My Heart Remembers (12 page)

She frowned. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

He laughed out loud.

Turning away from him, she put her hand on top of her camera. “I’ve got one slide left. Would you like your picture taken? Just a follow-up to the others I shot this afternoon.”

“I noticed you snapping away back here. What, may I ask, are you planning to do with the photos you took?”

“Hopefully talk the newspaper into buying them for use in a feature story.”

Jackson heaved a sigh. “I hope they will, but so far no one’s given this effort a great deal of attention.”

“Well, as I said, one left . . . You can get your picture taken or not.”

Jackson stroked his chin, examining her as if seeking hidden motives. “May I invite others to join me in that picture?”

“Sure.” Maelle lifted the plate and got her camera ready.

Jackson turned his back on her and cupped his hands beside his mouth. “Aaron! Petey! Would you come here, please?”

The husky man who had asked Maelle to share what she’d seen removed himself from a small gathering. He held out his hand to a little boy with thin cheeks, shaggy blond hair, and enormous blue eyes, and the pair joined Jackson.

“We’re going to have our picture taken by—” Jackson turned a puzzled expression in Maelle’s direction. “I didn’t get your name.”

“You can call me Mike,” Maelle said.

“Mike?” The tone used by the young lawyer indicated amusement. “And that is short for . . . ?”

“Michael.”

Jackson’s laughter boomed.
“Michael?”

Being laughed at normally offended her, but Maelle fought a smile. She sensed no insult was intended. “My uncle wanted a boy, so he called me Mike.”

The other man—Aaron—said, “Well, Mike, you did us a great service here today. We got twenty-two signatures!”

“That’s wonderful!” Jackson clapped Aaron on the back. “So a photograph is a perfect way to celebrate our success.” Looking at Maelle, he held out his arms in query. “Where do you want us?”

Maelle rounded the camera and took control. When it came to shooting people, Richard had taught her composition was everything. Balance. Shadows. Filled spaces and open spaces. All of these ideas flitted through her mind as she angled Jackson so the sun glinted off his raven hair and brought out his chiseled features. Pointing to a spot in the grass, she instructed Aaron and Petey to position themselves opposite Jackson, as if prepared to engage in conversation, with little Petey in the center of the group.

Rather than having the trio look at the camera, she put a petition in Jackson’s hand and said, “All of you, look at the paper.” When they followed her direction, she smiled in satisfaction.

The contrast of white paper against the framing background of dark clothing pleased Maelle’s artist-eye, and she snapped the shot without another word. Slipping the plate from the camera, she put it in the box with the others. Then she picked up her camera and headed for her wagon.

Footsteps pounded behind her. “Wait! Wait!”

She didn’t slow her pace, just glanced over her shoulder.

“What?”

Jackson Harders charged to her side. “I didn’t get a chance to find out where I can retrieve my finished photograph.”

Maelle stopped. “Maybe you can help me with that. I need to park my wagon somewhere. I sleep in it.”

His gaze went briefly to the boxy enclosed carriage with
Watts Photography
painted on the side. “That’s your home?”

Maelle gave a shrug in response.

He stroked his mustache with two fingers. “You’re welcome to park it behind my office building. There’s an alley that doesn’t get much attention. No one will bother you. If you need water, I can give you a key to the back door.”

Maelle backed up a step. “You’re awfully trusting with someone you’ve just met.”

“Well, I don’t make that offer to just anyone, but . . .”

She tipped her head. Her braid swung across her shoulder, and she pushed it back with a flip of her wrist. “But?” she prompted.

He met her gaze. “But I believe you’re trustworthy. As a lawyer, I’ve learned how to read a person’s character by looking him in the eyes. I’d bet my last dollar you won’t let me down.”

Traveling with Richard, never making friends, always being looked at as an oddity with her strange mode of dress and gypsy way of living, she’d never heard such kind words. She cleared her throat. “Well, you’re right. I’m not a thief. And I appreciate the offer.” Taking in a deep breath, she asked, “So . . . where’s your office?”

He pointed to the towering brick building where she’d parked her wagon. “Here.”

