Copyright © 2003 by Pamela Griffin. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of Heartsong Presents, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., PO Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.
one
1919
Darcy Evans was having a bad day. What’s more, she certainly
didn’t need the added nuisance of a meddlesome porter hovering at her heels.
Hugging her battered satchel, which contained the one spare dress the
reformatory allowed upon her dismissal—all she had in the world—she turned
and eyed the man suspiciously.
“Can I take that for you, Miss?” The hefty porter
raised shaggy eyebrows and held out his huge calloused hand.
“No.” Her reply was stiff, to the point. Why couldn’t
he leave her alone? He’d been watching her since she stepped off the train at
Ithaca and began pacing the platform.
The porter tipped his cap and moved
away. Darcy sighed with relief and scanned the area with expectancy. The
afternoon sun edged the trees and surrounding buildings with harsh white light,
and the burnt-coal smell from the smokestack lingered in the damp air. Black
specks of cinder from the departed train still floated through the sky, though
she’d been waiting on this platform for what seemed an eternity.
Oh, pigeon feathers! Had Charleigh really forgotten
her?
What other explanation could there be for her not meeting the train?
A slight smile tipped Darcy’s mouth as she thought of her
redheaded friend. When Darcy first met Charleigh in a holding cell in England,
she was confused, to say the least. To discover Charleigh had turned herself in
to Scotland Yard went against every survival tactic Darcy had been taught by
Hunstable and Crackers—two childhood accomplices who’d shown her all she
needed to know about surviving on the streets of London.
Charleigh had exhibited a strange peace, a calm relief—as
though she were actually happy to pay for her crimes. Something about the
secretive woman had drawn Darcy, like a starved cat to a cooked leg of pheasant.
At first she’d been a little put off by Charleigh’s talk of Jesus and
salvation; but after two years at Turreney Farm, Darcy saw something in
Charleigh she’d seen in no one else. A peaceable attitude. A glow in her eyes.
A knowledge that God loved her, no matter what. And Darcy wanted what she’d
seen.
Still, after Charleigh’s sentence was over—three months
before Darcy’s—it had been easy for Darcy to slip back into the old life.
All too soon she found herself back in the reformatory, serving a second
sentence for drunkenness and petty theft. Near the end of her term, the
barrister who’d represented Charleigh arrived with a letter expressing her
desire to have Darcy come to Lyons’s Refuge—the reformatory for boys that
Charleigh’s husband had founded in upstate New York—and help there. Darcy
had readily agreed. There had been a lot of what the barrister called “legal
matters” to wade through, but soon Darcy found herself on a steamer headed for
America.
And now here she was, after coming all this way and
traveling for five days, with no one here to greet her.
Frustrated, Darcy plopped down on the wooden bench along
the station wall and slapped her hand to the crown of her floppy black hat.
Had Charleigh really forgotten her?
Grimacing, Brent Thomas picked up the mesh sack from the
driver’s seat with his thumb and forefinger. He marched over the damp ground
with the odorous parcel and flung it into the nearby field, wishing he knew
which of his nine charges had thought it amusing to place a bag of dung on the
wooden seat. He entertained a fairly good idea of the culprit’s identity but
wasn’t certain. Furthermore, he couldn’t discipline every boy at the
reformatory for one child’s prank, though he knew his mentor would have had no
compunction in doing so. Professor Gladsbury was a stern instructor, and though
Brent had appreciated the elderly man’s wisdom, he’d never agreed with his
strict methods of discipline, such as the harsh raps on the palm with a willow
stick. And yet, on days like today. . .
“Brent! Wait!”
Mrs. Lyons’s shout halted him as he finished wiping off
the seat. He turned to watch the headmaster’s British wife hurry down the
three porch steps, waving an envelope in her hand.
Brent was already late for the station, having had to
change into his one spare pair of trousers after his encounter with the reeking
bag. Absentmindedness often made him act without being aware of his
surroundings. Seating himself without looking, for instance. Something the
culprit was sure to know.
He offered a penitent smile. “I’m terribly sorry, Mrs.
Lyons, I realize I’m late to collect your friend. Would you like me to post
that while I’m in town?”
She brushed a fiery lock of hair from her face. “Yes,
please,” she said after she’d caught her breath and handed him the envelope.
“Now, do remember, Brent. Darcy’s been through a great deal, so she might
not be quite—shall we say, personable, at first. But Stewart and I have
prayed, and we feel God wants her here at the Refuge. That’s why we’ve done
everything to make such an occurrence possible, including sending money for her
passage.”
