The Law and Miss Mary

by Dorothy Clark

  The elderly woman sighed. “No, only the things on my list, Martha. Put the tea back and take the others out, for they will make the basket too heavy for me.”

  Heavy footfalls thudded across the plank floor and stopped. Mr. Simpson scowled at his wife, took the package of tea from her hand and placed it in the basket. “There’s no need for that, Mrs. Lucas. I ain’t heard nothing about this boy carrying customers’ baskets, but it sounds all right.” He placed the wrapped piece of honeycomb his wife handed him in the basket and added the lemons. “The cost’ll be ten cents.”

  “Nonsense!” Mrs. Lucas’s eyes narrowed. “I came to buy groceries, not to be robbed, Elijah Simpson! I shall pay five cents.”

  The grocer added the molasses to the filled basket, then crossed his thick arms over his burly chest and stared down at the diminutive woman. “Seven.”

  There was a rustle of movement behind her. Mary took a quick glance over her shoulder. The customers had stopped browsing and had drawn close.

  “Stand your ground, Isobel!” A thickset woman with a jutting chin snapped out the words. “I should very much like someone to carry my basket, but I will pay no more than five cents. As you say, anything more is outright thievery!”

  There was a chorus of agreement.

  Mr. Simpson’s scowl deepened. He raised his hands. “All right, ladies. All right. The cost’ll be five cents.”

  Smiles spread over the faces of the assembled women at the grocer’s growled words. They gave each other small nods of satisfaction and turned back to their shopping, chatting over their victory as they went.

  Mary could have hugged Mrs. Lucas and Mrs. Simpson.

  “Pick up that basket and get moving, boy!” The grocer snarled the words and turned away.

  Mary’s elation flew. “Wait, Ben.” She took hold of Ben’s arm as he reached for the basket, and pasted a polite smile on her face as the surly grocer pivoted around to glare at her. “I think you are forgetting that Ben is not yet in your employ, Mr. Simpson. Shall we discuss his wages?”

  Sam leaped off the gangway, turned and fastened his gaze on the steamboat as the Independence gave notice of its departure with three quick blasts of its whistle. He ignored the movement of the laborers around him, and held his place. The danger point would come when the Independence swung around to head upriver. She would be close to the Washington then, and an agile man could jump from the deck of one steamboat to another, if given enough reason to do so.

  Sam tensed and focused his attention on the narrowing distance between the two boats. He figured the money Frank Gerard had been systematically winning from his victims at cards was reason enough for him to ignore the warning he had been given and try to make his way back to the table at the Broken Barge. But the gambler was trouble—he won too often, and by questionable means. He would not be allowed in St. Louis again.

  The Independence finished the swing and straightened on its course. The muddy waves splashed lower on the cobblestones, then ceased and merged with the river on its way south to New Orleans. One more problem gone. But there still seemed to be an endless supply of them.

  Sam tugged his hat brim lower and started up the slope. He stepped around a wagon loaded with crated shoats and angled toward the Cincinnati. She was leaving for parts north this afternoon and this would be the first departure of one of the boats of the M and M line since Randolph had taken over its management. It was likely he would be on hand. And that made this a perfect time for an “accidental” meeting with him. He knew the man and his sister were hiding something. And he intended to find out if it concerned the vandalism of the line. And he would look around to see if Duffy was among the crew.

  “Thank you again, Mrs. Lucas.”

  “Hush, dear.” The elderly woman patted Mary’s arm and smiled at Ben, who was holding her basket. “The two of you have thanked me enough.”

  “But it was so clever the way you suggested Mr. Simpson hire Ben.”

  “Not clever, dear…necessary.” The woman’s faded blue eyes twinkled up at her. “I should be the one thanking you. I have not enjoyed myself so much in years. People look on you as useless when you get to be my age.” A wistful look replaced the twinkle. “Now…I must get home. I am beginning to tire.” She turned to go, then looked back. “You are a lovely young lady and I should like it very much if someday you have time to call upon me.”

