The minister nodded. “As it happens, my brother Albert owns several rental properties in the city. I’m certain he would be able to assist you. What are your needs?”
Isabelle swallowed the laugh that threatened. Her needs were well beyond her means. Or, perhaps, she corrected herself, her wants were well beyond her means. She had learned, against her will, how to live simply in the past weeks. “My . . . needs . . . are modest. Something . . .” She licked her lips, seeking appropriate words. How did one delicately admit financial woes?
Suddenly a voice from behind Isabelle interjected, “Cheap?”
Her cheeks filling with heat, she spun to face the speaker. A portly man in his midfifties stood at her elbow. He stared directly into her eyes, his broad face friendly.
“Miss Standler,” Reverend Shankle said, “please meet the Rowleys—Ralph and Helen.”
A short, round-faced woman angled around Mr. Rowley to take Isabelle’s hand and give it a squeeze. Her face beamed in a sweet expression of hello.
Reverend Shankle continued. “They own Rowley Market on the corner of Parks and Second. Have you shopped there?”
Isabelle faced the minister again. “I’ve only been in Shay’s Ford a few weeks. I’ve done little exploration.”
“You have employment?” the minister asked.
Her parents would have considered his question inappropriate, yet looking into his open, honest face, Isabelle realized he did not intend to be offensive. “Yes, sir, but the current situation is . . . unpleasant.” That seemed an understatement considering the verbal abuse heaped upon her by the staff members. Yet she would not lower herself to sharing something so personal with strangers—not even a man of the church.
“I see . . .” Reverend Shankle scowled thoughtfully. “Perhaps—”
“Reverend?” Mr. Rowley held out a big, calloused hand.
“My missus an’ me have that room in the back of the shop we’ve let workers use before. Mary moved out a week ago when she and Tim married. So . . .” His gaze flitted briefly to Isabelle. “Maybe the little miss could live there?”
Reverend Shankle’s eyes lit. “That could be a good solution for you, Miss Standler. A young woman alone in the city is not the best situation.” He looked pointedly at her black dress. “I assume you are alone?”
How that question stabbed! Swallowing, Isabelle managed a brief nod.
A sympathetic smile crossed the minister’s face. “Staying in the market would ensure some chaperonage since the Rowleys reside in the upper floor of their business. You wouldn’t feel quite so alone.”
Tears stung her eyes at the man’s kindness. The lump in her throat kept words from forming.
Mr. Rowley clasped his rough hands across his thick middle. “With Mary’s leave-takin’, we also have need of a hand.”
Isabelle looked from Mr. Rowley to Mrs. Rowley. Though simple in appearance with their worn yet clean clothing and gently lined faces, they seemed an honest couple. And ever so much kinder than the Drumfelds. Her parents would be appalled to learn their Isabelle was working in such a menial position as shopkeeper, but it couldn’t possibly be any lower than that of house servant. Oh, Mama and Papa, how I wish you were alive and things were as they have always been. . . .
Forcing aside the bubble of sorrow that threatened to reduce her to tears, Isabelle interjected as much enthusiasm as she could muster into her voice. “I greatly appreciate your kind offer, Mr. Rowley. When . . . when might I be able to assume the position?”
The man looked at his wife, his wide shoulders rising in a shrug. She smiled and gave a nod. He turned back to Isabelle. “Soon as you need to. Tomorrow, if you’d like.”
Tomorrow! Isabelle’s head spun. Never would she have anticipated such a quick turn of events—and all because she answered the tolling of a bell! Clutching the Bible, she said, “Thank you. I shall make arrangements immediately.”
The minister laughed, the sound filled with delight. “It seems Albert won’t be needed after all.”
The couple joined Reverend Shankle in a brief chuckle, and then Mr. Rowley spun around, cupped a hand beside his mouth, and called, “Aaron!”
From the end of the line, the man who had earlier directed Isabelle into the sanctuary trotted to the older man’s side. “Yes, Pop?”
