Simon watched her naked form appreciatively for a moment before turning back to the window. They had a long day ahead of them and couldn't afford a late start no matter how tempting.
He heard her rustle around in her trunk, grumbling as she did. “Crotchless drawers. I feel trapped and half naked at the same time.”
He didn't envy her. All that clothing must have been incredibly cumbersome. He was grateful all he had to do was wear a three-piece woolen suit.
“I'm going to need your help with this…thing again,” Elizabeth said, as she held out her corset in front of her like it was a live snake. She walked across the room and sat in front of the small vanity.
Frowning at herself in the mirror, she poked at what was left of her hairdo. “Do you know how to braid?”
“Darling,” Simon said. “I will help you get dressed. I will most happily help you get undressed. But doing your hair is where I have to draw the line.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Fair enough. I see why people had ladies’ maids. The whole kit and kaboodle is designed to keep you reliant on others.” She raised her tiny fist and shook it in mock anger. “Down with the man!”
Despite Elizabeth's protests, she managed quite well and before too long they were ready to face the day, and more importantly, that night.
After a quick breakfast, they went to the church and eventually found the priest they were looking for at the building site of the new cathedral in town. He was more than happy to help them.
Mary Stewart, as it turned out, was an orphan and the two women at her burial were associated with the orphanage. Mrs. Nolan ran the Children's Home and Miss Catherine Stanton was one of the Female Charitable Society volunteers.
The orphanage was a fairly large building on the edge of town. Its stern Federal-style architecture gave it an aura of institutionalized living that the sign out front echoed loudly and sadly. Natchez Children's Home, Orphan Asylum for Destitute and Abandoned Children. All of that was in bold opposition to the beautiful old maple and sycamore trees that surrounded the property and the sound of children's laughter caught on the breeze.
Elizabeth squinted up at him, shading her eyes from the bright morning sun that promised a hot day ahead and reached for his hand.
“Remember, we can't save them all,” Simon warned her. With her heart, she'd want to adopt every child and take them back to the future. She nodded reluctantly, but he was worried about how the experience might affect her. And, if he were honest with himself, how it would affect him.
Ever since Father Connelly had told them about the orphanage, Simon had been tense. He was not a sympathetic man by nature. Unlike Elizabeth, who threw herself with abandon at every lost cause, he was far more cautious. For the most part, he kept his heart neatly bound. There were few things that tugged at his heartstrings. Among them, however, were children. Perhaps it was the loneliness of his own youth, the lack of nurturing parents or hard lessons taught on cold nights at boarding school. Whatever the cause, Simon felt his heart constrict at the thought of a wounded or lonely child. Here on the footsteps of a 19th century orphanage, he knew he would see nothing else.
Elizabeth squeezed his hand, and together they walked up the short set of steps to the front door. Just as Simon was about to ring the bell, the door opened and a dozen or so young boys burst out into the sunshine. Like prisoners furloughed for the first time, they whooped and hollered with joy at the sheer freedom of being outside. They shoved each other and scuffed at the dirt as they formed two rough lines at the bottom of the steps like a ragged bunch of little soldiers.
In their wake, a large plump woman with a ruddy complexion and a bellowing voice followed. “Good. Stand up straight, Clayton James,” she said sternly at one boy who immediately pushed back his shoulders. “Y'all be back in your room in two hours. I've got a switch and I'm not afraid to use it. Isn't that right, Jimmy Davis?”
One of the boys, presumably Jimmy, looked up to face her. The angry set of his jaw faded into reluctant submission as the woman glared down at him from the top step.
He was slightly taller than the others and reed thin. Most of the children's clothes were ill-fitting hand-me-downs, but his clothes were easily two sizes too small. His jacket strained to keep just one button closed at the front and pulled tightly against his chest and shoulders. His dirty, dark brown boots, ankle high, still didn't touch the hem of his pants and pale gangly legs showed through the gap. Subconsciously, the boy reached around and rubbed his bottom and nodded.
