Mercy pulled her arm across her body and away from his grasp. She could not take her eyes from him, though. So much anger and fear. “I believe there was a reason you chose me,” she said. “I think you should know I’m a—”
“Get out!” he yelled suddenly. “Forget me. Forget what happened and get out!”
Mercy found herself stepping away, recoiling from his outburst. Men in nearby cots stirred as if to come to her aid but most were too sick and invalid to do much. She glanced around, suppressing tears of frustration and embarrassment. She found herself nodding as she backed into the aisle. As a nurse approached, Mercy turned on her heel, scurried down the aisle, and out the door.
Confusion enveloped her but her anger propelled her down the hall. None of it made any sense. He had clung to her, begged for help, and now he turned her away. Perhaps he regretted his request, seeing that he had indeed survived his ordeal. He no longer needed her and she had made a fool of herself in front of him and Detective Walker.
She pushed tears from her lower eyelids and sniffled slightly as she marched the length of the hall.
“Cut you loose, has he?” a voice from the side of the hall called to her. Mercy glanced over as the lanky man took up pace alongside her.
“Pardon me?”
“Mr. Bolton.”
Mercy shook her head and pushed open the front door of the hospital. The bright sun swathed them instantly, forcing her to raise her hand up to shield her eyes. “I was never tethered to Mr. Bolton,” Mercy explained, “so he couldn’t very well cut me loose, now could he?”
She paused briefly at the curb, waiting for a break in the traffic before she could cross the street.
“Forgive me, my name is Alistair George, journalist for The Empire.” He stepped back slightly to give a bow.
An outdated, exaggerated greeting, she noted.
“You are not used to men lavishing you with attention,” he said.
She snorted. “Very good, Mr. George. Very insightful.”
A gap appeared between approaching carriages and omnibuses. After a quick scan for faster motorcars, Mercy stepped out into the street and was surprised when Mr. George followed her.
“If you don’t mind me asking, what is your relationship with Mr. Bolton?”
“We have no relationship. I just met him yesterday. If you can call it a greeting.” Mercy walked quickly, secretly hoping her quick pace would deter Mr. George from following her much farther.
“You were the woman then, the one who he lurched at in the street.”
“How do you know such things?”
“Witnesses, miss. There were many witnesses.”
Mercy swallowed and began mentally counting the blocks before she would find herself at her sister’s front door. “I am merely a Good Samaritan, nothing more.”
Mr. George laughed at the suggestion. “I was told you both were found in an intimate embrace.”
Mercy rounded on him and pushed him into the brick building, placing the point of her umbrella under his chin. “Don’t you dare write such a thing in your gossip pages.”
Caught off guard, the journalist nodded and then used his fingertip to push the umbrella point away from his throat. “I only mention it because I find it interesting that you should visit him the following day. Are you sure nothing untoward is taking place?”
Mercy pulled at the hem of her jacket and took a step back. “Not entirely. But it is not my problem anymore. Perhaps you should speak with Detective Walker.”
Mr. George smiled. “I have. He said ‘no comment’.”
“Then there is your answer,” Mercy said, raising her eyebrows. “Good day, sir.”
Chapter 8
Edith didn’t really enjoy school but she didn’t particularly hate it either. The material she learned from the Sisters of Loretto seemed useless most days, and only passably entertaining on others. Her mother had told her once that her friendship with Aunt Connie was what had gotten her through the dullest days of Latin lessons and sums. This maternal wisdom wasn’t entirely helpful to Edith, who hadn’t any friends or friendships to speak of.
As the only coloured student at the school, Edith was often expected to behave separately from the others, which further compounded the wedge that existed between her and the other girls. She was Catholic certainly. Her mother had made sure of that, even if they didn’t behave as such at home. And, of course, her tuition was always paid well in advance. But her acceptance into the school by administrators did not translate to acceptance by the school staff and students. Her assigned seat was always at the back of the classroom. She was rarely called upon to answer questions. No one ever chose her as a teammate for recess games and she almost always ate her lunch alone.
