Courting Miss Adelaide (3 page)

Adelaide’s mother’s declining health had ended the quilting bees. “Good morning to you, too, Sally,” Adelaide said with a teasing grin.

“Oh, good morning.” Sally smiled sheepishly, but then parked fisted hands on her hips. “You know I’m right. It’s not good to mope like this.”

“I’m sewing, not moping.”

“You can’t fool me, Adelaide Crum. You’re hiding out here. The ‘Snip and Sew’ quilters haven’t met in months. Why, the church auction will come and go before we finish that quilt.” A spark flared in Sally’s eyes. “Is it man trouble?”

“No, just work.”

“Then start having some. Ask Horace Smith to the church picnic. Give me something to think about besides this unseasonable heat.”

Old enough to be her father, the town’s mortician looked barely more alive than his clientele. “If you’re relying on me for excitement, you’ll expire from a bad case of monotony.” She chuckled. “No doubt Horace would thank me for the business.”

Sally poked her arm. “Now you sound more like yourself.”

Putting aside her sewing, Adelaide rose. “I’ll set up the frame. We can start a week from Monday at ten o’clock.”

“Good. On the way home, I’ll stop and tell the others.” She drew Adelaide into a hug. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too.”

Sally spun out like a whirlwind. Adelaide whispered thanks for a caring friend.

Adelaide kept busy, but the morning dragged. Unable to concentrate, she had to rip out rows of stitches in Mrs. Willowby’s bolero jacket and jabbed herself twice with the needle. She laid the garment aside, then stuck the pricked finger in her mouth as she ambled over to the window.

The street was exceptionally busy, even for a Saturday. No doubt twenty-eight of these conveyances held those fortunate couples who’d been given a child.

What if an unexpected child had ridden the train? Maybe I’m supposed to be at the distribution, taking an opportunity God provided.

Adelaide whipped off her apron and raced upstairs for her hat and gloves.

Charles walked the few blocks to
The Ledger,
his stride brisk. Under his hat perspiration already beaded his forehead. He neared Whitehall’s Café and the aroma of strong coffee wafted through an open window, tempting him. Up ahead, a group of people huddled, heads bent, talking, unusual for an early Saturday morning. Coffee could wait.

As Charles neared the paper, his reporter came running from the opposite direction, his lanky legs skidding to a halt in front of him. “Mr. Graves, Sarah Hartman hung herself from a rafter in her barn!”

“What can you tell me about her?”

“Nothing except she’s an old lady who lived on a farm outside of town. Must’ve gone daft. Her daughter found her this morning.”

“Too bad,” Charles said without a trace of feeling. Long ago, journalism had taught him to distance himself from tragedy, to look at events as part of the job, not troubles affecting people’s lives. Otherwise, every death would have him bawling like a baby. Though, upon occasion, the sum of all those tragedies circled over his head like buzzards converging on the kill, disturbing his sleep.

“Did the
sheriff
say it looked like suicide, or the town gossips?”

James thrust out his chin, annoyance etching his brow. “The sheriff did. He found a crate kicked over beneath the body.”

Charles nodded his approval. “Good work. Get the sheriff’s statement. Interview the daughter. While you’re at it, ask about funeral arrangements for the obit.”

“Mrs. Hartman had one child.” James checked his tablet, clearly proud of his reporting skills. “Frances Drummond.”

Drummond? Charles had no idea why, but hearing that name left him feeling uneasy.

A crowd gathered as Adelaide slipped into the schoolhouse. Across the front of the room, the orphans sat in two rows of chairs, their young faces etched with uncertainty and a glimmer of hope. Adelaide counted nineteen boys and nine girls. Twenty-eight, the exact number the committee had expected. Her heart plummeted. Still, she couldn’t drag herself away.

She studied each child in turn. Some appeared to be in their early teens, others quite young; their small feet dangled above the floor. Though rumpled from travel, all wore proper clothing, with hair combed and faces scrubbed.

They were beautiful, every single one of them.

Across the room she caught the eye of Mr. Graves. His quick smile made her feel less alone in this room of instant families.

Adelaide’s gaze returned to a young girl of six or seven. Fair and blond, she leveled aquamarine eyes on the crowd. A brave little thing or maybe merely good at hiding her fear.

