Together Forever

by Jody Hedlund

  He took his place next to her, and the letter slid out of his pocket. Lucinda grabbed it before the gusting wind could carry it away. As she extended it back to him, he noticed the German word Auchtung written in all capital letters on the back of the envelope. Attention.

  With a glance at the darkening sky, he realized he’d have to push the team hard to make it back to the Turners’ before the storm unleashed its power. Still the word his aunt had penned on the envelope sent a shiver through him. What if something had happened to one of his brothers or sisters? His brothers at thirteen and ten were old enough by now that they could take care of themselves. When he’d left for the West, they both were selling newspapers and living at the Newsboys Lodging House to take some of the burden off Mother.

  He was more worried about his sisters, Silke and Verina. They were only eight and six years old. What if his aunt had grown desperate enough that she’d taken them to the train station to join a group of orphans going west? Just like she had with Olivia and Nicholas, the two children the Neumann sisters had been caring for.

  With a sick sensation in his stomach, Reinhold tore open the letter, unfolded it, and read.

  “Dear Nephew, I regret to bear the news that your mother, my dear sister, is dead.”

  Drew stood at the back of Benton Presbyterian Church and bowed his head as Reverend Smith led the gathering in an opening prayer. The rumble of thunder above the church spire echoed the somberness of the moment. He was thankful the building was filled with eager families willing to consider taking orphans into their Christian homes to raise them with a godly influence. Still, he couldn’t shake the lingering bitterness regarding all that had happened yesterday with the loss of George.

  He’d slept for a few hours until dawn when he’d risen and gone out to the creek, once again to search for the missing boy. He scoured the surrounding area, but it had all been in vain. He’d seen no sign of George. The despair he felt last night threatened to overwhelm him again this morning. Images from the past, of a pale lifeless face with blue lips and wide unseeing eyes escaped from the dark recesses of his mind to torment him. A body listless in the tall grass, the bloody gash in his skull, and the awful unnatural angle of his head.

  No! Drew pushed the memory back into the closet and tried to slam the door shut before any more escaped. Yet the brief glimpse of the vivid image sent his heartbeat into a wild thumping against his rib cage.

  He forced his attention to the front pew where Marianne sat with the youngest children, her head bowed in prayer. From this angle he could see her peaceful profile, the contours of her lovely face. The steadiness of her presence calmed him in a way he’d never been able to achieve on his own. He stared, drinking her in until the racing of his pulse began to even out again.

  She’d come to him just in time last night. With one gentle touch she’d rescued him from the brink of the abyss, when the memories from his past had come out like demons to taunt him and call him a murderer. Again.

  Even though he was to blame. Even though he’d been at his worst. Even though he’d deserved nothing more than her censure and disappointment. She’d tenderly wrapped her arms around him and hugged him. She cared about his pain. He’d felt it in every ounce of her being. She’d offered him the thing he needed the most—unconditional acceptance.

  The thought of such a gift brought an ache to his throat. Charlotte hadn’t been able to give him that after the accident. Neither had his family.

  He hadn’t had to ask Marianne for it. Instead she’d sought him out and given it of her own accord. It was almost as if she’d been waiting for him to return so she could come to him. Maybe she’d needed him as much as he’d needed her.

  His attention drifted to the long neck now exposed, especially with her head bent. Had he really touched that beautiful neck last night or had he only dreamed it? He knew without a doubt he’d kissed her lips, and he had no remorse about doing so, except that he’d frightened her with his ardor. Even so, she’d kissed him back, however briefly, and she’d liked it. He’d sensed it in her response.

  No matter that she’d liked it or that he couldn’t stop thinking about it, he shouldn’t have engaged with her in such a manner. Not only was such conduct strictly forbidden among agents, he didn’t want to lead her on, didn’t want her to think he was the kind of man she could ever admire. She may have praised him in his moment of despair, but she didn’t know the truth about him or his past. If she had, she wouldn’t have been so quick to comfort him and tell him he was a special man and that the children would be blessed for having known him. She wouldn’t even want to be on the trip with him as an agent any longer.

  As the prayer came to an end, her long lashes swept up, and her gaze flitted to him as though she’d sensed his staring at her. He didn’t want to make her uncomfortable around him or cause her to be nervous whenever she came near. He wanted to continue their friendship, needed her support and encouragement. So he tried to mask the desire that seemed to grow stronger every day. And he winked at her.

  The wink seemed to reassure her he was doing better. She smiled in return before tapping the shoulders of the two boys in front of her and pressing a finger to her lips, motioning for them to remain silent.

  As much as he wanted to call off the meeting and continue with the search, he knew he had to move forward with their plan to place the children. He couldn’t delay the happiness of all the others because of one.

  Reverend Smith talked about the need to save the children of the slums, give them a change of environment, and replace the worst influences exerted on them with more Christian ones. “And that, my dear people,” he said in a rich baritone, “is why we’ve gathered here today. Yes, these children shall be of help to you as well. But always remember to ask yourselves first what you can do to shape the lives of these little ones for the kingdom of God.”

