Callie turned a questioning eye to Ellen. If she had a husband, what was she doing here in the Magdalene House. “My Nathaniel was taken sick last winter,” Ellen explained. “He died on the sixth of January, leaving me up to my neck in debt and a baby on the way. Things got bad for me, and before I knew it, I was out on the street. Couple or three months ago somebody told me I could come here to have my baby. Nathaniel, I calls him because his father was a good man, just unlucky. I work for the babe’s support as well as my own, but I don’t get to see much of it so’s I could save and get myself out of here. Last week I was feelin’ poorly and couldn’t work; now they say I can’t see the babe till I’ve paid what’s owed.”
“Who won’t let you see your baby? Where is he?” The questions bubbled out of Callie. She couldn’t imagine a mother being separated from her child. “Who feeds him?”
“Herself, Mrs. Slater and Mr. Hatterchain. They run this place and take good money to do it. Themselves, so high and mighty, takin’ a woman’s wages when they’ve already gotten what was due us from those do-gooders up on Fifth Avenue. Lots of us here have kids; they keep them in a house near here, under lock and key. If they didn’t, you’d better believe most of us would take our chances out on the street, but we gotta do what they say or we don’t never see our kids again. As for feedin’ them, the poor little tykes live for the most part on sugar tits and they get some wet nurses in otherwise.”
Callie remembered the tiny pieces of sugar wrapped in clean linen that Peg had comforted the babies with during better times.
“Did Mrs. Slater say where you’d be working?” Sadie asked. “She didn’t say nothin’ to me about your working in the kitchen full-time.”
“No, she only said I’d help out here for the day.”
“Most likely send you over to Cullen’s, that a button factory. Sortin’ and countin’ more than likely. It wouldn’t be such a bad place to work if a girl could keep her wages, but Mr. Hatterchain has a deal with Cullen and your wages will come right here and you’ll never see it in your hand, I can vouch. Here, Flora, put those pans over here for the bread to rise. Better get busy gettin’ those turnips mashed if they’re to be ready in time for supper.”
The scents of cooking and good food filled the kitchen, but when Sadie pulled the roast out of the oven, Callie wondered how such a small piece of meat could feed everyone.
“Why, child, this here meat ain’t for the likes of us, you can believe. No, it’s for Mrs. Slater and Mr. Hatterchain’s supper. The girls are having bread and lard and mashed turnip. But since you’re such a good girl, I’ll dip a piece of bread into the juices, and if you gobble it up quick before Mrs. Slater comes in here, I’ll be grateful.”
That night Callie lay in her bed, the rough cover tucked under her chin. It was cold in the dormitory. Sounds of sleeping women surrounded her, punctuated from time to time by what sounded like a sob. The Magdalene Female Society was hardly more than a work house and a place for collective misery. That night at supper, when the women from the sewing room and those who worked outside came into the dining hall, she saw that they all had the same bleak, desolate expressions on their faces. Mrs. Slater told her she’d go to work the next morning with Irene who also worked in the Cullen Button Factory.
Callie turned over, bringing the thin blanket with her. She had never posted the letters she’d written to Peggy, and she didn’t know when she’d find the time to write again. A tear slipped down her cheek; she missed home so much. So very much. But mostly she missed her mother’s voice and her loving touch. Letters would have to wait until there was something happy to write home about.
Callie’s eyes closed in sleep. She was one day older and a lifetime smarter.
Byrch Kenyon gave his pearl-gray cravat a vicious yank, nearly succeeding in strangling himself. He disliked these obligatory dinner parties almost as much as he disliked his host and hostess for the evening. He could write a story on the dinner his cousin Kevin Darcy and his wife Bridget were giving, could script their moves, cue their dialogue, and predict the meal right down to the pattern of the china and the value of the silverware.
While Byrch disliked his cousin Kevin, he came closer to loathing Bridget Darcy, and their children were self-important little brats. Tonight, no doubt, they would be called down from the nursery to recite a newly learned rhyme or to sing along while Bridget manhandled the pianoforte.
