An Awakened Heart An Awakened Heart

by Jody Hedlund

  “Thornton Quincy at your service,” he said with flair, holding one of her arms and steadying her. “Are you all right?”

  Before she could answer, another man ran past and bumped into her shoulder. She would have floundered again if not for her rescuer’s hold on her arm.

  “We better get out of the way before we’re trampled to death.” He began tugging at her.

  She was about to say her thanks and yank herself free of the stranger’s grip, but she saw that the crowd had quickly swelled and was moving fast toward her and she froze.

  “Come on!” the man yelled, tugging her again.

  This was no time to argue. He hadn’t been jesting when he said they were about to be trampled. She allowed him to pull her along down Centre Street the way she’d come. Several children ran past them. Disheveled and screaming women stumbled behind. Carriages careened past, pulled by frantic horses.

  At the sharp bang of gunshots, Elise tripped. Without breaking his stride, her rescuer clutched her arm harder and kept her on her feet. But even as her hurried steps evened out, her pulse stuttered forward. “Who’s shooting?”

  “It’s the Bowery Boys and the Five Pointers,” called a youth sprinting past. “They’ve been joined by the Roach Guards and Dead Rabbits.”

  Gangs fighting each other? That was nothing new. Rivalry gangs often fought on the streets. But apparently this fight had escalated and was now spreading. She certainly didn’t want to be caught in the middle of it.

  As if coming to the same conclusion, the man gripping her arm tossed a question at her over his shoulder. “Can you run?”

  For the first time, she glimpsed his face—a strikingly handsome face with well-defined features. His eyes were dark brown, almost as dark as his hair. What had he said his name was? Something Quincy . . .

  She nodded, bunched her skirt, and began to run. As Mr. Quincy dodged around people, she attempted to match her pace with his. She was afraid she might slow him down and that he’d grow frustrated with her and decide to leave her behind at the mercy of the panicking crowd.

  The shattering of a glass storefront across the street startled her. Shards of glass flew into the air and onto the sidewalk, followed by screams. Bricks smashed against the window until the glass was obliterated and wide enough for several raggedly dressed men to enter the store.

  If the gang war wasn’t enough, now looters were taking advantage of the disorder.

  By the time Elise turned the corner, her chest was heaving. She needed to slow down to catch her breath. She was dismayed to see that the turmoil had spread to the surrounding streets, and a group of men was charging down the street armed with iron bars, paving stones, bats, axes, and bludgeons.

  At the sight of the small army, Mr. Quincy jerked her in the opposite direction and he began to sprint, dragging her along with him. She raced to keep up, stumbling and tripping in the confines of her skirt. Behind them, she heard shouts and heavy footsteps. All around, shopkeepers were slamming their doors shut.

  “I think we should find a place to hide,” Mr. Quincy shouted over his shoulder.

  “I live close,” she called breathlessly, noting the stores she’d passed a short while ago. Even the blind beggar was still in his same spot, calling out questions to those racing past him. His tin cup dangled from the twine he used to hold up his trousers. His hands were outspread. Instead of begging for money, he was begging for information, but once again no one could be bothered to help the man.

  “Wait!” She attempted to jerk free of Mr. Quincy.

  He slowed his steps. “Where do you live?”

  “We need to help him.” She started toward the blind man, but her rescuer’s hold on her arm prevented her.

  “We need to get to safety.” Mr. Quincy’s handsome face was creased as he scanned the street filled with crowds of people running in various directions, attempting to find refuge before being caught up in a gang war.

  “We can’t leave him out here by himself,” she insisted.

  “Who?” Mr. Quincy didn’t see the beggar on the street corner, even though he was almost directly in front of them. As usual, the beggar was overlooked.

  “Over here.” It was her turn to lead the way. In a few short steps she was next to the beggar on the corner. Mr. Quincy’s eyes widened at the sight of the blind man. She half expected him to release her and move on his way. He’d clearly done his part to lend a hand to someone in need. Now he had no further obligation to do more for anyone.