“Miss Abigail, what on Earth are
you
doing here?”

With huge proportions and a voice to match, Viola Willowby loomed over her. That a steady customer persisted in calling her Abigail, even though Adelaide’s Hats and Sundries hung in bold letters over her shop, set Adelaide’s teeth on edge.

She lifted her gaze, forcing up the corners of her mouth into something she hoped resembled a smile. Atop Mrs. Willowby’s head perched one of Adelaide’s finest creations—a floppy straw hat bedecked with pink cabbage roses.

“Hello, Mrs. Willowby.”

“I saw you leave the orphan interviews. Why were you there?”

“For the same reason as you.”

Mrs. Willowby gasped. “You can’t be serious! It…it wouldn’t be proper.” Mrs. Willowby pulled a lace-edged hanky from its hiding place in the depths of her ample bosom and touched the linen to her nose, as if she feared catching some dire malady that would render her as irrational as she obviously thought Adelaide to be.

Adelaide looked her square in the eye. “And why not?”

“You’re a spin—” Mrs. Willowby’s face flushed, unable to get the heinous word past her lips. “A maiden lady.”

Adelaide wanted to rip the stunning hat off her customer’s head and swat her across the face with it. But then she sighed, ashamed of herself. A Christian shouldn’t think that way. Besides, Mrs. Willowby represented the thinking of the committee, probably of their church, even the entire town. “You needn’t worry. They denied my request.”

“Well, I should think so!”

Judge Willowby, an equally large man, tapped his wife on the shoulder. “I’m sure Miss Crum is quite capable of rearing a youngster, Mrs. Willowby.” While his wife sputtered like an overflowing teakettle, he motioned to two chairs. “It’s time to start.” He turned to Adelaide. “Nice to see you, Miss Crum.”

Adelaide smiled at the judge. Clearly he found some good in his uncharitable wife.

Adelaide could understand why the Willowbys had been given a child. Years before, they’d lost their two children to diphtheria. Well-heeled, after finding natural gas on their property, they wielded a lot of influence in town.

While she…Well, truth be told, she
was
a spinster. How she disliked the word, but at thirty-one years of age, soon to be thirty-two, Adelaide had to accept it applied to her.

She moved to the back of the room and took a seat, recalling some years back her chance at marriage. She hadn’t loved Jack, the man who’d asked. Had her refusal been a mistake? Young at the time, she’d foolishly expected to fall in love. It hadn’t happened.

Keeping busy hadn’t been a problem. She faithfully attended the First Christian Church, went to prayer meetings on Wednesday nights, where she communed with the Lord, but with not one eligible bachelor. Within the pages of books, she found adventure, but put little stock in the fictitious men who whisked women away to live happily ever after. No, Adelaide lived in the real world, had her feet planted firmly on the ground. Men couldn’t be counted on. Her chest constricted. Her mother’s life had proved that.

Her gaze returned to Mr. Graves. Light streamed through the window behind him and the rays caught in his thick hair, giving him a halo of sorts. Though with that strong jaw and stern expression, he hardly looked like an angel. But he did, she had to admit, look fine.

Mr. Wylie walked to the front and asked for quiet, then introduced Mr. Fry, an agent of the Children’s Aid Society.

A thin fellow with slicked-back hair and a hooked nose walked to the podium, eyeing the crowd over his reading glasses. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Children’s Aid Society is grateful for your interest. Many of these children were homeless, sleeping in doorways and privies, selling matches or flowers, working as shoeshine or paperboys. Some begged for food. When they came to us, many wore filthy rags infested with vermin.”

The children sat unmoving, staring ahead with somber gazes, showing no reaction to Mr. Fry’s words. “You may wonder why New York City has such a vast number of orphans.” His hand swept over the children. “Some of these children aren’t, in fact, orphans. When John’s family—” a thin boy scrambled to his feet “—immigrated to this country, he and his family became forever separated.” John sat down.

“Death or desertion of one parent left eight of our twenty-eight children with no one to care for them. Unwed mothers left a few on our doorstep.”

Someone murmured, “Poor things.”

Tears stung Adelaide’s eyes. More than anything, she wanted to take every last one of these children home and try to make up for the deprivation of their young lives with warm hugs and fresh-baked cookies.