Edith did not bother her mother with these details, though. It was far too important to Mercy that her daughter receive an education. Edith knew her mother would dismiss these troubles as minor. The true goal was education, future employment, and nothing more. It was all well and good for her mother to say such things. She had had her sister, Constance, at least to plug the hole of loneliness, whereas Edith had no one.
That morning wasn’t any different. As the other girls clumped together in groups on the lawn in the few minutes before the bell, Edith walked the front path and headed straight for the double wood doors. She acknowledged Sister Anna, who supervised from the second step, and headed inside.
The school building was once a large estate home for one of Toronto’s earliest families. As the city grew, the large brick building and surrounding lawns, the extended driveway, and the courtyard were swallowed by progress and the family fled farther out. The rooms on the main floor, a parlour, a withdrawing room, a library, and a sitting room were all converted for a scholarly purpose. Mahogany tables, upholstered chairs, and lamps with tassels were replaced with utilitarian desks set in rows. All the blackboards were on stilts and wheels, easily moved about the room or taken from the room completely. This saved the fine trim and carvings on the walls, which would have otherwise been removed. The main floor study, directly to the left of the front doors, was repurposed into an office for Sister Elizabeth, the head matron, who tolerated Edith’s presence the least.
Edith turned her head to peer into the room and was surprised to find Sister Elizabeth not on her throne. With no wish for admonishment, she kept walking, turning to the right and heading for the cloak closet.
Harold, the groundskeeper, passed her in the hall. With cap in his hands and his head low, he hardly seemed to notice Edith as she walked past.
“Maybe we should put it back,” Edith heard one of the sisters say from a nearby room.
A baby’s cry rang out, stopping Edith in the middle of the hall. Sister Maryanne, one of the teachers of the younger grades, scurried past, from one doorway to the opposite one. Edith’s gaze followed the sister as she passed the threshold where the baby cried. Curiosity brought Edith to the door.
Inside, four sisters, including Sister Elizabeth, stood over a tangle of blankets on one of the teacher’s desks.
“What do you mean he found her?” Sister Elizabeth asked. “Found her where exactly?”
“In the courtyard, in the back,” another sister said. “Shall I summon him to return so he can tell you himself?”
Sister Elizabeth gave no reply. Unable to see her, Edith imagined her making a face, a look of disgust and annoyance she so readily offered.
“Gracious providence!” A sister crossed herself as the child continued to wail. It was the muted, exasperated cry of one recently born, those without the lung capacity or strength to give off a true throaty cry.
From where Edith stood she only saw the blankets moving. The muffled cries and the sisters’ conversation hinted at the presence of a child until a tiny, chubby arm sprang from the bundle into the air. Edith made an audible gasp and instantly wished she hadn’t. All four sisters in the room turned in unison, their expressions falling into further annoyance at the sight of her.
“Yes, Miss Eat
on,” Sister Elizabeth said, squaring her shoulders to Edith’s directions, “May we help you?”
Edith swallowed. “I heard the child,” she said, stepping toward them. “Is it hurt?”
A snort came from one of the other nuns. “Heaven knows,” she said.
“We haven’t the slightest clue what the riffraff’s mother may have subjected it too,” another replied.
Sister Elizabeth gave a sigh. “It isn’t anything you need to concern yourself about,” she said to Edith.
During the entire exchange, not a single woman moved to hold the wee thing or console it. Instead, they pulled their shoulders back the way teachers do when they mean to exclude someone they perceive as inferior.
Edith ignored the gesture. “May I help?” she asked, making her way farther into the room. Without being invited, Edith picked up the child.
“This is not the place for you,” one of the sisters said. “Unhand the child.”
One of others moved as if she meant to pull the child from her. Another stopped her. “Wait,” Sister Maryanne said. “Look.”
The child had stopped wailing the moment Edith gathered her from the table.
