Orphan Moon (The Orphan Moon Trilogy Book 1)

by T. K. Lukas

  “Ain’t nobody’s baby need to be born addicted to God and laudanum,” Birdie had said, after Leighselle had explained to her what the word addicted meant.

  They made a plan. So as not to draw suspicion, Leighselle would behave as if she were still under the influence of the drug until she felt recovered enough that the two could escape. They would hide clothes and food, and when the moment was right, they would sneak away. Weak, her legs unsteady, Leighselle figured it would take a month before putting her plan into action.

  Sitting in her rocking chair, she looked at Birdie, her eyes clear and bright. “After the usual meeting with Seamus, when you remove the coffee service and take it to the pantry, leave the pantry unlocked.” Leighselle spoke with clarity, her voice strong. “The small valise you packed is still there, right?”

  “Yes, Miss Leighselle, behind the flour sacks. I’ll check again when I go down to empty your chamber pot, but there’s nothing to empty. Wasn’t nothing in there to hide the sugar cubes. You sure you don’t need to go?” Birdie asked, her voice sounding anxious.

  “I’m sure. Just pour some water in there and cover it with paper. It’ll be all right. Wait. Shhhh. . . .” Leighselle pressed her finger across her lips.

  A knock. Sister Francis opened the door. “I’m ready to escort you to your meeting. You look well this morning.” She smiled.

  *****

  “Thank you, sister,” said Seamus, looking up when he heard them enter the receiving room.

  Leighselle shuffled into the room, her billowy, flowing gown a discrete cover-up for her eight-and-a-half-month pregnancy. As was the custom, she took the chair opposite Seamus, and as always she stared at him with hollow, sad eyes and a vacant expression.

  He was sitting in a seat by a window that overlooked a pond with a fountain, its spray fanning out high into the air. Swans and ducks floated under its misty umbrella in languid circles.

  He was watching out the window, looking on as some of the orphans skimmed the moss and trimmed the cattails that grew at the edge of the pond.

  “Hard work builds character. Better they learn it young,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.” Sister Francis gave a generous smile of agreement. “May I have a word with you out in the hall, Mister Flanders?” She motioned for him to join her, and Seamus followed.

  Leighselle stared at the chair vacated by Seamus and waited, anxiety churning her stomach. Did Sister Francis overhear her and Birdie’s conversation? She glanced out the window at the swans, wishing for wings that she might fly away.

  After what seemed an eternity, they reentered the room, Seamus taking his seat, Sister Francis serving their coffee and sandwiches. All seemed normal. Their smiles were pleasant, their voices cheery, their conversation about his donation to the orphanage the apparent reason for the private tête-à-tête.

  Leighselle breathed a sigh of relief, secretly pocketing two sandwiches as Sister Francis excused herself from the room, allowing her and Seamus their privacy.

  “Week after week, Leighselle, and we go through this silent face-off all over again.” Seamus tented his fingers, elbows on his knees, resting his chin on the peak.

  Leighselle sipped her coffee and ate the sandwich on her plate, saving the cookie for Birdie, following the same routine as every Tuesday. With half-closed eyes, she let her head sway, portraying the actions of one under the influence of laudanum. She knew the behavior well.

  Seamus glowered at her. “Sign these papers and I’ll have Henry on the next ship to America, where he can raise his child in luxury and comfort. His heart will be broken that his wife died in childbirth, but he’ll get over it. Don’t sign, and Henry will never see me or this child again. I’ll send him a letter that you’re a whore unfit to be the mother of my grandchild and that I’m raising it myself.”

  Leighselle stared at the document and the pen. Her fingers began to itch. Her scalp tingled like a thousand needles pricking the surface—not enough to draw blood, just enough to irritate. A metallic taste lingered in her mouth, a familiar sensation that she remembered from before. In a sudden reckoning, she dropped her coffee cup and it clattered to the floor.

  “I’m not a whore.” Leighselle’s eyes wanted to close, but she forced them to remain open, to focus. The coffee…

  “I can describe for Henry your body intimately, the triangular scar on your backside low enough for me to smell your womanhood, the large mole on your right breast just above your nipple. It was common knowledge that you let whores sleep in your sewing shop. It wouldn’t be hard to prove you an unfit mother.”

