JOHN STOOD IN the shop and watched the workers disappear when the quitting whistle blew. “Who is that young woman?” he asked Driscoll. While her beauty had stunned him, her fire and compassion impressed him even more.
“Edward’s new governess.”
Aware his mouth had dropped open, John shut it. “Miss Adeline Sullivan?”
“Indeed. I do wish she hadn’t gotten involved in this. Henry will be livid.”
“Someone should have gotten involved long ago.”
The foreman had vanished into his office after handing Addie the first-aid box and didn’t return. John glanced at the other little girl. Doria stood off to one side with her hands clasped. Her lips quivered and she stared at the floor.
He saw a movement. “Here they come now.” John watched Miss Sullivan and Brigitte weave through the sewing machines and tables of fabric. The child chattered to Addie, who seemed to be paying grave attention to the little girl. He studied her neat attire and the fiery lights in her hair.
“Ready to go?” Driscoll said when she reached them.
“I’d like to explain to their mother what happened,” Addie said, her voice pleading for Driscoll’s understanding. “She lives just across the street.”
The husky, feminine voice had a confident quality that gave John pause. Her auburn hair glowed with vitality. Her eyes caught his, and he nearly gasped. Thick lashes framed eyes as green as a lily pad, and the flecks of gold in their depths lit them from within. Or maybe it was the compassion that shimmered there. Such purity, such empathy.
“Miss Sullivan? I’m Lieutenant John North.”
She put her hand to her mouth. “My employer? I suspected as much. I’m afraid I’m not making the best first impression on you.”
“On the contrary. I’m quite taken with your desire to help these children.” He held the door open for them, then stepped into the slanting light of the sun. “It’s good of you to care.” Katherine had never noticed the poor around her. And why was he comparing Miss Sullivan to his dead wife? “You needn’t trouble yourself,” he told Driscoll. “I’ll handle this.”
Buggies clattered down the cobblestone street, and he waited for an opening before guiding the governess and the children to the other side. The five-story tenement was down a dark alley. Mortar had chipped from between some of the bricks, and one of the chimneys lay on its side on the roof. The faded paint and gouges in the door attested to the building’s age and lack of upkeep.
He held the door open for Miss Sullivan and the children. Though he didn’t say anything, he frowned. Addie shrugged and went past him up the stairs littered with paper and dried mud. The place stank of body odor, tobacco, and stale food. The banister wobbled when he touched it, and he opted to ascend without its assistance.
Brigitte and Doria scampered up the stairs like squirrels. Brigitte kept turning to see where the adults were, then dashing ahead a few more steps.
“How far?” he called.
“One more floor. We’re on the top,” Brigitte said.
He shouldn’t be winded climbing five floors, but the stairwell had no ventilation, and the odors intensified as they rose. The last few steps left him breathless and longing for the cleansing coolness of the redwood forest.
The stench of cooked cabbage hung in the air. Doria’s face grew pinched as she approached the first door on the left. The latch plate was bent, and he wondered if someone had kicked in the door. It wasn’t locked, and the knob turned when the child laid her hand on it.
“Mama?” Doria called. “I have visitors.” She held open the door. Her sister had grabbed Addie’s hand and clung to it as they paused on the threshold.
He took Brigitte’s hand and brushed past Miss Sullivan but left the door open. This place needed all the fresh air it could get. She followed with the dog, who rushed past her to the parlor.
Doria beckoned to him. Her face brightened when he stepped into the tiny parlor. “Mama’s getting up. She was in the bedroom.”
He glanced around the room. Sparse, threadbare furnishings, no decorations, paint that was streaked with soot. He heard a sound and turned to see a gaunt woman hurrying toward him. She wore a dressing gown that might have been white once but was now a blotchy gray. Her hair hung untidily from her bun, and she shoved it out of her face as she came.
The dog padded forward to greet her and licked her hand. She patted his head. “Is Brigitte all right?” she asked in a tremulous voice.
“She had a puncture from the needle,” he said. “Please don’t trouble yourself. Brigitte said you’d been ill. I’m sorry. I didn’t introduce myself. I’m John North.”
