Читать книгу Cinders to Satin - Fern Michaels - Страница 13

Chapter Seven

If Madge and the others had known what they were sending Callie to, they might have reconsidered and judged that their little “refugee” was better off in their own care and under the auspices of Owen Gallagher. As it was, the female societies enjoyed good public relations, and because they were supported by generous patronesses who lived at the best addresses in New York, they were looked upon as estimable organizations for the protection and moral refinement of their wards. In some instances this might be true, but in most cases the opposite was the reality.

Callie was escorted to a plain brick building on Bleecker Street, which was designated by a polished brass shield over the door, Bleecker Street Magdalene Female Society. This, Callie thought, was appropriate. Wasn’t Mary Magdalene the prostitute in the Bible who was saved by the love of Jesus? Wasn’t she herself only just rescued from the same profession?

The well-dressed woman who had accompanied the two men to Madge’s house introduced herself as Mrs. van Nostram and seemed delighted to have rescued this bright-looking child from the clutches of sin. She took Callie by the hand and led her up the front steps, nodding a farewell to the two silent men.

“This is a day you’ll remember the rest of your life, child,” she told Callie. “This is the day of your salvation! You’ll be meeting Mrs. Slater, who is the wardress here. She’s a fine, upstanding woman who has dedicated her life to the society. She may seem a little difficult at first, but rest assured, she knows what’s best for you.”

Callie was a little sick of everyone thinking they knew what was best for her. First, her mum sending her off to America, then the emigration officials keeping her in quarantine, then Madge, and now this Mrs. Slater.

Mrs. van Nostram pulled the bell chain and turned to face the child she’d redeemed. Good clear skin, bright blue eyes, a tumble of glossy ringlets bobbing on her head. But there was something about the girl that denied her apparent youth. There was a knowledge in her eyes, a shadow of suffering that bespoke maturity. So many children in New York had this same look in their eyes, and it was born out of suffering and hardship. Lately, since the throng of Irish immigrants had landed, that look was becoming the natural order of things.

Callie heard the sound of brass hitting against brass as several bolts were thrown before the door swung open. A drab woman wearing a dark dress, her hair falling in strings about her gaunt face, recognized Mrs. van Nostram immediately and stepped aside to admit them. In the hallway stood a pail of soapy water and the scrub brush the woman had been using to wash the stairs leading to the second floor. She showed the guests into the front parlor, which was nicely appointed with horsehair furniture and green-velvet draperies. A low fire burned in the marble hearth, lending its warmth to the room. “Tell Mrs. Slater I’ve brought her someone,” Mrs. van Nostram instructed. The woman’s eyes went to Callie, seeing her youth, and there was an instant of pity there.

“No need for that,” said a deep voice, slightly gravelly. With a swish of taffeta petticoats, a tall, square-shouldered woman entered the room. The grim line of her mouth lifted slightly at the corners in welcome to Mrs. van Nostram, but her glance was centered on Callie.

“I’ve brought you another girl, Mrs. Slater. We rescued her from a bawdy house and only just in time, I understand. Poor little thing. Naturally I brought her here to you.”

“Naturally.” Mrs. Slater’s brows lifted, and she crossed her hands over her bosom. “You realize, Mrs. van Nostram, our dormitory is already full, and we’ll be hard pressed to feed another mouth.”

“Oh, of course, I didn’t mean . . .” Mrs. van Nostram took a deep breath and seemed to shrink beneath Mrs. Slater’s scrutiny. “Of course, I’ll speak to the board about raising the price for another bed.” Charity, in the form of orphanages and homes for wayward woman, was very fashionable these days, and she hadn’t a doubt that her contemporaries would dig a little deeper into their purses when she told them of this lovely child.

“That will be most kind of you, Mrs. van Nostram. Without that assurance I would be forced to turn this girl away.” Mrs. Slater’s eyes went once again to Callie, seeming to measure her for some future purpose.

“You understand, girl, you will stay here only on the condition that you lend your services to the keeping of this establishment. We keep no lazy women here.” Her heavy voice filled the room with its volume, and Callie felt herself shrinking backward. She knew she didn’t like this Mrs. Slater with her button eyes and her slash for a mouth. There was something hard and mercenary in the way she appraised her new boarder. Almost like the way Owen had looked at Callie in the ferry terminal.