Mr. Rowley beamed. “Miss Standler, here, is goin’ to come work at our market. She’s takin’ Mary’s place. You go on with her now an’ help her gather her things.” He turned another bright smile on Isabelle. “This is our son, Aaron. He’ll carry your things to the market for you.”
Isabelle swallowed. This man . . . was the Rowleys’ son? She gaped at the tall man—at Aaron Rowley—while her mind whirled.
Aaron tipped his head to the side, his lips twitching. “That all right with you, Miss Standler?”
Willingness to please shone clearly in his eyes. Although she little understood such desire to assist a stranger, and although it shamed her to have anyone see the room in which she currently resided, she knew she would require assistance. She owned very little, thanks to Randolph’s insistence that she leave her belongings behind, but her only means of transport was her feet. In the rain, even a distance of a few blocks was unpleasant—as she had discovered this morning making her way to the chapel.
She took in Aaron’s broad shoulders and thick-muscled chest.
If Mr. Drumfeld created a scene, Aaron’s mere presence should be enough to keep him from coercing her to stay. Aaron Rowley would be of help in more ways than one.
Swallowing her pride, she said, “I would greatly appreciate your assistance. Thank you.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Maelle
Near St. Peters, Missouri
March, 1903
The breeze coming off the Mississippi River sent a shiver down Maelle’s spine. Shifting the reins to one hand, she folded the collar of Richard’s brown tweed jacket up around her jaw. The jacket was still a bit damp from yesterday’s rain, but it provided more warmth than no jacket at all.
She glanced to her right, smiling at the beauty of the wide, smooth river. Richard’s normal route through Missouri started in Kansas City and cut east. But Maelle had now experienced a new view of the Midwest by traveling north from Arkansas. Keeping the Mississippi in her sights, she’d known she would encounter Missouri eventually. And she was right—four days ago she crossed the border. She’d been pushing Samson hard, only pausing long enough in the towns she encountered to ask whether anyone knew Mattie or Molly Gallagher rather than staying over to solicit photograph opportunities. There’d be time for that once she reached her destination. Of course, other than Missouri, she hadn’t quite decided on her final destination. She shrugged. She’d know it when she saw it.
The song of the river filled her ears, and she gave Samson his head, leaned back, and absorbed the sight. Over the past week, she’d seen plenty of paddleboats and barges on the water, but this morning no boats were in sight, giving Maelle an uninterrupted view of the “mighty Mississipp’,” as Richard had called it. Just as it had when she glimpsed the river for the first time from the high seat of Richard’s wagon as a child of nine, the breadth and beauty of the river created a fullness in her chest. Back then, the sensation had made her feel small and insignificant; now it filled her with a sense of God’s presence.
“What a good job you did in creatin’ that river,” she said, allowing a hint of her long-forbidden Irish brogue to creep through. As always, Samson perked his ears at his mistress’s voice and released a soft snuffle of acknowledgment. Maelle laughed, lifting her face to the sky. “See, God? Even Samson here is agreein’ with me!”
Traveling alone often brought waves of melancholy, but on this particular morning she felt far from dismal. Who could be gloomy on such a glorious day? Overhead, fluffy clouds floated lazily in a brilliant blue sky. The early spring rain had ignited an abundance of fresh scents as well as brought a touch of green to the landscape. If she squinted she could make out t
iny buds on the tips of bare trees. It wouldn’t be long before wild flowers would be making an appearance.
Some people would scoff at her appreciation for nature’s beauty, given her mode of dress. Yep, the britches certainly hid her feminine side. But skirts got in the way of her work. To get the best angle on a picture, sometimes she had to trek over rough terrain or climb on a ladder or get into an unusual position. Trousers were better suited to her job. And, she thought with a shudder, they were safer.
Beneath the male trappings, Maelle held the womanly dreams of a home, a husband to talk with and work beside and pray with when things got tough, children . . . But she no longer believed those dreams would come true. There would be no husband in her future. No husband . . . and no children.
