Against the Tide (18 page)

19

O
ne of the advantages of Lydia’s job at the bakery was that her workday came to an end at two o’clock in the afternoon. Today, if she hurried, she had just enough time to catch a streetcar to the south side of Boston in order to carry out an errand that had been plaguing her for weeks.

The horse-drawn conveyance clipped slowly through the icy streets, and it took Lydia an hour to arrive at her destination. Her eyes dimmed as she caught sight of the bleak structure that had been her home for nine years. The building was a three-story brick box with tall, narrow windows. The bare limbs of the chestnut trees surrounding the building looked black against the leaden skies.

The familiar scent of old moss and wet slate brought a flood of memories as she walked up the path to the front door. It was not a terrible place to grow up. She was never hungry or beaten, and the Crakken family benefactors insisted on providing a solid education for the children. But despite the orphanage being filled with children whose basic physical needs were met, it was an institution devoid of love, attention, or warmth.

A woman with a face full of freckles opened the door in response to her knock. “I am hoping to see Headmaster Collins,” Lydia said.

“Mr. Collins retired years ago. Headmaster Barlow runs Crakken now.”

“Very well. May I speak with Mr. Barlow?”

The servant looked apprehensive at the simple request. “If you haven’t got an appointment, he is not too keen on visitors.” She made to close the door, but Lydia inserted her foot into the doorway.

“Please. I’ve traveled a long way to be here, and it truly is important.” There was something familiar about the woman. Very few people had that shade of carroty red hair, and although it must have been at least a decade, Lydia recognized the trace of a girl she once knew.

“Is that you, Sarah?” Lydia scrambled for the name. “Sarah Longmire? You were here at Crakken when I first arrived. I’m Lydia Pallas.”

Sarah scrutinized Lydia, then recognition dawned. “You were the little Greek girl who couldn’t speak English!” A smile broke across Sarah’s face. “Lord have mercy, now you speak plain as day. Come on in out of the cold.”

“How is it you are still here?” Lydia asked as she shrugged out of her cape.

“Well, I got married right after I left, but that didn’t go too well. I came back because I didn’t know what else to do with myself. I teach the younger students. I don’t get paid much, but at least I’ve got a roof over my head.”

Lydia’s gaze traveled over the blank plaster walls that had no trace of decoration or any sign that children lived here. It appeared very little had changed at the Crakken Orphanage, but was it possible they had stopped drugging their children into obedience?

“Sarah, when I lived here, it was quite common for the attendants
to use Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Syrup. Do you know if they still use it?”

Sarah nodded. “Oh yes. Nothing else settles the children down quite so well.”

“I see,” Lydia whispered softly. She glanced at the darkening skies outside and knew she needed to speak to someone in authority immediately. She did not have much time if she wished to catch the last car home.

“May I see the headmaster? It truly is important.”

Sarah gave a sad smile. “I’ll see what I can do, but don’t hope for too much there,” she said as she disappeared down the hallway. After a few minutes, Sarah returned and Lydia was escorted to the headmaster’s office, where she was introduced to a cadaverous man dressed in an ancient frock coat at least two sizes too big for his narrow frame.

“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” Lydia said as the door closed behind her.

“I generally prefer an appointment,” Mr. Barlow said as he stared down the long hook of his nose. “We value tradition here, and a prearranged appointment is the proper etiquette.”

“Yes, of course,” Lydia murmured. She swallowed hard and tried not to let his piercing black eyes unsettle her. “I lived at Crakken for a number of years and wish to call a medical issue to your attention. I’ve recently learned that a medication freely dispensed here at Crakken contains a shockingly high dose of opium. The children are given this drug for everything from a scraped knee to a restless spirit. When I lived here there were children who were dosed with it daily.”

There was no change on Mr. Barlow’s long, thin face. He merely steepled his hands before his chest as he reclined in his chair. “And?” The way he drawled the word gave Lydia the chills.

She cleared her throat. “And as opium is known to be an addictive substance, I believe you must stop using this medicine at once. It is called Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Syrup, and I know that it is still being used here at Crakken.”

Mr. Barlow gave a long-suffering sigh. “All our children receive proper medical care, and that includes whatever medicine is deemed necessary by our staff. Mrs. Winslow’s Syrup is a highly regarded medication. We have used it for decades, and we value tradition.”

“I don’t care if it is traditional,” Lydia said. “It is a vile drug that could make an addict out of a little child.”