“If you will see about raising the money this child needs, Mrs. van Nostram, I’ll let you be on your way.” It was more a command than permission to leave. “I will personally see to this child.” The corners of her mouth lifted again in a charade of a smile. “I can see how you’ve come to take such an interest in her.”

Mrs. Slater looked on as Mrs. van Nostram offered a few words of encouragement to Callie before bustling out of the room. When the doors closed behind her and Callie was left alone with Mrs. Slater, the atmosphere in the room dropped to a chill.

“Very well, you’ll come along with me now to the dormitory upstairs. We’ll get you proper clothing to wear,” she said, eyeing Callie’s dress with interest. “You can’t go about in that.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, Mrs. Slater, but it’s a new dress—”

“Did I give you permission to speak? We don’t like troublemakers here. You will turn in that dress and your other belongings.”

“But it’s new! I’ve had it for less than a day!”

“I can see myself that the garment is hardly used. Elsewise why would I want it? It will be sold to help defray your expenses while you’re here.” This time there was no broaching an argument as Mrs. Slater stepped close, looming over her like a great black crow. “Come with me!”

Callie followed her into the hallway where the woman who had opened the door was on her knees, scrubbing the floor. The woman’s eyes followed Callie, and there was again a glimmer of pity for the young girl.

“Don’t gawk, Ellen, get about your work!” Lifting the hem of her skirt like a grand lady, Mrs. Slater started up the stairs, Callie close at her heels.

“The kitchen is in the basement,” Mrs. Slater stated. “After you’ve changed, you can go down there and see what help is needed. It’s only temporary until we find you employment. The second floor is prohibited to you and the others, except for cleaning. Those are my private quarters and offices. The third and fourth floors are the dormitories where you will spend your time when you are not at work. No one lives here for nothing, you will soon learn. You, like the others, will be trained for employment.”

They had just reached the second floor, and Mrs. Slater pointed to the right. “Down the end of this hallway is our work room. Sewing is brought in from the outside for the women who are unable at this time to go outside for employment.”

Callie could hear the murmur of voices as she followed the wardress down the hall. Mrs. Slater opened the door, and immediately all conversation stopped. Inside no fewer than twenty women, most of them in various stages of pregnancy, stitched away at button holes and collars from a huge stack of men’s shirts. The light was dim; only one flickering lamp illuminated the interior, aside from the feeble daylight coming in through the tall, narrow windows, which were blocked by stacks and boxes of work to be done. The women bent their heads over their work, sewing industriously, nervous fingers working and turning collars, all of them pretending Mrs. Slater was not standing in the doorway; all of them dressed in the same shabby black dresses with dark gray aprons.

“Who dared to light this lamp against my wishes?” Mrs. Slater demanded. “Oil is expensive. Am I to take it that you’re all willing to give over to support your luxury?”

“It’s a gray day outside, Mrs. Slater,” a woman sitting in a far corner spoke up, “and Tillie’s eyes ain’t what they should be.”

“Let her sit near the window,” was Mrs. Slater’s solution.

“Aw, stay where you are, Tillie,” said a woman with frowzy blond hair, awkward in the last stages of pregnancy. “How much more can she take from our wages that she ain’t taken already?”

“Mrs. Slater?” a soft girlish voice called. She was hardly older than Callie herself. “When can I see my baby? Last time I was with him, he had such a bad cold—”

“You’ll see him when you’re able to repay me the cost of the doctor,” came the harsh reply. “Get back to work, all of you, and stop your sniveling. All this talk about babies. If you were all good Christian women, you wouldn’t be having these problems. Open your legs for any man and then cry when you’ve got to pay for your sins.”

The silence in the room was oppressive, and Callie hung her head, unable to meet anyone’s eyes. If this was Christian charity, she wanted no part of it; if this was mercy and goodness, she’d rather be back with Madge and the others.

