4 

The hydrangea bushes in the front were bigger than Sarah remembered. The main door was painted a deeper shade of red. Otherwise the place looked the same. The wide alley on one side hosted boys oblivious to their unkempt state as they played a makeshift game of base ball. Sarah had not discovered the appeal of the game, but the orphanage never lacked for boys who wanted to play.

The brick of St. Andrew’s Orphanage stacked four stories high in symmetrical, boxed precision. The structure oozed large-scale efficiency, a down payment on the internal workings of the institution.

Standing at the curb outside the building, Sarah could have described the floor plan—the offices, kitchen, dining hall, staff housing, and classrooms of the first floor. More classrooms occupied the second floor, and dormitories for more than four hundred children the top stories. Sarah saw the muslin curtain on a fourth-floor corner window flutter. That was the girls’ side. For the last two years of her residency at St. Andrew’s, Sarah had managed to situate her bed under that window. This had not been an easy achievement. The location was a popular niche, and other girls claimed they had more rights to the exclusive assignment, but Sarah had wormed her way in and held strong.

In reality, the curtain did little to diminish light or ensure privacy. Sarah supposed it was meant as a homey accent to mysteriously cheer the sixteen girls who slept in the room and kept their minimalist belongings in three narrow drawers each. The curtains never fooled Sarah. Muslin. She could think of no fabric more utilitarian. Certainly it was nothing like the gathered gingham or calico curtains her mother used to decorate the kitchen and bedrooms of their home, or the velvet drapes that adorned the dining room and front parlor. Muslin was nothing more than a lining, never meant to be seen.

Each day seemed a duplicate of the day before in regimented routine with hundreds of children going to classes and eating meals. In the static nights of the dormitory, Sarah used to kneel on her bed, push the useless curtain out of the way, and stare out.

It was not as if she could see much. The neighborhood around the south side orphanage included office buildings, a warehouse, a factory, and a row of stores with apartments above the shops, all limiting a view of the night sky. However, even watching the comings and goings on the streets below—and there was a surprising amount of activity given the hours of her vigil—reminded Sarah of where she had come from and that she was not, at heart, an abandoned orphan. She would never accept that identity. Not then. Not now.

She had stood in this same spot eight years ago. The exact spot.

As she remembered the day she arrived at St. Andrew’s, Sarah’s breath went shallow. She bustled home from school that afternoon with an elaborate tale to tell about Margaret Eddington, only to find a neighbor sitting stiffly in the kitchen. The fragrance of her mother’s bread, a standard on Tuesday afternoons, was absent. The facts of the situation were bald and brief. Her parents’ carriage had overturned in the street. They had been dead for nearly six hours. Arrangements had already been made for Sarah to go to St. Andrew’s. There was no one else to take her, the neighbor explained. At the orphanage her needs would be taken care of and she would get a sound education. Within minutes Sarah had stood in this spot on the curb trying to imagine living inside the building before her. Without her parents. Without anyone.

Was it really only two days ago that she had sat across the table from Bradley Townsend? In the darkness, their faces lifted to the dazzling fireworks, he had whispered that he wanted to see her again. While hoping that she encouraged his interest, nevertheless she had declined his offer to escort her home. How could she accept? He wanted to see Serena Cuthbert, not Sarah Cummings.

In her mind, though, the two had already begun to blur.

Simon saw her through the window of his office and watched her while he tried to think of a replacement for the minister who had canceled for Sunday. He did not like the thought that the children might not have a church service if he did not find someone on short notice. Sarah Cummings, he remembered, was never fond of the Sunday services, but perhaps she had grown into them by now.

For the longest time, Sarah stood perfectly still, and Simon could only imagine what must be slicing through her. She was nearing twenty and had grown into a lovely young woman—at least, from what he could see. Clearly she took great care with her hair, which wound around her face with breathless luster. Even in this moment, when he could see bewilderment rising in her face, her shoulders were back and posture erect. Her form curved in all the right places, hardly a hint left of the bony girl she had been at thirteen, the first time he met her. Essentially she was a stranger now—but a captivating stranger.

By the time Simon arrived at St. Andrew’s, Sarah was already sullen and obstinate, and he supposed she had been that way from her first day. He had come straight from earning his college degree at age twenty-one, not much older than Sarah was now. He knew little about large social institutions and even less about children, but Philip Emmett, the orphanage director, was eager to take on an assistant director to help manage the swelling number of orphans. When he stepped through the front door on the first day, Sarah Cummings dutifully had asked how she could help him. Although she could not have been less interested in why he was there, she escorted him to Philip Emmett’s office and announced him as she had been trained to do. Something about her made Simon pay attention even then.

