With You Always (Orphan Train Book #1)

by Jody Hedlund

  Thornton had even gone back to Kleindeutschland several times to see if he could find any more clues. The only progress he made was running into one of Reinhold’s younger brothers who spoke English. The boy relayed the news that his aunt had forced Marianne to leave once she learned that Reinhold wasn’t the father of Marianne’s baby. The boy didn’t know where Marianne had gone, however. He seemed as distressed as Thornton at the thought of Marianne and the others roaming the streets of New York City in December.

  Thornton had been waiting to contact Elise until he had good news for her. But after a week of dead ends, he would have to send her a telegram soon regardless of his lack of findings or she would begin to worry—if she wasn’t already. He dreaded her receiving such a message and wished he could be there to hold and comfort her when she learned the bad news.

  “I heard you’ve been spending some time helping charities that have been affected by the recession,” Rosalind said. “That’s very kind and noble of you.”

  If she knew about his failed promise over the summer and that the mission had closed due to his negligence, she wouldn’t think him so kind and noble. All he could do now was try to make up for his mistakes, even though he’d hurt lives as a result, including Elise’s sisters. Elise would probably hate him if she ever discovered he’d had the means to keep the mission open but hadn’t done so until it was too late.

  He cleared his throat and forced himself to smile. “I’ve been trying to help more. Maybe you’d like to visit one of the charities with me tomorrow?”

  Her returning smile wavered, as if the thought of mingling among poor immigrants scared her. She put on a brave front nevertheless. “I’m not sure it would be proper for a lady like me, but perhaps if I’m with you . . .”

  “Maybe you know Miss Pendleton?” he asked. “She started the Seventh Street Mission?”

  Rosalind’s face went pale, and she folded both hands in her lap. “Isn’t the Seventh Street Mission a place for . . .” She glanced down, her expression stricken.

  Thornton reached for her hand and enfolded it in his. “Forgive me, Miss Beaufort,” he said. “You’re right. Such a place wouldn’t be appropriate for you.”

  She offered him a tentative smile.

  “I shouldn’t have suggested it,” he continued. “It’s just that I’d like to spend more time with you, and I thought we could mix business with pleasure.”

  A movement near the dining room door caught his attention. The butler was speaking with someone in the hallway, a stern frown creasing his face. A moment later he nodded curtly, closed the door, and approached the table.

  Their father. Something had happened to their father. The air in Thornton’s chest snagged and he sat up straighter. Father had been doing well over the past couple of months. Every other time Thornton had visited, his father had been out of bed. Of course, he’d been weak and tired, but Thornton had figured that the busier his father kept, the better for his health. It would afford him less time to lie in bed and wallow in his weak condition.

  This time when Thornton returned home, his father was bedridden and in a great deal of pain again. Over the ensuing week, Father seemed to grow worse. It was as if he knew the Christmas deadline was approaching and had decided his journey was coming to an end.

  “What is it, Rupert?” Bradford’s tone was sharp with anxiety, as though he too expected the news to be about their father.

  Rupert, his face a mask of neutrality, his mannerisms stiff and polite, stopped at the head of the table. “A private message for Mr. Thornton Quincy.”

  Elise. A new and quiet desperation stole through Thornton. Something had happened to Elise. Without waiting for the help of a footman, Thornton shoved away from the table and stood, nearly tipping his chair over in the process. Bradford rose at the same time. His dark brown eyes connected with Thornton’s, and although Thornton saw himself reflected there, he also saw something else—aggressiveness, dark determination.

  “Who’s the message from?” Bradford demanded.

  Rupert hesitated, looking first at Thornton, then at Bradford as if unsure who was in charge.

  “Apparently it’s meant to be private,” Thornton said, stepping away from the table. “If you’ll excuse me,” he added, first with a nod to Rosalind, and then to the rest of the party.

  He was almost to the door when Bradford said, “Perhaps a message from your lady friend back in Quincy?”

