by Deeanne Gist
He paused. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t . . . I thought . . .”
Mack handed him the rest of the baskets. “Excuse me.”
Hiding her embarrassment, Tillie placed her back to the storekeeper and grazed a bolt of fabric with her fingertips. From the corner of her eye she watched Mack join the old man.
“Grandpa.”
She looked up sharply, losing all pretense of nonchalance. That was his grandfather? The one who’d taught him wood-working?
The tall but stooped old man looked Mack up and down. Worn and ragged clothing hung on his bony frame. “Ain’t you all feisty and brigetty in yer fine cloth.”
Mack self-consciously adjusted his collar. Tillie stiffened. It wasn’t as if Mack were in full livery. He wore no more than neat trousers, the white shirt she’d sewn, and a brown jacket.
“What’re ya thinkin’ to work fer them sorry fellers up there? I couldn’t believe it when Ory Lou tol’ me.”
“Sloop and I had an upscuddle. I want Ora Lou out of there. I can earn in a month at Biltmore what would take three or four over at Battery Park.”
“Why’d ya get in a jower with Sloop?”
“He’s abusing the girls.”
His grandfather gave a bark of laughter. “Why, that ain’t no reason to take yer foot in yer hand and light out.”
“I want her out of there.” Mack had his back to Tillie, but there was no mistaking his rigid posture and the arms he held stiffly at his sides.
His grandfather turned up a corner of his mouth. “You ain’t talkin’ sense, boy. There’s gotta be some other reason.” He looked Tillie’s way.
She turned her attention back to the shelf and pulled out a bolt of flannel.
“Who’s that?”
“She’s one of the maids at Biltmore. I’m toting for her.”
Grandpa narrowed his eyes. “You sweetheartin’ her, too?”
“I am.”
Willing the blush away, she glanced at Mr. Tarwater. He was measuring out the sanitary disinfectant on their list, but there was no doubt he was hearing every word.
Grandpa squinted and gave her a more thorough looking-over. Waving a bothersome fly from her ear, she folded back a corner of fabric and fingered its thickness.
“She ain’t nothin’ but a drudge. I don’t think yer up there fer her or fer Ory Lou. I think yer just like yer brother and covetin’ them soft and easy ways they have up thar.” He spat onto the floor. “You shame me. And you shame yer mammy. You ain’t fit to have McKelvy blood running in yer veins.”
She held her breath, but Mack said nothing. Did nothing. She wished she could see his face.
The old man spit again. This time on Mack’s boots. Then he shuffled to the door, grabbed his hat, and slammed out of the store.
The click, click, click of the ceiling fan was loud in the sudden quiet. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he bent over and wiped the spittle off his boot.
Anger and protectiveness surged through her. How dare that crotchety old man say and do such things to him.
Mack turned around, his face showing no emotion other than the tick at the back of his jaw. “You about finished?”
She jumped. “Oh! Yes. I need to have some of this cut and a bit of cambric. That’s all.”
“Well, go ahead, then. I’d like to go see Ora Lou before heading back.”
“Of course. I’ll only be a minute.” Hustling to the counter, she gave Mr. Tarwater the bolts of cloth. “Two yards of flannel and four of the cambric, please.”
Mack waited at the door while she pointed out the cambric and reviewed with the merchant the nursery items she’d selected.
“That’s fine, miss. I’ll have everything wrapped and ready within an hour.”
Mack opened the door. “We’ll be back.”
Tillie gave the clerk a quick smile, then scurried onto the boardwalk.
She had to step lively to keep up with Mack’s long, angry stride. She’d hoped to stroll leisurely through town and take in the sights, but Mack didn’t make any effort to slow his pace, nor glance back to see if she were keeping up.
Still, she marveled at the giant telephone poles marching down Patton Street, their wires crisscrossing the street like clotheslines gone amuck. Three- and four-story buildings housed every kind of trade imaginable. Tobacco shops, drugstores, soda fountains, cobblers, clothing emporiums, music shops, confectioneries, and lawyers’ offices.