  “You know my body because you forced yourself on me.” Leighselle’s head throbbed, her pulse speeding the blood too fast through her veins.

  “You asked for it, Leighselle. You seduced me. You seduced my son. I’m sure there have been many other men.” He sat back and crossed his legs, his voice conversational. “My good friend, Judge Reeder in New Orleans, would swear to anything I asked. He owes me many favors.”

  “Henry would never believe that about me,” she said, her shoulders drooping a fraction, her posture curving inward.

  “It would be better to be thought dead than thought a whore. Sign this document giving me custody of the child.” He held out the paper and pen. “You’ll have a nice, tidy sum to get on with your life. I’ll get on with mine and put you behind me forever.”

  “If I don’t sign, you take my child. If I do sign, you take my child and let Henry raise it. Either way, I lose—you win.” She pressed her hands against her ears, trying to quiet the ringing. “If I sign, it appears I’ve signed away my child for money, like some common whore.”

  Seamus leaned forward, his eyes a hard, blue slit. “You were mine, Leighselle. You were always mine. I told you I was coming back for you. But finding you with my son—knowing you gave to Henry what belonged to me—now the grandchild.”

  “I didn’t know Henry was your son. I—I never belonged to you.” The room was stifling. Prickly heat irritated her skin, perspiration beaded her brow—the room began to close in.

  Seamus stood, looking down on her. “I can allow Henry and this grandchild in my life. I will not allow you ruining my life. Removing you . . . is the only alternative. It’s the cost of making you pay for what you’ve done.” Then, he turned and strode to the door, opening it. “Bring her in.”

  Sister Francis stepped into the room, Birdie in tow—her eyes streaming tears, her bare legs covered in the stripe marks of a whip.

  Seamus strode back to where Leighselle sat, clutching the arms of the chair, steadying herself. Leaning close to her ear, his voice harsh, he pointed to the door. “Take a look at your darkie. We both know the truth. She’s what happened when your father fucked Addie-Frank. Sign the papers, Leighselle. It’ll make life easier on your little half-sister, Birdie.”

  Leighselle, gulping quick breaths, her head floating light, took the pen in hand. She touched the sharp gold tip to the paper. The cloven, diamond-shaped end left an ink mark that spread out like a bleeding wound. She studied the blot blossoming on the line that waited for her signature. Whore, the stain seemed to say—a stained woman. Next to the ink’s blemish, she signed Leighselle La Verne Beauclaire Flanders. She opened her fingers, allowing the pen to roll out of her hand and fall to the floor.

  Seamus picked up the papers and turned to Sister Francis. “She’s near enough term. Isn’t there some concoction you can give her to hurry this situation along?”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” said Sister Francis, rushing to Leighselle’s side.

  Pushing herself out of the chair, Leighselle stood, clutching her swollen belly. A pool of amniotic water puddled on the floor at her feet.

  *****

  September 27, 1860

  A rattling cough erupted from deep within the depths of Leighselle’s core, a cough full of blood and death. The sun no longer warm had turned tepid, the sky a dull, chalky white with a hint of pale pink to the west.

  “And that,
my dear old friend, is my story.” Leighselle stood and stretched, fisting her hands against her lower back.

  Hughes stood and put his hands on Leighselle’s shoulders. “You’ve been living a nightmare that’s lasted a lifetime. I wish I’d known. I’d have been a better friend. God knows you needed one.”

  “I had Addy-Frank. We had each other. When I returned to New Orleans, Doc Flemings released her and she came to live with me again.”

  “Let’s take a walk.” Hughes crooked his arm through Leighselle’s and guided her into the lobby of the hotel. “What happened after that?”

  “After that?” Leighselle said. “As soon as the baby was born, he left with my child and Birdie. He gave the sisters instructions to keep me sedated until he returned for me, telling them he feared the travel so soon would not be good for me. He never returned, of course.”

  “Leighselle. There are no words—” Hughes swallowed, forcing back emotion. “Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “So. What did you do next?”