Once again, there was no sign her words were getting through to Mr. Barlow. “What do you suggest we do about it?”

“Throw it down the drain! Figure out a new way to soothe restless children. Perhaps a brisk walk in the evening will help expend their energy. Or smaller classrooms. When I was here there were forty children assigned to a single staff member. No wonder it was difficult for them to manage all those children. Surely more staff and a change in exercise regimen would do the children good.”

“We value tradition, Miss Pallas. I see no need for exercise that will expose young bodies to the harsh New England climate. Now, if you will forgive me, I must return to my correspondence.”

Lydia shot to her feet. “No, I won’t forgive you! The only people who can forgive you are the hundreds of children lying drugged behind these stone walls.” She was shouting now, but still her words did not penetrate the maddening Mr. Barlow, who slid his spectacles onto his nose and turned his attention back to the letter on his desk.

Bane would never tolerate such a glib dismissal.

His image popped into her head unbidden, and it was easy for her to envisage the way Bane would handle this. He would never fly off the handle as she was doing; he was too clever for that. She
forced her shoulders to relax, gathered her thoughts, and smiled into Mr. Barlow’s eyes, just as Bane would do.

“I am grateful to Crakken for the excellent education I received here,” she said calmly. “I can write well enough to clearly express my opinion, and I will notify the Crakken family of your position on feeding opium to children to make your job easier.” She fastened the ties of her cloak. “And if they will not take action, I know there are politicians and ministers who are concerned about the scourge of opium use. Perhaps a public outcry will alert the proper medical authorities to look into the practices here at Crakken.”

Even the suggestion of public exposure did not rattle Mr. Barlow, but it made Lydia’s heart soar, for this was no idle threat. She had found a cause worth pursuing, something to give her life meaning. Maybe her professional life would never amount to more than scraping coal from the bottom of a stove, but that didn’t mean her life would have no purpose.

For the first time in weeks, her battered pride began to mend.

Lydia was stooped over the coal grate beneath one of the enormous bread ovens when Mrs. Stolinski called her name. “Visitor, Lydia.” Surprisingly, the woman was much friendlier after the flurry of early morning work. Lydia wiped the coal dust on her apron and walked to the front of the bakery. A smile lit her face when she saw Karl Olavstad standing in front of the counter.

“Come to buy some blueberry scones for Willis?” she teased.

His smile was brief. “I came to deliver this,” he said, passing a white envelope across the counter. “Bane came by the office this morning. He said he put a little extra in there on account of it being so late.”

“I see,” she whispered. She held the crisp envelope between her
hands, thinking inanely that Bane had touched this envelope just a few hours ago.

“Look inside,” Karl urged. “Is everything there?”

A quick peek revealed a stack of crisp ten-dollar bills. “It is all here,” she said. There was also a note, but she did not want to read it with Karl watching her.

“If he had gotten that money to you on time, you would not have been thrown out of your apartment,” Karl said in a dark voice.

She shook her head. “I don’t have a job that can support that sort of life anymore. I can’t blame Bane for that.” She closed the flap of the envelope. “Did he say anything else? When he delivered the letter, did he say anything other than about the money?”

“No, Lydia. He didn’t.”

It had been almost two months since she had seen Bane, and still she thought of him every day. Shouldn’t things be getting easier for her by now?

“You don’t look good.”

Karl’s statement hung in the air. Lydia tucked a strand of hair into her bun. “I get up very early in the morning,” she said. “I need to be awake by three thirty if I am to get here on time.”

“It’s more than that,” Karl said. “I can’t quite put my finger on it. . . .”

She had been feeling terrible lately, and no doubt that was beginning to take its toll on her appearance. In the past, she had always taken a little sip of Mrs. Winslow’s syrup to make her feel better. Ever since she had learned what was in it, however, she had tried to cut back, but it was a struggle. Her headaches were frequent, and at night, just after she had begun drifting into sleep, she would jerk awake in the middle of some hideous dream. How odd that these terrible dreams came whenever she was strong enough to refrain from using Mrs. Winslow’s. The nightmares were so bad
she would usually take a tiny sip of the syrup or she would never get back to sleep. Last night she had not used the drug and had lain awake most of the night as a result. Perhaps that accounted for the hollows she could feel beneath her eyes.