  But he nodded at the blind man and quirked one of his brows. “What are we doing?”

  “We need to move him to safety.”

  At the sound of her voice, the blind man swiveled. “It’s you, miss.” His hands reached out for her.

  “Yes, it’s me,” she answered, gently taking his hands into hers.

  “Can you tell me what’s happening?” he asked in a wobbly voice.

  The crashing of more glass and angry shouts split the air. She slipped her arm through the beggar’s. “The gangs are fighting. And now thieves are looting.”

  “Oh no, miss. Oh no . . .” He shuffled along next to her, and she was grateful when Mr. Quincy took the beggar’s other arm.

  “This way.” She nodded in the direction of the mission, which was still half a block away. With his limping gait, the beggar slowed them down. By the time they’d gone half the distance, Mr. Quincy was practically carrying the man.

  Bricks flew around them, one of them narrowly missing Elise before crashing into a window. “Hurry!” she gasped. “We’re almost there.”

  Big block letters that read Seventh Street Mission had been painted in white across the front of the building just ahead. She let go of the beggar and ran ahead to the door. She jerked on it, expecting it to swing open, but it was locked.

  Mr. Quincy with his heavy load came up behind her. She beat against the door with her fist. “Open up! It’s Elise Neumann!”

  A man’s face appeared in one of the square windowpanes. A large man with blond hair and kind eyes.

  “Reverend Bedell!” she shouted. “Please hurry!”

  After a moment of rattling, finally the door swung wide. Big hands reached for her and pulled her inside. Mr. Quincy and the beggar stumbled in after her. Then the door slammed shut, and the lock clicked back into place.

  Chapter 4

  Thornton Quincy held a large board over the window as Reverend Bedell hammered the last nail in place.

  “There,” the reverend said. “Hopefully that will keep out anyone who wishes to do us harm.”

  “I hope so too.” Thornton wiped the beads of sweat off his brow. With all of the first-floor windows closed and boarded up, the building had grown stuffy and hot. He had no doubt that as the July day progressed, conditions would become unbearable.

  The reverend stood back, hammer in hand, and surveyed what appeared to be a sewing workroom. Needles, thread, and half-finished shirts lay on the tables. Chairs were shoved aside as though rapidly abandoned.

  “I appreciate your help,” the reverend said. “I likely wouldn’t have thought to secure the windows until too late.”

  Thornton nodded. “I’ve never seen the streets so volatile.”

  “Neither have I, and I’ve seen a great deal in my years living in this city.”

  By down here, Thornton knew the reverend was referring to Lower Manhattan, where the masses of immigrants resided. For Thornton it had always been a place he could go whenever he needed to find cheap labor. He didn’t come often. He usually hired out the more aggressive recruitment to their land agent, Mr. Du Puy, who had been quite successful in getting hundreds of Irish and German immigrants to lay the rail for the Illinois Central.

  But Thornton was too pressed for time to wait for Du Puy. He was already one week into his father’s challenge and needed to find more construction workers immediately while the summer weather allowed for building. In addition, he had specific needs for various tradesmen. He didn’t just want anyone. He wante
d to handpick the most qualified.

  Preliminary plans for the town and a few small structures had already been in place in both his and Bradford’s towns. Thornton had finished platting it with his surveyor, Hewitt, and was now ready to send the workers to begin building it in earnest.

  This wasn’t the first railroad town Thornton had helped to develop. He’d had his hand in several along the New York and New Haven Railroads. He was familiar with the specifications of the standard railroad town. Each block was 3,000 square feet with lots 140 feet deep, backed by an alley. Main street lots would be long and narrow, guaranteeing the first buildings would be uniform in size so as to attract smaller, independent merchants.