The dormitories on the third and fourth floors were large and expansive, walls having been removed to create a single area. Beds, low and narrow but clean, were arranged around the perimeters creating a crowded impression. In each end of of the rooms stood a wash stand. It was spare and austere without a trace of anyone’s personal belongings. As she was instructed, Callie removed her new blue dress, and when Mrs. Slater noticed the fresh, clean muslin of her petticoats, she was told to give those over as well. Callie hoped Mrs. Slater wouldn’t notice the new drawers she was wearing.

“Here, put this on, it looks as though it should fit.” A black dress, the same as the others had been wearing, was tossed to her. As she slipped it on, she noticed Mrs. Slater fingering the light-blue wool. “Will I get my dress back?” Callie asked meekly.

“Hrmph! The same as the rest, expecting to be given clean living quarters and a good meal each day for nothing. No, you’ll not be getting your dress back. It will be sold to pay for your first week’s lodgings until you receive your first pay. Then your expenses will automatically be deducted from your salary, which will be sent directly to me.”

Callie looked at Mrs. Slater blankly. Hadn’t she heard her tell Mrs. van Nostram to raise the price for another bed and lodging from the board, whatever that was? Callie’s lips puckered, her chin lifted. Trembling inside, intimidated by this woman who held her future in her hands, Callie faced her bravely. “I’ve always given a good day’s work for a day’s wages. I won’t be needing charity, nor do I need someone to manage my wages for me. I pay my debts, Mrs. Slater, and I’ll be thanking you to leave me my dress. You needn’t bother to sell it. Mrs. van Nostram will get my week’s lodgings from the board.”

“You little snit!” Mrs. Slater’s hand cracked across Callie’s face. “I knew you were trouble the first time I laid eyes on you! Listen to me, girl. You’ll do as I say and live by the rules of this house or you’ll regret it!”

“I don’t want to stay here! I want to go back to Madge’s. I’d rather take my chances with a whore than the likes of you!” The words were out before she could stop them, but instead of Mrs. Slater being properly shocked at being judged beneath a whore, she merely laughed. The sound was a witch’s cackle to Callie.

“Oh, you would, would you? Well, let me tell you a few things, my girl. This is the end of the road for you. You won’t be going anywhere unless it’s to prison!” She was satisfied by the look of horror in Callie’s eyes. “That’s right—to prison!” Her words were sharp and short like gunfire. “We know what to do with girls like you here in America.”

Apparently Mrs. Slater was satisfied by Callie’s astonished silence, for she took the blue dress and petticoats and left the dormitory.

Prison! Callie was just unsophisticated enough to believe Mrs. Slater’s threat. After Tompkinsville and Owen Gallagher anything was possible. Prison! The very thing Peggy had sent her away to avoid now loomed on Callie’s horizon. Callie reluctantly donned the black dress Mrs. Slater had given her, finding it much too big and too long. She hiked up the waistband and secured it by tying the gray apron over it, then looked down to see the uneven hemline and the spots and stains marring its front. She mourned the loss of her blue dress.

Walking softly through the house, Callie found her way to the basement and the kitchens. Here three women, including the one who had just finished scrubbing the front hall, went about their tasks of readying the evening meal. From the ovens came the mouth-watering aroma of a roast and the scent of fresh bread. At a long table, bread dough was being kneaded.

“So you’re the new girl Lizzie told us about,” a stout woman with a kind face addressed her. “Do you have a name?”

“Callie . . . Callie James.”

“Well, come over here, Callie James, and put yourself to good use. There’s pots and pans that need washing. I’m Sadie, and this here is Ellen; she’s the one who saw you come in with Mrs. van Nostrum. I see Mrs. Slater took that fine blue dress Ellen said you were wearing. I hope you bid it a fond farewell, for ‘tis the last you’ll be seein’ of it. Ain’t that right, Flora?” Sadie said to the third woman.

“The very last,” Flora agreed sourly. On closer inspection Callie saw that Flora wasn’t much past the age of eighteen or twenty, but her face was thin and haggard, and her stooped shoulders and slow movements gave her the appearance of a woman in her forties.