  Mary smiled and nodded. “I shall come to call in a few days, Mrs. Lucas. After I am more settled.”

  The elderly face crinkled into a return smile. “I shall look forward to that, my dear. My home is on Chestnut. Ben will know the way. He can escort you and we shall have a proper tea!”

  “Lovely.”

  Mary watched Mrs. Lucas walk away, Ben beside her carrying the grocery-laden basket. It did not seem too burdensome for him. Indeed, he looked proud and happy. They disappeared behind a group of women on the walkway and she turned to scan the storefronts. James had asked—

  “Let me go!”

  Mary snapped her gaze in the direction of the frightened wail. A young girl was crouched behind the rain barrel at the corner of Tanner’s Ladies Shoe Store, trying to tug her arm out of the grip of a policeman. The officer bent over the barrel, grabbed the girl by the shoulder and hauled her out onto the walkway.

  “Please!” The girl hung back, grabbing for the rim of the rain barrel. “I ain’t done nothin’ wrong. Honest.” Tears ran down her face, making tiny paths through the grime on her cheeks. Sobs shook her small, skinny body.

  Mary’s heart swelled.

  “Another of those filthy emigrant children!”

  “Something should be done about them, Clara. Can you not speak to Robert about the situation?”

  “Indeed, Clara, you must! It is disgraceful the way they are let to roam about the streets disturbing good folks!”

  Mary whipped around. Three women, their faces pinched in distaste, were giving a wide berth to the child and the policeman. And no other person in the area seemed to be paying any attention to the small girl’s plight.

  The unloved and unlovely of this world are often invisible to those of affluence. Her aunt Laina’s words rang in her head. Anger stiffened her spine. Mary whirled back and marched forward. “What is the trouble, officer?”

  The policeman looked up. “No trouble, miss. Takin’ this one off to jail.”

  The girl seemed to shrink before her eyes. The poor little thing was shaking like leaves in a windstorm. Mary began to shake herself—with growing anger. She fought to keep her voice pleasant. “And what has she done to warrant such treatment?”

  “Nothin’, miss. ’Tis the law now, is all.”

  A shadow fell over her. Mary turned and looked up, straight into the eyes of Samuel Benton.

  The captain gave a polite dip of his head. “Have you a problem with one of my men, Miss Randolph?”

  “I do indeed.” Mary drew herself up to her full height. The man’s size was intimidating. “This officer says he is taking this little girl to jail, though he admits she has done nothing wrong.”

  “I told her it was the law, Captain.”

  “All right, Jenkins. Continue your patrol, I will take over here.”

  “You want me to take this ’un to jail?”

  Mary stepped closer.

  “No. I will handle this.” The captain grasped the sobbing girl’s shoulder and the policeman strode down the walkway.

  Mary lifted her chin and prepared to do battle.

  “Have you ever been hungry, Miss Randolph?”

  The question, posed in a conversational tone, stole the starch from her spine. She eyed him with suspicion. “Of course I have.”

  The captain fastened his gaze on hers. “I am talking about starvation hunger, such as these street urchins suffer.”

  Street urchins! Her anger came surging back. She drew breath.

  He raised his hand. “You need not answer. Because if you had known such hunger, you would know that being fed every da
y would be a blessing to them.”

  “In jail, Captain?” Mary clenched her hands at her sides and looked him full in the eyes. “Is that what you tell yourself to soothe your conscience? That you are doing these children a favor by putting them in jail? Would you exchange your freedom for a meal?” His expression did not change one iota, but there was a tiny flicker in the depths of his blue eyes and she knew her words had stung him. She pressed her advantage. “There are other ways to feed a child, Captain Benton. And, as this child has done nothing wrong—by your own officer’s admission—you have no right to jail her.”

  “You are wrong, Miss Randolph. Mayor Stewart and the town council have passed a new law that went into effect today. It is now illegal for any child under the age of twelve, who is not a citizen of St. Louis, to be on the streets of the city unless accompanied by an adult.”

