Jo Goodman (2 page)

The next minutes were an agony as the headmaster indicated the two boys and asked the question of the couple with careless indifference: "Will you have one or both of the others?” The man turned away from his wife and seemed to notice the boys for the first time. The woman did not glance in their direction.

"They're brothers," the headmaster said. "Colin. Decker. Come here and stand. You will make the acquaintance of Greydon's new parents."

Colin's last hope that the couple would not choose Grey vanished at the headmaster's words. Dutifully he stepped forward, Decker in tow. "How do you do, sir," he said gravely, extending his free hand to the man.

There was a surprised pause, then a low, appreciative chuckle from the man as he returned the handshake and greeting. Colin's narrow hand was swallowed in the man's larger one. In later years, try as he might, Colin could not put features to the man's face. It was the dry, firm handshake he remembered, the deep, lilting chuckle, and the momentary surge of hope he felt.

The man looked at his wife who was coaxing another smile from the baby in her arms. It was easy to see she was already in love with the child. There would be no difficulty passing the baby off as their own. No one among their family or friends would have to know it was an adoption.

"I'm afraid not," he said, letting go of Colin's hand. "My wife and I only wanted a baby." Because he was uncomfortable with two pairs of eyes looking up at him he added to the headmaster, "You shouldn't have brought them here. I told you from the first we were only interested in an infant."

The headmaster did not flinch under the rebuke. Instead he deflected it, turning his head sharply toward the boys and ordering them out of the room. His stiff, accusing tone made it seem that their presence in the office had never been his idea at all, but theirs.

Colin released Decker's hand. "It's all right," he said quietly. "You go."

Decker's wide blue eyes darted uncertainly between Colin and the headmaster. It was at Colin's urging, rather than the headmaster's stony glare, that Decker hurried from the room.

"I would like to say farewell to my brother," Colin said. He had a youthful voice, but the dark eyes were old well beyond his years and he stood his ground as though planted there.

The headmaster was prepared to come around his desk and bodily remove Colin. He looked to his guests for some indication of their wishes in the matter.

The man raised his hand briefly in a motion that kept the headmaster at bay. "Of course," he said. "Dear? This child would like to say good-bye to his brother."

With obvious reluctance the woman pulled her attention away from the baby. Her generous smile faded as she looked down at Colin. The dreamy, captivated expression in her blue eyes slipped away. "Oh, no," she said flatly. There was a hint of gray at the outer edge of her eyes, like the beginnings of ice on a lake. "I don't want that boy touching my baby. Look at him. Anyone can see he's sickly. He may harm the child."

It was as if he had been struck. The impact of the words caused Colin's thin body to vibrate. He could feel heat creeping into his cheeks as he flushed deeply with equal parts anger and shame. In that moment he knew he was standing there because he couldn't move, not because he didn't want to.

"Is the boy ill?" the man asked the headmaster. "My wife's right. He's very thin."

"He doesn't eat," the headmaster said. The glance he leveled at Colin darkened considerably and the warning was clear. "He's really had little appetite since he arrived. My wife believes the... um, incident... affected him more than the others. It's understandable, of course, being the oldest."

As if there were no other conversation in the room, Colin said again, "I'd like to hold my brother." This time he held up his arms.

The man prompted his wife gently. "Dear? Where can be the harm?"

She did not accede immediately, but considered her options for several long seconds. Colin watched her eyes shift briefly toward the door as though she were toying with the idea of fleeing the room. In the end she gave him the baby accompanied by a stiff, icy admonishment not to drop him.

Colin held his infant brother to his small chest, cradling the boy as he had on so many other occasions these past three months. Turning away from the adults, ignoring the woman's sharp intake of breath, Colin adjusted the baby's blankets and smoothed his muslin gown. "I'll find you," he said, his lips barely moving around the words. "I promise, I'll find you."

Greydon cooed obligingly and beat his small fist against Colin's shoulder.

"I think that's long enough," the man said as his wife took a step forward to hover over the brothers.

The headmaster addressed Colin. "Give Greydon back now."

Colin did not so much return his brother as his brother was taken from him. He did not wait to be dismissed a second time. He could not leave the headmaster's darkly paneled office quickly enough. His gait was stiff and his spine rigid. Only his lower lip trembled uncontrollably as he crossed the floor. He barely heard the woman's words and at the time didn't fully comprehend the impact they would have.

Tickling the baby's chin, she said softly, "I don't think I care for the name Greydon at all."

* * *

It was only three weeks later that Decker left Cunnington's Workhouse for Foundlings and Orphans. Colin had thought he would have a longer time with Decker. It was not so usual for four-year-old orphans to be placed with a family. The ones who could understand their fate at so young an age were reconciled to the prospect of servitude or apprenticeship. It seemed an infinitely more desirable alternative than remaining at Cunnington's until twelve years of age, then being put on London's unforgiving streets. A boy who didn't know how to fend for himself might be taught thievery if he was judged to be quick-witted and light-fingered by one of the London bands. If he caught a pimp's eye, however, he was more likely to learn the skin trade and ply his wares until his looks faded or disease wasted him.

Colin wanted none of those things for Decker so he was resigned to the fact that Decker's departure from Cunnington's was necessary, if not welcome. He wanted to be happier for his brother, thought he
should
be happier, but in his heart of hearts he knew he was also jealous. And afraid. And now alone.