While Callie did the pots and pans, they asked her questions about where she’d come from. Ellen, in particular, was interested when she learned Callie was only recently from Dublin. “I hauled over on the Meridian two years ago; that was before things got so bad in Ireland. Came over with my brother and sister, I did. They’re both gone now. Eileen came down with sickness, and Lester was hit over the head in a card game. I hail from Cork myself, but I been to Dublin once. My husband, though, he was born right here in New York.”

Callie turned a questioning eye to Ellen. If she had a husband, what was she doing here in the Magdalene House. “My Nathaniel was taken sick last winter,” Ellen explained. “He died on the sixth of January, leaving me up to my neck in debt and a baby on the way. Things got bad for me, and before I knew it, I was out on the street. Couple or three months ago somebody told me I could come here to have my baby. Nathaniel, I calls him because his father was a good man, just unlucky. I work for the babe’s support as well as my own, but I don’t get to see much of it so’s I could save and get myself out of here. Last week I was feelin’ poorly and couldn’t work; now they say I can’t see the babe till I’ve paid what’s owed.”

“Who won’t let you see your baby? Where is he?” The questions bubbled out of Callie. She couldn’t imagine a mother being separated from her child. “Who feeds him?”

“Herself, Mrs. Slater and Mr. Hatterchain. They run this place and take good money to do it. Themselves, so high and mighty, takin’ a woman’s wages when they’ve already gotten what was due us from those do-gooders up on Fifth Avenue. Lots of us here have kids; they keep them in a house near here, under lock and key. If they didn’t, you’d better believe most of us would take our chances out on the street, but we gotta do what they say or we don’t never see our kids again. As for feedin’ them, the poor little tykes live for the most part on sugar tits and they get some wet nurses in otherwise.”

Callie remembered the tiny pieces of sugar wrapped in clean linen that Peg had comforted the babies with during better times.

“Did Mrs. Slater say where you’d be working?” Sadie asked. “She didn’t say nothin’ to me about your working in the kitchen full-time.”

“No, she only said I’d help out here for the day.”

“Most likely send you over to Cullen’s, that a button factory. Sortin’ and countin’ more than likely. It wouldn’t be such a bad place to work if a girl could keep her wages, but Mr. Hatterchain has a deal with Cullen and your wages will come right here and you’ll never see it in your hand, I can vouch. Here, Flora, put those pans over here for the bread to rise. Better get busy gettin’ those turnips mashed if they’re to be ready in time for supper.”

The scents of cooking and good food filled the kitchen, but when Sadie pulled the roast out of the oven, Callie wondered how such a small piece of meat could feed everyone.

“Why, child, this here meat ain’t for the likes of us, you can believe. No, it’s for Mrs. Slater and Mr. Hatterchain’s supper. The girls are having bread and lard and mashed turnip. But since you’re such a good girl, I’ll dip a piece of bread into the juices, and if you gobble it up quick before Mrs. Slater comes in here, I’ll be grateful.”

That night Callie lay in her bed, the rough cover tucked under her chin. It was cold in the dormitory. Sounds of sleeping women surrounded her, punctuated from time to time by what sounded like a sob. The Magdalene Female Society was hardly more than a work house and a place for collective misery. That night at supper, when the women from the sewing room and those who worked outside came into the dining hall, she saw that they all had the same bleak, desolate expressions on their faces. Mrs. Slater told her she’d go to work the next morning with Irene who also worked in the Cullen Button Factory.

Callie turned over, bringing the thin blanket with her. She had never posted the letters she’d written to Peggy, and she didn’t know when she’d find the time to write again. A tear slipped down her cheek; she missed home so much. So very much. But mostly she missed her mother’s voice and her loving touch. Letters would have to wait until there was something happy to write home about.

Callie’s eyes closed in sleep. She was one day older and a lifetime smarter.

Byrch Kenyon gave his pearl-gray cravat a vicious yank, nearly succeeding in strangling himself. He disliked these obligatory dinner parties almost as much as he disliked his host and hostess for the evening. He could write a story on the dinner his cousin Kevin Darcy and his wife Bridget were giving, could script their moves, cue their dialogue, and predict the meal right down to the pattern of the china and the value of the silverware.