“I’m Nann Whittaker. Thank you for bringing my girls home, Lieutenant North.” Her gaze went past him to Miss Sullivan, who had retrieved her dog’s leash.
“I’m Addie Sullivan,” the young woman said. “I tended to Brigitte’s wound. It’s quite minor. The iodine should stave off any infection.”
“You’re too kind,” Mrs. Whittaker murmured.
He put his hand on the child’s head. “They’re much too young to be working on machines.”
Mrs. Whittaker’s smile faded. “If there were any way to put food on the table without them working, I’d take it. My husband was killed in a logging accident last year. We got by okay with my job at the sewing factory, but then I took sick.”
“Consumption, Brigitte said?” Miss Sullivan put in.
The thin woman nodded. “The doctor says I need to get into the country, but that’s not possible. I’ve got three other children, all younger than Brigitte.”
Five children and no husband. The knowledge pained him. “Both girls are polite and hardworking. You should be proud of them.”
“Oh, I am!” The woman pressed her trembling lips together. “I’ll go back to the shop myself just as soon as I’m able, and they can go back to school. They are so smart.”
“I can see that,” John said, noticing Brigitte’s bright, curious eyes.
“Brigitte made top grades in school.” Mrs. Whittaker’s hand made a sweeping motion toward the room. “I want more for my children than . . . this.”
John nodded, unable to speak past the boulder in his throat. What chance did this family have? He wished there was something he could do, but he hesitated to bring her into his own house. She might pass her disease on to Edward.
He saw Miss Sullivan’s eyes swimming with tears. He had to help. He dug into his pocket and pressed all the cash he had into her hand. Fifty dollars. “I’ll see what I can find for the girls that isn’t so dangerous,” he said.
“God bless you,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “I had no food in the house.”
“Can I pick up something for you?”
She shook her head. “The girls will fetch groceries for me.”
“I must go,” he told Mrs. Whittaker. “Good-bye, girls.” He fled the stink of sickness.
Miss Sullivan and her dog followed him down the stairs. He noticed she was still fighting tears. “There’s no choice but to let the girls work in that shop,” he said, “but I’ll talk to Henry about finding a job that doesn’t involve the sewing machine. Mrs. Whittaker needs a good sanatorium for a few months. She might be able to work once she’s stronger, but she’ll never get well breathing in this air.”
Addie kept her hand on the dog’s head. “God is always sufficient. We must pray for them.”
“I fear God isn’t listening much of the time,” he said.
“God is always listening. Sometimes things don’t turn out the way we want. But even when they don’t, God is always sufficient.”
When they reached the first floor, she quickened her steps to exit the tenement, and he watched her draw in a lungful of air devoid of the smells permeating the building. The alley held other structures just like this one. How many other heartbreaking situations resided on the floors of these dwellings?
Mr. Driscoll met them on the sidewalk. Addie gauged his expression and realized he wasn’t angry, just distracted.
“Everything is arranged?” he asked.
Lieutenant North shrugged. “Not really. It’s a sad situation.”
Mr. Driscoll turned toward the carriage. “Might I offer you a ride to the manor?”
His dark eyes never left Addie. “Thank you, but no. I have business at the bank to attend to before I leave town. Henry offered me a ride.” He tipped his hat to her. “I’m sure we’ll get a chance to get better acquainted tonight,” he told her.
“Of course,” she said faintly. She watched him walk away and wished she could stop him. Nothing in her life had prepared her for the onslaught of emotion that churned inside her from the first moment she’d seen him.
Mr. Driscoll offered his arm, and she took it. The streets were a muddy quagmire after the rain, and she lifted her skirt to clear the muck. A driver helped her into the carriage. She let herself imagine she was Elizabeth Barrett Browning about to embark on a journey. Or maybe Alice Roosevelt. She so admired the president’s courageous daughter. Someday she wanted to see far-off places like Alice did, and dig her bare toes into distant sands. In her daydream, the man at her side matched the man who had just left her.
Josephine had worked to squelch Addie’s romanticism, but Addie couldn’t help it anymore than she could help the color of her eyes. “How far to the estate?” she asked Mr. Driscoll.
