“Good.” He nodded as if she’d taken a huge weight off his shoulders. Then he shook his head as if he’d just gotten a snow bath. “I mean, good that you’re immune, not that you have scars.”
She tried to smile at his slip, but all she could do was look at him. Most people didn’t seem to worry much about people they hardly knew. But here he was helping Max and Robert, attempting to converse with the children at her Saturday lunch, and now worrying about her. Quite endearing.
But she couldn’t let herself like Mr. Kingsman more than any other nice person she’d met, no matter how much his smile affected her.
Scott sagged heavily against her, succumbing to the exhaustion that made him nearly delirious. “Caroline, where can I take him?”
“I don’t know as many people as you,” Caroline said. “I’m hardly out in society, and I can’t think of a single person in the district who’d want to take him in—let alone a place you should stay for any length of time.”
“What about your church members?” Mr. Kingsman leaned forward on the bench seat.
“The ones I know who aren’t clear across town have children.” Or were poor—as people would have to be if they couldn’t afford to live farther away from this section of town. She couldn’t ask them to feed and keep her and Scott, even if they did have room for them.
Mr. Kingsman handed Caroline the reins. “I was inoculated when I was two. I’ll take him to my room at the boardinghouse. I can tend him there.”
“You can’t give up that much of your time. Besides, I’m sure Mrs. Vannoster would not want him in her boardinghouse. Even if all her boarders are immune, she has children.”
His shoulders slumped as if he were disappointed he couldn’t spend weeks tending Scott.
“What about that old man your father’s always talking about?” Caroline frowned down from her perch. “The one who refuses to sell his farmhouse?”
“Mr. Hargrove?” He was one of her father’s good friends. He would be sympathetic, but getting to his place would be quite the walk. She turned to look at Scott’s face. He was in and out of consciousness. He wouldn’t be able to walk that far. “I can’t imagine getting Scott all the way there.” In her head, she counted the streets she’d have to travel. “Ten blocks, almost. I had a hard enough time hobbling around with him for three. And what if he can’t take us in?”
Mr. Kingsman took off his coat and dropped it behind his seat into the small boot. “I’ll carry him. Just tell me how to get there.” Mr. Kingsman’s upper body was much more filled out than she’d expected for a factory owner.
Perhaps he could carry him all the way to Mr. Hargrove’s, but that really wasn’t necessary. “What if you let me take Scott in your buggy? You and Caroline could return to the mansion and have Mr. Parker retrieve your vehicle—if he’s immune anyway. The buggy could be scrubbed with whatever disinfectant the doctor has, so it shouldn’t have to be burned.”
Mr. Kingsman descended from the vehicle, then turned to help Caroline down. “I’ll take Scott in the buggy. You should return to the mansion and reassure your parents. When Caroline arrived without you, your mother nearly panicked. I told her I’d search, but I’m afraid your father will be out looking soon, if he isn’t already.”
“But Caroline could tell them.”
“Now, Evelyn . . .”
His use of her given name stopped her.
“I’ll take him.” He gently pulled the boy from her arms, not even cringing when the blanket fell and exposed Scott’s pox-ridden face.
“Are you sure this is all right?” Caroline asked. “Should Evelyn return to the mansion after touching Scott?”
Mr. Kingsman readjusted the boy into a cradle hold. “She’s naturally immune, so the only way she can spread the disease is if she touches something. So if she walks beside you without touching you, you can go into the mansion and tell her parents to get the things she’ll need for the next few weeks.”
Evelyn numbly nodded at Mr. Kingsman’s surprising handle on the facts of smallpox as she adjusted Scott’s blanket. How could she just leave the boy, even if it was just for a trip to the mansion and back?
Mr. Kingsman resituated Scott in his arms, pulling him away from her just enough that he caused her to look up at him. “If this Mr. Hargrove won’t take us in, I’ll wait for you there.”