  Exactly how to lay out the town in conjunction with the railroad had been a matter of intense debate with his surveyor. But he’d finally gotten Hewitt to agree to try the parallel arrangement. They would build two halves of the town on separate but equal sides of the tracks. The two sides would have identically named streets. On one side would be First Avenue North, and in the same spot on the other side of the tracks would be First Avenue South, as was the usual pattern of naming north-south streets with numbers and east-west streets for trees.

  Thornton had sent Hewitt ahead of him with the design for the town, as well as a small construction crew to begin the train depot and a bunkhouse. The town was much farther down the Illinois Central than Thornton would have preferred, almost in the middle of the state—too far from Chicago and at least a four-day train ride from New York City. But most of the Illinois Central Railroad grant land to the north was already sold and developed.

  At least Bradford’s town was in the same location, ten miles to the north. Since Bradford had named his town Wellington in honor of his father’s forename, Thornton had decided on Quincy.

  Quincy, Illinois. The town very well could decide the fate of his life. All week he’d done nothing but think about and plan for the town. Until today. Until now.

  At a pounding on the front door, Thornton stiffened, reminded once again how dangerous the state of affairs on the streets had become in such a short time. One minute he’d been meeting with an immigrant contact and the next he’d been in the middle of a gang war.

  The reverend pulled a knife from his boot and stepped out of the workroom. Thornton followed down a hallway to the same door he’d entered less than an hour ago. By the time they reached the door, no one was there.

  “I think I better stay here and keep watch,” the reverend said, glancing out one of the panes to the chaos on the street.

  “I’ll help.”

  “Good. I’d appreciate having another man here to help me defend the women just in case . . .” The reverend touched the small of his back, and Thornton guessed he had another weapon there, probably something small like a pistol.

  Thornton didn’t have any weapons on him. He wasn’t accustomed to battling street thugs like the reverend apparently was.

  “You can hang on to this.” The reverend held out his knife as though guessing the direction of Thornton’s thoughts. He unstrapped a sheath from his calf and handed that to Thornton too.

  Over the past hour, while boarding up the windows, Thornton had learned that Reverend Bedell was engaged to the owner of the mission, a Miss Pendleton. In spite of the circumstances, his excitement about his upcoming nuptials had been obvious, as had his love for the petite woman who’d bustled about issuing orders and calming everyone.

  Thornton had also learned that the Seventh Street Mission was new and had been started to provide alternative employment for women seeking to escape prostitution.

  At the revelation, he’d been taken aback that the pretty woman he’d rescued and brought to safety had once been a prostitute. When he asked about it, the reverend laughed and assured him the Neumann girls were a result of Miss Pendleton’s soft heart and not prostitution. Thornton was relieved to hear the news. The woman he’d rescued had seemed too young, too innocent to have lived such a lifestyle. But then what did he know of such things?

  The reverend combed his fingers through his unruly hair and peered down the long hall toward the stairway at the opposite end. “Would you mind standing guard while I go up and see how the women are doing?”

  “I’ll do my best,” Thornton said. “Although I’m warning you, I’m about as good at wielding a knife as I am a needle.”

  The reverend grinned. “Then you’re an expert fighter and seamstress?”

  Thornton chuckled. “I know nothing about doing either.”

  Bedell clamped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. If someone tries to break in, all you need do is show them those five inches of steel and they’ll turn and run.”

  “I can do that.”

  After the reverend left, Thornton leaned against the wall. The reality of the danger outside washed over him. Even with the door closed and windows boarded, the shouts and sounds of destruction reverberated down to his bones. He didn’t consider himself a fighter. He hadn’t been jesting when he informed the reverend that he knew nothing about knives, except that the butter knife went on the right side of the plate next to the spoon.

  He supposed that was why he’d hesitated in accepting the challenge against Bradford. He’d rather spend his days being the peacemaker than the aggressor. When he thought about the scrapes he and Bradford had gotten into as boys, usually Bradford had been the one to lead the charge into danger or mischief. He simply followed.