“It’s a miracle,” one of the nuns said, crossing herself.
“I have heard that coloured persons are more naturally suited to be care providers,” another said.
“It must be on account of their”—she gestured to her chest and lowered her voice—“bosoms.”
Edith lifted her gaze at the absurdity. At fourteen she hadn’t any bosoms at all.
As they spoke, the hallway had grown louder with the footfalls and chatter of students entering the school. The morning bell rang out from the front step and the throng ballooned just outside the door. Sister Elizabeth closed the classroom door, shutting out two students just before they entered.
“Miss Eaton, this doesn’t concern you,” she said, moving toward her. “We must find the child’s mother and see that she is rightfully returned.”
“What if the mother doesn’t wish her to return?” Edith asked. “What if she’s given it up?”
“This is hardly the place for that,” Sister Maryanne said. “What gave the mother such a notion. The child would be better served at the Mission or other such place.”
“The abbey used to provide such care,” Edith said. “There was once a nursery somewhere for unwed mothers.”
Sister Elizabeth eyed her. “How do you know such things?”
“I read it in the history pamphlet.”
“During arithmetic most likely,” one of the other sisters said.
Edith was ashamed to admit it was true. She may not have been very studious, bright certainly, but for the most part she was caring. One day she’d work in a giving position, a nurse perhaps or a tutor, but above all Edith saw herself as a mother. Any child of hers would not suffer the infernal loneliness of being an only child, as she had. She’d planned a whole brood of children, ten if she could convince her husband of it.
“The child cannot stay here,” Sister Elizabeth said. She gave an exasperated breath. “I haven’t the time at present for such things.” Sister Elizabeth advanced toward Edith as if to take the child.
“Let me help,” Edith said, shifting her body to the side so the baby could not be taken. “I know what I am doing.”
It wasn’t the first time Edith had told a lie but it may have been the biggest. Edith hadn’t any more experience with infants than any of the sisters in that room. She simply could not face another day in the classroom upstairs. She needed something, anything, to break up the monotony of her day.
“There’s a room next to your office,” Sister Maryanne said. “The child can stay there until we discover what to do with it. We can bring a cot down from the attic. I believe there are more supplies besides.”
Sister Elizabeth pondered the proposal.
“I can do my schoolwork at home,” Edith added. She was a good student, they couldn’t argue with that.
A knock sounded on the door, followed by inquisitive questions. “Sister Elizabeth, may we come in now?” The chatter grew louder and more impatient as time wore on.
Regarding Edith with suspicion, Sister Elizabeth wet her lips. “No,” she said at long last. “I can’t think of what your mother will say to the arrangement.”
“Oh, forget about my mother,” Edith said forcibly.
The sisters looked at her aghast, but thankfully she wasn’t admonished for it.
“I like your ideas, Sister Maryanne,” Sister Elizabeth said. “I place you in charge.”
“Me?”
“Miss Eaton, hand the child over to Sister Maryanne.”
Reluctantly, Edith moved to pass off the child, very much aware of the panic on Sister Maryanne’s face.
“On second thought.” Sister Elizabeth turned just before she reached the door. “I can’t have word of this getting to the parents. Place it in the basket. Cover it with the blankets until we get down the hall. I want Edith to carry it.” The three nuns and Edith remained in place.
“Hop to it, ladies,” Sister Elizabeth said, looking at them expectantly. “You must summon Harold to retrieve your supplies. If you need anything from me, I’ll be in my office.”
The door closed, shutting out the sharpening murmurs in the hall. “Form a line,” she commanded the students on the other side of the door. “Form a line!”
“Oh dear,” Sister Maryanne said, looking to Edith. “What have I just gotten myself in to?”
Edith was beginning to think the very same thing.
Chapter 9
“Goodness, Mercy! What sort of trouble have you gotten yourself into now?” Constance crossed her arms over her chest and narrowed her gaze at her sister, who stood at her front door. Mercy blanched, unsure how news of her predicament had made it to her sister so soon. “A man came here earlier looking for you,” Constance explained as she backed away and headed up the stairs.