  She gaped up at him, held mute by astonishment. But only for a moment. “You are going to jail children because they are alone on the street?” Her voice was soft, lower and more husky than normal. “What of orphans like Ben? He is to be jailed, not for any wrongdoing, but because his parents had the bad fortune to die? That is absurd!” Her fingernails dug into her palms. “It is ludicrous. Preposterous! It is…it is…”

  “The law, Miss Randolph.”

  The captain calmly inserted the words when she sputtered to a halt. She glared at him.

  “And I am sworn to uphold it. Good day.” He picked up the girl, eliciting a wail of terror.

  “Wait!”

  He tightened his grip on the struggling child and looked at her.

  She cleared her throat. “You cannot take the girl to jail. She is with me.”

  “Miss Randolph—”

  “You said children under twelve who are not with an adult!” Mary lifted her chin and held out her hand. “I am an adult, and she is with me. Please put her down, Captain. I want to go home.”

  A frown pulled Samuel Benton’s dark brown brows together. His blue eyes darkened. Mary squared her shoulders and lifted her chin a notch higher. Their gazes locked. And held. She refused to look away. She was right. And he knew it.

  He looked down and lowered the child to the ground.

  Mary released a shaky breath. It has only been a moment. Surely it has only been a moment. It only felt like forever. She leaned down and took the girl’s small trembling hands, rough with scratches and ground in dirt, in hers. “It is all right, now. You have nothing to fear. You are going home with me. And we are going to get you something to eat.” She glanced at the small, dirt-caked bare feet, then at the grimy little face and smiled. “You shall have a bath. And we shall get you a pretty new dress and some shoes to wear. Would you like that?”

  The child stared up at her out of green eyes awash with tears. A sob broke from her throat and she threw herself against Mary’s legs, buried her face in the fabric of her skirt and nodded.

  Mary rubbed the little girl’s bony back, blinked tears from her own eyes, then straightened and cleared the lump from her throat. “Come now, you cannot walk if you are crying. Take my hand.” She gave the small hand that slipped into hers a reassuring squeeze and turned toward Market Street.

  “You cannot save them all, Miss Randolph. There are too many of them.”

  The captain’s soft words brought her to a halt. She turned back and looked up at him. “I would not be able to sleep at night if I did not try, Captain. But if what you say is true, then I shall need help. Would you care to join me?”

  She left the challenge hanging there and walked off, shortening her stride so the child pressing close against her could keep pace. At the corner, she could resist no longer—she glanced back. Captain Benton was still there on the walkway, looking after her. No doubt wishing she had never come to St. Louis.

  Chapter Eight

  She felt him looking at her.

  Mary lifted her head. Her brother was standing in the doorway, a grin on his face. “I amuse you, James?”

  “Yes, indeed.” The grin widened. “I never thought to see you mending clothes.”

  She wrinkled her nose at him. “I am not mending the dress. I am altering it. And it is about time all that instruction in fine needlework bore fruit.” She looked down and took another stitch along the seam. “Callie is so thin, there were no dresses in the store to fit her. And I refuse to burden Ivy with this extra work. She is already doing so much, taking Ben and Callie in as she has. What a blessing it is that she was the cook for—” She stopped midstitch and gave a wry laugh. “Gracious. I sound like Mother—seeing God’s hand in a coincidence.” She gave a little shake of her head, completed the stitch, then poised the needle for the next, using the thimble on her finger to push it through.

  “Speaking of God…”

  She slanted a look up at him. “Were we?”

  “His name was mentioned.”

  She did not return James’s smile, merely shrugged and worked the last few stitches of the seam as he walked to the chair opposite her.

  “Do you realize tomorrow is Sunday, Mary?”

  She did indeed. “And…” She jabbed the needle into the soft cotton fabric and tugged the thread through as she had countless times under Miss Spencer’s tutelage.

