New York City
1859
Isabel pulled the quilt over her head and held her breath. Her father’s heavy footsteps tromped through the house, every step sending a shiver of fear and dread shooting through her. Her father had never been a nice man and was even worse when he’d been drinking.
If I’m quiet, he’ll just go to his room and leave me alone.
She was sure that the sound of her beating heart echoed out of her chest and that her father would realize she was there, despite his drunken stupor.
The footsteps stopped, and her door flew open. “Girl, git up. I’m hungry.”
When Isabel didn’t get up immediately, he stomped closer. “Git yer lazy hide out of that bed and make me some food—now. While you’re at it, git me a drink.”
Reluctantly, Isabel pushed down the quilt and put her feet on the cold wooden planks. She shivered, as her worn flannel gown wasn’t enough to deflect the frigid night air.
Carefully moving around her father so she didn’t touch him, Isabel made her way to the kitchen. The fire inside the stove’s belly was still blazing, so at least she didn’t have to worry about that.
Peering into the larder, she sighed. There wasn’t very much food left. She counted four eggs and half a loaf of bread. She wouldn’t even have had those if Mrs. Simmons hadn’t felt sorry for her and made the excuse that she had too many eggs, so they’d go bad if she didn’t get rid of them.
The money Isabel brought in as a seamstress barely covered what she spent on wood and other necessary supplies. Sometimes, there wasn’t a lot left over for food. Her father rarely worked, and when he did, he spent every cent on alcohol. When he ran out of money, he demanded that Isabel hand over what little bit she had.
Isabel diced some onion and winced as she cracked the four eggs she had left into the cast iron skillet. She whisked them together and let them cook a bit while she cut a slice of bread and put a thin layer of butter over the top.
He staggered back into the kitchen. “What’s takin’ yer so long?”
Isabel didn’t dare say anything to him. She just quickly poured a little bit of whisky into a glass and handed it to him. He swallowed it in one gulp.
“What’s taking yer so long to make my food? Are you too stupid to do this simple thing?”
“It’ll be ready in a minute.”
He slammed a beefy hand on the table. “Now.”
“It’s cooking.”
She turned back to the stove, finished cooking the eggs, and slid them onto a plate. Isabel put the plate on the table, hoping she could disappear back into her room.
“What in tarnation is this trash?” he bellowed, his voice so loud it made the thin walls shake. “I wanted real food.”
Isabel stood up straight, not daring to look her father in the face. Her heart thundered a million miles an hour as she braced herself for the abuse that was sure to come. “It’s all we had.”
He raised his hand and backhanded her across the face so hard that she saw stars. A sharp pain radiated through her cheek—a pinpricking, burning sensation that set her skin aflame.
Her father got in her face and snarled, his yellow teeth gnashing. She could smell his putrid breath. “Don’t yer ever talk back to me.”
Isabel cried out as his meaty fist slammed into her eye, the move so sudden she couldn’t dodge it. He then hammered his hand into her stomach, and she couldn’t breathe. She fell to the floor, and he kicked her in the ribs. As he took aim again, she managed to pull herself over to the corner and hid her face between her knees.
Her father saw the whisky bottle and walked toward it, seemingly forgetting about Isabel for a minute. He sat down at the table and started swilling the amber liquid.
Slowly, so that he didn’t see her move out of the corner of his eye, she carefully crept back to her room, cringing every time the floor creaked. The noise sounded abominably loud to her, but her father was occupied with the booze.
Finally, she made it back to her room. Isabel stared into a small shard of mirror that she had found. A large bruise was already forming around her eye, and her lip was split. Lifting her nightgown, she saw the large purplish-blue mark quickly appearing on her skin.
“I can’t stay here. He’ll kill me. I’ll leave as soon as he does in the morning,” she muttered to herself.
Isabel grabbed the cloth bag she used to tote the clothes she sewed for folks and stuffed her meager belongings inside. She had two shirts, two skirts, and a dress, along with some underclothing. Isabel picked up her Bible and opened it. Her eyes fell on a pencil drawing of her mother, which one of her siblings had made. She gently traced the contours of the face, noting the high arch of her cheekbones and the gentle upturn of her lips.
Her heart never failed to ache when she thought of her mother. She missed her more than she could ever put into words, and just remembering her kind eyes caused her to tear up, a drop trickling down her cheek.
Mary, her mother, had always worn a smile for Isabel, even when she was hurting inside. Her voice was gentle with the kids, and she did everything she could to make life better, even for a moment.
There’s no time to get sentimental.
Quickly, she put the picture back into her Bible and slid the book into her bag.