At the thought of children, images of Mattie and Molly tried to appear in her mind, but the passing of years had dimmed the edges until all that remained were fuzzy pictures of a nondescript little boy and red-haired baby girl. A pang of guilt accompanied the realization that she’d lost the memory of her siblings’ faces—Da had instructed her to look after the wee ones, but she’d failed him.
Other pictures crowded her mind—of other children she’d encountered in her travels. How many photographs had she taken of children hiding their sad, hopeless situation behind a forced smile? Each time she’d tried to coax a genuine smile, she’d thought of her brother and sister and prayed the same despondency didn’t exist in their eyes, wherever they were.
Suddenly, from the bushes along the riverbank, a bird burst into song. Maelle’s heart gave a leap at the happy notes of praise. She pushed the negative images away. She didn’t want to dwell on anything gloomy today. Not on this gorgeous spring day with the beautiful Mississippi guiding her through the state that represented homecoming. Today she would smile and sing and laugh.
Shay’s Ford, Missouri
“Whoa, there, Samson.” Maelle pulled back on the reins, bringing her wagon to a halt. The sight of a sizable crowd gathered in the center of the Shay’s Ford City Park created a tingle in her scalp—a signal she had learned to heed. There was a photograph waiting here.
Hopping down, she brushed the travel dust from her tan trousers and marched to the rear of the wagon. Her box of blank plates and her camera were at the back, ready for quick use. She set them on the ground, took a moment to fasten the padlock that secured the wagon, then scooped up her gear and headed across the grass.
The crowd congregated beneath a towering elm tree that provided dappled morning shade. As she neared, Maelle picked up bits of the introduction being shared by a short, balding man who stood on a wooden platform with his hands raised high. “ . . . originates from our own fair state . . . earned degree from . . . esteemed lawyer . . . so without further ado, I present Mr. Jackson Harders. Please offer your warm welcome.”
Applause from indifferent to enthusiastic broke out from various areas in the crowd. Maelle listened with half an ear while she scoured the area for a good place to set up her camera.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for your attention and your concern. As you know from recent newspaper accounts, the number of impoverished in Shay’s Ford is becoming alarming. . . .”
Maelle, her gaze wandering, thought it couldn’t be worse than any other city—and she’d certainly seen her fair share of cities over the years of traveling with Richard. She spotted a slight incline in the landscape to the west of the crowd. It would provide a natural perch for her camera. Giving a satisfied nod, she trotted to the spot and set up the tripod.
“Many of these impecunious souls are children, left to fend for themselves in a harsh, ruthless, apathetic world. . . .”
Maelle nearly rolled her eyes at the man’s dramatic presentation. She peered through the viewfinder, adjusting the camera box until she could see the speaker’s face above the heads of the gathered crowd. She slid in a plate and took the shot.
“ . . . six years old, yet working ten hours a day to bring home less than fifteen cents for his endless, daunting efforts. . . .”
Maelle propped her arm on the camera box, smiling to herself. She’d give this Jackson Harders one thing—he knew how to milk a crowd. Several people shook their heads in dismay, a murmur of protest rolling like a wave across the group.
“ . . . must be done to salvage these children’s childhoods. They should be in school, receiving an education. Education, not employment, is key. These children must be given the opportunity to discover ways to better themselves so the cycle of poverty might be broken!”
To one side of the group, applause broke out. Maelle quickly put in a second plate and focused on one man who stood with arms crossed, a scowl on his face, while those around him cheered. After taking the shot, she leaned on the camera, watching the sullen man as the speech continued.
“Legislation is needed to change the laws pertaining to child labor. Right now, in the state of Missouri as well as the majority of the states in the Union, it is perfectly legal for children to spend their days in backbreaking labor rather than at a school desk. What kind of future awaits these unfortunate boys and girls as they enter adulthood without a proper education?”