While Byrch disliked his cousin Kevin, he came closer to loathing Bridget Darcy, and their children were self-important little brats. Tonight, no doubt, they would be called down from the nursery to recite a newly learned rhyme or to sing along while Bridget manhandled the pianoforte.

Byrch fastened his pocket watch and fob to his cobalt-blue waistcoat, the satiny fabric delineating the steely, rock-ribbed planes of his torso. The main reason he abhorred attending social functions held by the Darcys was their pretentious attitude and their obvious shame in being Irish. Bridget was forever telling anyone within earshot that their surname was of English origin.

Byrch shrugged into his frockcoat, smoothing the velvet lapels over his broad shoulders. A last touch to the cravat, a tug on the indigo-blue coat, and a hitch at the waist of the slim, matching trousers, and he felt ready to sally forth. He checked to be certain he had enough tobacco; how Bridget did fuss about the manly aroma of pipe tobacco in her dining room. He added some loose change to his trouser pocket and secreted his billfold in the inside pocket of his coat. He wondered who the Darcys had selected as his dinner partner this evening. Kevin and Bridget were of the opinion that if Byrch were married to a presentable female with the social conscience befitting her class, he would cease being a renegade in his editorial opinions concerning the working masses.

Byrch hoped the evening would pass quickly, that he could refrain from introducing the subject of politics, and that his cousin Kevin would keep his psuedo-aristocratic nose out of the Clarion’s viewpoint. He knew it was too much to hope for, but hope always did spring eternal for an Irishman.

The dinner was exactly as Byrch had predicted. The courses were too numerous, the sauces too heavy, the chicken overdone to the point of being burnt. “Crisp,” Bridget called it, mimicking her new French cook. The potatoes were boiled and parsleyed and would have met his satisfaction if not for the thick white wine sauce slathered over them.

The china was the Cabbage Rose pattern so popular these days, and the silver so ostentatious Byrch longed for a plain every-day utensil that a man could hold and still manage to feed himself. The dessert, fresh fruit in a clear, light white wine, was the only redeeming feature.

His dinner partner was also exactly what he’d expected—a patrician from one of the best families on Park Avenue, Miss Flanna Beauchamp, in attendance with her stout, simpering mother with a keen eye to a “good match” and her overstuffed father, a financier whom she referred to as Papa, with the French inflection. The girl was a beauty, Byrch would give Bridget that, with an elegant long neck and smooth white shoulders. But he had no idea whether there was anything resembling a working brain beneath that wealth of raven hair, for Mrs. Beauchamp and Bridget monopolized the idle conversation.

Bridget presided over her table like a reigning queen. Kevin was clearly enraptured by his confection of a wife and hung on her every meaningless word. Byrch was not averse to light conversation and was known to engage in it himself, but Bridget’s superficiality and Kevin’s posturing rubbed him the wrong way.

“Byrch, why don’t you explain to Flanna the way the Clarion operates? I know she would be most interested, wouldn’t you, Flanna?”

Byrch could have cheerfully choked Bridget. Flanna’s dark eyes were turned on his expectantly, her fork poised in mid-air, as though explaining how a major New York newspaper conducted its business could be told between bites. “It really is so boring I can’t put it into words.” Promptly Flanna Beauchamp bit into another piece of fruit torte. “By the way, Kevin,” Byrch said, turning back to his cousin, “Father is delighted with my editorials. What do you think of them, Kevin? You’re usually so free with your views?”

Kevin Darcy sucked in his plump cheeks and stared across the table at his cousin. He knew he would never be the man Byrch was. At twenty-nine Kevin’s hair was becoming thinner by the day. He envied Byrch’s thick mane of mahogany hair and his strong jaw. Kevin would partner with the devil if it would guarantee he could look like Byrch. Tall, broad of shoulder, slim of hip, long of leg. But it wasn’t only the physical attributes that gave Byrch his dash; there was something hard and worldly about him, something that Bridget had said was like a “modern-day pirate.” Yes, that was what he envied most, Byrch’s sense of purpose, his dash and flair. Kevin’s rotund figure did nothing for his own self-image. There were days when he wondered how he had managed to snag the lovely, butter-gold Bridget for his wife.