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

Molly

Shay’s Ford, Missouri

March, 1903

A
strange buzzing sound crept through Isabelle’s mind, rousing her from a restless sleep. Eyes still closed, she scrunched her brow and listened, attempting to recognize the odd noise.

Over the past several days, she’d become accustomed to the mournful call of foghorns, the street noises, the clanking pipes, and the scurrying feet of little creatures in the storeroom beside her tiny bedroom. But this sound—an odd whistle offset by a discordant buzz—was new. The only correlation she could find in her memory was the grinding of chain gears on an elevator.

There was no elevator in Rowley Market.

As she tried to reason another source for the sound, something moved at the foot of the bed, bumping against her toes. A rat? Her eyes popped open and she sat upright. Blinking, she stared at a lump not made by a rat, but something much larger—a shifting lump, with appendages flopping in various directions. The whistle-buzz emanated from the lump.

Her sleep-fuzzy brain awakened in a burst of terror. Some sort of animal had found its way to her bed and now slept at her feet! Isabelle let out a screech and curled herself against the iron headboard, the blankets crushed to her chest like a shield.

The creature’s appendages—four of them—shot straight outward from its body, and it released a yelp. Then the creature seemed to pull itself together and sit up, and finally Isabelle’s eyes adjusted enough to the murky darkness to make out a head, body, arms, and legs. The creature was a child!

She nearly melted with relief. But what was a child doing in her bed?

“Who’re you?”

Had she heard correctly? Was this child questioning her? Tugging the blanket to her chin, she assumed a haughty tone. “Who am I? Perhaps you should explain who you are!”

A hand came up to scratch the head. “I’m Petey, o’ course.”

Although Isabelle was greatly relieved she wasn’t under attack by a wild animal, she still resented the interruption of her sleep. Her words snapped out. “And what are you doing in my bed?”

The little head tipped. “Sleepin’.”

At that moment the door flung open and light spilled into the room, illuminating both Isabelle and her uninvited guest. In the yellow glow from the lantern, she now saw that Petey was thin, blond-haired, and had a spattering of freckles on his dirty face. When he scratched his head again, she emitted a huff of worry. No doubt this scruffy child was infested with lice, and now her bed would need to be completely deloused. What a chore!

Turning to the holder of the lantern, she launched a complaint. “Mr. Rowley, I was not aware my bed would be a stopping point for street urchins. I’ve had quite a fright.”

Instead of addressing her, Mr. Rowley aimed his gaze at the boy. His round face shone with pleasure. “Petey, the missus an’ me have been prayin’ you’d come back. Where’ve you been, son?”

Isabelle gawked as the child sprang from the bed and raced across the short expanse of floor to wrap his skinny arms around Mr. Rowley’s bulk.

“I got stuck on the other side o’ town. Ol’ Blackie snatched me up, but I wiggled away. Come back here. I can stay, right?”

“’Course you can!”

As touching as she found the reunion, Isabelle worried about the quick agreement.
Where
would this child stay? Not at the foot of her bed!

“We’ll fix you up a little pallet in the storeroom.”

Isabelle sighed, relieved. From the looks of the child, he’d fought off worse things than rats. He’d do fine in the storeroom.

Mr. Rowley turned his attention to Isabelle. “Miss Standler, I apologize for Petey slippin’ in on ya. I’ll see that he don’t bother ya again. An’, Petey”—he raised one eyebrow as he looked at the child—“you spread the word that no others are to come creepin’ in here an’ botherin’ Miss Standler. Tell ’em the sleepin’ room is closed.”

The child nodded, his smile bright. “Yes, sir, I’ll tell ’em!”

Isabelle shook her head. How many people had access to this room? She would need to spend a bit of her earned money and purchase a lock for the door. The fragile sense of security she’d built in her few days here was now shattered, thanks to the intrusion of one small street urchin.

“We’ll leave you to get back to sleep, Miss Standler.” Mr. Rowley nodded his head in her direction. “Come along, Petey.” Holding the child by the hand, he slipped out and closed the door behind him, sealing her in darkness.