“Good,” she said with a firm nod and then crossed her arms over her ample bosom. “Now, go on and don't come back until y'all are good and tired, you hear!”
Once the boys had all run off, the woman seemed to see Simon and Elizabeth for the first time. She narrowed her eyes at them as if she didn't have time for more disobedient children. “And you would be?”
“You must be Mrs. Nolan,” Simon said with his most gracious smile. “Father Connelly told us of your good work and we came to see it for ourselves. Very impressive.” He gestured to where the boys had stood. “We're hoping to emulate your success. In England and perhaps elsewhere.”
The compliment had the desired effect and the woman's expression softened. “England? Really?”
“I know you must be terribly busy, but if you could spare us just a few moments,” Simon continued. “My wife and I would be most grateful.”
The woman preened at her hair and tried to control its unruly curls. She had better luck with the children. “Of course, I can spare a few minutes.”
Mrs. Nolan did more than that. She gave them a tour of the entire building, from the kitchens to the laundry. She spoke very highly of their private benefactors, but no matter how generous, they were always in need of more.
While the orphanage wasn't as Dickensian as Simon had feared it would be, it was far from the home these children deserved. Whether they'd been left parentless from cholera or yellow fever, accident or disaster, there were over fifty children here and many more in other orphanages around the county.
Simon had read about the orphan trains from large cities like New York where thousands of homeless children were shipped off like cargo to farming states in hope of being taken in. In rural places like Natchez, the healthy boys were probably “adopted” out and trained as farm hands locally. The girls faced a more difficult path. Women had few options in the 1850's and a poor woman fewer still. The future for these poor children was anything but bright.
“And this is our boy's dormitory,” Mrs. Nolan explained as she led them into a room lined on each side with a dozen small beds. “We can expand and house up to seventy-five children, but that puts a strain on resources in a most dire way.”
A few of the boys looked up and stared at their visitors, their eyes already hardened by a life of disappointments. One small boy just looked frightened and confused and quickly hid under his blanket and Simon felt a surge of guilt for having thought his childhood compared to this. He'd wanted for nothing but affection. These children had nothing, nothing at all.
Elizabeth slipped her arm through Simon's and gave his bicep a comforting squeeze. “Simon?”
The understanding and warmth in her eyes were almost his undoing. She tugged on his arm slightly and nodded toward the doorway. He cleared his throat and gave the boys one last look before following Mrs. Nolan on the rest of her tour.
They ended in the girls' dormitory, a mirror of the boys on the opposite end of the building. Elizabeth took the lead then, asking questions and finally circling around to their intent. “We understand that you lost a child recently. A Mary Stewart?”
Mrs. Nolan's face dropped in genuine sadness. As much of a drill sergeant she'd been with the boys outside, it was obvious she cared for the children in her charge. “Poor girl,” she said as her eyes drifted to an empty bunk at the far end of the room. “She'd just come to us, too. Perhaps a month. Passed away just a week before her eighth birthday.”
“What happened to her f
amily?” Elizabeth asked.
“Mother abandoned her, near as I can tell. Doctor Walker brought her to us, but she was ill and there was nothing to be done, I'm afraid. The ague, you see.”
Elizabeth cooed her understanding. “And the father?”
Mrs. Nolan shook her head. “Nowhere to be seen, I'm afraid.”
Of course, her father could be dead, but there was a much more likely possibility that he'd never been present at all. The thought of it made Simon's temper flare.
A loud crash came from another room followed by a scream and then peels of laughter. Mrs. Nolan frowned. “Will you excuse me for just a moment?”
“Of course,” Elizabeth said and Mrs. Nolan hurried, trying to look like she wasn't, toward the door. She closed the double doors behind her, but it did little to muffle her angry rebukes.
Elizabeth stifled a laugh and turned her attention to a nearby bed where a little girl with big round eyes sat playing nervously with her doll. “Hello, my name's Elizabeth's. What's yours?”
The girl answered softly. “Megan.”