  “And…” James lowered himself into the Windsor, stretched out his long legs and crossed his ankles. “I went to the levee today when the Cincinnati departed. Captain Benton was there.”

  The needle stabbed into her finger. Bother! Mary yanked her pricked finger out from under the blue dress and stuck the tip of it in her mouth. “Captain Benton seems to be everywhere. Especially when innocent children are being arrested.”

  “I asked him about a church. He told me of several and gave me directions to their locations…though I got the distinct impression he did not himself attend any of them.”

  “That is not surprising. The man has no conscience!” She huffed, finished off the seam, then reached into the small sewing box her mother had insisted she bring along to the wilderness.

  “I went to see the pastor of one of the churches. The service begins at nine o’ clock, the same as at home.”

  She snipped off the thread and placed the scissors back into the box. “There. I am finished.” She stuck the needle into the pincushion and tossed it after the scissors.

  “Mary?”

  She shot him a look as she shook out the small dress. “I heard you, James. I will be dressed in my finery and ready to go by half after eight in the morning. But I shan’t like it.” She flicked the lid of the box closed and secured the small latch. The little blue dress dangled from her other hand. She brushed the five narrow bands of darker blue fabric that circled the bottom of the skirt into place and sighed. “James…do you remember what Aunt Laina says, that ‘the unloved and unlovely of this world are often invisible to those of affluence’?”

  “Yes…”

  She glanced at him, saw the question in his eyes. “I never truly believed that until these past few days.” She draped the dress over the arm of her chair, then rose and crossed to the window.

  “Perhaps that is because you were never before confronted by situations that proved it to be true.”

  Mary nodded. “Yes. That must be the reason. Mother and Father and, of course, Aunt Laina and Uncle Thad care about the downtrodden. And they befriend those who share their feelings. I have never before seen people who…who are so selfish and uncaring.”

  There were soft footsteps on the carpet. James appeared beside her, leaned a shoulder against the window frame and looked at her. “We all played with the children at Aunt Laina’s orphanage. And you and Sarah helped there when you got older. But none of us ever witnessed Aunt Laina’s struggle to establish it. We only heard bits and pieces of the story as we were growing up.”

  A buggy rolled into view. She watched until it was out of sight, then turned to face him. “I never realized how courageous Aunt Laina is. I shall never forget the disdainful disgust on the faces of the customers at Simpson’s
market when they looked at Ben. Or the hard-heartedness of those three women on the street today. They looked at Callie as if she were some loathsome creature instead of a child. And everyone else on the walkway either glanced at her and the policeman and walked on or averted their gazes completely. They simply did not care about the child. And as for Captain Benton…” Her face tightened. “He does not bear speaking about.”

  “Mary—”

  “Do not tell me again that the captain is only doing his duty, James. He is wrong to take those children to jail and he knows it. I saw it in his eyes. I do not know how the man sleeps at night. I hope it is poorly!” She gave another huff, walked to the small piecrust-edged table stand and picked up her sewing box to put it away in the corner cupboard. She turned to pick up the dress, gasped and spun about to face him.

  He straightened. “What is it?”

  “I only know of Ben and Callie, James! How many children do you suppose are already in jail? And how am I to prevent the arrest of more of them? I cannot patrol every street and watch every policeman.” She stared at him, nibbling on the left inside corner of her upper lip while her mind circled the problem.

  He pushed away from the window and gave a little shrug. “True enough. Of course, if the law was revoked—”

  “James. The law—” She laughed, rushed forward and threw her arms about him in a fierce hug. “Thank you, James. You are so very, very clever. That is the answer. I shall have that ridiculous law revoked!”

  He had selected the right woman to be his bride. There was no doubt about it. Sam leaned against a pillar and let his gaze travel over Levinia Stewart as she spread the long, silk-flower-trimmed skirt of her yellow gown and seated herself on the swing. Yes, she was the perfect choice for his wife. That was exactly the way she would look gracing his porch. He would be able to picture her there now.