The ringing bells of the trolley car drew her gaze. She wondered where its passengers would go next. Delivery wagons and dumpcarts blocked passing carriages. Horses lining a succession of hitching posts twitched their tails and sent flies into a furious game of musical chairs. When they finally reached Black Bottom Street, she was out of breath and the soles of her feet ached.
At the top of the hill the orphanage rose up like a wart on a witch’s nose. She’d been so preoccupied last time by the fight between Mack and Mr. Sloop she hadn’t really paid attention to the condition of the building. But even from here she could see it was nothing short of derelict. Boarded-up windows, sagging roof, scrap in the yard, no fence, nary a blade of grass. But she’d heard Mr. Sloop was renovating the insides first in order to make sure the children were warm and comfortable.
A one-horse farm wagon sat parked out front. A giant of a man stood beside it, his golden skin and wild hair reminding her of a lion. He spoke a few words to Mr. Sloop, and then, with tears streaming down his face, lifted a pale boy of seven or eight from the wagon.
Mack slowed, then came to a stop. She stepped up next to him. They were far enough away to offer the group privacy, but not so far that they couldn’t hear every word.
The boy shook his head. “No, Pa. Please. Ya need me. With Ma gone ya won’t have nobody. Please let me stay. I won’t eat no more. I won’t be no trouble. I’ll sleep under the house and you won’t even know I’m there.”
The giant pulled him to his heart, trembling and shaking with emotion. The boy tried to wrap his arms and legs about the man, but he couldn’t begin to reach.
Finally, the man kissed him flush on the lips and set him down. “You be good, son.”
Then he climbed up into the wagon and shook the reins. “Hi-yup.”
“No!” the boy screamed, chasing after the wagon and straight toward her and Mack.
The wagon rolled by. The boy raced down the slope, his feet getting ahead of themselves. A couple of yards in front of Mack and Tillie he tripped, lurching to the ground.
Mack jumped forward and scooped up the boy.
He kicked and screamed and pounded his fists against Mack’s chest. “Lemme go! Lemme go! My pa! My pa!”
Mack’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Your pa’s gone, son.”
The boy’s green eyes clashed with Mack’s. “Nooooo!” He flung himself against Mack’s neck, sobbing. Begging.
Tillie didn’t even know she was crying until a tear splattered against her hand. She quickly swiped her cheeks.
Mack held the boy fast until his crying began to dwindle. Then, making no move to release him, Mack continued toward the orphanage.
CHAPTER
Twenty
Sloop waited for them at the top of the hill, his posture stiff. He didn’t offer Tillie a greeting, nor even a glance. And Mack made no move to introduce them. She’d wanted to meet him, though. Tell him of their shared passion for the orphans. And how she hoped to offer a small donation if she made lady’s maid. Perhaps even come once a quarter to help with the children. But with the tension between the two men, and the heartbreak of the boy, the time just wasn’t right.
She studied the tall, immaculate director. The expensive cut of his coat seemed oddly out of place with the pathetic surroundings.
“What do you want, Danver?” he snapped.
“I came to see Ora Lou.”
“Visiting hours aren’t until four.”
“I won’t be here at four.”
They stared at each other, the hostility palpable. Sloop’s
thin hair was slicked down and side-parted, emphasizing a jag in his nose. She studied the yellow skin surrounding it and wondered if Mack had broken the man’s nose that day in the yard. She knew Mack was still convinced the man had hit his sister, but Tillie just couldn’t believe it. Why go to all the trouble of rescuing the children only to then turn around and beat them? It just didn’t make sense.
Sloop looked at the cowering boy. “Put him down. Coddling breeds weakness.”
She blinked.
Mack made no move to comply. “Do you want to get Ora Lou or shall I?”
The door opened. A stout woman in black shirtwaist and skirt stood at the threshold. Her plump cheeks were flanked with braided coils covering each ear. “What does he want?”
“Wants to talk to his sister,” Sloop answered.
She strode across the yard, her skirts stirring the dirt and coating her hem. “She’s indisposed. Give me the boy.”
Mack tried to pry him off, but the boy clung with tenacity. “Let go, son. Show Mrs. Sloop your manners and give her a proper greeting.”
