer who told him without proof of parenthood or abuse, Anthony was at the mercy of a judge’s discernment.

Surely God had orchestrated his being here to rescue the boy. If not, he was going to be in the same position as Miss Dawson next week: emotionally attached to someone he couldn’t keep.

He’d attached himself to Lucy far too quickly—and she’d left him heartbroken.

But how could he not want to help this little boy?

If the judge ruled for Richard, having to pickpocket to keep his father happy was not a position any boy should find himself in. Though would that be better than being abandoned at an orphanage as Silas had been?

Maybe. He’d certainly longed to have known just one relative—to feel loved.

Should he bring up the boy’s pickpocketing in court, or would that cause Anthony more trouble?

Stepping inside the stifling boardinghouse, Silas shrugged off his coat lest he die of heat exhaustion.

A young black maid, slumped over with firewood, entered through a side door.

“Good afternoon, miss.”

She startled and cast her eyes to the ground. “Sir.” A log on top rolled forward, and she barely tilted back fast enough to keep it atop the stack.

“Let me get that for you.” He held out his arms, but the maid, who couldn’t have been much older than Anthony—twelve, maybe—took a step away from him.

Her big dark eyes blinked as if he’d asked her the impossible, wariness seeping from her every pore. “I’ve got it just fine, mister.”

He pried the load from her anyway, tempted to take the wood right back outside since the building needed no more heat, but he headed for the kitchen and dropped the logs by the stove. “There.”

She’d followed him in, her full, almost plum-colored lips fidgeted with worry. “Obliged.” The girl scuttled back out into the hallway.

He went after her. “Excuse me, miss.”

She stopped short and submissively hung her head.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver dollar. “I’d like to give you this.”

“I don’t want your money.” She took a step back, her eyes narrowing. “I only work downstairs.”

His face grew hot. “That’s not what I meant. I’d intended to give this to you earlier . . . but I got sidetracked. It’s in appreciation for your kindness. I noticed you cleaned my wife’s room while we were at the funeral—I know that’s not your job and Mrs. Grindall wouldn’t pay you to do so.”

“I didn’t do it for money, sir. I only figured Anthony’d be too
sad to clean. He shares his candy with me, so I figured I could do it. Wasn’t too much work.”

“I’d still like you to take it.” He held out his hand, the silver coin smack in the middle of his palm.

She looked over her shoulder before stuffing it in her pocket. “Are you his father?”

“I hope so.”

“I hope so too. Mrs. Riverton didn’t treat me so nice. Maybe you’re where Anthony gets his friendliness.”

He gave her a sad smile, not certain if he should apologize on his wife’s behalf or not.

“And you both got that dimple.”

He frowned. “I don’t have dimples.”

“No, just one—shows up when you smile.”

“Myrtle!” The proprietress’s screechy yell startled them both. Mrs. Grindall barreled out of the kitchen doorway and scowled. “Don’t be pestering the boarders. Get back to work.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Myrtle ducked her head and disappeared down the hallway.

“Can I help you with something?” Mrs. Grindall swooshed toward him like a big ugly crow, the harsh black of her skirts swinging stiffly.

He refused to back up for a woman more than a half a foot shorter than him, no matter how permanent her scowl. “Do you know when school’s out?”

“Soon, I suppose. Never had little ones.”

He pulled out his timepiece. Five past two. He should’ve asked Kate when they’d return. “Thank you anyway.”

After going up the stairs, he knocked on Anthony’s door, though he didn’t expect him to be inside. He’d walked the boy to school that morning despite his protests.

Anthony had the right to grieve . . . but he also had to live. So Silas had prodded him out the door despite the boy’s grum
bling and exaggerated scowl. Perhaps it was wrong to send a mourning child to school, but he wanted him to have as much time as possible with Miss Dawson before he had to leave . . . hopefully with him instead of Richard.

Silas pushed against the slightly open door and took a seat on Anthony’s small cot. He’d spent the Lord’s Day in prayer, but today, he needed to start looking for the answer to those prayers.

He rifled through the rickety end table’s drawers but found no papers. The battered chest held nothing but the boy’s clothing. The wardrobe was half empty.