“Should you take Scott to the doctor first?” Caroline asked as she came closer, but not too close.
“He’s seen him already. Dr. Hiller went to get the”—Evelyn glanced at Scott to make sure he still slept—“county coroner. For Scott’s mother.”
Was this the first time she’d seen Mr. Kingsman frown?
Though the doctor had told her Scott’s mother’s smallpox was too mild to have caused her demise, what else besides the disease was responsible? Amy had been quite healthy looking a week ago. “I couldn’t let the doctor quarantine us there. My reputation—”
“So let’s get him somewhere you can stay for a few weeks.” Mr. Kingsman took Scott to the buggy and eased the boy up onto the seat. He then held Scott upright as he scooted past him to pick up the reins.
She forced her hand to let go of the corner of the blanket she’d held onto.
God, keep Scott alive. And please let Mr. Hargrove be willing to take us in.
Evelyn gave Mr. Kingsman quick directions to Mr. Hargrove’s, and Mr. Kingsman gave her a nod before driving off.
Why did it feel as if she’d failed Scott more by letting him go with Mr. Kingsman than by not checking on him sooner?
“We better get back to your parents. They’re worried sick.”
She nodded and walked beside Caroline, though keeping quite the space between them.
Caroline shook her head. “It’s too bad you don’t already have your women’s home. You could have easily gone there.”
“Though it’d still be in the red-light district.”
Caroline shrugged. “Then at least Queenie could have brought her patient there and helped. Make sure you ask Mr. Lowe for several sickrooms, and a birthing room too, when that time comes. You can’t imagine the squalor I help deliver babies in.”
“You know, you’d probably make more money being a midwife than a housekeeper.”
A sad chuff escaped Caroline’s lips. “Oh, I’m not a midwife.”
“But you tend so many births.”
“Only because the midwives are busy and others come first. And sometimes the woman I’m tending doesn’t want help. Though I help anyway. Do you remember the baby I brought to the orphanage right after the Lowes got married?”
“A boy, yes?”
She nodded. “If I hadn’t insisted on staying to help his mother despite her screaming at me to leave . . . I’m pretty sure she would have declared him stillborn . . .”
Evelyn tried to shut off her mind from imagining what the woman would have done to convince someone she’d had a stillborn. She wrapped her arms about herself. The ache of dealing with this section of the town was more than she could take sometimes.
“I try my best to keep tabs on the pregnant ones, make sure they know there’s an orphanage, make sure someone’s present.”
They skirted The Line, avoiding the lines of saloons and other establishments that catered to debauchery, all gearing up for a night of revelry—and heartbreak, financial loss, and ruined lives.
The few men walking toward the district strolled by as nonchalantly as if they were going nowhere less respectable than Main Street—as if the lives of women, children, and quite a few men weren’t in turmoil inside the buildings they’d soon occupy.
“How do you do it, Caroline?”
“Do what?” The older woman looked over at her for a second.
“Keep working in the district when nothing good ever seems to come from it.”
“What do you call the orphanage, then? What would those children’s lives be like without the chance you, your parents, and the Lowes give them?”
“But what about Scot
t and his mother? And the other children and doves trapped here? There’s never been more than twelve children in the orphanage at a time, and they come and go so regularly. How many have we been able to keep track of? How many have run from the placements we’ve made? How many returned to their old haunts? A few seem to be doing all right, but the heartache and problems they still deal with . . .”
“I try not to think about that. But my sister is the reason I continue working there. If it wasn’t for her, I probably would’ve stopped ages ago. I’m actually more amazed you’ve lasted so long. Unlike me, Queenie, and Mr. Lowe even, nothing ties you to this place. You and your family are so pure and perfect.”
Pure and perfect.
Evelyn looked away from Caroline, watching her feet as they crossed a set of train tracks.
“You don’t have to be so involved in the district itself, Evelyn.” Caroline sidestepped a broken whiskey bottle. “You’ve got sufficient work at the orphanage, especially with your father slowing down. No one’s going to think poorly of you if you quit—they might even think better of you.”