Brent nodded, uneasy. Why was she telling him this? He knew
most of it. He wasn’t certain he was altogether in favor of bringing an
ex-felon to help out at a reformatory for young boys, but he trusted Stewart’s
judgment. Furthermore, Stewart’s wife, being an ex-felon herself, was
certainly a changed person from the woman she once described.
She grinned.
“You’re probably wondering why I’m sharing this with you. The truth is,
well, you’re a wonderful instructor to the boys and a rock of support when my
husband is away. Stewart and I know we can depend on you—with our very lives
if need be. Why, I don’t know what we would’ve done without you when Stewart
went to France to fight in the war. You’ve become more than a schoolteacher to
us. You’ve become a friend. . . .”
Brent could feel the dreaded but coming.
“But, well, you’re a trifle stuffy. And Darcy isn’t
the sort of person you’re accustomed to.”
Stuffy? She thought him stuffy? Just because he believed in
dressing impeccably and using drawing room manners at all times? So, he did make
sure everything went into its proper place. It didn’t necessarily make him
“stuffy.” He removed his spectacles and cleaned them with the crisp
handkerchief he’d placed in his pocket for that purpose.
“Oh, dear,” she murmured. “I’ve offended you,
haven’t I? I shouldn’t have spoken. I simply wanted you to be prepared.
Darcy isn’t a woman with social graces—such as the women whose company
you’re accustomed to. That’s the only reason I spoke—to prepare you. I
never intended to injure your feelings.”
“That’s perfectly all right.” He replaced his glasses
and folded his handkerchief into thirds, tucking it back into his pocket.
“I wish I could go with you, but of course someone has to
stay with the boys. Between Irma and me, we’ll have our hands full.”
He attempted a smile. “No explanations are necessary,
Mrs. Lyons. I shall deliver your friend to you with all expedience.” Still
smarting from her comment, he added, “And I’m sure we’ll get along
splendidly.”
Darcy sat on the bench and kicked at the wooden planks with the
toe of her scuffed shoe. Hunger gnawed at her insides. Remembering the brown
paper bag of walnuts she’d bought at the wharf before boarding the train, she
pulled the small sack from her valise. Setting a nut on the platform before her,
she pulled up the frayed hem of her black skirt several inches and brought the
heel of her shoe down hard on the shell.
With satisfaction, she heard the resulting CRRRAAACKK
and bent to scoop her treat from the ground. She pulled the shell fragments
away, popped the nutmeat into her mouth, and chewed with unabashed delight.
Sensing someone watching, she turned her head sharply to the side.
A well-dressed young man stood nearby. He stared at her in
horror, his blue eyes wide behind the wire-rimmed spectacles perched on his
rather long nose. His light hair was combed neatly under a bowler hat, and a
clean and pressed dark brown suit covered his slim form.
Darcy suddenly felt like a mangy cat next to this
fancy-dressed bloke. Her woolen skirt was moth-eaten, her nonmatching jacket was
threadbare with ugly patches at the elbows, and she’d stuffed an old piece of
cloth into the toe of one shoe to cover the hole as best she could. Her chin
went up in defense. “Well, whatcha lookin’ at, Guv’ner?”
He continued to gape, then slowly shook his head. “Excuse
me, but you aren’t Miss Evans, are you?” He sounded as though he believed
he’d made a mistake, and he turned to go.
“Aye, that be me!” Darcy shot to her feet, tossing the
shell remnants to the ground. She brushed the residue from her palms onto her
skirt. “ ’Ave you word on Charleigh? Is she comin’ ter get me?”
He faced her again. Something like pained acceptance filled
his eyes before he answered. “Not exactly. She sent me. I’m Brent Thomas.
The schoolmaster at Lyons’s Refuge.”
Darcy gave a short nod and looked beyond him. Her eyes
narrowed in suspicion. “Where’s yer buggy? I don’t see it.”
“I had an errand to run. My wagon is on the other side,
next to the post office.” He let out a long, weary breath, shook his head,
then closed the few steps between them and bent over, putting his hand to the
handle of her bag. “If you’ll follow me, Miss Evans—”
Darcy reacted quickly. She wrested the valise away from his
grip, knocking him off balance. He fell against the bench with a surprised
groan. Straightening, he rubbed his leg where it had made contact with the sharp
corner of the bench and regarded her, his eyes wide in disbelief.
Darcy felt a momentary pang of guilt. “I like ter carry
me own baggage,” she explained. Head held high, she strode from the platform
and turned the corner in what she hoped was the direction of the buggy.
Brent stared after the tiny woman in rags, walking with the airs
of a queen. He shook his head. What had Stewart and Charleigh gotten themselves
into? What had he gotten himself into?