  A pounding on the door of the church was followed by its swinging open, bringing with it the heavy splatter of rain outside along with another crash of thunder. An older man with a grayish-brown beard that hung halfway down his chest poked his head in. His hat and cloak were dripping with rain.

  Drew pushed away from his spot against the wall and started toward the man, waving him inside. “Come on in, we haven’t yet started. You’re just in time.”

  The man broke into a grin that revealed tobacco-stained teeth. “Good to hear ’cuz I got a young’un with me says he belongs to a group of orphans goin’ up for sale.”

  “The children aren’t for sale,” Drew started, but as the implications of the old man’s words penetrated his sleep-deprived mind, he rushed forward and threw open the door all the way, not caring that it banged against the church with a reverberation that shook the walls.

  He stepped into the downpour. Next to a wagon, a scrawny boy drenched to the bone huddled under a piece of canvas. His face was ashen and his eyes wide with fright. At the sight of Drew, he released a sob and took a hesitant step away from the wagon.

  “George!” Drew ran to the boy, heedless of the rain and the mud. He threw his arms around George and pulled him tightly against his body. Relief coursed through Drew, leaving his limbs trembling. The boy’s thin arms curled around Drew, and he clung to him with a fierceness that matched Drew’s.

  He didn’t care where the boy had gone or why. Drew was overcome by the realization George was alive and standing here in front of him. He hadn’t drowned in the river, hadn’t disappeared downstream, hadn’t been lost to them forever.

  Drew lifted his face heavenward and let the rain pelt him. “Thank you, God. Thank you.” He was grateful the boy was safe, but he was also grateful that God had saved him too—saved him from having another death on his conscience. He wasn’t sure how he could have lived with himself.

  He’d already run away from everything he’d ever known in order to forget his first mistakes. It already took all his energy to keep those memories from catching up to him. Where would he go if it happened again? He wasn’t sure h
e’d be able to outrun any more demons.

  “Thank you, God,” he whispered again, but even as he voiced his thankfulness, fear settled deep in the core of his being. What had he been thinking to take this position as an agent? What had made him believe he could work with children again? Not when he’d failed as a teacher. What had Brace been thinking to let him supervise children? Brace knew his story. The man should have slammed the door in his face when he first set eyes on him.

  “Mr. Brady!” Marianne’s voice broke through his thoughts and the pounding of the rain. She’d grabbed someone’s coat, spread it over her head like an umbrella, and began walking out of the church toward them.

  “Stay inside,” he called to her. “I’m bringing George in.” He lifted the boy into his arms and trotted back to the church. Within moments the other children surrounded George, clamoring to touch him and slap him on the back. Peter shoved his way through the others until they parted for him.

  Tears streaked the older boy’s face. At the sight of the lost boy now found, he flung himself at his brother. George buried his face against Peter, and together they stood holding each other and crying. At seeing them together, Drew’s heart ached with the knowledge of the very real possibility the boys could be split up again soon.

  As much as agents tried to keep siblings together or at least in the same vicinity, they couldn’t always manage it. While he never liked the scenes where he’d had to physically pry crying siblings apart and send them home with different families, he’d always rationalized such moves. He consoled himself that he was doing the best for them, even if they didn’t understand. After all, wasn’t it better for siblings to have good homes away from each other than to have to return to the orphanages or streets of New York City together?

  He pressed a hand against the burning in his chest. Maybe he’d been wrong in his opinion about sibling separations, too callous and uncaring. And if he’d been wrong about one thing, what if he’d been wrong about many things?

  Chapter 11

  Marianne took her place off to the side as the orphans filed to the front of the sanctuary and lined up before all those sitting in the pews. Dorothea had reluctantly let go of her hand and now stared at her with frightened eyes that pleaded with Marianne to save her from whatever was about to come.

  Marianne clasped her hands behind her back to keep herself from running over to the girl and pulling her into a hug. She swallowed hard several times to dislodge the lump in her throat. Even then it rapidly returned at the sight of Peter and George standing side by side and holding hands.

  The old man who’d brought George to the church claimed he’d found the boy six miles west of town wandering around his shanty. At first he thought the boy was trying to steal from him, but George kept talking about being on a train with his brother and other orphans. After some time, the old man remembered seeing an advertisement in town earlier in the week about the train of orphans that was to arrive.

  He contemplated keeping the boy on to help him, since he was getting up in age. But George had continued talking about his brother and the need to get back to town before the train left without him. So at first light, the man hitched his wagon and came to town. Drew had been so appreciative he’d offered to buy the man a meal at the nearby tavern.

  Marianne’s sights shifted to Drew, who was speaking with Reverend Smith. He was still wet from running out in the rain to reach George, his blond hair flat against his head, and his shirt plastered to his body beneath his coat.

  “Maybe we can have the children sing a hymn for us,” the reverend suggested, “and that might help people in determining which child seems most suitable to them.”

  Sing? As in perform—like they were players in a traveling theater troupe? Protest rose swiftly inside Marianne. What would be next, having them dance and do magic tricks?