Byrch fastened his pocket watch and fob to his cobalt-blue waistcoat, the satiny fabric delineating the steely, rock-ribbed planes of his torso. The main reason he abhorred attending social functions held by the Darcys was their pretentious attitude and their obvious shame in being Irish. Bridget was forever telling anyone within earshot that their surname was of English origin.
Byrch shrugged into his frockcoat, smoothing the velvet lapels over his broad shoulders. A last touch to the cravat, a tug on the indigo-blue coat, and a hitch at the waist of the slim, matching trousers, and he felt ready to sally forth. He checked to be certain he had enough tobacco; how Bridget did fuss about the manly aroma of pipe tobacco in her dining room. He added some loose change to his trouser pocket and secreted his billfold in the inside pocket of his coat. He wondered who the Darcys had selected as his dinner partner this evening. Kevin and Bridget were of the opinion that if Byrch were married to a presentable female with the social conscience befitting her class, he would cease being a renegade in his editorial opinions concerning the working masses.
Byrch hoped the evening would pass quickly, that he could refrain from introducing the subject of politics, and that his cousin Kevin would keep his psuedo-aristocratic nose out of the Clarion’s viewpoint. He knew it was too much to hope for, but hope always did spring eternal for an Irishman.
The dinner was exactly as Byrch had predicted. The courses were too numerous, the sauces too heavy, the chicken overdone to the point of being burnt. “Crisp,” Bridget called it, mimicking her new French cook. The potatoes were boiled and parsleyed and would have met his satisfaction if not for the thick white wine sauce slathered over them.
The china was the Cabbage Rose pattern so popular these days, and the silver so ostentatious Byrch longed for a plain every-day utensil that a man could hold and still manage to feed himself. The dessert, fresh fruit in a clear, light white wine, was the only redeeming feature.
His dinner partner was also exactly what he’d expected—a patrician from one of the best families on Park Avenue, Miss Flanna Beauchamp, in attendance with her stout, simpering mother with a keen eye to a “good match” and her overstuffed father, a financier whom she referred to as Papa, with the French inflection. The girl was a beauty, Byrch would give Bridget that, with an elegant long neck and smooth white shoulders. But he had no idea whether there was anything resembling a working brain beneath that wealth of raven hair, for Mrs. Beauchamp and Bridget monopolized the idle conversation.
Bridget presided over her table like a reigning queen. Kevin was clearly enraptured by his confection of a wife and hung on her every meaningless word. Byrch was not averse to light conversation and was known to engage in it himself, but Bridget’s superficiality and Kevin’s posturing rubbed him the wrong way.
“Byrch, why don’t you explain to Flanna the way the Clarion operates? I know she would be most interested, wouldn’t you, Flanna?”
Byrch could have cheerfully choked Bridget. Flanna’s dark eyes were turned on his expectantly, her fork poised in mid-air, as though explaining how a major New York newspaper conducted its business could be told between bites. “It really is so boring I can’t put it into words.” Promptly Flanna Beauchamp bit into another piece of fruit torte. “By the way, Kevin,” Byrch said, turning back to his cousin, “Father is delighted with my editorials. What do you think of them, Kevin? You’re usually so free with your views?”
Kevin Darcy sucked in his plump cheeks and stared across the table at his cousin. He knew he would never be the man Byrch was. At twenty-nine Kevin’s hair was becoming thinner
by the day. He envied Byrch’s thick mane of mahogany hair and his strong jaw. Kevin would partner with the devil if it would guarantee he could look like Byrch. Tall, broad of shoulder, slim of hip, long of leg. But it wasn’t only the physical attributes that gave Byrch his dash; there was something hard and worldly about him, something that Bridget had said was like a “modern-day pirate.” Yes, that was what he envied most, Byrch’s sense of purpose, his dash and flair. Kevin’s rotund figure did nothing for his own self-image. There were days when he wondered how he had managed to snag the lovely, butter-gold Bridget for his wife.