Maelle shifted her shoulders within the loose bounds of her chambray shirt. The words “proper education” struck hard. Her education was far from proper, but at least she could read, write, and cipher thanks to Richard’s tutelage. Many of the children this man referenced could not. He was right—what kind of future would they have?
“I need your signatures on this petition to change the laws that dictate the number of hours these youngsters can legally spend at a place of employment in our fair state of Missouri. With your support—”
“Now wait a minute, mister.” The man with the crossed arms stepped forward.
Maelle got another plate ready, just in case an altercation broke out.
“Before anybody signs anything, I got a question. If you make some law that says children can’t work, what’s to keep my sons from telling me they don’t have to do their chores anymore?
You’re putting too much power in the hands of children who still need to be told what to do.”
An answering mumble rose, and Jackson Harders held up his hands. “Wait, wait. Let’s not jump to the wrong conclusion. This legislation has nothing to do with chores assigned by parents in a home. It has to do with children outside of their own homes working like a full-grown adult.”
“But will the children know the difference?”
The shrill question came from a thin woman at the edge of the crowd. The panic in the woman’s voice amused Maelle. Before she could stop it, her laugh rang out.
Immediately several in the crowd turned, their stares boring into her. Still chuckling, she raised one hand in defeat. “I’m sorry. I really am.” Sliding her hands into her pockets, she ambled down from the rise and approached the crowd. “It’s just such a funny question. The children knowing the difference, I mean.”
“I don’t see any humor in it, young . . . woman.” The man who’d started the argument looked Maelle up and down, clearly confused by her waist-length hair and feminine voice packaged in trousers and a man’s shirt.
Maelle ignored the look and shrugged. “I guess you have to look at it from my viewpoint.”
The shrill-voiced lady said, “Which is . . . ?”
The crowd parted, giving Maelle the opportunity to step onto the wooden platform beside the speaker. Although he raised his eyebrows, he stepped back and allowed her the floor.
“The lady over there”—Maelle pointed, and the woman’s face turned scarlet—“asked if the children would know the difference. I think what she’s asking is, if this legislation is passed, will a child instructed to perform a chore at home understand that the law doesn’t give him the right to say ‘No, Ma, I ain’t gonna do it.’ ”
A titter of laughter sounded from somewhere in the ranks, followed by a firm “Shh!”
Maelle held out her hands. “Parents, this is what you have t
o ask yourself. Have you taught your children to respect you? Do they understand being part of a family means contributing to the family, and that means chores? If so, no child is going to point to a law written up by politicians and use it as a weapon against his parents.”
Low-voiced murmurs came again, and Maelle jerked her thumb toward Jackson Harders, raising her voice to be heard over the mumbling. “What this man says is true—children all over the country are working in jobs that should be held by grown-ups. I know. I’ve seen it.”
A muscular young man in a snug-fitting pin-striped suit stepped forward. “What have you seen?” The crowd seemed to press behind him, straining toward Maelle like vultures around a fresh kill.
She wouldn’t sensationalize it for them. Straight facts—that’s all they’d get. She closed her eyes for a moment, gathering her thoughts, images appearing behind her lids. Only these were real-life, full-color, breathing children instead of black-andwhite replicas . . .
Picture by picture, she shared what she’d witnessed—small children standing long hours on a cold, damp floor shelling oysters for pennies a bucket, twelve-year-old boys with permanent humps in their backs from leaning over breaker boxes to pick out the lumps of slate that trundled down the chutes with the coal, little girls with missing fingers because their tiny hands got caught in the workings of a mill treadle. . . .
“And then, of course, there are those newsboys who offer their papers on the street corners every day, who go home to a box or an alley corner with no supper in their bellies, to wake before dawn the next morning and begin it all again.” Maelle held her audience spellbound. Finally she released a sigh, raising her shoulders in a gesture of futility. “They need your help.”
She hopped down from her perch and headed back to her camera with long, sure strides, while behind her Jackson Hard-ers’ voice rose again.
My Heart Remembers Page 11