“At the edge of town. Five minutes,” he said, settling onto the leather seat beside her. He cast a doubtful glance at Gideon. “You should have left that dog behind. I don’t know how I’ll explain it to Henry.”
She tipped up her chin. “I wouldn’t come without him.”
“Which is the only reason I finally agreed. But it was most unfortunate. Henry is sure to be put off.”
“I thought Lieutenant North was my employer.”
“He is, but Henry’s wishes are generally considered.”
She watched the scenery as the carriage rolled through town. A drugstore and ice-cream shop looked interesting. She noticed a sign that said Mercy Stagecoach Company. Before she could ask, Mr. Driscoll pointed it out as belonging to her father. There were several dress shops and haberdasheries in town.
“Henry owns half the town,” Driscoll said. “The bank, the creamery too.”
Addie shrank back against her seat. “I fear I’ll be out of place.”
“You’ll be fine. As my ward, you’ll be treated like one of the family.”
The carriage slowed at two large stone columns that anchored a wall taller than Addie’s head. A massive iron gate barred the way. The vehicle stopped until the guard opened the gate, then it turned into a long driveway.
“Why is it gated?” she asked. “Are they in danger?”
He laughed. “You have much to learn, Adeline. The Eatons don’t mingle with the lower class other than to employ them. It’s better that way.”
“Better for whom?”
His smile faltered and he turned away. “There’s your new home.”
Addie caught her breath at the sight of the mansion. Three stories high, it rambled in so many directions she had to crane her neck to take it all in. Five or six colors of paint emphasized the architecture’s features. The porch encased two sides of the manor, and the railing made her think of toy blocks. The red trim accented the medium gray-green siding. The door and shutters were black. The home had so many gables and dormers, it made her dizzy to take them all in. Numerous outbuildings peeked from the coastal redwoods that shaded the yard. The forest began barely ten feet from the back corner of the house.
“It’s quite lovely,” she said.
“Henry attends to every detail,” Mr. Driscoll said. “You’ll see many homes such as these in town. We call them butterfat palaces, since most were constructed from money made from dairying. Henry’s is the grandest by far.”
“Did Mr. Eaton make his money in dairying too?”
“In the beginning. He owns many other businesses now, as I mentioned.” He stepped from the carriage and helped her down. “Remember, mention nothing to anyone. It might be dangerous to reveal your identity.”
“Dangerous?”
“Someone took great care to keep you from Henry. Whoever did this must hate him very much. That level of hatred might be dangerous. If Henry finds out who has done this, that person’s life would be ruined. Henry would see to that.”
“My father sounds formidable.”
“He doesn’t suffer fools gladly, and he expects those around him to be loyal.”
She accepted the arm he offered, and they walked past banks of blooming goldenrod and salvia. Gideon followed at her heels. “How about you, Mr. Driscoll? How do you feel about Mr. Eaton?”
“He’s a loyal friend to those he trusts. He’s been good to me for my sisters’ sakes, and I’ve made my home in the manor for many years.” They reached the front door. He opened it and motioned for her to enter. “Stay,” he told the dog.
She repeated the command and stepped into the entry. The first thing she noticed was the scent of something baking. A berry pie, perhaps. Then she saw the opulence of the hall. Her mouth dropped as she took in polished walnut floors and woodwork, richly colored wallpaper, and an Oriental runner down the entry and up the six-foot-wide staircase. Through a doorway lay a parlor with lovely red upholstered furniture and fine pictures.
She craned her head to look at the art that lined the walls. A woman’s portrait caught her eye. “My mother? I’d like to know more about her.”
“That’s not her. It’s your grandmother Vera.”
She clutched her necklace. “The one in my locket. She’s much older in this portrait.”
“Yes.”
She glanced at her shoes and realized she was tracking mud on the carpet. “Oh, dear me,” she muttered. She quickly retraced her steps to the porch and removed her shoes. “Might I have a rag to clean up the mess?”
“Molly shall get it. Come along,” Mr. Driscoll commanded. “I’ll show you to your room, then introduce you to your charge.”
Her pulse leaped at the thought that her new life was about to begin.