Peeping under the bed, he reached for several dark lumps. He pulled out a writing desk and two shallow boxes covered in cobwebs. One contained several books. Dust fluffed the air as he flipped through them, but nothing was tucked within their pages. How miserably sick she must have been to not even be able to read.

How wretched for a little boy to watch his mother die.

Silas set aside the books and checked the desk. None of the papers were written on, and the paper compartment was dustier than the books, yet the writing surface had been recently wiped clean. Must have been for the letters she’d written him and Richard. Had her parents told him the truth about never hearing from her during all the years he’d written from Kansas? The writing desk seemed to confirm she wasn’t much for writing.

The other box contained what appeared to be journals.

His jittery fingers opened the pages of the book atop the pile and turned to the last page.

September 15, 1885

Things wouldn’t be so terrible if that sorry excuse for a maid could be bothered to get Dr. Upton’s tea up here. Though I need out of this bed more than I need that tea. Anthony’s probably keeping her busy with his prattle, though I’ve told him a hundred times to stop talking to her. He’s hopeless.

Oh, please let Kate come tonight. I need the distraction. I’ve coughed more blood today than all last week.

Silas wiped the crate with his shirt before setting it on the bed. He stared at the journals. Her entries might answer questions that had plagued him for a decade. Not long ago, he’d finally forgiven himself for the dark days of his alcoholism. Each day he abstained from drink and offered his broken self to God, he’d slowly found peace, despite becoming increasingly certain Lucy had left him for good.

Was he ready to discover why she’d abandoned him? Would he have to fight for peace all over again?

What if he discovered Anthony wasn’t his . . . Silas wiped his sweaty palms down his shirt to press against his stomach where his heartbeat had suddenly sunk.

“What are you doing?”

Miss Dawson stood in the open doorway looking down her nose at him, hands on hips, lips puckered. Did her students have difficulty suppressing smiles at that seriously stern look? Mrs. Grindall would certainly look scary sporting such an expression, but Kate was too petite and youthful to pull it off effectively.

“Going through Lucy’s things. Found her journals, our best bet to find anything.” He picked up the crate. “There’s plenty to keep me reading for a while.”

Anthony walked in, carrying two carpetbags, which he dropped at the end of the bed with a thud.

Silas raised his eyebrows. “What’s all this?”

“I’m moving in with Anthony.”

“I thought you lived with a student’s family.”

“With Richard taking a room down the hallway, I figured it’d be best I stay with Anthony.”

He shrugged. He’d kept his door open all night listening, but it wouldn’t hurt for someone to be in the room with the boy, and since Anthony still didn’t want much to do with him, Kate sleeping here would be better than forcing the boy to his room.

She looked at the stack of journals. “How many are there?”

“Ten.”

“Not so bad. If I took a few, we could have them done before the weekend.”

He swallowed. He’d not thought she’d be reading them. There were certainly things in his past he’d not want her or anybody to know. “I’ll handle them.”

She gave him a look that proved he didn’t want her to think of him any worse than she already did.

Kate woke with a start, the sun hitting her directly in the eyes. She blinked toward the window. That’s why—no curtains. She yawned and looked over at Anthony, who was sitting on his cot, staring out the window. Dressed.

Wait.

“What time is it?”

“A quarter ’til seven.”

“A quarter ’til?” She flung off the inadequate bedspread and shivered. The board expected teachers to be prim, proper, and punctual, but her hair never behaved, even after half an hour of arranging. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“I didn’t think my teacher needed me to wake her.”

She scrambled to her bag and pulled out her stockings and other underthings. “Have you eaten breakfast?”

“Didn’t feel like it.”

Taking a quick look around, she was confronted with the same reality as last night. “I guess you’ll need to sit in the hall.”
At least it was likely warmer out there. “How did this room get so cold?”

He shrugged. “There’s a gap under the window. Mother doesn’t want me to leave the door cracked open at night like we do during the day, so it gets cold.” He hopped off his cot and grabbed his coat. “Guess I’ll start walking to school since I hafta go.”