Angrily wiping away the tears coursing down her cheek, Isabel lay on her bed, pulling the quilt up to her chin. Shivering from cold, pain, and fear, her eyes were glued to the door, waiting for her father to bust in again. Finally, exhaustion overtook her, and she fell asleep.
She woke up early, as the first warm rays of the sun came through the window. Groaning beneath her breath, she pushed herself into a sitting position. A sharp pain sliced through her side, causing her to clutch at it. Her body hurt so badly, and just moving was a chore.
Isabel’s eye was now swollen half shut.
She gingerly moved her aching jaw to make sure it wasn’t broken.
Picking up the mirror shard, she gasped in horror.
Her father had always verbally abused her mother and the kids, although, as far as Isabel knew, he hadn’t physically attacked her mother. Isabel thought of her mother’s tired smile and how she had tried to protect the kids from their father. Her mother died when Isabel was only twelve. That was when his abuse of her escalated. Isabel protected her siblings from her father’s rantings and ravings, sending them to their rooms or off to do outside chores when he was in one of his moods.
Isabel knew that she had to endure it. She worked and cared for her brothers and sisters the best she could. One by one, they left home, leaving her alone with their father.
Jeffrey had gone first, and Adam a year later. The last she heard, they had jobs on the docks.
Della and Susan, twins, had married as soon as they were legally able and started their own families out West.
Jacob had been the last to flee. He urged Isabel to go with him, but she felt it was her duty to care for their father, something that seemed foolish now.
She shook her head.
She didn’t have time to dwell on the past.
Isabel waited until she heard her father leave the house and quietly snuck into his bedroom. She held her breath, expecting him to burst back in and finish the job he started last night. She was terrified that he would kill her.
Digging through his socks, she found the cash he stashed away. It wasn’t a lot, but it might be enough to get her from the underbelly of New York City to the borough of Brooklyn. Although she knew her father wouldn’t be around, her heart raced as she tiptoed through the house. Cautiously opening the door, she looked out onto the streets. Without a second glance behind her, she closed the door and left.
A small pang of guilt rushed through her, twisting her stomach into knots. She worried about how her father would survive without her. Isabel had taken care of him since their mother died eleven years ago.
I can’t stay, she argued with herself. I deserve to have a life of my own. It’s time to leave.
Mrs. Simmons waved to her, and Isabel couldn’t ignore her. The older woman gasped when she saw Isabel’s face. “What happened, child?”
Isabel recounted everything. “I have to get away from him,” she finished. “I’m hoping I have enough for the train.”
“Where do you want to go?”
“I don’t know. Anywhere. Maybe Brooklyn.”
Mrs. Simmons looked at her sympathetically, her brows furrowing. “Are you up for the journey and what it means to live alone in a strange place?”
“I have to be. He’ll kill me if I stay here.” She shifted from foot to foot and peered around, half expecting to see him appear out of nowhere.
Isabel struggled to remember to breathe.
“Okay. Wait just a minute.” Mrs. Simmons disappeared into the house for a minute and returned with some money. “Let’s walk over to the station and get your tickets.”
Isabel’s mouth fell open, and she shook her head. “I can’t take your money.”
Mrs. Simmons gave her a pointed look. “You can and you will. Someday, you’ll be able to help someone in need.”
The stationmaster raised his eyebrows when Mrs. Simmons asked about upcoming trains, tossing Isabel a dubious grimace. Women didn’t usually travel alone because it was too dangerous. However, in this case, it was necessary.
Isabel was in luck; a train was leaving in half an hour.
As she took her seat, Isabel smiled.
This was a new start.
***
Brooklyn, New York
1862
Isabel slowly climbed the steps to her room in the boarding house. Her shoulders, neck, and back screamed in pain. Her hands burned, and she was so tired. Days at the seamstress shop were long, but it paid enough for her to afford a small room at the boarding house, food, and other necessities.
“I wish I had been able to go to school and maybe get one of those fancy jobs at a store or even as a secretary,” she sighed. Then, she shook the thought away, berating herself. “Be grateful for what you have.”
Dusk had descended, and the sun was sinking in the west. Light and dark blues mixed with the reds and oranges that painted the sky, and Isabel drew in her breath at the absolute beauty of the scene in front of her. The cool evening air lifted the tendrils of her long golden hair that had escaped her bun.
She noticed a small basket at the front door. Isabel gasped loudly when she pulled back the worn blanket. A tiny baby, who couldn’t have been more than a couple hours old, was sound asleep. He had been born with a mass of curly brown hair and was contentedly sucking his thumb. His smooth white cheeks were chubby, and he was the absolute image of the perfect baby.
