Chapter Thirty-Two

Mitch came down the stairs and saw his wife hovering in the foyer at the bottom, almost as if she waited there for him.

The morning light sifted through the sidelights that framed the big front door, turning her hair to flame and picking out the intense hue of the suit she wore. A blue suit it was, with a hat, tiny little heeled shoes, and white gloves.

She looked good enough to eat. The fact that Mitch had only recently come from her bed, where he’d done just that, didn’t make him feel particularly satisfied. Instead, the mere sight of her made him hungry all over again.

“Another meeting today?” he asked in an effort to disguise his completely unreasonable need.

“A tour of another orphanage.” She bent to pat Valerie, who’d darted out from the direction of Mitch’s office, before she looked up at him from under the brim of her hat. “Actually…”

She let her voice trail off and bit her lip, an action that elevated Mitch’s heartbeat.

“Yes?” he prompted.

“I—uh—wondered if you’d agree to come with me. Many of the women’s husbands are involved, at least peripherally. And I thought…”

He came down the last step and crossed the floor to her, drawn like a wasp to honey. “You thought what?”

She raised her eyes to his—clear green in the morning light and seeming to hold a reflection of every intimacy they’d shared not so long ago. His mouth at her breast, between her legs, tasting heaven. Her small fingers wrapped around him…

“I thought it might make us feel—well, closer.”

How could they be closer than when he was inside her? When he searched the inside of her mouth with his tongue and she melted for him, opening herself in that delectable way she had. When she begged wordlessly, with her body, for what she would not say.

But she was saying now—asking him, telling him. She wanted something more than physical closeness. This represented a real hope for him to get near her heart.

He had a dozen things to which he should attend today, not the least the problem of Danny Dwyer who, by all accounts, continued to throw his weight around in a dangerous fashion. But when Tessa looked at him that way, how could he say no?

****

At first, Tessa didn’t realize how tense her husband had become. They took the long black steamcar with Marty at the wheel and met the other members of the party outside on the steps of the Meadows Club, as prearranged.

To say they appeared surprised to see Mitch would be an understatement. The Misses Carroll whispered together, and Mr. Ellison raised his eyebrows high.

“Mr. Carter? Well, I did not expect you, sir, to concern yourself with our small affairs.”

“Not small, surely, Mr. Ellison.” Mrs. Wright stepped forward. “And if what we’ve heard of you proves true, Mr. Carter, I should think you of all men would take an interest.” She nodded at Tessa. “Well done, Mrs. Carter, in persuading your husband to attend.”

Mitch, nearly expressionless, offered the use of his car, which would reduce the number of steamcabs needed to one.

He asked Mr. Ellison, “To which institution are we bound, sir?”

“The Waifs, on East Ferry.”

Did Mitch’s lip quiver? The Waifs had not made Mr. Ellison’s list by accident; it had a loathsome reputation.

Mitch gave the address to Marty, who stared. They set off, Lily and the Misses Carroll in the car with Mitch and Tessa.

Lily immediately leaned over and placed a hand on Mitch’s arm. “Mr. Carter, I am so pleased to have a chance to become acquainted with you. Tessa speaks of you often.”

“Does she?” Mitch swept Tessa with an incredulous look.

“Oh, yes. We women have our little confidences. By the way, Tessa, I have that book you asked to borrow.”

Tessa’s lips parted; no words came. She hoped Lily would not confide the nature of that book to Mitch.

She need not have worried. Instead, Lily spoke of how happy she was to find, in Tessa, a friend who shared her interests.

Tessa twisted her fingers together in her lap and wondered what Mitch thought. At least he didn’t voice his usual reminder that Lily was, in fact, just an automaton.

The orphanage proved to be located in a shabby wooden building covered by molting green paint, its windows shuttered and its façade sad. A sign out front read The Waifs, the letters all but worn away by weather.

Not until they climbed from the car and formed one group on the sidewalk, and Tessa took Mitch’s arm, did she gauge the intensity of his tension. Though his face still showed little, his body fairly vibrated, the arm beneath her fingers like iron.

“Remember we are mere visitors here,” Mr. Ellison cautioned. “As before, when we toured the other institutions, we must keep our opinions to ourselves, no matter what horrors we may observe.”

He shot a look at Mitch. “I daresay only one of us here is completely prepared for what we will see.”

God help her, Tessa only fully realized at that moment what she’d asked of her husband. To accompany her into hell. Back into a hell he’d once been forced to occupy.