“And who's this?” Elizabeth asked pointing at the girl's broken doll and sitting down on the bed next to her. The girl was shy at first, but Elizabeth could charm the birds from trees and it wasn't long before the little girl was smiling and delightedly telling her everything about her doll, Annie. A few other girls gathered around.
Simon lingered by the door. The girls were clearly far less enamored with him than with Elizabeth. Except for one. He'd seen her when they'd first come in. She stood apart from the others, halfway in and halfway out of the door at the far end of the room. Her hair was long and straight and a lovely shade of chestnut. Her little round face was pale and sad. She stood on tiptoe, nervous and frightened, as if she wasn't supposed to be there at all. When she saw him, her expression was almost one of surprise. She'd quickly hidden herself behind the doorway, but he saw her peeking out, watching him. He could see a small blue ribbon tied to her wrist. After a few minutes, when he caught her leaning further into the room, he offered her a smile.
Slowly, almost afraid to let it come, she smiled back. Emboldened, he took a step toward her when the doors behind him opened and Mrs. Nolan came bursting back into the room. “That Wilkins boy will be the death of me yet! I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting.”
“That's all right,” Elizabeth said as she gently touched little Megan's cheek. “We were fine on our own, weren't we?” she said more to the girls than to Mrs. Nolan. The girls nodded vigorously and Simon wondered just what she and the little girls had been talking about.
They said their goodbyes to the girls and Simon's eyes sought out the little girl at the far end of the room, but she was gone.
Mrs. Nolan led them back into the main foyer. “As you can see, we have a long way to go before we are where we need to be, but we do our best.”
“Very impressive,” Simon said. “And I'm sure the Female Charitable Society is quite pleased with the work you do.”
Mrs. Nolan waved away the compliment, but it was clear she was pleased. “They give more than money. Some of them. Miss Stanton in particular. Fine woman. Hard worker. Not afraid to march on the front lines.”
“I'd love to talk to her. Do you think that would be all right?” Elizabeth asked.
Mrs. Nolan laughed. “Oh, she'll talk. It's getting her to stop that's the trick.” She jotted down an address and handed it to Elizabeth. “She's not home today, over in Port Gibson until tomorrow. But I'm sure she'd be happy to speak to you.”
“Thank you.”
While they'd talked Simon had dug around inside his wallet. He'd brought more money than they would need. Despite its remarkable number, he felt almost ashamed not to offer more as he held out a five hundred dollar bill. “I'm sure you'll put this to good use.”
Mrs. Nolan's eyes bulged and she barely restrained herself from snatching it from his hand. She managed to compose herself and said, “That's very generous of you, Mr. Cross,” and then added to include Elizabeth, “both of you.”
They gave their thanks for the tour and walked out into the now midday sun. It was hot and still.
Simon let out a cleansing breath.
“Are you all right?” Elizabeth asked.
He nodded.
“We can't help them all,” she said.
He looked down at her. “But we can help the one.”
Elizabeth smiled and leaned into his side. “That we can.”
Chapter Four
Elizabeth found a small twig that looked a little like one of Tim Burton's characters and stuck it into the soft, moist dirt just outside the bark house she'd built. The little hut was the perfect size for a fairy or a borrower or the spider crawling up her arm.
She stifled a scream and shook the spider away.
Simon shushed her and glowered from under the hood of his cloak. Elizabeth whispered her apology and, abandoning her mini-construction site, shifted her position on the large roots of the large oak tree. Score one for the petticoats. If she'd been wearing anything else, her bum would have been sore and cold by now.
They'd been at the cemetery less than an hour so far, but patience and stillness were not on Elizabeth's resume. Unsure how long the trip from town would take them at night, they'd allowed themselves a large buffer to ensure they arrived well before 9 p.m. They'd made very good time and were there with an hour to kill. They secreted their horse and buggy well away from the road in the woods behind them, and then settled behind an enormous oak tree. Its broad trunk, at least seven feet across, great gnarled roots and location, just off to the side of Catholic Hill, made it the best spot to wait for…whatever it was they were waiting for.
