by Jody Hedlund
© 2017 by Jody Hedlund
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-3004-1
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Jennifer Parker
Cover photography by Mike Habermann Photography, LLC
Author is represented by Natasha Kern Literary Agency.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
Excerpt from Book 1 in the ORPHAN TRAIN Series
1
2
3
4
5
About the Author
Books by Jody Hedlund
Back Ads
Chapter 1
NEW YORK CITY
MAY 1857
“Stop prostituting yourselves and run to the loving Father who will embrace you with forgiveness.” Reverend Bedell’s voice rose above the sniffles and muffled weeping of the women crowded on trestle benches of Centre Street Chapel.
In the front row, Christine Pendleton clasped her hands together in her lap and inwardly wept at the depravity the women faced night after night. Even though she’d been volunteering at the chapel every Sunday for the past month, her heart hadn’t stopped aching every time she came and witnessed the number of immigrant women who’d fallen into immorality.
At a tug on the folds of her black flounced skirt, she glanced down to find the grubby fingers of the toddler who’d been playing on the floor behind her, clasping the silky layers. His hands were not only filthy, but slimy.
“Don’t touch the fine lady.” The harsh whisper behind Christine was followed by a slap on the child’s hand.
The toddler whimpered and jerked away from Christine’s skirt.
“It’s all right.” Christine smiled at the young mother, who was holding a newborn babe in her bony arms. The woman didn’t smile back but instead stared at Christine with eyes that seemed to have been drained of all emotion. She gave the baby in her arms a small bounce, though the infant, wrapped in an unraveling shawl, hadn’t cried a peep the entire service. While Christine wasn’t accustomed to children of any size or shape, she supposed a little squalling and squirming was preferable to lethargy.
The toddler on the floor peered up at her with glassy eyes. A goopy discharge from his nose curled over his top lip and had crusted on his cheeks. Christine tried not to think about the fact that the slime was now on her skirt.
“Here.” She released her tight grip on her handkerchief only to find that the delicate linen was horribly wrinkled from the pressure and dampness of her hold. She shook the square, but the wrinkles remained. She held it out to the little boy anyway.
His slickened fingers touched the lacy edge hesitantly.
“You may have it,” Christine whispered.
The toddler pinched the handkerchief between his thumb and forefinger. The unspoiled white contrasted with the boy’s shirt, which had probably once been white but was now the gray of dirty dishwater. His trousers were cinched at the waist with a piece of twine and rolled up at the legs, clearly intended for a much larger child. In the wide material, his feet stuck out like twigs, the soles as black as coal.
“You can find happiness again,” the reverend was saying. “There is hope. There is a better life available.”
The boy laid the handkerchief across his lap and then began to trace the scallop pattern around the rim. Christine waited for the mother to pick up the linen and wipe the boy’s nose for him, since apparently he had no inclination to do so for himself. But the young woman didn’t bother to look at her child, almost as if she’d forgotten he was there.
What if neither of them had ever seen a handkerchief before?
At the startling thought, Christine shifted so that she was facing forward and attempted to focus on Reverend Bedell standing behind a simple pulpit. The poverty and misery of this place overwhelmed her again as it had since the day she’d heard the reverend speak at the Ladies Home Missionary Society meeting.
He’d spoken so passionately about the needs of the immigrants in lower Manhattan. He described situations he’d encountered, the drunkenness, theft, and degradation that existed in what he called the “infernal pit.” Although he’d come to give his annual report, he ended his speech with an invitation to join in his evangelistic efforts by becoming “visitors” among the poor.
After hearing the reverend, Christine had been unable to think of anything else until she finally had her coachman drive her to Centre Street Chapel. Of course, her visit had nothing to do with Reverend Bedell himself. Even if the other ladies had gossiped about how fine-looking the widowed pastor was, Christine didn’t pay attention to that sort of drivel anymore. At thirty, she’d long past resigned herself to spinsterhood. She’d buried her hopes and dreams of having a husband and children, and there was no sense in reviving them only to face disappointment.
Besides, she’d had the consuming work of taking care of Mother for so many years that she hadn’t had time for anything else. Now that Mother was gone, she wanted to focus on helping these poor unfortunate souls and not get sidetracked with thoughts of handsome bachelors.
“I plead with you to abandon your sins.” The reverend’s face was taut with earnestness, and his brows furrowed above warm, compassionate eyes. He was a large man with the build of a giant—stocky shoulders, thick arms, and a wide but solid torso. While his muscular appearance was intimidating, there was a boyishness about his tousled blond hair and expression that softened his hard edges.
The weeping in the chapel was growing louder. Even though he was kind and tender in the way he spoke, his plain and powerful messages moved the women to tears every week. If only his messages would move them to make changes in their lifestyles . . .