Now, looking across at Byrch, seeing Mr. and Mrs. Beauchamp heap attention upon a likely match for their elegant daughter, Kevin secretly thought he hated his own life, along with Bridget and the children. He would much prefer to be like Byrch, footloose and carefree, a single man of good repute welcome at the tables in the best of homes, sought after as a prospective son-in-law. Of course, after a rowdy night between the sheets with Bridget, Kevin’s opinion changed, but that was another thing that was falling apart. Bridget was rejecting his ardor, waiting to dole out her favors only when she wanted something. Like tonight. She had promised if he didn’t get into a spat with Byrch, she would let him cuddle with her for as long as he wished. All day Kevin had walked about in a state of excitement, waiting for the time when the lights went out. Now Byrch was spoiling it, the way he always spoiled everything. Bridget and Byrch were waiting for him to respond as to what he thought of the editorials. He had to be careful or he would spoil his hopes for a long, ardent night. Any way he looked at it, he was caught in the middle. And, damn it, this was the night he was going to dare suggest they leave the lamp burning for just a little while. Damn Byrch, he always spoiled things.

“Well,” Byrch prompted, “what do you say, Kevin?” The perverse side of Byrch was enjoying Kevin’s misery. He stifled a grin, and Kevin noticed. He was being baited, teased, dared. Bastard! Bridget was staring at him in a way he hated. It was going to be a long, cold, lonely winter. Damn Byrch Kenyon! How smug he’d be if he knew he was controlling my sex life! That’s another thing. I know, I just know Byrch has a woman every night of the week. A different woman every night!

Everyone was waiting for Kevin’s answer. “Now, Byrch,” he said, “can’t we just once have a nice, pleasant dinner without going into business?”

“Yes, that’s right, Byrch,” Bridget interceded. “You know you always rile Kevin up and then Kevin riles me up. It simply isn’t fair to our other guests.”

Byrch wanted to tell her that her dinner parties were so boring they were near to being deadly, and the only way he knew anyone was alive was to start a lively discussion. Bridget’s tone verged on childishness, but there was a hard center to her words that broached no opposition. Poor Kevin, he’d probably pay the piper if Bridget was made unhappy.

Leaning his elbows on the table because he knew it would irritate Bridget, Byrch stared across at her. “It’s your party, Bridget, what would you like to discuss?”

Disconcerted by his intense gaze, Bridget found herself stuttering, “Why . . . why we . . . we could discuss something that would interest the ladies. Yes, yes, that would certainly be a welcome change, wouldn’t it, Flanna?” She felt Byrch’s heated stare drop to the smoothness of her shoulders and then to the exposed cleavage above the deep neckline of her jade-green gown. The others were also aware of his intense scrutiny, especially Kevin. Now for certain he would demand time alone later. Already she could feel a backache coming on, and her head had been pounding from the moment Byrch had arrived. She should have worn another gown. Something less revealing—Byrch was a womanizer, everyone knew that. Yet the heat in his penetrating cat-green eyes was warming her flesh, creating a flush of pink to her bosom.

“And what would that be, Bridget?” His tone was insolently intimate.

Squaring her shoulders, Bridget repelled this latest attempt to unnerve her. She cleared her throat. “Actually, Byrch, you may even find yourself interested and want to write a column in the Clarion about this Magdalene Female Society. All of us here, including the Beauchamps, contribute generously. If the society garnered some favorable publicity, it might even stir the public to open its pockets and make donations. It’s a shelter for wayward women and their children. They have so little, and we who enjoy so much must be charitable, don’t you agree, ladies?”

Mrs. Beauchamp agreed so exuberantly that one of her hair-combs fell onto her plate when she nodded. Flanna dipped her head, her long, elegant neck arching like a swan’s.

“Tell me something,” Byrch said, addressing himself to Mr. Beauchamp and Kevin, “did you investigate this society before you allowed your wives to make contributions? There have been rumors about these societies, as I’m certain you’re well-aware.”