He buried his face in Mack’s neck and shook his head. “I want my pa. I wanna go home.”
“Well, your pa doesn’t want you,” she snapped. “Now, quit blubbering and come along or you’ll do without your supper.”
Tillie gasped.
Mack tensed. “Cover your ears, boy.”
The boy pressed one ear against Mack’s shoulder. The other he covered with a dirty hand. Mack set his lips against his teeth and let out a loud, piercing whistle, which slid up the scale, down and then up again.
Jumping, Tillie slammed her hands against her own ears.
A window on the second floor wheeled open. “Mack!” A girl on the cusp of adulthood leaned out. “I’ll be right there!”
Mrs. Sloop pointed her finger at the girl. “You will stay inside and finish your work.”
She looked at the woman, then at Mack. He winked.
A smile bloomed on her face and she disappeared, then burst out the door running full tilt. “What are you doing here in the middle of the week!” She flung her arms about his waist, sandwiching the boy between them. “Have you come to get me? Are you taking me with you?”
Her faded brown cheviot dress with an oversized epaulet collar suited a ten-year-old. Its short length barely reached her calves, threatening to be just this side of indecent. A thick shock of dark blond hair was gathered at her neck in a filthy ribbon.
Mrs. Sloop pulled in her chin. “I told you to stay put.”
Mack nudged his sister behind him. “I’m going to visit with Ora Lou for a few minutes. We can do it here or inside.”
“No one is allowed inside except during visitation.” Snapping her fingers, Mrs. Sloop reached out a hand. “Come along, Homer.”
Tillie touched Mack’s sleeve, afraid the woman’s anger would be taken out on the boy if Mack didn’t release him.
He sighed. “Homer? Is that your name?”
The boy nodded.
“This here behind me is my sister. As soon as I’m through talking to her, she’ll come back inside and check on you.”
Ora Lou’s face fell with disappointment.
“Until then, you need to go with Mr. and Mrs. Sloop.” He tried to peel the boy off of him, but Homer tightened his hold.
“No, no! I won’t go in. I won’t.”
Tillie stepped toward Mrs. Sloop and introduced herself. When people found out she was part of Biltmore’s upper staff, they often catered to her as if she were a Vanderbilt herself.
Mrs. Sloop was no different. “Danver is carrying parcels for you, then? You’re not . . . with him.”
“That’s correct,” Tillie answered. “And I’m wondering if perhaps Homer could stay out here with us until Ora Lou and Mr. Danver are finished? Maybe by then he will have calmed a bit.”
The woman clearly didn’t care for the idea, but was unwilling to upset Biltmore’s head parlormaid. She turned to Ora Lou. “Put him in with Artie when you come inside. And don’t linger.”
Spinning around, she commandeered her husband’s arm, and the two of them disappeared through the front door.
Mack turned to Ora Lou. “You all right?”
She nodded. “They still stay clear of me. Ever since you lit into him.”
“You weren’t so confident last time I was here.”
She cocked her head. “No? Well, it was probably because of Irene. She’s not a very strong person. She needs someone to look out for her.”
“And you’ve decided to take on the job?”
She smiled. “I guess I have.”
While the two of them talked, Tillie watched the boy. The moment he made eye contact with her, she ducked her face behind Mack’s shoulder in a game of peekaboo. She’d drawn many of her own siblings out of their doldrums with the universal game.
Slowly, she peered back around him. As she’d hoped, the boy’s eyes were wide and watchful. She ducked out of sight again.
“Where have you been?” Ora Lou asked Mack. “I expected you a week and a half ago.”
He absently patted the boy’s back. “The Vanderbilts had a house party and no one got their day off. But since I was in town today, I wanted to come tell you I’d saved enough money to get you out, but I want to earn a little more in case it takes you some time to find a job. Give me a couple more weeks, all right?”
Tillie looked at him, forgetting about the game. Mack had said that as soon as he had the funds he needed for his siblings, he’d leave Biltmore. She had no idea he was so close to his goal.