The couple who chose Decker among the score of other children were a more satisfactory pair in Colin's eyes than the couple who had taken Grey. The wife was handsome, not pretty, but she had a serene smile and a quiet way about her that smoothed the anxious lines between Decker's brows and eased Colin's mind. Her husband was reserved but polite, a bit uncertain what to make of Decker's constant questioning until his wife said indulgently, "Why, answer him,
cher.
Just as you do me." That was when the man spoke. His voice was a deep, rich baritone, the edges of his words crisp and defined. It was a voice that inspired confidence and Colin guiltily wished that he might be chosen in place of his brother or at least that he might be permitted to accompany him.

The headmaster tried again. "Perhaps you will consider Decker's brother also?"

The woman's kind eyes alighted on Colin. Sadness and pain warred in her expression and then Colin flushed deeply, recognizing pity when it was turned in his direction. "We'd take them all if we could," she said to the headmaster.
"Ce n'est pas possible."

Her husband nodded. "She means it all," he said. "We would if we could. And the child must be healthy. There's the voyage to think of. We have a long trip ahead."

Colin slipped out of the headmaster's office quietly. In the dimly lighted hallway he sucked in a ragged breath and swallowed the hard, aching lump in his throat. If he closed his eyes he knew he would see the woman's piteous look. He didn't want her pity. In truth, he wanted her gratitude. Did she think her new son's sturdy little body was a happy accident of nature?

In anticipation of the evening meal, Colin's stomach actually growled. It had been a long time since he had heard that sound. In the months since coming to Cunnington's he had accustomed himself to eating less in order that his brothers might have more.

He had done what he could for them. Now he had to think of himself.

* * *

Malnourished and frail, his dark, opaque eyes like bits of hard coal in a gaunt face, Colin did not respond immediately or well to larger portions of dinner. Older boys who thought twice about tangling with him when he was championing his brothers, now found him an easy target. Soon he had little more to eat than when he was feeding Decker or Grey, and sometimes less.

Ten days after Decker was gone Colin developed a cough. At night in the chilly barracks, with one cot separated from another by mere inches, Colin kept the others awake with his deep, raspy hacking. He jammed a fist in his mouth to quell the sound but it wasn't enough. By the third night Jamie Ferguson and John Turley had worked out a plan of their own. When Colin started coughing they rose quietly from their beds, placed a blanket over his head, and took turns beating him with their fists. The following night there was no need to use physical force. They simply laid a pillow over his face and held it there until he went limp.

It was Mrs. Cunnington who first suggested that Colin's size might lend itself to a particular occupation. He was tall, it was true, but that was of little consequence. It was the width of his shoulders and narrowness of his frame that mattered. The headmaster, keen to be rid of Colin, was easily persuaded.

So it came to pass that he was apprenticed as a sweep. Although he displayed a remarkable aptitude for shinnying up and down chimney flues, he was too easily exhausted. His bright yellow hair, once so lovingly tousled by his mother's fingertips, disappeared beneath a film of greasy soot. Colin's unnaturally flushed complexion was hidden by ash and grime and the bruises he received from regular beatings were indistinguishable from streaks of coal dust.

He was returned to Cunnington's in a few weeks without fulfilling the terms of his apprenticeship. Mr. Cunnington cuffed him on the ears while his wife soundly scolded him. Colin's head rang without respite for twenty-four hours.

"I can't say that I like the idea of him living
here
until he's twelve," Mrs. Cunnington said. She set down her embroidery work, folded her hands on her lap, and looked at her husband expectantly. "He has the
most
accusing eyes. Had
you
noticed that?"

Indeed he had. The headmaster continued to clean his pipe.

"As if it were
our
fault that his wretched parents died. We
have
done our part. Everyone
knows
we have." Mrs. Cunnington could not speak without giving emphasis to at least one word. She believed it lent weight to her opinions. "I should say, they
could
have provided for their children. It was
obvious
they had the means to do so."

Mr. Cunnington laid his pipe cleaner aside and began to pack the pipe with tobacco. He felt the same disappointment his wife did. They had both pinned some hopes on finding relatives of Colin, Decker, and Grey. Using their own money they had placed ads in the London papers which described the three brothers and the circumstances of their parents' demise. No one had ever come forward to lay claim to the boys or suggest they might know the whereabouts of relatives.

It was the boys' clothes and Colin's polite and articulate manner that led the Cunningtons to believe there might be deep pockets in the family's coat of arms. No one at the Burnside Inn on the post road north of London knew anything about the family who had stopped only briefly for dinner. Thirty minutes after leaving the inn their carriage had been met by highwaymen. Murder was not the usual end to these encounters but there were always exceptions. The highwaymen made just such an exception for the boys' mother and father and their driver. Not knowing what else to do with three newly orphaned children, the local authorities sent the brothers to Cunnington's Workhouse.

The Cunningtons questioned Colin for facts about his family and upbringing but they found the stories somewhat fanciful and gradually came to believe an eight-year-old could not be counted on to know or tell the truth. The special attention given the brothers in the early days gradually waned and soon they were treated no better or worse than any other of the workhouse's charges.

When the headmaster finished packing his pipe he lighted it and puffed several times to begin the draw. Satisfied at last, his exhalation was more like a sigh. "You're right, of course," he said. He had learned it was always better to tell his wife she was right, even when he had every intention of disagreeing with her. Tonight, however, it was not his intention. "He can't stay here. He can't work, and I fear the consumption may infect the others."

Mrs. Cunnington's eyes widened. "Consumption?" They would have to get rid of Colin if that was the case. They couldn't wait for the boy to die. Too many other children might take ill. Why, they themselves were vulnerable. The workhouse would close and they would lose everything. "Do you
really
think it could be?"

He shrugged and drew on his pipe again.

To Mrs. Cunnington's way of thinking her husband was too indifferent. It could only mean that he had given the situation some thought and had decided on a course of action:
"Tell
me your plan."

* * *