  Thornton’s steps faltered. The clinking of silverware against the china bowls halted as silence descended over the room.

  “Oh, blasted,” Bradford continued, his tone insincere. “I’m sorry. You probably didn’t want Miss Beaufort to know about Elise.”

  Thornton froze with one hand on the doorknob. His blood turned hot, then cold, then hot again. Anger surged through him at the same time as embarrassment. He didn’t have to turn to imagine the shock on Rosalind’s face or the smirk on Bradford’s. He’d excused Bradford’s behavior in Quincy when he visited the dining room. He’d been rude to Elise and divulged information that wasn’t his to share. In truth, Thornton should have told Elise much sooner about Rosalind and his father’s competition. Nevertheless, Bradford had behaved spitefully toward Thornton, just like he was behaving now.

  Bradford knew Thornton was having trouble falling in love with Rosalind. And telling her about Elise wouldn’t help matters. Was Bradford deliberately trying to sabotage Thornton’s chances of winning the competition? But his brother wouldn’t do something that low and dirty, would he? They were brothers. Even more than that, they were twins, connected by a bond that went deeper than most others did. They’d always competed good-naturedly and fairly in the past. They’d always operated with integrity toward each other.

  Slowly, Thornton pivoted and faced Bradford. In the light flickering from the two dozen or more candles spaced to perfection on the long table, Bradford’s face was like a winter moon—a cold mixture of shadows and light. Thornton couldn’t read his expression.

  Instead, Thornton looked at Rosalind and offered her a reassuring smile. “We’ll talk about this later, but I promise you that everything is all right.”

  Rosalind’s porcelain complexion was smooth except for the thin cracks across her forehead, and he prayed that didn’t represent a crack in their relationship or her trust in him. An inner voice warned him not to leave her. He should take the time right now to explain the situation. She was kind enough to understand.

  But the thought of the private message awaiting him yanked at him hard, a message he suspected was from Elise. He was eager to hear from her, even if only in a telegram.

  “Please excuse me momentarily,” he said to Rosalind and the others. With that, he followed Rupert from the room, letting the door click shut behind him.

  “Well? Where’s the telegram, Rupert?” He held out his hand for the envelope.

  Rupert shook his head. “There’s no telegram, sir. I debated whether I should interrupt you for this, but the woman insisted you’d want to see her. She said it had to do with the investigation you’ve been conducting of late.”

  Thornton didn’t know whether to be relieved or frustrated. He’d had his heart set on a message from Elise. He hadn’t realized how much he missed talking with her, how much he missed her calm wisdom, her sharp intelligence, and her witty banter. Then again, he’d take any lead he could get in his attempt to find Elise’s sisters. If a woman had information, he didn’t want her to tire of waiting and leave before he had the chance to question her.

  “This way, sir.” Rupert spun on his heels and strode down the hall. He opened the door of the sitting room and stepped aside to allow Thornton to enter. Thornton’s sights landed on a young woman standing in front of the fireplace, her hands stretched out toward the glowing embers.

  The wall sconces were lit, highlighting the room’s elegance with its polished oak furniture and marble sculpture, its hues of navy and emerald in the sofas and tapestries.

  At the sound of the door c
losing behind him, the woman whirled around. She stood in stark contrast to her surroundings, dressed in a plain brown skirt, her worn coat patched in a dozen spots. A hole had formed at the big toe of one of her boots, while the other had lost its lace and was held together with a piece of string. She cast a glance around the sitting room, clearly taken by its sheer size and the display of wealth.

  “I’m told you have news regarding my investigation,” Thornton said, hoping to put the woman at ease.

  “Y-yes,” she said hesitantly. “Peter said you were looking for me.”

  “Peter?”

  “Reinhold’s brother.”

  He studied her more closely, taking in her dirty brown hair, her bony shoulders and elbows poking through her thin coat, and her face streaked with soot and grime. The lines on her cheeks were evidence of the trails tears had recently made. When he looked into her eyes, his body tensed. He knew those eyes. Though they weren’t the same color as Elise’s, they were the same shape, outlined with the same lashes and framed by delicate eyebrows.