“In some cases, family members brought them to us, trusting we could provide them a better life, which, with your help, we’re attempting to do.”

Adelaide couldn’t imagine giving up a child. Nothing could make her do such a thing.

“Mr. Brace, our founder,” Mr. Fry continued, “realized we couldn’t handle the problem alone. He devised this plan to place the ten thousand orphans we presently have into rural areas and small towns, where they’ll receive an education and enjoy the benefits of a healthy environment and family life.”

The numbers boggled Adelaide. Surely with that many homeless children, there’d be
one
child for her.

Perhaps if she went to New York—

“Your local committee,” he said then consulted his notes, “comprised of Mr. Wylie, Mr. Paul, Mr. Sparks and Mr. Graves, has approved the eligibility of your homes.”

Involuntarily, Adelaide’s gaze again sought Mr. Graves. Even from this distance, the sight of his determined, serious face shot little pricks of awareness through her limbs.

She forced her attention back to Mr. Fry.

“I’ve been told more requests were made than we could provide on this trip. Perhaps in the future as more children come to us, we can remedy that situation.”

Adelaide caught her breath. If they came again, then, next time she might convince the committee.

Who was she fooling? No one in Noblesville, or New York, would give a single woman a child. If only she could give her world a twist and watch it transform like the bits of colored glass in the kaleidoscope she’d seen at the mercantile. Maybe then, she’d change a few stubborn minds.

“Along with periodic visits by one of our agents, these gentlemen have agreed to oversee the children’s welfare. At any time, the agreement to care for a child can be broken, either by the family or by the child.”

Perhaps a little girl would be unhappy in her new home and the committee would reconsider their decision.

He cleared his throat. “Now, let’s meet the children.”

Mr. Fry introduced the bigger boys in the back row. Half listening, Adelaide’s eyes remained riveted on the little blond-haired girl. At last, Mr. Fry gave her name. She stood along with an older boy beside her.

“Emma and William Grounds are brother and sister. Emma is seven, her brother, William, ten. Their father deserted his family years ago and their mother recently died. Both youngsters are in good health.” Emma and William clutched each other’s hands, their eyes conveyed a warning—they were a matched pair, not to be separated.

Mr. Fry continued down the row and the Grounds children sat down. Laying her head on her brother’s shoulder, Emma stuck two small fingers in her mouth. Two precious German children, whose father had left them, as hers had done. Adelaide yearned to pull them into her arms until that longing bordered on pain.

Oh, Lord, please bring these children into my life.

Mr. Fry instructed the selected couples to seek out the children and the meeting ended. Almost against her will, Adelaide moved toward the Grounds siblings. She froze when she spotted Frances and Ed Drummond, wearing black out of respect for Mrs. Hartman’s untimely death, talking to William and Emma.

As Adelaide watched, Emma tentatively took Frances’s hand. William sat silent, his arms hanging limp. A woman who’d accompanied the orphans on the train joined the couple and spoke to William. Apparently overcoming his hesitation, he took his sister’s other hand.

Disappointment slammed into Adelaide’s stomach. She swayed and sank onto a nearby chair.
Her
children were going to live with that angry man and his spiritless wife. Helpless to act, she watched the four of them cross to the registration table. The Drummonds signed a paper and left the room before a miracle could bring those children into her arms. Didn’t God care about them? About her?

Across the way, Judge and Mrs. Willowby left with a dark-eyed, curly-haired boy in tow. The same process repeated all around the room. Soon all the orphans were spoken for and on their way to new homes.

A heavy stone of misery sparked a sudden, uncustomary anger. Adelaide approached the table where the men who’d denied her application sifted through paperwork. “How could you allow the Drummonds to have the Grounds children?”

Mr. Paul, his face turning a deep shade of crimson, leapt to his feet. “Now see here, Miss Crum, it’s not your place to criticize the decisions of this committee!”

Mr. Wylie took Mr. Paul’s arm. “No need to raise your voice, Thaddeus.” He turned to Adelaide. “The Drummonds are fine people. Ed sits on the county council, helps his neighbors. You probably heard Mrs. Drummond recently lost her mother.” He grimaced. “A few years back, their only child died in a horrible accident. They deserve this new beginning.”

Face pinched, Mr. Sparks came around the table. “You’re mistaken about the Drummonds. They pay their bills and attend church.”