Hurrying after the woman, Brent watched as she threw the
valise onto the wagon seat. Grabbing both sides, she vaulted herself up next to
the baggage in a most unladylike manner and flopped down. He briefly closed his
eyes. Charleigh tried to warn him, but he’d been too intent on her remark
concerning his stuffiness to pay much heed.
“Guv’ner, hain’t we goin’? I’m a mite ’ungry, I
ham.”
Brent winced. Her brutal attack on the English language was
nothing short of criminal. The way she dropped h’s and added h’s where they
weren’t supposed to be thoroughly unsettled him. In addition, her vowels came
out sounding like other vowels. It was a wonder he could understand a thing she
said.
“Yes, I’m coming,” he muttered, striding to the
driver’s side. Carefully he stepped up into the wagon and lowered himself onto
the bench. With meticulous precision, he smoothed his suit coat and pants and
adjusted his hat before grabbing the reins. Feeling her stare, he turned her
way.
Her thin face wore an expression of humorous disbelief;
both black brows arched high above her dark eyes.
“Something amuses you, Miss Evans?” Brent asked in a
controlled voice. He guided the horses down the road leading to the lane that
would take them to the reformatory.
“Nothin’, Guv’ner. Nothin’ ter squawk habout
anyways.”
Brent concentrated on the drive.
The minutes passed in blissful silence. Autumn had come in
a blaze of glory, wrapping the trees in a cloak of fire. The sky held a
grayish-white cast, as luminescent as a pearl polished to a fine gleam. He felt
a poem coming on and wished for his journal.
CRRRAAAACKK!
Startled by the
explosive thud—which shook the wagon seat—Brent whipped his head toward
Darcy. Bent at the waist, she retrieved something from under her boot. She
straightened and looked at him. Seeing his horrified gaze upon her, she
hesitated and then held out her hand. A mangled walnut lay in her dirty palm.
“Would ye loik some, Guv’ner?”
“No, thank you.” Brent faced front again.
Social graces? The woman didn’t know the meaning of the
term. Furthermore, judging from what he’d seen of her character thus far, her
housekeeping and culinary skills were likely nonexistent. He doubted she could
read or write. So why had Charleigh wanted to bring her to the States so
desperately?
A ghastly thought hit Brent, making him gasp as if someone
had punched him in the stomach. Surely Stewart and Charleigh wouldn’t do such
a thing to him. No, Brent was only borrowing trouble, conjuring up all manner of
ridiculous scenarios. Besides, nine small hooligans were enough for any
schoolmaster to contend with.
CRRRAAACCCKK!
He braced himself against the wagon seat, closed his eyes,
and sighed. It would be a long drive.
The wagon eventually neared a wooden fence. Darcy could see a
wide field of grass beyond the slats and a large stone and wood house in the
distance. She sat up straighter and craned her neck. A sign at the open gate
welcomed her, and she struggled to make out the words. The first
word—“Lyons’s”—she recognized. It had been in the letter from
Charleigh. The second word was harder, and she drew her brows together, sounding
it out as Charleigh had taught her years ago.
Puzzled, she turned to the man beside her. “What’s ‘refug’?”
“What?” He glanced her way, incredulous, as if she’d
just asked him what color underdrawers he wore instead of the meaning of a
simple word.
“Refug. What the sign says.”
Brent sighed again. “That’s refuge. Lyons’s Refuge.
The name of the reformatory.”
“Oh.” Darcy studied her new home.
A white picket fence enclosed vast grounds, where several
horses grazed. Neat rows of vegetables grew on a small patch next to the
two-story house. Dormer windows made the place look homier, and bright flowers
spilled from window boxes in profusion. As she watched, a buxom red-haired woman
opened the door and stepped onto the porch. Even from this distance, Darcy
recognized her friend.
Before the wagon rolled to a stop, Darcy grabbed her bag
with one hand, put her other to the back of her hat, and jumped to the ground,
ignoring Brent’s warning to wait. She raced across the wet grass to meet
Charleigh coming down the steps. The two women hugged each other tightly.
“Oh, Charleigh, don’t ye look grand!” Darcy exclaimed
once she pulled away and eyed Charleigh’s plump figure and rosy face.
“Married life agrees with ye, hit does.”
Charleigh smiled. “Now, let me look at you.” She
scanned Darcy’s scarecrowlike form and frowned. “The reform still skimps on
clothing allowances, I see. And meals.”
“Hain’t so bad,” Darcy insisted. “Hat least I got
me a spare dress. Some girls don’t get that. Has for food, well. . .I ham a
mite ’ungry.”
Charleigh laughed. “Of course you are! Come along.” She
hooked her arm through Darcy’s and led her to the porch. “Irma has prepared
a special meal to welcome you. And about clothing, I have some dresses I can no
longer wear. We can alter them to fit.”