  “Marianne?” he asked, his breath hitching at the possibility that he’d finally found her. Yes, it had to be her. He vaguely remembered her from his visit to the mission back in the summer when Elise had introduced her.

  She cocked her head as if deciding whether or not to trust him.

  “I’ve been looking for you and your sister and the children all week,” he said, reaching out a hand to comfort her, to keep her from bolting. “I promised Elise I’d find you and send you to Quincy to live with her.”

  He expected his news to transform her expression from fear to delight. But instead she cried out an agonizing wail and crumpled to the ground. Thornton rushed over to her, at the same time calling over his shoulder, “Rupert! Send for the physician.” The slap of footsteps away from the sitting room told Thornton the butler was doing as he’d been told.

  Thornton dropped to his knees beside Marianne. She’d buried her face in her hands—hands that were red and chafed, with black-encrusted fingernails. Her shoulders shook.

  “Marianne,” he said gently and placed a hand on her arm to comfort her, but she shrank away from him. He sat back on his heels so he wouldn’t frighten her. “Whatever has happened, you’re safe now, I promise.”

  She shook her head, and her muffled cries grew louder.

  “Elise will be so relieved to hear I’ve found you.”

  Marianne lifted her face, and her eyes were wild. “No! You can’t tell Elise about me. I don’t want her to know anything that’s happened. She’ll loathe me, and I won’t blame her.”

  “She loves you. She’s waiting to be reunited with you. She’ll be so glad to see you—”

  “I won’t go. I can’t go. Not until . . .” Her voice broke as new tears fell and mixed with the dirt on her cheeks. “Not until I find Sophie,” she finished.

  “What happened to Sophie?” he managed to ask, though he dreaded the answer.

  Marianne’s eyes reflected heartbreak so heavy Thornton could feel the weight of it. “She ran away! And I can’t find her.”

  Chapter 22

  Elise stood as still as she could and tried not to breathe as Fanny pinned the back of the bodice in place. Even though Fanny’s fingers were deft and steady, Elise was unaccustomed to having tailor-made garments. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten something new, much less a garment fashioned just for her.

  “There ye are.” Fanny stepped around to the front and examined her handiwork. Her green eyes had a spark of life to them that hadn’t been present before, almost as if spring had bloomed there and pushed away all traces of bleakness.

  Despite Fanny having experienced crushing degradation. Despite how she’d been beaten down and taken advantage of once again. Despite that she’d nearly lost the will to live. Even so, she’d held on. She’d fought her way back and somehow began moving forward again.

  “It’s a very pretty color on ye,” Fanny said, admiring the royal blue damask that boasted swirling silver flowers.

  The large front window allowed plenty of sunlight into this room of the shop, which was now in disarray. Tape measures, pincushions, scissors, scraps of material, and colorful spools of thread were strewn in almost joyful abundance throughout the room.

  “I shouldn’t have accepted the material,” Elise said again, just as she did every time she came into the shop. “It’s too kind. It’s too much for him—”

  “Oh, shut it,” Fanny snapped, adjusting the lacy cuff on the wide bell-shaped sleeves.

  Elise pressed her lips together to keep back further protest. When the bolts of cloth had come in a delivery last week, along with several pairs of shoes, Elise marveled at the sight of them. And as she read the accompanying note, she nearly collapsed.

  As I traveled along the Illinois Central to Chicago, everyone was talking about your restaurant and the quality of your meals. You’re making a name for Quincy, and because of that I owe you more than I can repay. As a small token of my gratitude, please accept this bonus. Instruct Fanny O’Leary that her first commission as Quincy’s newest head seamstress is to make garments suitable for your position as manager of the best restaurant in the West.

  The note had touched Fanny too. Once Mr. Hewitt had confirmed, albeit through tight lips, that the tailor shop was now hers and that she was to take over the business, she’d broken down and wept in Elise’s arms.