Now, looking across at Byrch, seeing Mr. and Mrs. Beauchamp heap attention upon a likely match for their elegant daughter, Kevin secretly thought he hated his own life, along with Bridget and the children. He would much prefer to be like Byrch, footloose and carefree, a single man of good repute welcome at the tables in the best of homes, sought after as a prospective son-in-law. Of course, after a rowdy night between the sheets with Bridget, Kevin’s opinion changed, but that was another thing that was falling apart. Bridget was rejecting his ardor, waiting to dole out her favors only when she wanted something. Like tonight. She had promised if he didn’t get into a spat with Byrch, she would let him cuddle with her for as long as he wished. All day Kevin had walked about in a state of excitement, waiting for the time when the lights went out. Now Byrch was spoiling it, the way he always spoiled everything. Bridget and Byrch were waiting for him to respond as to what he thought of the editorials. He had to be careful or he would spoil his hopes for a long, ardent night. Any way he looked at it, he was caught in the middle. And, damn it, this was the night he was going to dare suggest they leave the lamp burning for just a little while. Damn Byrch, he always spoiled things.
“Well,” Byrch prompted, “what do you say, Kevin?” The perverse side of Byrch was enjoying Kevin’s misery. He stifled a grin, and Kevin noticed. He was being baited, teased, dared. Bastard! Bridget was staring at him in a way he hated. It was going to be a long, cold, lonely winter. Damn Byrch Kenyon! How smug he’d be if he knew he was controlling my sex life! That’s another thing. I know, I just know Byrch has a woman every night of the week. A different woman every night!
Everyone was waiting for Kevin’s answer. “Now, Byrch,” he said, “can’t we just once have a nice, pleasant dinner without going into business?”
“Yes, that’s right, Byrch,” Bridget interceded. “You know you always rile Kevin up and then Kevin riles me up. It simply isn’t fair to our other guests.”
Byrch wanted to tell her that her dinner parties were so boring they were near to being deadly, and the only way he knew anyone was alive was to start a lively discussion. Bridget’s tone verged on childishness, but there was a hard center to her words that broached no opposition. Poor Kevin, he’d probably pay the piper if Bridget was made unhappy.
Leaning his elbows on the table because he knew it would irritate Bridget, Byrch stared across at her. “It’s your party, Bridget, what would you like to discuss?”
Disconcerted by his intense gaze, Bridget found herself stuttering, “Why . . . why we . . . we could discuss something that would interest the ladies. Yes, yes, that would certainly be a welcome change, wouldn’t it, Flanna?” She felt Byrch’s heated stare drop to the smoothness of her shoulders and then to the exposed cleavage above the deep neckline of her jade-green gown. The others were also aware of his intense scrutiny, especially Kevin. Now for certain he would demand time alone later. Already she could feel a backache coming on, and her head had been pounding from the moment Byrch had arrived. She should have worn another gown. Something less revealing—Byrch was a womanizer, everyone knew that. Yet the heat in his penetrating cat-green eyes was warming her flesh, creating a flush of pink to her bosom.
“And what would that be, Bridget?” His tone was insolently intimate.
Squaring her shoulders, Bridget repelled this latest attempt to unnerve her. She cleared her throat. “Actually, Byrch, you may even find yourself interested and want to write a column in the Clarion about this Magdalene Female Society. All of us here, including the Beauchamps, contribute generously. If the society garnered some favorable publicity, it might even stir the public to open its pockets and make donations. It’s a shelter for wayward women and their children. They have so little, and we who enjoy so much must be charitable, don’t you agree, ladies?”
Mrs. Beauchamp agreed so exuberantly that one of her hair-combs fell onto her plate when she nodded. Flanna dipped her head, her long, elegant neck arching like a swan’s.
“Tell me something,” Byrch said, addressing himself to Mr. Beauchamp and Kevin, “did you investigate this society before you allowed your wives to make contributions? There have been rumors about these societies, as I’m certain you’re well-aware.”
“Now just a minute, Byrch!” Bridget sputtered. “This is a fine Christian group, sponsored by the best people. It isn’t some soup kitchen down in Hell’s Kitchen. It has a rather smart address, 23 Bleecker Street.”
“How impressive,” Byrch answered snidely. “Somehow, Bridget, I didn’t think you would contribute money to where it was needed the most.”
Mrs. Beauchamp gasped. “Mr. Kenyon, do you know something about this society that we don’t?”