This particular section of the cemetery wasn't ideal for a stakeout. Not that any part of a cemetery was, but the poor section of Catholic Hill was nearly bald and they were forced to hide at least twenty yards away. Luckily, the moon was three-quarters full and the clouds hadn't settled in for the night.
The plaintive cry of a young female fox pierced the night, startling Elizabeth. Again. As if to answer, a whip-poor-will began its whistling song. Elizabeth pulled her cape more tightly about her shoulders. The hot day had given way to a cool evening, although it wasn't the cold that made her shiver.
No matter how much she'd seen in her life, sitting in a graveyard at night was just down right eerie. The moonlight touched the marble headstones in the distance and made them appear to glow like ghosts in an old black and white movie, coming and going as clouds traveled across the face of the moon. Trees seemed to shift positions, branches reaching out like arms. Odd sounds from the forest behind her all provoked her imagination to a series of unhelpful thoughts.
Through it all, Simon sat remarkably still. His large dark cloak made him look as mysterious as the world around him. Sadly, he hadn't appreciated her witty Dred Pirate Roberts reference at the store and Elizabeth made a mental note to show him The Princess Bride when they returned home.
Carefully, Elizabeth peeked around her side of the large tree trunk and scanned the night. It was disconcerting not knowing what they were waiting for. Considering their past adventures and some of the things they'd read in Sebastian's journal, anything could be out there.
Apprehensively, her eyes skimmed along the grass looking for pale zombie fingers clawing their way up through the earth. Please don't let it be zombies, or vampires, she added silently. Once was enough. Despite the cold, dead feeling of the surrounding landscape, it was fertile ground for her imagination, and she could feel her pulse begin to race.
Simon glanced over at her and she could see his reassuring eyes deep in the shadows of his hood. It was enough to stop the Kentucky Derby that was threatening to start in her chest, but the anxiety of waiting was starting to prickle along her skin like an electrical current.
Elizabeth felt another wave of the fidgets coming on when Simon sat up a little straighter and reached a hand out to still her. Just over a small rise on the far side of Catholic
Hill, Elizabeth could hear something approaching from the North. Even on the soft grass and dirt, there was no mistaking the sound of a horse's footfalls as it slowed from a trot to a walk. At least, she hoped it was a horse and not a minotaur or something half this and half that.
She and Simon carefully peered out from their hiding place and strained to see more clearly in the dark. A cloudbank had settled in front of the moon and what light there was became diffused and shallow. Slowly, a rider emerged from the shadows. She felt awash with relief. It was a man.
He pulled up his horse and eased out of the saddle. Looking around furtively, he hurriedly walked over to Catholic Hill. He wore a large hat and an oversized overcoat; the night's shadows obscured his face.
Simon and Elizabeth kept as still as possible. The last thing they wanted was to be seen, and judging from the man's late-night appearance and nervous body language, he felt the same way.
Even though anonymous crosses marked the graves, the freshly turned earth made it easy to discern which was Mary's. The man walked directly to her grave, clearly there to visit hers and no other.
The man was closer now, but Elizabeth couldn't make out his face. He was still too far away and it was far too dark.
The man stood solemnly over the grave for a long moment before reaching inside his coat. Elizabeth felt Simon tense next to her. She knew his hand had shifted slightly under his cloak and was now gripping the handle of the Colt-45 they'd brought with them.
The man unbuttoned his jacket and pulled out a small bouquet of flowers he'd kept safely tucked away. Slowly, almost painfully, he knelt down and laid them on the grave beneath the cross. As he stood up, something in their direction caught his eye. He looked over quickly to the woods behind where Simon and Elizabeth hid and then stood frozen in place.
Elizabeth spun around to try to see what he'd seen. Her eyes and imagination must have still been in four-wheel drive, because she could have sworn she saw a little girl in a white dress peering out from the wood.
Thursday's Child (Out of Time #5) Page 3