  Elise doubted Thornton realized how his tokens of kindness were affecting the young Irishwoman. His actions probably meant little to him; he likely didn’t give them a second thought. But they were just what Fanny needed to restore her faith in life. Of course, Mrs. Gray doted on Fanny too, treating her like the daughter she’d never had. Mr. Gray took a liking to her as well.

  As a result, Fanny’s hard edge was dulling every bit as much as the bruises on her body.

  “I doubt you’ve gotten any sleep all week,” Elise said, “working on my dresses as you have.”

  Fanny shrugged, led her to a small curtained area, and then began to unbutton the bodice. “I’ve always wanted to work with such material and make something this pretty. Doing this is a dream come true.”

  Elise smiled at Fanny over her shoulder. She could completely understand dreams coming true. She felt that way about her restaurant. Even if the work was hard and the hours long, for the first time since her father’s bakery, she finally felt as though she’d come home to where she belonged. Now if only Marianne and Sophie and the two little ones would join her, then her life would be complete. Well, almost.

  She tried to ignore the empty ache that had been growing since the day she’d said good-bye to Thornton outside the kitchen. She’d expected time and distance to ease the burning in her chest. But it never went away. Sometimes, like in the quiet of the night, the burning seared as if someone had taken a hot knife and carved his name in her heart.

  “You’re talented at dressmaking.” Elise forced herself to think on other things. “They’ve all turned out so lovely that I doubt I’ll be able to wear them.”

  The other two dresses hung on the wall and needed only minimal hemming to complete.

  “You’ll wear them,” Fanny replied, slipping the satiny fabric down Elise’s body, “especially when you see him again.” She didn’t have to explain who him was.

  “He’ll be married the next time I see him.” She’d already explained the situation to Fanny, apparently to no avail. “It won’t matter what he thinks of me in my new dresses.”

  “Don’t yet go denying that ye’ll look forward to the day when ye can strut around in front of him wearing one of these fancy dresses.”

  Fanny pulled the curtain closed so Elise could don her other garments in private. She took her worn bodice from the peg in the wall and put it back on. The linen was loose and gray from so many washings over the years. What must she look like wearing it compared with the satiny material of her new dresses?

  “Mark my words.” Fanny’s voice rang with confidence
. “He’ll not be marrying anyone else but ye.”

  Elise paused in adjusting her skirt. “He has to marry Rosalind in order to win the competition.”

  “And I suppose ye are the expert on what kind of woman his father said he must marry?” Through the slit in the curtain, Elise could see Fanny hanging the blue damask gown onto a hook next to the other two.

  “He needs to marry someone of his class, someone who understands his world and his responsibilities.”

  “Is that what his father said?”

  “No,” Elise answered reluctantly. She’d already had this conversation with herself. And always, no matter how logically she argued, she came back to the same reasoning—Thornton needed someone better than her. “His father didn’t give any qualifications except that he must fall in love with the woman. But Thornton and I both know I’ll never be the kind of woman his father would approve of. ”

  “How do ye know?”

  “Thornton didn’t contradict me when I told him so.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t know ye love him. Maybe if he knew, he’d be willing to prove to his father what we’ve all seen—that ye are exactly the kind of woman he needs to stand beside him.”

  Elise let her hand fall away from her skirt and stared down at the ugly, worn material. Was Fanny right? Was she the right kind of woman? Had she pushed Thornton away? The expression on his face as if pleading with her during their good-bye came back to her.

  She shook her head. No, he had a better chance at winning the competition with Rosalind than with her, especially now that the community had rallied together to rebuild the feed store as well as clear the land for several roads Thornton wanted to complete.

  Elise pushed aside the curtain of the changing area and crossed to the front window. She peered down the street to the construction crew working on the store. Reinhold had brought together all the available men around Quincy, including the farmers, and divided them into three groups. The men took shifts so that the other building projects and work efforts could continue as scheduled. In a week’s time, the frame of the new store was already in place.