  Even now, he second-guessed his decision to plunge into their father’s challenge. Maybe Bradford was right. Maybe Father had developed the test in an attempt to be fair. But what if he expected Bradford to win anyway?

  Thornton exhaled a tense breath. Whatever the case, he was in the challenge now. He couldn’t quit or he’d disappoint his father even further.

  “Mr. Quincy?” Striding down the hallway toward him was the young woman he’d rescued.

  He pushed away from the wall and straightened. When they’d arrived, she was so concerned with situating and feeding the blind beggar that she’d gone on her way without another word to him. He’d admired her concern for someone less fortunate than herself. And he was impressed that even amidst the danger to herself, she’d gone to the beggar and helped him.

  She drew nearer, and he was struck again now as he was earlier with how fair she was. Though the windows were boarded, sun streamed in through the cracks, allowing in enough light that he could see her clearly. Her face was much too serious for a woman of her young age, but her features were pretty in a natural way, without any of the guile and practiced poise of the women he knew. Her eyes were a pure blue made bluer by the light blond of her hair. From her slight accent, the plainness and simplicity of her dress, and the braided coil, he suspected she was German.

  “Miss . . .” He realized that in the race for their lives he hadn’t had the opportunity to discover her name.

  She stopped several feet away. “Miss Neumann. Elise.”

  “Miss Neumann—”

  “Please, call me Elise.”

  “Then I insist you call me Thornton.”

  She nodded. “Thornton.” His name rolled off her tongue as though she didn’t quite know what to make of it. In true German fashion, she’d blended the h to the t so that his name came out Tornton. “I didn’t have the chance to thank you for helping me.”

  “I only did what any gentleman would have.”

  “No. You were much kinder.”

  He shrugged. “It was nothing.”

  She didn’t respond but studied him with her large blue eyes. They were so innocent and yet so grave. He couldn’t keep his eyes from dropping to her willowy yet beautifully curved figure. She was perhaps a little too thin, but certainly attractive. Not that he should notice, not when he was focusing on Rosalind Beaufort and had spent every free moment over the past week with her.

  “How is our blind friend doing?” he asked, trying to divert his attention to a safer topic. “Is he settled in?”

  “He’s upstai
rs with the others. He finally decided that I’m trustworthy and told me his name is Isaiah.”

  “So you didn’t know him before today?”

  “No. Why should I? The city is full of beggars.”

  Thornton had assumed she’d had previous interactions with the beggar and was startled to realize the man was a complete stranger. “That was kind of you to rescue him.”

  “Do you not wonder what kind of world we live in that allows a blind beggar to fend for himself on the streets?”

  The question took Thornton off guard. No, frankly he’d never wondered about such matters. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d given a beggar a passing glance. He didn’t come into Lower Manhattan often, but when he did, he had business on his mind. “I hadn’t thought of it,” he responded honestly. “But I can’t help wondering how the gangs can wage war against each other and why nothing is being done to stop them.”

  “The police are afraid of them and leave them to their own vices most of the time.”

  At that moment, something banged against the door, causing Elise to jump. Thornton withdrew the reverend’s knife and inched toward the door. They’d debated boarding up the small paned window, and now Thornton was glad they had. He peeked through a crack, only to find that whoever had been attempting to break in had already moved on, apparently deciding the effort wasn’t worth it.

  He watched the street a moment longer and then sheathed the knife before he accidentally hurt himself with it. When he turned, he caught the glint of a blade in Elise’s hand. He held his hands up in mock surrender and grinned. “Don’t hurt me.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said and tucked the knife away. “I only chop off fingers.”

  Her expression was so serious, that for a moment he couldn’t tell if she was jesting or not. When she glanced up, he caught the faint glimmer of mirth in her eyes.

  He held out his hands. “I beg you to spare my right hand. And perhaps two fingers on the left?”

  “Only two?”

  “Are you in a generous mood? Will you allow three?”