Evelyn hugged herself, the weight of Scott’s hot, lethargic body still almost palpable. She wouldn’t think better of herself if she gave up on the children who weren’t in the orphanage. They needed love and care just the same. And how could she forget about their families? Scott’s mother had died while trapped in a personal hell she believed she deserved and could never leave.
Though Caroline was right about her having no personal connection to the red-light district, she did know how it felt to be trapped by past choices—to have no hope of ever having the future she’d dreamed of.
At least she was free enough to do something good with her life. But what did these women have? How could she abandon them simply because she was lucky enough that no one knew what she’d done?
“It doesn’t matter what people think of me.” No one knew enough to make a correct judgment—and hopefully they never would. “But you’re wrong about me having no ties to The Line. The children at the orphanage are connected to this place—their memories, their family and friends, their hearts. How can I ignore the misery in the district when it affects them? Now that I know what it’s like, how can I say I’m following Christ if I pretend to be as ignorant of the suffering as I was before? I can’t fathom not trying to help.”
Caroline said nothing more, and Evelyn held her peace as they continued on in silence. Caroline wasn’t particularly religious. Was Evelyn’s talk of Christ the reason she’d gone quiet? Or was Caroline thinking what so many others thought—that a preacher’s daughter’s ability to change anything about the town’s red-light district was so close to nil that her labor was for naught.
10
After climbing the porch steps with care, David wished he could lay Scott on the bench beneath the window, but if Mr. Hargrove wasn’t immune to smallpox, neither of them should touch anything.
With the heel of one foot, David knocked as hard as he could without losing his balance. The boy had become more lucid on the way over but wasn’t capable of keeping himself upright. Hopefully this Mr. Hargrove was immune and as compassionate as the ladies said.
A slow, steady clomping sounded from somewhere inside the house. With Scott’s shivering, David struggled to keep a sturdy grip on him.
He stepped back and leaned against the railing, relieved to find it sturdy.
The door’s window curtain was swept aside, and a man with a creamy pink scalp barely covered by wisps of white hair peered out at them. He narrowed his eyes at Scott, who’d pulled the blanket up to hide his face. But within a second, Mr. Hargrove dropped the curtain and opened the door. The man hobbled across the threshold, leaning heavily on a cane. “What can I do for you?”
Evelyn had mentioned Mr. Hargrove was older, but David hadn’t expected the man to be physically unable to help with Scott’s care. “I’m here at the behest of Miss Wisely. Are you Mr. Hargrove?”
“I am, and who’s this?”
“Scott Jones, a boy Miss Wisely often helps.”
The man rubbed at his white bushy beard. “An orphan?”
The boy tensed, turning into David’s chest as if to hide from the words.
“Yes,” David said softly.
“Then why’s he not at the mansion?”
“Sir, I know this is a lot to ask. But this boy is contagious and needs to be quarantined. Before I say anything else, it’s important to know if you’re immune to smallpox.”
“Smallpox?” The man stiffened. “I haven’t heard of a smallpox case around here for some time.” He frowned. “I had it as a young man, when one of my girls died of it. Many, many years ago.”
“I’m sorry.” He held his peace as Mr. Hargrove stared off into space. The look in his eyes mirrored the one he’d seen in his father’s the day he’d asked him about Frederick.
David had been only two when Frederick died. He had no recollection of his brother or the sickness that took him, but it must have been horrible since Father never spoke of his eldest son. He’d only discovered he’d had a brother when he was seven and asked his nursemaid about the inoculation scar he’d found on his arm.
Mr. Hargrove blinked after a bit and looked at Scott’s long frame. “She was my only redhead, just like me. . . .” He smoothed a jittery hand over his white hair. “I suppose Miss Wisely thinks I’ll take him in.”