  Drew nodded his assent, apparently accustomed to putting the children in the spotlight. For several moments he quizzed the children on the songs they knew. Of course, they didn’t know many, as few had attended church during their short lifetimes. Finally he determined that the majority of them knew the words to “Amazing Grace.”

  Marianne glanced at the piano close by. She hadn’t touched a piano since she’d left Seventh Street Mission. She hadn’t the opportunity to do so, nor the desire. As a little girl growing up in Hamburg, she learned to play the organ from an older gentleman friend of her father. She’d relished the lessons in the old stone church, the music pulsing from the large pipes in the loft.

  After her family moved to America, she no longer had access to an organ. It wasn’t until later, while living at the Seventh Street Mission, that she was allowed access to their piano and received impromptu lessons from Miss Pendleton. Thankfully the keys and notes came back to her, and she played the instrument at every opportunity. And then she ran away from the mission, lied about being pregnant with Reinhold’s baby, and lost everything—including her desire to make music.

  Drew began the first stanza of “Amazing Grace,” and his voice rose clear and strong above the children’s. She watched him for a moment and couldn’t keep from remembering the bold way she’d cupped his cheeks last night and how he’d leaned in and kissed her. And the kiss hadn’t been a light one but powerful, deep, moving—much like the man behind it.

  Her heart gave a rapid thump. As she watched the way his mouth moved and his lips formed the words of the hymn, that spark of heat for him flared in her belly. Even if he’d only kissed her in the heat of the moment, out of his sorrow and worry and frustration, and even if the kiss hadn’t meant anything to him, she’d liked it and would never forget it.

  He finished the first verse and started the second. By now, only a few of the older girls continued to sing with him. If anything, the children looked more frightened, the youngest especially. Dorothea’s lower lip was sticking out and trembling, her eyes glossy with unshed tears.

  Marianne knew she had to do something. Aside from running over to Dorothea and picking her up and spiriting her away from the eyes of all those watching her, she decided the next best thing was to distract Dorothea and the rest of the children.

  Pushing aside her own discomfort, as she had so many other times already during the trip, Marianne approached the piano, scooted out the bench, and sat down. She listened carefully to Drew’s place in the song and then pressed the appropriate keys, attempting to match his spot.

  At the sound of the piano playing along with the song’s melody, his voice wobbled and his expression radiated surprise. She nodded at him to continue.

  He nodded in return, his lips turning up into a smile as he sang out the lines even louder. Marianne was delighted to hear the voices of more of the children joining Drew’s until soon the entire congregation was singing. When she came to the closing notes, she glanced at Dorothea and noted that even though the girl wasn’t singing, at least she wasn’t crying.

  “Thank you, Miss Neumann,” Reverend Smith said as Marianne stood from the piano and pushed the bench back in. “That was quite lovely.”

  Behind the reverend, Drew mouthed the words thank you. She nodded once more, glad to have pleased him. She rather enjoyed playing for those few minutes, and at the realization, guilt wormed through her—telling her she didn’t deserve the pleasure of music, not after all she’d done.

  “Now that you’ve observed the children,” the reverend said to the congregation, “we’d like to give you the chance to interact with them directly. Feel free to come up to the front, introduce yourself, and ask the children questions.”

  Some of the families stood and made their way out of the pews and down the aisle.

  “If you decide upon a child, then please come speak to Mr. Brady, myself, or another member of the committee.”

  As more people came forward and milled about the children, Drew went to Marianne. For the first time since losing George yesterday, a genuine smile lit his face and brought out the dimple in his chin. “I didn’t know you played the p
iano.”

  “So I surprised you?”

  “Very much. It was beautiful.” His face was unshaven, giving him a rugged appeal. She couldn’t stop herself from glancing at his lips and thinking about how warm they’d felt against hers. As though reading her thoughts, his brows rose, revealing a glimmer of humor.

  Stop fawning over him, Marianne. She mentally slapped herself and tried desperately to think of something else to say that wouldn’t make her sound like a schoolgirl with her first crush. She was saved from further embarrassment by a young couple who approached Drew.

  Before he turned to speak with them, he handed her the same black book he’d given her yesterday. The record book. The one that could contain the answers she needed for Sophie’s whereabouts.

  “The committee will take care of having the families sign contracts, but I need you to write down a few details for each of the children who are placed.”

  She nodded, trying not to appear overeager as she took the book. With all that had happened yesterday, she wasn’t able to read through any of the older entries. Perhaps she finally would today.

  She soon found herself much too busy to do anything but attempt to keep order among the children, as well as record as many details as she could about the first of the children being considered. When Dorothea left the platform and came to stand beside Marianne and cling to her skirt, Marianne didn’t blame her. In fact, the more Marianne watched the proceedings, the tighter she held Dorothea. Some of the bolder townspeople who’d dealt with orphans before marched right up to the children and sized them up as if they were slaves on an auction block.

  One burly farmer in particular was much too loud and pushy with the boys, requiring them to jog in place, stretch their arms above their heads, and roll up their sleeves so he could examine their arm muscles. Not only did he poke and prod them, but he barked out questions until Liverpool sassed him back with a defiant question of his own.