Panic began to well up until she remembered he’d said siblings. Plural. Was there another Danver in the orphanage? Did that mean he’d have to work longer at Biltmore to support more children?
Ora Lou’s face lit up. “Do you mean it, Mack? Just two more weeks?”
“I said so, didn’t I?”
She flung her arms about his neck, again sandwiching the boy between them. Homer locked eyes with Tillie. She held out her arms and he came without hesitation.
She’d intended to put him on the ground and hold his hand, but before she could, he latched on to her the way he had Mack. The precious feel of his thin, bony frame hugging her tight cut right to her heart.
She wrapped her arms around him, rocking him, patting him, shushing him, all while she tried to suppress memories of her mother doing the same for her. And if she were a mother, she would surely do the same for her child. But not if she stayed at Biltmore. For if she stayed until her late thirties, she would, most likely, never be a wife, much less a mother.
She looked up at Mack. He and Ora Lou had quit talking and were watching her. Homer tucked his thumb in his mouth. He was way too old to still be sucking his thumb, but no one said a thing.
Melancholy touched Ora Lou’s eyes. “Reminds me of when we had to leave Ikey, Otis, and John-John with those families on the mountain.”
Tillie frowned. “Who are Ikey, Otis, and John-John?”
“Our little brothers.” Ora Lou looked at her. “So you’re Biltmore’s head parlormaid?”
She blinked. “Your little brothers? You, you have three little brothers?”
Ora Lou raised a brow. “Who is this, Mack?”
“Tillie Reese. We’re getting married soon.”
Tillie gasped. “We are not.”
“Yes, we are.” He turned back to Ora Lou. “We have to go. Our train will be coming in a bit and we still need to pick up our parcels. Here, you take him.”
“We are not getting married.” She tried to transfer Homer into Ora Lou’s arms, but her sharp tone frightened him and he would not let go.
Mack placed a hand on the boy’s back. “Listen, Homer. I’ll be back on Sunday. So you go on with Ora Lou. She’ll take care of you.”
Homer clung even tighter with arms, legs, and desperation.
“Why don’t you carry him to Artie’s room,” Ora Lou suggested. “That may be quicker.”
Tillie glanced between them.
“But no one’s allowed inside right now. Only during visitation hours.”
“Then make him get down,” Mack said. “We need to go.”
A tear from Homer’s cheek dropped to her neck.
She sighed. “Show me where Artie’s room is.”
Instead of going through the front, they went round back. Tillie was so used to Biltmore’s efficiency, the primitive kitchen took her by surprise. Only one stove for all those children?
But she didn’t have time to linger. Ora Lou looked both ways, placed a finger against her lips, then led them tiptoeing down a dim hallway and into a stairwell. The condition of the building surprised Tillie. Clearly, Sloop’s renovations had yet to touch this section.
With one hand, she lifted her skirt, with the other, she supported Homer – leaving none with which to hold the railing. But she’d carried many a load more cumbersome than this up and down the steps of Biltmore. Still, Mack placed a steady hand against her waist.
She had no doubt he felt the tremors scuttle up her spine. She only hoped he attributed them to the fear of being caught rather than a reaction to his touch.
Forcing herself to the task at hand, she captured brief impressions between the floors. Moldy, wet smells. Filth and cobwebs. Loose balusters. A hole in the wall. And flies everywhere.
At the third floor, Ora Lou paused. “It’s right down this hall.”
About halfway down, she opened a door for Tillie. The tiny room held nothing but two cots, a chamber pot, and a peg for clothes. No pitcher, no lantern, not even a candle. The walls were papered with years of grime. The floor, bare and gritty. The cots offered no bedding other than a blanket apiece – neither of which looked as if they’d been washed in a month of Sundays. Surely this wasn’t where the children slept.
“Where’s Artie’s room?” Tillie whispered.
“This is it.”
She tried to hold in her shock. “Where’s Artie?”
“He’s locked in the basement for bad behavior.”
She gasped. Mack stiffened. Homer tightened his hold.
Locked in the basement? She looked up at Mack, his eyes as troubled as hers. How could they leave this child here? But what other choice did they have?