The quiver in the man’s voice made David question whether or not he should. “You don’t have to.” He tipped his head toward the barn. “Perhaps I could set him up in the barn? I’m not sure where else we can go.”
“Barn’s no good. More spiders in there than anything else. Are you expecting me to care for him?”
“Actually, it seems I should, but I’m sure Miss Wisely won’t let me do so alone.”
Mr. Hargrove lifted his eyebrows for a moment, but then took a step back inside. “Come in, then.”
David released a breath. Thank you, Lord.
Even Scott relaxed in his arms.
The old man led them down a darkened hallway on the ground floor. The small door he opened led into a narrow room, scarcely furnished with a stripped bed, a chest of drawers, and two dainty chairs beside a half-moon table. A single cabinet card photo stood propped against an empty vase in the table’s center. No pictures lined the walls, and the lone window was small and high.
“Let me get you some linens.” Listening to Hargrove’s slow drag-and-step retreating down the hallway, David crossed over to one of the wooden chairs and gingerly lowered them both onto its edge.
“It’s so cold in here.” Scott’s arms and legs trembled.
The room was actually quite stuffy and warm. “Hold on.” He tucked his arm around Scott lest he shiver himself off the chair and onto the floor. “We’re getting you blankets.”
Scott’s head rolled onto his shoulder, and David felt heat seeping through his vest and shirt. He glanced around for a basin, happy to see a small washstand wedged into a corner. This room would require a lot of maneuvering for more than two people to occupy it at the same time.
“Here we are.” Mr. Hargrove shuffled in and shakily worked the sheet onto the mattress with one hand since the other gripped the head of his cane.
Though he couldn’t help, David struggled to stay seated while their host labored to cover the mattress.
Once the bed was made, David helped Scott onto the clean sheet. The boy simply melted into place with a moan, then curled up tight. David spread the other cotton sheet across the boy’s shivering form and turned to Mr. Hargrove. “If you would show me where I can wash up, I’m hoping you could spare a few more blankets for him. I’ll replace everything he touches.”
“Not necessary. Grab that pitcher, and we’ll get you water and rags.” In the hallway, Mr. Hargrove pointed him to the kitchen sink and then hobbled down the hallway in the opposite direction.
While David scrubbed his arms, a quick rat-a-tat-tat came from the front door.
�
��Come in, Doctor,” Mr. Hargrove’s voice warbled a few moments later. “And Miss Wisely.”
David stopped scrubbing. He had taken a wrong turn here and had needed to ask for directions, but even so, she’d gotten here quickly.
“I take it Mr. Kingsman’s already here with the boy?” A man’s deep bass voice sounded peeved.
“He’s been put in the back room.”
“And you’re immune?”
“I’ve had it.”
“And where’s this Mr. Kingsman?”
David dried his hands on a towel and carried it out with him. “I’m here.”
Evelyn stood staring at him, her face tight with worry. He’d figured she would’ve rushed to find Scott first thing, but there she stood, looking at him with quite the furrowed brow. Was she worried he’d succumb to the sickness despite his assurances? Something warmed under his skin, and he gave her a smile.
She took two harried steps toward him. “The doctor says you might be at risk—that they’re finding out inoculations aren’t lifelong.”
A hitch caught in his chest. He couldn’t stop the coldness creeping across his skin at the thought of being in the same state Scott was.
The doctor, a short blond man, perhaps in his forties, came up beside her. “I can inoculate you again, but you’ll need to be observed for fever.”
Evelyn wrung her hands. “He says it should still work as well as the last time. That if you get the shot quickly, there should be nothing to worry about.”
“Good.” He nodded, wondering why she acted so worried if the doctor had said he’d likely be fine.
“I’m so sorry.” Her eyes grew wetter by the second, though no tears formed.
Even if he got the smallpox, surely two inoculations would keep him alive—at least he hoped. He took a hold of her shoulder. “It’s all right.”
A Love So True Page 8