“No, I don’t have any particulars. that’s why I’m inquiring as to what kind of investigation Kevin made.”
Kevin’s tone was apologetic. “Certainly I looked into it . . . that is, as far as it was possible. Some of our friends made a trip to the house on Bleecker Street and saw for themselves what those good people are doing for homeless and wayward women.”
Bridget assumed a lofty attitude. “Information came on the best authority, Byrch. Mr. and Mrs. van Nostram are supporters of the society, and Mrs. van Nostram actually visits the house.” She was pleased to introduce the van Nostram name in front of the Beauchamps, smiling at them, gratified that they were impressed.
“An announced visit, I’m certain,” Byrch continued cynically, “so that preparations were made, and your friends were shown exactly what they wished to see. Haven’t you learned anything being associated with a newspaper, Kevin? You should have made an unexpected visit so you could have received a more accurate impression, find out the real story. I’m glad to say your main concern with the Clarion is advertising accounts.”
“I am not in the custom of performing sneak attacks, Byrch,” Kevin said. Secretly he agreed with Byrch, but Bridget had overridden him, saying all her friends were donating considerable sums, and she didn’t want to be left out or seem ignorant of her social duty. Now here was Byrch reinforcing Kevin’s doubts. Still, he wouldn’t give his cousin the satisfaction of agreeing with him verbally.
“That may be true, Kevin,” Byrch continued, “but how would you feel if you were to learn that all of these charitable donations were not being used in good faith? I wouldn’t be much of a reporter if I didn’t get to the bottom of things, and to be honest, I’d not hesitate to list the names of the poor pigeons who were taken in by a scam. Perhaps it would serve to warn others to be more selective as to where they offer assistance.”
Bridget bristled and then paled. “Byrch! You aren’t saying you know something about this Magdalene Society, are you?” Good Lord, if she’d been duped along with her friends, they would never be able to hold up their heads in public again!
“What Mr. Kenyon says makes a good deal of sense,” Mr. Beauchamp agreed. “Will you be conducting an investigation for us, Mr. Kenyon?”
“I think I might. If I find it to be honest, a feature article in the Clarion might induce others to contribute. If, on the other hand, it isn’t what it should be, donors will be prevented from making fools of themselves.”
“Oh, come now, Byrch, I hardly think we’re fools. We merely acted on the report the committee members submitted,” Bridget said. “If you’re bent on discussing fools, I think you should first look to yourself and some of those hot-headed editorials you’re responsib
le for. If it were up to you, you’d feed and clothe every filthy immigrant who lands on these shores. Admit it!” Bridget demanded spitefully.
“For the deserving, Bridget. Someone has to help them. These new organizations springing up all over the city need monitoring. The Irish especially seem to be the victims; of course, just the sheer numbers of them coming to America throws the balance in that direction. But I won’t forget that they’re my people, Bridget, just as much as they’re yours and Kevin’s. I didn’t say this Bleecker Street establishment was corrupt. I said I had my suspicions, and I agreed to check it out.”
“And publish our names if we’ve been duped?”
Byrch cocked an unruly brow at Bridget. “Do I take it you also have your suspicions? Besides, what better way to prevent you and others like you from making the same mistake twice? If donations were made intelligently, these scam artists would not assume that money was out there for the taking, and the interests of the poor would be better served. Surely you wouldn’t expect me to suppress my findings just so you won’t lose face among your friends?”
“Of course not,” Bridget replied.
“Then again,” Byrch added, “think what a heroine you could be if your name was linked with the exposure, if it proves necessary.”
Bridget thought for an instant. Yes, she would like it very much. She’d never thought of herself as a heroine, but she had to admit it, it was a very appealing notion.
Chapter Eight
Byrch Kenyon stepped out of the offices of the Clarion-Observer in the nine-hundred block of West Broadway exactly one week after his dinner engagement with Kevin and Bridget. He left behind the busy, paper-strewn front desk and the thrum and clack of the presses. During this week, he had nearly completed a cursory investigation into some of the more prominent houses for the needy. These included the public work house just west of Market Street and several orphanages. This afternoon, he was going to the Magdalene Female Society at 23 Bleecker Street.
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