Isabelle lay back against the single pillow and flopped her arms outside the blankets. Although tired, she couldn’t get back to sleep. Worry that someone else might come sneaking in while she slept kept her eyelids wide open. She stared at the ceiling and listened to the mumbled voices of Mr. Rowley and the child, scraping sounds of boxes being dragged across the floor, and finally the click of a door latch. Shortly, the same whistle-buzz that had wakened her came again, muffled by the plaster-andlath wall separating her room from the storeroom.

She sighed. How she wished the child would cease his annoying snore so she could sleep. Lying awake gave her too much time to think. And thinking always led to sadness. Which led to anger.

Her days, thanks to the Rowleys’ offer of employment, were full, busy, and less discordant than those spent in the Drumfeld household. No one scolded or criticized. Even when she made mistakes, such as dumping a fifty-pound sack of potatoes onto the floor, Mr. Rowley merely laughed and helped her put things right again. These employers were certainly different from the Drumfelds, and Isabelle appreciated their gentle spirits.

But as much as she liked them, she still wished desperately she were at home in Kansas City with Mama and Papa. How she missed the life she had left behind, and her heart still ached for her parents. Parents . . .

As had happened too frequently in the past weeks, the thought of parents immediately led to the Bible and the names penned inside the cover. Was it possible Angus and Brigid Gallagher were her true parents?

“No!” She moaned the word aloud. Reginald and Rebecca Standler were her parents. Wouldn’t Mama have told her if it weren’t so? Of course she would have! Isabelle could not understand where Randolph had secured all those false documents and the Bible, but she would never—
never!
—believe she was anyone but Isabelle Rebecca Standler, child of Reginald and Rebecca. And she would find a way to return to her home in Kansas City someday. That was her rightful heritage.

Rolling onto her side, she curled her body into a ball and pinched her eyes closed. The nighttime noises continued, and she pressed the now-familiar sounds to the back of her mind, allowing them to become a dissonant lullaby. Slowly drowsiness took hold, easing her closer to dreamland. But hovering on the fringes of consciousness were the names Angus and Brigid.

“What I don’t understand,” Isabelle said, lifting a spoonful of oatmeal to her lips, “is why a child Petey’s age is creeping around at night, unattended.”

Across the table, Aaron released a sigh. “Petey spends days
and
nights unattended.”

Isabelle shot him a sharp look. “Days? Shouldn’t he be in school?”

“Of course he should!” Mr. Rowley’s booming voice filled the tiny kitchen. “But when you don’t got parents to provide for ya, ya have to take care of yourself. An’ that’s what the little paperboys like Petey do. Provide for themselves.”

Isabelle plunked her spoon back into the bowl, her appetite gone. “Do you mean to tell me there are more of these children wandering the streets? But why?”

Mrs. Rowley put down her coffee mug and fixed Isabelle with a serious look. “Lots of reasons. Some of them are orphans— their parents are gone, and there’s no one to care for them. Some have been put out by their parents—there are more children in the family than the parents can afford, so they push the biggest ones out. That’s what Petey says happened to him.”

Isabelle’s jaw dropped. “Petey? But . . . but the child can’t be more than five years old!”

“He’s seven,” Aaron put in, “but small for his age.”

Isabelle shook her head. “Five, seven—either way, he’s far too young to be left on his own.”

The warm look Aaron sent her made her heart skip a beat. She quickly turned to Mr. Rowley. “Last night when Petey . . . invaded . . . my bed, he mentioned he’d wiggled loose from Old Blackie. What did he mean?”

Mr. Rowley swallowed a bite of cinnamon bun before answering. “Ol’ Blackie is a man who lives t’other side of the river. He owns a ferry, but he doesn’t work much. Uses it mostly to transport his gang of boys to the city, where they collect rags an’ bottles an’ do a little stealin’ on the side. The boys’ efforts feed Ol’ Blackie. He’s always lookin’ to add another to his flock. Petey, bein’ new in town, as well as small an’ defenseless, probably got grabbed up by some of the bigger boys. His newspaper sellin’ would be a good source of income for Ol’ Blackie.”

Isabelle cringed, envisioning some grimy old man forcing Petey to hand over his wages. And, according to Mr. Rowley, Petey had parents who should be caring for him. It made no sense at all! Her voice sounded shrill as she turned to Mrs. Rowley and asked, “What kind of parent simply pushes a child out the door?”