As soon as Karl left, Lydia opened the note from Bane, holding her breath and hoping insanely that perhaps he still wanted to meet her.

He did not. He apologized for the delay in getting her the funds, saying business had taken him to Cuba and weather had delayed his return. He hoped the delay did not cause her difficulty in securing her apartment. He did not even bother to sign the note.

Lydia folded the paper with shaking fingers. Could it have been any more impersonal and remote? If Bane wished to stress just how detached he was from her, this note had done the trick.

The first thing she did upon returning to her boardinghouse was take a large spoonful of Mrs. Winslow’s syrup to ease the raging pain in her body and in her soul.

20

F
EBRUARY
1892

T
he sleet hit Bane’s face like pinpricks in the frigid evening air. Philadelphia’s climate was never pleasant in February, but the wind made it even worse. He lowered his head and pulled the collar of his coat tighter as he hastened to the townhouse near the end of the street. A layer of ice covered the front steps, and he grasped the iron railing on his way to the top. Sleet melded the brass knocker to its base; he had to pry it free before knocking a quick series of raps.

As he waited for an answer, he turned to observe the other townhouses in this respectable neighborhood. Across the street, a bow-fronted window glowed from the light of a cheery fire, and a family gathered on the sofa with a number of children sprawled out on the floor. A little blond girl was opening presents. A birthday? She certainly seemed to be the center of attention as her parents fussed over her. The gaily wrapped box she was ripping into was almost as big as her compact little body.

The door opened behind him. “Banebridge! I’m glad you could make it through this nasty weather.” Richard Algood held the door wide. Bane wanted to see what was in the girl’s present, but heat was pouring out Algood’s door, and he had more important things to concern himself with than what was in a girl’s birthday box.

He shook the ice from his coat before hanging it on a rack in the narrow foyer, then followed Richard back to his tiny study at the rear of the house. The moment the door clicked behind him, Bane got down to business.

“How are things looking?”

Richard sighed as he lowered himself into the desk chair. Piles of papers, books, and pharmaceutical journals filled the office. “Unless you can help me pull off a miracle between now and April, my candidacy will go down in flames. There have been no changes.”

Bane leaned against the wall of the study. This was his first attempt to initiate reform from inside the pharmaceutical industry. The opportunity had presented itself when he first met Richard Algood, and Bane was quick to act on it. Richard was one of the few pharmacists willing to support restrictions on the sale of opium in pharmacies, and Bane was attempting to get him elected to the presidency of the American Pharmacists Association. It was a fool’s quest. The pharmacists had been at the forefront of those blocking any legislation to limit the sale of opium in their shops, but at least Richard’s doomed candidacy would force the pharmacists to begin discussing the issue. Bane and Richard were likely to lose the battle, but it would advance Bane’s cause in the long run.

Bane folded his arms across his chest. “I have thought of a new angle to attack the problem,” he said. “If the pharmacists won’t outlaw opium for sale in their shops, would they be willing to limit its use by government agencies? Orphanages, for example. The drug is being abused by orphanage workers trying to make their jobs
easier. And workers in the schools too. Surely this is something the pharmacists would be willing to condemn.”

Richard straightened. “Funny you should mention that. I just had a letter a few weeks ago from a young woman asking after the same thing. I had never heard of her, but I gather she saw the article I wrote about the dangers of Mrs. Winslow’s Syrup and thought I might be able to help. She wrote very eloquently on the abuses of opium in the orphanages.”

Richard riffled through the papers mounded on the only other chair in the office until he found the letter and handed it over to Bane.

Bane’s breath froze at the sight of the tidy script on the envelope. He would recognize that handwriting anywhere. Forcing his expression to remain blank, he extracted the letter and read Lydia’s passionate words.
What mother would give her child an opium pipe in the event of a skinned knee or a common cold?
Lydia went on to fill both sides of the page, describing how the Crakken Orphanage used opium for all manner of ailments. She asserted the innocent-looking serums packaged in attractive bottles were no better than the opium pipes in the illegal dens. Bane’s hands trembled as he held the pages that spelled out the subtle horrors of using opium to pacify a restless child.

His brave, passionate Lydia, so earnest and determined to do what was right. He could hear her voice as he read her words.

It had been months since he’d seen Lydia, but he still thought about her every day. When he saw a woman with copper glints in her hair, he thought of Lydia. When he lay awake at night, strategizing his next congressional campaign, he imagined what it would be like to have Lydia beside him, sharing his plans and excitement.