Sarah was a bright student, but a disinterested one, and eventually Philip Emmett was resigned that her progress was not satisfactory enough for the orphanage to continue to underwrite her education. At sixteen, it was time for her to leave. Lucy Banning Edwards, a frequent volunteer at St. Andrew’s, suggested that Sarah work for her family while she sorted herself out, and Simon oversaw the transition. Lucy remained heavily involved with St. Andrew’s, so Simon could ask after Sarah Cummings on a regular basis. Her obstinate edge had rounded off, according to Mrs. Edwards, and Flora Banning made sure Sarah had plenty of gowns to experiment with. Once her high spirits settled down, she could train with an established dressmaker.

Frankly, no one expected Sarah Cummings would remain three years at the Bannings’. Most of the domestic staff on Prairie Avenue barely lasted a year and a half before looking for a position that paid a bit more or offered slightly less taxing duties or more promising accommodations. Simon himself had planned to work only a couple of years in Chicago and move on. Yet here they both were, maybe for a reason.

Now Simon held the director position at St. Andrew’s. Both his life and Sarah’s had changed. Unquestionably, he was curious about what would transpire when she came through the door. She was no child anymore, and he was ready to consider a settled future.

A knock pulled his attention from the window to his office door.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Tewell,” fourteen-year-old Jane Porter said, “Mrs. Edwards said you wanted us to address some envelopes, but she does not have the address list.”

Simon rummaged through a pile at the edge of the desk and extracted the fund-raising list. He flipped through the pages to double-check whether it was complete before handing it to the unsmiling girl.

“Did she show you which envelopes to use?” he asked.

“The large cream-colored ones,” Jane said flatly. “For invitations.”

“You’re doing a very good job helping in the office, Jane,” Simon said. “You always have. Mrs. Edwards depends on you heavily.”

“Yes, Mr. Tewell.” Jane turned to leave with the list. “I’ll use the pen with the fine-point nib.”

Jane reminded Simon of Sarah. The girl was one of the reasons he wanted to see Sarah and present his proposal.

Sarah finally pulled her feet out of the invisible cement that seemed to encase them and approached the red door. Unsure whether being a former resident meant she could simply walk in, she opted to pull the bell. Three years was a long time to presume.

A moment later, the door opened, and Sarah looked into a pair of dark, questioning eyes.

They stared at each other for a moment.

“Jane?” Sarah ventured.

The girl nodded and squinted as she examined the visitor. “I remember you. You used to live here. You were one of the older girls. You had your bed under the corner window.”

Sarah managed a smile. “That’s me. Sarah Cummings. I guess you’re one of the older girls now. Are you going to high school?”

Jane nodded. “I’m going to finish no matter what.”

“It’s good to have a goal,” Sarah said. “I’ve come to see Mr. Tewell. Is he available?”

“I’ll tell him you’re here.” Jane turned on her heel. “Follow me, please.”

Nothing in the main hall had changed, a fact that made Sarah cringe. One corridor led to the dining room, another to classrooms, and a third to the administrative offices. The same sorts of notices about rules and schedules were tacked to the walls at irregular intervals. Following Jane was like following herself. How many visitors had she led down this route?

They walked past the volunteer office where Lucy Banning Edwards organized a variety of tasks. Sarah had lost track of the schedule Lucy kept for her volunteer work and was relieved not to find her behind the desk just then. She wanted to attend to Simon’s inquiry and leave as quickly as possible—preferably without obliging.

She did not want to be there.

Jane rapped lightly on the open office door and said, “Miss Sarah Cummings to see you, sir.”

“Ah, Sarah, welcome.” Simon stood and came around the desk to shake Sarah’s hand. “Thank you, Jane.”

“I’ll work on the envelopes now.” Jane meekly disappeared, closing the door behind her.

“I’m pleased you could come.” Simon gestured to a chair.

She took a seat and removed her white gloves. The beadwork down the fingers had taken her every evening for two weeks, but she knew it was as skilled as any money could buy. She wore a deep scarlet chintz suit trimmed with a gray braid, having refused the notion that she should enter the halls of her past in a maid’s uniform.

“It was delightful to run into you at the park,” Simon said. “I was unsure whether I would recognize you after all this time. You have changed considerably.”

Sarah moved slightly in her chair, not at all sure she liked the way Simon Tewell was looking at her. Surely he did not think she would be personally interested in him.

“Your notes did not say what you wanted to see me about,” Sarah said.

Simon redirected his gaze, cleared his throat, and took his own chair behind his desk. “I would like to ask a favor. You’ve done well since leaving St. Andrew’s, and I believe you can offer something we badly need.”