  “What I’ve always done. I picked myself up, dusted myself off, and woke up the next day. And then the next. And then the next after that. My heart was broken. I’d lost both Henry and Barleigh. What kept me sane was that my daughter would be raised by Henry, and Birdie would be there to help.” She held up one hand, indicating she needed a moment to compose herself.

  Hughes nodded, walking in silence, holding onto her arm.

  “I knew where the nuns kept the laudanum. There were times I considered ending mine and my child’s life before it entered the world. I prayed to God that He would end it. But, I didn’t—I couldn’t.”

  “Jesus, Leighselle.” Hughes drew a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling, blinking, swallowing. “I hope this son-of-a-bitch is still alive and I have the pleasure of making his acquaintance.”

  They walked in silence, making their way around the well-appointed lobby to where the grand piano was showcased, stopping to admire the tune the musician was playing. As a crowd gathered, Leighselle motioned to Hughes that she was ready to go.

  “Sorry to interrupt, sir,” said Jameson, meeting the pair as they made their way back to the patio. Leaning close to Hughes’s ear, he said in a quiet voice, “Your package has arrived. I placed it in your room, sir.”

  “Thank you, Jameson. I’ll look it over later.”

  “Yes, sir.” He turned but stopped short. “Should I arrange for a carriage for your guest?”

  “No. If I can talk Miss Beauclaire into it, she’ll take my room. I’ll feel much better with her staying here so that Doc Schmidt is immediately available if she needs him, and you can assist her as well. Leighselle? Is that all right with you?”

  “I can’t put you out of your own room, Hughes,” said Leighselle.

  “You already have, my dear. You’re sending me on a mission—an adventure, really.”

  Jameson cleared his throat and tapped his vest pocket.

  “I haven’t forgotten, Jameson. I’ll take care of that business before I leave.”

  “Fine, sir. I’ll send for Miss Beauclaire’s things from the guest house and have them brought up to your room.” And then he was gone.

  Hughes turned to Leighselle, concern wrinkling his brow. “Are you all right? Surely, this has been difficult talking about.”

  “It was more difficult not talking about it. I’m praying now that you can find her. The last I heard was that the Flanderses sold their ranch in Corpus Christi to a Captain King. They may have settled in the area of Fort Worth.”

  “Well, my dear, that’s what I’m good at, finding people. You’ll have your daughter back in no time, I promise.”

  “Oh! No, no, no.” Leighselle held up both hands, pushing the thought away. “I don’t want you to bring her to me. I just want you to find her. I don’t wish to disrupt and complicate her life. I just need to know that she’s alive and well and happy. She doesn’t need to know anything about me or my life—my past.”

  “What—I don’t understand.”

  “Please promise me, Hughes, that you’ll keep my secret. Please.”

  “Don’t you think your daughter would love to know that her mother is alive and wants to find her?” Hughes looked confused.

  “After all these years?” She shook her head. “No. If she’s happy in her life, I want her to stay that way. Knowing that I’m alive would surely hurt and confuse her. There’re things about me she might find offensive, or not understand. No, it’s best this way.”

  Leighselle hoped that it was best. She accepted Hughes’s promise to keep her secret, ignoring the fact that he insisted he would try to change her mind. Her mind was made up. Some events lost to the past should stay buried. Though try as she might to not dwell on it, she often dreamed of touching her daughter, of seeing her, one more time.

  “After the baby was born, what did you do?” Hughes reseated them at their table, where Jameson had left a bottle of brandy waiting for them.

  “As soon as I recovered, I simply told them that I was leaving. I wanted to go back to New Orleans, where I might feel close to memories of Henry. My parting gift from Seamus had been left in the priest’s care. A suitcase full of hush money. Five thousand dollars to keep me quiet and out of my daughter’s life.”

  Hughes sucked in a breath. “Five thousand. Seamus was evil but he wasn’t stupid. He made sure you wouldn’t cause trouble.”

  “What trouble would I have caused to jeopardize my daughter or Birdie?” Leighselle’s voice was sharp. She found the thought profoundly ridiculous. Seamus was stupid. He could have paid her a penny and she would have walked away if it meant ensuring no harm would have come to either Barleigh or Birdie.