Reverend Bedell paused and bowed his head. His large hands gripped the pulpit. The intensity emanating from his frame proclaimed his deep longing for God to move in the women too.
The narrow room was unlit except for the light that managed to dispense through the grimy front windows. The walls had been whitewashed, the wooden floor cleaned. Still, the room was dark, and the sickly sweet scent of liquor lingered, diminished only by the sour body odor of so many unwashed women in close confines.
“Reverend” came a voice near the back.
The women never spoke during the service, at least they hadn’t since Christine had started attending the chapel services. So she swiveled along with everyone else to see who had dared to be so bold.
Near the back, a tall woman was standing. Her navy skirt was tattered, her ruffled bodice stained. The stitching and cut of the cloth tol
d Christine the garments had once been of good quality, a testament to just how far the woman had fallen. Her hair was brushed into a sloppy knot, and her face was ashen and gaunt like the others.
“I beg your pardon, Reverend,” the woman said with a slight English accent, “but every week you preach to us about the need to change our ways. And every week I sit here and pray I could change my ways—” Her voice cracked, and she swiped dirt-crusted fingers at a new trail of tears that rolled down her cheeks. “Please don’t tell us anymore how happy we once were, or how wretched we are now, or how miserable we must be eternally. We know all that too well. But give us the means of earning an honest living, and we will abandon this life. It’s intolerable for us to stay in it, if we could avoid starvation in any other way.”
The other women began to nod and murmur their agreement. Some sat up straighter. Others called out “aye.” Their sudden energy was unexpected, and it stirred something in Christine, the same something that Reverend Bedell’s impassioned speech had awakened in her that day at the Society meeting.
These women wanted help. Desperately. But they were trapped like moths in a lantern globe. No matter how frantically they beat their wings, they had no place to fly.
Just before the service, Christine had heard the women whispering of two sisters who had lost their jobs and could find no other. Rather than resort to whoring to save themselves from starvation and homelessness, they’d bathed and put on their best clothing. Then after consuming a lethal drink, they’d lain down on their bed, held hands, and went to sleep. Forever.
All through the sermon Christine couldn’t get the image of the two sisters out of her mind. And now her heart cried out that these immigrant women should have more choices than prostitution or death. Surely the reverend would have a solution to their dilemma.
Reverend Bedell released his tight grip on the pulpit and finally addressed the woman who’d had the courage to speak up. “Mrs. Watson, sometimes throwing off our old ways requires great sacrifice. Let us pray and ask God to give all of you the strength to do so.”
The anticipation deflated from Christine’s chest. As he started to pray, she bowed her head and closed her eyes but was too disappointed by his answer to hear anything else. When the prayer ended and the women rose to leave, they were somber. Gone was their brief burst of energy and life. Instead they shuffled out as though leaving a funeral rather than a worship service.
Christine helped straighten the benches and watched Reverend Bedell at the door say good-bye to the last woman and her child. He squatted, his hulky frame dwarfing a girl sucking her thumb. The reverend spoke gently and pressed a hand on the girl’s crown, blessing her before rising and offering the mother one last smile.
The mother only nodded before ushering her child away. As the reverend watched the pitiful family leave, his smile faded and was replaced with the same sadness Christine had noticed before.
She knew she shouldn’t stare. She ought to ready herself to depart like the other volunteers. Yet that something inside her chest seemed to burn hotter. As the reverend trudged back to the pulpit, she started toward him, then stopped and twisted her beaded reticule.
Who was she to approach the pastor? She was a diminutive woman of little consequence. She wasn’t outspoken but instead labored quietly. With her rather plain features, petite frame, and unassuming dark hair, she never stood out in a crowd, and she was perfectly content with that.
Today, however, she felt different as she pushed herself forward again toward the reverend. She didn’t stop until she stood in front of the pulpit, where he was tucking several sheets of paper into his Bible with an absent-minded frown.
She waited for him to acknowledge her as he gathered his notes, shut his Bible, and started to turn without seeing her. Part of her wanted to scuttle away like a mouse back to its hole. But she willed herself to be brave. “Reverend Bedell?” she said.
He halted and glanced at her.
She expected irritation or at least weariness to cross his features and was completely unprepared for his warm smile and the genuine kindness in his eyes. “Yes? Mrs. . . . ? Forgive me. I seem to have forgotten your name.”
“Please don’t concern yourself. You have so many names to remember.”
His eyes had pleasant crinkles at the corners, belying his age in a way the rest of his appearance didn’t. She’d overheard the other ladies at the Society meeting whispering that he had a grown son who was in seminary and studying to be a pastor. Yet he certainly didn’t look old enough for that to be true. “I always try to learn the names of volunteers. It just takes me time, Mrs. . . .”