Sarah refused to let her eyes widen, but could not quell the rush of blood to her head. Done well? Because she’d progressed from a kitchen maid to a parlor maid? Mr. Tewell’s suggestion did not merit an answer.

“Mrs. Edwards tells me repeatedly that you do wonderful things with a swatch of fabric and spool of thread.” Simon turned a palm up. “I’d like to explore whether some of the older girls might learn to sew, and I cannot think of anyone I’d be more pleased to have teach them.”

“Teach them?” Sarah echoed vaguely.

“An organized class,” he said, “perhaps once a week. You could come in and meet with a small group of girls. If it works well, we can consider what it might lead to.”

“But Mr. Tewell—Simon—you know I am in service.” She nearly choked on speaking those words aloud. “Surely you understand I have little time to call my own.”

He nodded. “I’m asking a great deal of you. I would be willing to speak to the Bannings on your behalf and arrange their cooperation.”

This was Lucy’s idea, Sarah realized. Simon was far too confident it could be arranged.

Aloud she said calmly, “I do not want to prevail on the Bannings. Surely Mrs. Edwards could arrange a volunteer. Many of the women she knows dedicate long hours to needlework.”

“Yes, many do take up needlework as a leisure activity, but I believe that’s a different skill than constructing garments. Also, I’d like the girls to see an example of a girl from St. Andrew’s who has achieved something commendable.”

Had he dared to call her “a girl from St. Andrew’s”? Sarah squirmed and resettled her hands.

Simon continued. “I’m told you are skilled enough that you could easily find employment in a dressmaker’s shop, or even open your own shop one day.”

Sarah remembered the way Bradley Townsend had smiled at her when they said good night after the last of the fireworks. A man like Brad would not notice a shop girl, but he had noticed Serena Cuthbert.

“I realize it’s unlikely you’ve ever thought about teaching a sewing class, but I would ask you to seriously consider it now,” Simon said. “It would be an opportunity for you to make a significant difference in the lives of these girls. You might use the gifts God gave you to inspire some of them to consider a future they haven’t imagined before.”

A future as a dressmaker was not the future Sarah imagined. And she had worked hard on her talent. What did God have to do with it?

“Mr. Tewell—Simon—I’m not sure this is a practical idea for the sake of the girls. I appreciate that you’ve thought of me, but—”

“May I show you the space?” Simon stood. “You would have full use of a classroom here on the first floor. You can leave sewing projects in process and I assure you they will not be disturbed. I’ll personally ensure that the room stays locked.”

“I appreciate the extent to which you’ve thought about this, but I’m afraid I cannot manage what you propose.”

“At least let me show you the room.” Simon gestured toward the door.

Sarah swallowed. “Perhaps on my way out.” If she agreed to see the classroom, at least she would be out of this office.

Simon tucked one hand into a patch pocket on his jacket. “We’ll go now. You’ll remember the room, I’m sure. It used to be the library, but we’ve expanded the library into a larger space on the second floor.”

Sarah stood up now as well. Simon opened the door, then stepped aside for Sarah to go through.

He led her across the main hall and down the side corridor that led to the classrooms.

“There’s even a sewing machine,” Simon said brightly as they walked. “It was donated to us just a month ago.”

“Actually, I have never used a sewing machine,” Sarah said.

“Then you might enjoy experimenting with this one.”

Simon unlocked a door and stepped aside. Sarah entered the room slowly, and Simon had to admit to himself he had no idea what her movements meant. She might simply be polite and look around before reiterating that she would not teach the class. But he hoped not. This opportunity certainly would be good for the girls, perhaps even change their lives, but also it would guarantee he could see Sarah Cummings on a regular basis.

Sarah paced around the room, trailed her fingers on the long table, and opened a couple of cabinets.

“The cupboards would remain,” Simon said. “We can bring in more storage if you require it.”

“I don’t know anything about teaching a class.” Sarah closed a cabinet firmly.

“You know what it’s like to live here and wonder what your future will be.” Simon met the gaze of her brown eyes. “That will carry you far.”

“I’ve been gone a long time now,” Sarah said. “My life has moved on.”

“How about one class?” Simon suggested. If she hoped he was going to give up easily, she would find out how stubborn he could be. “Just see how it feels.”

Simon stood with both hands in his jacket pockets, waiting for the next excuse she would raise. He would answer every one.

Sarah pressed her lips together and twisted her mouth to one side. “I suppose I could show them some basic stitches.” She looked around the room again. “What about fabric?”

“Donations.” The door was open. She was going to do it.