  “None, of course,” said Hughes. “In his mind, you would have.”

  “No . . . I got busy. I opened La Verne’s Tavern. No more Sew Beauclaire and working for pennies. And, I bought back Addy-Frank. Doc gave her to me, really. He wouldn’t touch the money, so I made a hefty donation to his hospital.”

  “Addy-Frank, Birdie’s mother.” Hughes flicked a speck of dirt from under his thumbnail, drummed his fingers on the table, and shook his head. “How in the hell did the both of you cope, having lost your daughters to the same man?”

  “We clung to one another, supported one another, cried on the other’s shoulder when the grief would overcome. I miss her.” She sipped her brandy, both hands cupping the snifter.

  “How long ago did she pass?”

  “Last year. She encouraged this little endeavor of mine. I promised her I’d try. . . .” Leighselle pressed a napkin to her eyes, blotting the tears.

  Hughes looked up at the darkening sky. “My dear, it’s getting late and I’m feeling anxious to get on with this new mission. We should get you inside, too, before the evening chill sets in.”

  “Evening chill? Here in San Antonio? It still feels like a hundred degrees to me.”

  Hughes laughed. “You’re right. Well, we should get you in before the ghosts start making their rounds. I told you that the Menger Hotel is haunted, didn’t I?”

  “Haunted? Ghosts?”

  “Yes, ghosts, and lots of them from what I understand, though I’ve never had the pleasure of an encounter.”

  “Who and how many?” asked Leighselle, a chill running up her spine. A smile tickled the corners of her mouth. “I’ve always wanted to meet a ghost.”

  “Soldier ghosts, many of them, most likely from the Battle of the Alamo. This hotel sits on the grounds of the old Spanish fort originally called Mission San Antonio de Valero, considered sacred ground now. If you’re lucky, you’ll hear the muffled boot stomping of the spirit soldiers marching around during the dark of the night, still on guard duty.”

  “I welcome the sound of a man moving about my room in the dark of the night,” said Leighselle with a wink. “It’s been too long.”

  The evening’s stars reflected like a thousand sparkling fireflies in the San Antonio River. Ancient cypress trees lined the banks, knobs from their roots peeping
up out of the ground like snooping gnomes. A lone weeping willow stood sentry next to the Alamo’s west wall, sweeping the ground with its long, thin arms. The air was rich, pungent, and thick with the spicy smells of south Texas. Crickets and cicadas sang their praises to the night.

  Hughes escorted Leighselle up to his second story room overlooking the Alamo Plaza. “If you need anything, Jameson is in the room just below mine. The signal is to stomp on the floor by the window three times. He’ll hear you. He’s a very light sleeper, one eye and one ear always open.”

  “Hughes, I can’t begin to thank you. I know you’ll find her. I just hope it’s in time.”

  “Yes, me too. I’ll keep you posted on my progress. The telegraph office will deliver messages to you here at the hotel, a courtesy to Menger guests. A nice perk.”

  As they strolled through the arched double doors, past a polished wood and brass entryway, and into the marble-tiled reception area, they chatted like amiable old friends who might be discussing the beautiful artwork on the walls or the fine European furnishings of the Menger. With its fifty guest rooms filled to capacity, there were plenty of visitors discussing these trivial topics and other matters less important than stolen children, hush money, clandestine missions, and death.

  “I have Barleigh taken care of, financially speaking,” said Leighselle, holding onto Hughes’s arm. “I’ve given that topic a lot of attention throughout the years. Besides the majority of the money from Seamus, of which I spent very little, my business is quite profitable. Too, there was the refund from the nursing school in Shreveport which I never attended. That was an expensive school!”

  “Ah, the Shreveport School of Medicine, I forgot about that,” said Hughes, giving her arm a squeeze. “I’m glad you chose New Orleans instead.”

  “If something happens to me . . .” Leighselle’s voice turned serious. “. . . Barleigh will inherit a respectable amount of real estate and liquid assets. My will is on file with my attorney, a Mr. Bertram La Mont in New Orleans. A copy is with me in my valise.”