“Now just a minute, Byrch!” Bridget sputtered. “This is a fine Christian group, sponsored by the best people. It isn’t some soup kitchen down in Hell’s Kitchen. It has a rather smart address, 23 Bleecker Street.”

“How impressive,” Byrch answered snidely. “Somehow, Bridget, I didn’t think you would contribute money to where it was needed the most.”

Mrs. Beauchamp gasped. “Mr. Kenyon, do you know something about this society that we don’t?”

“No, I don’t have any particulars. that’s why I’m inquiring as to what kind of investigation Kevin made.”

Kevin’s tone was apologetic. “Certainly I looked into it . . . that is, as far as it was possible. Some of our friends made a trip to the house on Bleecker Street and saw for themselves what those good people are doing for homeless and wayward women.”

Bridget assumed a lofty attitude. “Information came on the best authority, Byrch. Mr. and Mrs. van Nostram are supporters of the society, and Mrs. van Nostram actually visits the house.” She was pleased to introduce the van Nostram name in front of the Beauchamps, smiling at them, gratified that they were impressed.

“An announced visit, I’m certain,” Byrch continued cynically, “so that preparations were made, and your friends were shown exactly what they wished to see. Haven’t you learned anything being associated with a newspaper, Kevin? You should have made an unexpected visit so you could have received a more accurate impression, find out the real story. I’m glad to say your main concern with the Clarion is advertising accounts.”

“I am not in the custom of performing sneak attacks, Byrch,” Kevin said. Secretly he agreed with Byrch, but Bridget had overridden him, saying all her friends were donating considerable sums, and she didn’t want to be left out or seem ignorant of her social duty. Now here was Byrch reinforcing Kevin’s doubts. Still, he wouldn’t give his cousin the satisfaction of agreeing with him verbally.

“That may be true, Kevin,” Byrch continued, “but how would you feel if you were to learn that all of these charitable donations were not being used in good faith? I wouldn’t be much of a reporter if I didn’t get to the bottom of things, and to be honest, I’d not hesitate to list the names of the poor pigeons who were taken in by a scam. Perhaps it would serve to warn others to be more selective as to where they offer assistance.”

Bridget bristled and then paled. “Byrch! You aren’t saying you know something about this Magdalene Society, are you?” Good Lord, if she’d been duped along with her friends, they would never be able to hold up their heads in public again!

“What Mr. Kenyon says makes a good deal of sense,” Mr. Beauchamp agreed. “Will you be conducting an investigation for us, Mr. Kenyon?”

“I think I might. If I find it to be honest, a feature article in the Clarion might induce others to contribute. If, on the other hand, it isn’t what it should be, donors will be prevented from making fools of themselves.”

“Oh, come now, Byrch, I hardly think we’re fools. We merely acted on the report the committee members submitted,” Bridget said. “If you’re bent on discussing fools, I think you should first look to yourself and some of those hot-headed editorials you’re responsible for. If it were up to you, you’d feed and clothe every filthy immigrant who lands on these shores. Admit it!” Bridget demanded spitefully.

“For the deserving, Bridget. Someone has to help them. These new organizations springing up all over the city need monitoring. The Irish especially seem to be the victims; of course, just the sheer numbers of them coming to America throws the balance in that direction. But I won’t forget that they’re my people, Bridget, just as much as they’re yours and Kevin’s. I didn’t say this Bleecker Street establishment was corrupt. I said I had my suspicions, and I agreed to check it out.”

“And publish our names if we’ve been duped?”

Byrch cocked an unruly brow at Bridget. “Do I take it you also have your suspicions? Besides, what better way to prevent you and others like you from making the same mistake twice? If donations were made intelligently, these scam artists would not assume that money was out there for the taking, and the interests of the poor would be better served. Surely you wouldn’t expect me to suppress my findings just so you won’t lose face among your friends?”

“Of course not,” Bridget replied.

“Then again,” Byrch added, “think what a heroine you could be if your name was linked with the exposure, if it proves necessary.”

Bridget thought for an instant. Yes, she would like it very much. She’d never thought of herself as a heroine, but she had to admit it, it was a very appealing notion.