He hoped she didn’t still think of him. He hoped she would meet some handsome young man in Boston who would give her a passel of children, while Bane would fade into a distant memory.
It would be easier for him to forget her if he could be certain she was settled and happy.

Richard’s voice cut through the haze of his thoughts. “There is nothing I can do about her complaints. That sort of thing is handled by the government, not the industry.”

It would take decades to change the law, but an inflammation of public opinion could occur with astonishing speed. And for a privately funded orphanage like Crakken, public opinion mattered.

There were newspapers that would publish this letter. Newspapers like the
New York Times
and the
Christian Crusade
that were powerful forces for shaping public opinion and motivating people to act. And Bane just happened to know the people in charge of the
Christian Crusade.
“Can I have this letter?”

There was very little he could do for Lydia Pallas, but he could make certain her voice was heard.

Jack Fontaine’s father told him to hold Lucy’s hand so she couldn’t get into trouble, which made him feel like a grown-up, even though he was only nine. His father was too busy shaking hands with all the other grown-ups at the fancy party, so Jack had to make sure Lucy didn’t get lost in this big museum.

Jack thought it was weird to have a party in a museum, but Papa told him the Boston Museum of Fine Arts sometimes opened at night for special occasions, and this was one of those times. There was violin music and everyone was all dressed up. Papa was wearing his best uniform, the dark blue one with the epaulets on the shoulders and two rows of gold buttons all the way down the front of his jacket.

When they had first come inside the museum, they passed rooms of paintings and tapestries and a whole room filled with statues of
naked ladies. His father had pushed him past that room quickly, but Jack had seen them anyway. Now he was stuck upstairs with Lucy in this huge room where the party was.

It used to be that his father was always dragging Jack to go see a new ship or watch the sailors do their training. Now they went to football matches at Harvard and political speeches and fancy events. His father was always shaking hands with people and didn’t have much time for him and Lucy anymore.

Jack looked at the weird pictures on the walls that were some sort of new art with splotches of paint everywhere. They were so bad it looked like Lucy could have done them. He wished he could go downstairs to the Egyptian room, where there were sarcophaguses and real mummies inside. Papa didn’t want Lucy to see the mummies because he thought she would be scared, but Jack wanted to sneak back for a look.

No one was paying much attention to them, and Jack risked putting his hat back on his head. Papa warned him he had to take it off whenever they were inside a building, but Jack thought it was a stupid rule. He liked the hat Bane had given him, and wearing it made him feel better.

He squatted down beside Lucy. “Let’s go downstairs and see the mummies,” he whispered. “There are real dead people inside and I want to get a better look.” Lucy sent a worried glance at Papa and started sucking her thumb. He pulled it out. “Don’t be such a baby,” he said. “We can sneak down and be back before anyone notices.”

When he stood up to drag Lucy toward the staircase, he bumped into a grown-up. “I’m sorry, sir,” Jack said as he adjusted the brim of his hat that had been knocked off-kilter.

“That’s a fine hat, young man,” the stranger said.

Jack straightened a little with pride. “It is an army slouch hat,” Jack said proudly. “Bane bought it for me.”

The man leaned a little closer, showing Jack even more attention. “Is this Bane fellow in the army?”

Jack furrowed his brow. “I don’t really know. But he brings me presents every time he comes to see us. Last month he brought me a book about the army during the Civil War, and before that he brought real spurs just like they wear in the cavalry.”

“What a generous man this Bane fellow is.”

Jack nodded. “That’s not his real name. My father calls him Banebridge, but we always call him Bane. I’ve known him ever since I was really little.”

The man seemed interested, so Jack took off his hat to show the stranger how the brim of the slouch hat rolled up so the soldiers could march with a rifle and not bump the hat.

Lucy was fidgeting, but Jack kept talking because he liked it when grown-ups listened to him. Except that he missed his chance to sneak down to see the mummies because his father spotted them and started walking across the room toward them.

The stranger must have noticed too. “I’ll let you get back to your father now. What a good lad you are. I hope we meet again soon.”

Professor Van Bracken watched the trio move to the far side of the room where a soprano was about to perform. A triumphant surge coursed through his body, but he prevented any sign of it from disturbing the polite mask he had perfected over the decades.

For at long last, Professor Edward Van Bracken had found someone Bane truly cared about.