Isabel jumped back and looked up and down the street for any sign of the parents. People were going about their business, as usual, giving no sign they had lost a child. She carefully picked up the basket and approached several people, but all of them said that the baby wasn’t theirs.
Sighing heavily, she went inside the boarding house, carrying the basket with her.
“What do you have there?” Mrs. Hammond, her landlady, asked.
The matronly woman was short and stout. Her gray hair was always pulled back into a bun. She was very kind to Isabel and rented a room to her, even though women who were alone were often looked down upon.
Isabel lifted the baby out of the basket and held him up.
“Someone left this little guy on the doorstep. I asked everyone on the street if he belonged to them, but no one claimed him.”
“He’s so adorable. Such a shame.” Mrs. Hammond looked at the tiny baby with pity in her eyes, clicking her tongue.
Isabel gently stroked the baby’s soft cheek. “What do you mean?”
“He’ll end up in the orphanage. Those places are usually wretched. There’s not enough food to go around and not enough people to take care of the babies. They usually spend the majority of their day laying in cribs with soiled diapers and being scarcely fed. The only chance he really has is if the nuns take him in, but the last I heard, they were full up.”
The baby opened his big blue eyes and looked right into Isabel’s soul. He started to whimper a little.
Isabel’s stomach lurched at the thought of him being raised in an orphanage. His little face had already melted her heart.
She sighed heavily. “We’ll talk about that tomorrow. Right now, we have to figure out how to feed him.”
Mrs. Hammond opened up a cabinet and pulled out two glass baby bottles. “My daughter left these here when she visited me a long time ago. She had to supplement her milk.” After rinsing one of them out, she poured a little milk into one of the bottles and put the nipple on it.
The baby took it right away and hungrily drank every bit of the milk. Having raised her five brothers and sisters, Isabel knew how to care for a baby. She put a rag over her shoulder and gently burped him.
She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t suppose you have any diapers your daughter might have left behind?”
“I do, actually.” Mrs. Hammond laughed. “I hope you know how to change them because I’ve been done with diaper duty for many years.”
Isabel cleaned the little guy up, thanked Mrs. Hammond, and took the baby to her room.
She rocked the baby until he fell asleep. “I guess you can sleep in the basket for tonight. I’m glad it’s a basket and not a cardboard box.”
It had been a while, and Isabel had forgotten how often a baby would wake up in the middle of the night, demanding food and a nappy change.
The rising sun shined into Isabel’s window, waking her before her alarm went off. The baby was still sleeping. Isabel quickly ate the eggs and drank a cup of coffee, which was part of the five-dollar-a-week rent she paid.
“What are you going to do?” Mrs. Hammond nodded to the baby, who was starting to fuss.
“Talk to the sheriff to see if anyone lost a baby,” Isabel said, giving her the idea she’d thought up last night.
Mrs. Hammond nodded her approval. “That’s a good idea.”
Sheriff Tate stood when Isabel walked into his office ten minutes later. “Good morning, ma’am,” he greeted. “How can I help you?”
“Good morning. Last night, I found this baby on the doorstep of the boarding house I’m staying at. Has anyone reported a missing child?”
He sat heavily in his chair and ran his fingers through his hair. “’Fraid not.”
Isabel’s heart sank. She looked at the little guy staring into her face, and Isabel felt as though they had bonded in the short time they had been together—almost as if there were an invisible tether pulling them together.
“He’s probably a bastard child from one of those women at Flo’s house,” he continued.
The sheriff was referring to the soiled doves who worked at Florence Jensen’s brothel.
“They get pregnant and don’t have any way to care for a baby. Usually, they drop the babies off at the orphanage or on the doorsteps of one of the churches.”
Isabel didn’t say anything. It wasn’t the baby’s fault that his mother was having a rough life, and no one would have a clue as to who his father was.
“The best thing you can do is take it to the orphanage. It’s not ideal. That place is pretty rough, but there really aren’t any alternatives.”
“You don’t know anyone who would be able to take care of him?” Isabel asked hopefully, worry eating at her heart.
The sheriff shook his head sadly. “No, I’m sorry. I wish I did. Times are hard for most folks, and no one needs another mouth to feed, especially if they aren’t kinfolk.”
Isabel nodded. “Thank you,” she muttered.
She walked toward the orphanage, her steps getting slower and slower as she went. The building was rundown. Tall weeds had overtaken what should have been the front lawn. A couple of hollow-eyed kids were outside working in a pitiful excuse for a vegetable garden.
The baby cooed at her and laid his head against her chest, sending a spark of warmth right to her heart.
There was no way she could leave him in that place; she’d never forgive herself if she did.
Resolved, she turned back toward the boarding house, holding the infant close to her breast.