“Miss Pendleton,” she supplied, shifting uncomfortably as he perused her black dress with its sloping shoulders, wide pagoda sleeves, and full skirt. Mother had passed away in March, and she hadn’t yet finished the six months of mourning that was socially expected at the loss of a parent.
“Mrs. Pendleton,” he replied. “I’m sorry for your loss. Your husband?”
“Oh, no. I’m not married. It’s Miss Pendleton.” She enunciated her title more clearly and loudly, but then realized she’d just announced her spinsterhood for all the world to hear and flushed at the mistake.
“I beg your pardon,” the reverend said.
“My mother recently passed,” she added and hurried to cover her embarrassment. “She was ill for many years and was finally released from her burdens.”
“Again, I’m sorry for your loss.”
From the compassion that filled his eyes, she had the distinct impression he was being sincere and not merely placating her. “Thank you.” If only she needed the compassion. She dropped her eyes so he wouldn’t view her guilt. The truth was she hadn’t experienced any sorrow at Mother’s death and still felt none.
“Time will ease the pain,” he said, apparently mistaking her bowed head for grief. “Take it from someone who knows.”
She didn’t dare look at him. He’d surely think her calloused for her lack of true mourning. And he’d also see that she’d listened to the gossip about him and knew he was a widower. The ladies had mentioned that Reverend Bedell’s wife had died at least ten years ago, but that he’d never had an inclination to get remarried. Of course, they’d declared what a shame that was.
He was silent a moment as though sympathizing with her. Then he surprised her by squeezing her upper arm. The contact was brief but warm. “Doing the work of the Lord helps ease the pain. Seeing the suffering of others has a way of taking the focus off our own circumstances, doesn’t it?”
She nodded and finally lifted her eyes. “That’s what I wanted to speak to you about, Reverend.” This time when she looked into his empathetic eyes, she noticed the color was an interesting blue-green, the shade of eucalyptus. Even though the pulpit was between them, she was also aware of the breadth of his torso and the way his suit coat stretched at the seams of his thick arms.
She clutched her reticule, snapping it open and closed and then open and closed again, wishing he was much older, wizened, and prune-faced. As it was she was suddenly all too conscious of the fact that he was an entirely appealing man, and she was entirely socially inept at interacting with the opposite sex.
He tucked his Bible under his arm and waited.
“Yes,” she said hurriedly. “I’d like to figure out a way to help the women.”
“You’re off to a very good start by giving of your time to minister to them during the chapel service.”
“But there has to be something more I can do.”
The reverend glanced at her small beaded purse, and then his eyebrows rose, revealing a light in his eyes that she prayed wasn’t humor. “Miss . . . ?”
“Pendleton,” she replied, not caring he’d forgotten her name already.
“Miss Pendleton, would you like to join us in passing out tracts next Saturday? Several other volunteers and myself walk the nearby streets, pass out tracts, and invite people to attend the service.”
Pass out tracts?
She refrained from looking at the pamphlets stacked in a box near the door. She’d been responsible for giving them to the women last week as they’d exited after the service. Most had declined. And the few who had taken the sheets had pocketed them without a glance.
“I shall consider it.”
“Good. Then I’ll expect you next Saturday at eleven o’clock in the morning.” He started to turn away again.
“You’ll beg my pardon for asking if perhaps we ought to consider other methods of helping them besides tracts and sermons?” The words spilled out before she could stop them. “The women and children look hungry. Many have no shoes. Their clothes are in tatters. And they need gainful employment.”
When the reverend looked at her this time, he seemed to be taking her in, as if seeing her for the first time.
She squirmed, even though she admonished herself not to. She looked around the room and realized she was the only volunteer left. Her coachman stood in the doorway, apparently having grown worried when she’d neglected to exit with the others. Ridley had insisted on waiting for her each week, though she’d assured him she would be fine. He’d only shaken his head and told her he wouldn’t leave her in the Sixth District alone, even if she fired him for it.
“You’re correct, Miss Pendleton,” Reverend Bedell finally said. “There are many needs. So many, in fact, that it would take the restructuring and overhauling of lower Manhattan itself to make a small dent in the suffering and poverty that exists here.”
She’d had to drive through the squalor to reach the Centre Street Chapel. She’d seen the overflowing tenements, the drunks and beggars on the streets, the refuse that filled the gutters. The sheer mass of people who lived in the area was overwhelming. With hordes of immigrants arriving every day into New York Harbor, the city was crowded beyond capacity.
“You sound as though there is no hope for their suffering,” she said.
“Oh no,” he replied. “There is most definitely hope. The true hope found in Christ.”
“I certainly don’t mean to diminish their spiritual needs, but it appears we may be feeding their souls while allowing their bodies to languish.” She cringed as she waited for the reverend to chastise her for being so outspoken. She was surprised when instead he returned to the pulpit, set down his Bible, and nodded solemnly.