Darcy halted. “Charleigh! You’re not—”
“No,” Charleigh said, shaking her head. Pain filled her
eyes, but she gave a wobbly half smile. “I was, but I lost the baby two months
ago. And another at the beginning of the year.”
“Oh, I ham sorry. I ought not ter ’ave said a thing.”
“You didn’t know.” Charleigh squeezed Darcy’s arm.
“It’s the one thing I wish I could give Stewart, a child. But maybe I never
can.” Her brow furrowed, a ghost of the past flitting across her face. Darcy
had seen it often when they shared a room at Turreney Farm.
“Charleigh?” Darcy prodded softly.
Charleigh blinked, and a bright smile replaced the frown.
“Just listen to me—all gloom and doom, and on your first day here! Come
along, and let’s see you fed.”
Brent watched the women enter the house. Then, remembering the
reason for his delay to the train station, he stepped down from the wagon and
strode to the vegetable patch. Three boys knelt in dirt furrows, pulling up
turnips under an older boy’s watchful eye.
Herbert, a recent admission to Lyons’s Refuge, flickered
an uneasy glance at Brent. His freckled face reddened, and his gaze zoomed back
to the vegetable in his hands as he slowly dropped it in the bucket beside him.
He’d always been as easy to see through as a windowpane. His every action
pointed to his guilt.
Joel dusted his hands on his trousers and met Brent’s
inquiring stare with a steady, questioning gaze. To a stranger, his angelic
face, clear blue eyes, and halo of white-blond hair would have labeled him an
innocent. Yet Brent knew better. Joel was often the mastermind behind pranks. He
could lie through his teeth without flinching, a convincing look on his face the
entire time—confusing the questioner and making him feel at fault for even
asking the boy if he was involved in any wrongdoing. That his father was a con
artist serving time in prison came as no surprise.
And then there was Tommy. Brent inwardly sighed. Poor lad.
A clubfoot disabled him, and he was wont to jump to another’s suggestion of
mischief in the hopes of being accepted by his peers. He swiped away a lock of
mousy brown hair from his forehead and studied Brent with solemn dark eyes that
held a world of pain. The boy had been thrown out by what was left of his
family, scorned by many, and later found scavenging in the streets. Stealing the
grocer’s apples had been his first offense, but Stewart had taken pity on the
lad when Judge Markham presented Tommy’s case and brought him to Lyons’s
Refuge more than a year ago.
“Boys, there’s something I wish to discuss with you.
Samuel, please unhitch Polly from the wagon and tend to her.”
“Yes, Sir.” Samuel, one of the original members of
Lyons’s Refuge, moved toward the horse, his expression curious in the eye not
covered with the black patch. He’d come quite a ways from the boy who’d set
fire to a farmer’s field years ago. Upon coming home from fighting in the
Great War, blinded in one eye from shrapnel, he sought a job at the Refuge and
did whatever was needed of him.
Brent produced his most stern gaze as he assessed the three
young culprits in his charge. “As to the matter of what I found on the wagon
seat earlier—and I’m certain all three of you know to what I refer—I wish
to know which one of you was responsible for leaving me that undesirable
gift.”
Herbert sniggered nervously. Joel affected his usual
innocent pose. Tommy looked down at his hands.
Brent lifted an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “Very well.
If none of you will admit to the crime, then all may suffer for it. I suspect
the smaller boys didn’t have a hand in this; but if I don’t learn the truth
soon, I’ll be forced to inflict group punishment.”
Tommy’s glance shot upward, then dove to his hands again.
“I did it, Mr. Thomas,” he admitted in a low voice.
Joel gave him a look of disgust, Herbert one of surprise.
Brent doubted Tommy was the only boy involved; but before
he could comment further, Irma called from the porch.
“Look lively, boys! Dinner’s a-waitin’.”
The three shot up from the ground at the cook’s
announcement, grabbed their pails, and scuttled like fleeing mice. Tommy
shuffled behind, trying to keep up.
“Stop where you are!” Brent’s shout halted them in
their tracks, and they turned, fidgety. “This conversation will resume after
the meal. Is that understood?”
All three nodded, obviously relieved to have escaped
judgment for however long it lasted. They tromped up the steps and disappeared
through the doorway.
Shaking his head in frustration, Brent followed. If the
past three hours were anything to go by, he would be better off returning to his
room at the back of the schoolhouse and staying there for the remainder of the
evening. Surely things couldn’t get any worse.
The moment the thought crossed his mind, Brent released a
humorless laugh. Then again, at Lyons’s Refuge, anything was possible. And
with the unpredictable Miss Darcy Evans afoot, Brent had an uneasy feeling the
absurd would soon be considered the norm.
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