Mr. Rowley cleared his throat and reached for another bun from the plate in the middle of the table. “Lots of ’em are from immigrant families. They come to America for better opportunities, an’ what they find is crowded cities an’ jobs that don’t pay enough to feed the family. So the youngsters have to get out on their own. Or they go to work, too, an’ give the money to their folks to help out. Either way, the little ’uns have it rough.”

The word “immigrants” taunted Isabelle. Randolph had indicated she was the child of Irish immigrants. If that were true, and if the Standlers hadn’t taken her in, would she have been like one of these vagrant children, selling papers or matches on a street corner to survive? She pushed the thought aside.

“In these enlightened times, children shouldn’t spend their days running wild, fending for themselves, or toiling at a job.” She sat back and crossed her arms. “Something should be done.”

Mrs. Rowley shrugged and lifted her coffee mug for a sip. “Well, there’s orphanages, but they can’t meet all the needs. We used to—” She jerked, shooting a panicked look across the table.

Isabelle glanced at Mr. Rowley. The man’s brows pulled low and his eyes sent a warning to his wife. When she looked at Aaron, he appeared uncomfortable, his head down, his lips set in a firm line.

Her heart pattered. Swallowing, Isabelle prodded, “You used to . . . ?”

Mrs. Rowley seemed to beseech her husband with her eyes. Mr. Rowley gave a nod, and the woman took a deep breath before answering. “For several months we allowed the homeless boys to sleep in the market at night an’ gave them a warm breakfast of buns an’ coffee or tea.”

An odd feeling wiggled down Isabelle’s spine. She spoke slowly. “Other than Petey, I’ve not seen any children here in the market.”

Mrs. Rowley sent her husband another sidelong glance before continuing. “Well, Mary never seemed to mind havin’ the children underfoot, but we weren’t sure about you, so . . .”

Heat filled Isabelle’s face. The Rowleys had stopped providing shelter to the children because of her. The moments of panic when Randolph had told her she must go away replayed themselves. It had been horrible to know she had no home— no one who cared. And now, because of her, children who’d previously at least known the comfort of a pallet were sleeping out on the streets.

She pressed her palms to her chest. “I never meant for you to . . . Why would you assume . . . ? Oh . . .” She choked out, “P-please excuse me.” And she fled the table.

Closed in her tiny room, she sank down on the bed and fingered the brass lock she’d selected from the market shelves only that morning. She had intended to ask Aaron to install it to ensure her privacy. Suddenly she had the urge to throw the lock across the room. But how ridiculous would that be? It would change nothing for the children.

Rising, she crossed to the little bureau that held her few belongings. On top rested the Gallaghers’ Bible. She touched it with trembling fingertips. Biting down on her lower lip, she lifted the cover and slid her finger along the list—Angus, Brigid, Maelle, Matthew, Molly . . . A family. An immigrant family.

According to the documents Randolph had given her from the orphans’ home in New York, the Gallagher parents hadn’t willingly thrust their children into the cold. The children had gone to the orphanage because their parents had died.

But no! She was
not
Molly Gallagher.

Squaring her shoulders, she made a decision. She was a Standler, and a Standler gave to charity. Hadn’t Mama and Papa preached that those who were blessed were duty-bound to share with the less fortunate? These little children who sold newspapers to survive were certainly in need of charity. If no one else was going to help them, she would. She had nothing of value of her own to offer, yet after watching Mama gather items for the destitute, Isabelle knew what to do.

She counted her paces across the room, gaining a rough measurement of the width and length. Standing in the middle of the room, she plotted out the available space. If she pushed her bed and bureau along one wall, it would open up the opposite wall to store boxes of clothes, shoes, bedding, and food staples. She cringed—it would be dreadfully crowded, but she could bear it for the sake of the children.

Tonight she would ready her room, and tomorrow she would begin visiting local businesses. She would also go door-to-door through the prestigious housing districts of Shay’s Ford and solicit assistance. People like the Drumfelds had more than enough. It wouldn’t hurt them to share. Those little street urchins would have warm clothing, blankets, and full bellies by the time she was finished.

Charging out the door, she called, “Aaron? I need your help.”