Mercy slipped in and closed the door behind her. “A policeman?”
“Most likely, given how many questions he was asking.” Constance paused at the top of the stairs and steadied herself on the railing as Mercy made her way upstairs. “Really, Mercy, you have a penchant for attracting trouble.”
Lottie paused at the top of the stairs and Mercy and Constance made their way through. The maid’s arms were laden with fresh linens recently ironed and folded into precise squares. “Indeed, he were a looker as well,” she said as Mercy passed. “Weren’t he, Mrs. Doyle?”
Constance blushed slightly. “I can’t say I noticed. See to your chores, Lottie,” she said, as if suddenly remembering Lottie was the hired help and not actually a member of the family. Alexander was seated in the parlour, his ankles crossed on an ottoman and a morning paper shielding his upper body. Mercy sat down on her sister’s couch, cursing herself for not having come at a time when Alexander was occupied.
“Truly, Constance, what would you have done if a dying man stumbled toward you?” Mercy asked, accepting the teacup her sister offered her.
“I would have let him die and continued on home to my daughter,” Alexander said, folding the corner of his paper down so he could look Mercy in the eye as he spoke. “This city is going to the dogs anyhow, no point in making it harder on yourself. Your involvement in these shenanigans has no impact, better or worse, so you might as well keep to yourself.”
“No impact? If he had died is it not better that he did not die alone?” Mercy found herself slipping to the edge of her seat. “Where is your compassion?”
“I have compassion, but I also have enough sense to know when I should not meddle in affairs that don’t concern me.”
Mercy soured. “Is this about me being a woman?”
Turning his attention back to his newspaper, Alexander chuckled. “I think you’ve proven long ago you are no such thing.”
“That’s enough.” Constance snatched the paper from her husband’s grasp and began folding it neatly. “Husband, shouldn’t you b
e attending something downstairs?”
With a huff, he heaved himself from his armchair and put on his jacket. “Mark my words, Mercy Eaton, you’ll do better to allow us men to save the day. Don’t allow your head to be further filled with this suffragette nonsense.”
“And you’ll do better to keep more food in the larder and not your stomach.” Mercy very nearly stuck her tongue out at him then.
“Mercy!” Constance stood over her disapprovingly as her husband shuffled down the stairs.
“He started it,” Mercy answered.
Constance removed her husband’s teacup and deposited it in the kitchen before returning and sliding into his seat.
“Out with it, then. What happened, Mercy?” Constance asked, taking up her knitting.
For a moment Mercy felt as if she couldn’t go over it again. She had tossed and turned all night worrying about Mr. Bolton, the scene made in public, and the detective. She was thankful her brother-in-law was no longer in the room.
“I didn’t see him until he was practically falling over in front of me,” Mercy explained. She relayed the entire tale, leaving out the bits about specimen jars and emphasizing the images Louis’s nearly dying body gave her.
“But the detective, what did you tell him?” Constance asked.
“The truth,” Mercy said. “He didn’t believe me so he showed up at my house last night. I’m not at all surprised he came here asking questions.”
Constance sighed heavily and paused the click-click-click of her knitting needles. “He could arrest you.”
“I looked into it,” Mercy said, raising her chin slightly. “I’m over thirty-five. They can’t send me to Mercer again. I’ve done my time. Thankfully Edith was so young she remembers none of it.”
For a moment the mood in the room soured as both women recalled the time when Mercy was declared incorrigible and sentenced to nine months at Andrew Mercer Reformatory. It was a vile place, one which Mercy had hoped to strike from her memory completely. Her throat tightened at the thought of it, and she could feel the shake in her hands return as her anxiety grew. Mercy cleared her throat with a quick cough and brushed some strands of hair back from her face, a dismissive gesture meant to relegate the memories to her past, where they belonged.
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