She looked into his face, searching. “I don’t know what I was thinking. This isn’t a good idea, Mitch. You wait here with the car—there’s no need for you to come inside.”

His smile looked almost ordinary, wry and controlled. But she saw the slick sheen on his skin and the shadows in his eyes.

“Don’t be foolish, Tessa. Of course I’ll come with you.”

“No, really. Please stay with the car. It won’t take long.”

He tucked her arm inside his. “Your Mr. Ellison is right; I’m the perfect man to inspect the place. I know what to look for, don’t I?”

Tessa’s stomach turned as they filed in through the front door. The overseer of The Waifs had agreed to this visit in return for a monetary donation. The woman—big, rawboned, and middle-aged—came forward to meet them now and shook Mr. Ellison’s hand.

“Welcome to The Waifs,” she rasped. “I’m Mrs. Bains.”

Tessa shrank closer to Mitch’s side. These places, as she’d learned during the earlier visits, had a smell. Part stale air and even staler food, part urine and, in the best cases, disinfectant.

She smelled disinfectant here, but the shabby surroundings made of it little advantage. Dark olive walls, streaked with damp, a yellowed ceiling, a sad flight of stairs that led upward into gloom.

Mrs. Bains proved apologetic and seemed sincere. “This orphanage opened in 1862 when the house and property were donated by an elderly patron.” She twisted her hands in her gray apron. “There was, however, no provision for funding. We have housed up to two dozen children here in the past—boys and girls together. At this time we have fourteen. We take them in off the streets, mostly children tossed out by landlords after their parents have died. We do for them the best we can.”

Her cheeks flushed defensively even though no one else had spoken. “I’m aware it likely doesn’t look that way.”

Lily Michaels stepped forward and said, with compassion, “Will you let us see your facility?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Bains looked at Mr. Ellison. “You said something about a payment. It’s just that I’ve no money for food, and several of the children are sick.”

Wordlessly, Mr. Ellison passed her an envelope.

“Oh, thank you. Come this way. And please, believe I would do more for my children if I could.”

The group, with Tessa and Mitch at the rear, entered a room on the left. It should have been a parlor, but Tessa saw rows of cots, bare but for one blanket each, in a chamber as gray and cheerless as a rainy day. Several of the cots were occupied by small children, their wan faces stark against the thin pillows. One tossed restlessly.

Patricia Carroll asked, “What is the matter with them?”

“Oh, the usual—cough, fever. They’re always sick.”

“You have not called a doctor?”

“Of course not,” Mitch muttered under his breath.

Mrs. Bains shot a look in his direction before she answered. “I had no funds. I will be able to, now.”

Another member of the party asked, “Where are the rest of the children? At their lessons?”

Mrs. Bains hesitated. “I’m afraid not. Most days, they do piece work.”

“Piece work?”

“We assemble wooden boxes for a local man who uses them in his business. It’s very simple work, but it does provide a small income.”

Mrs. Wright asked, “Have you not applied to the city for supplementation?”

“I have. I was refused.”

“Why?”

“I was told we’re not large enough. If I took in more children I might get funding, but I wouldn’t be able to provide adequately for them.”

“It does not seem, my good woman, you’re providing adequately for them now. Please show us the kitchen.”

Now grim and silent, Mrs. Bains led on. The kitchen, a dank cave of a place, housed a handful of children struggling to fill a large pot with water from a rusty pump and scrubbing a long, plank table.

“Say good morning to our visitors, children.”

“Good morning,” they chorused. Tessa, leaning forward from the shelter of Mitch’s arm to peer at them, decided none looked well. Cautious eyes returned her stare from pinched and chapped faces. Their clothing, though reasonably clean, appeared shockingly shabby.

“By God,” said Brenda Carroll. “Something must be done.”

She went on speaking, her ire at the fore, but suddenly Mitch interrupted her. Holding up his hand he growled, “What’s that?”

His tone was such it caught the attention of children and adults alike. Mrs. Bains turned to him with a look of horror.

“It’s—” one of the children began.

“Hush.” Mrs. Bains slapped the girl on the head. “I don’t hear anything.”

Tessa did. A muffled thumping, it seemed to come from the hallway off the kitchen.

Mitch spun on his heel, releasing his grasp on Tessa.

“Mr. Carter,” Mr. Ellison cautioned, but Mitch disregarded him. They stood near the doorway; mere steps took him to what looked like the door of a broom cupboard out in the passage.

“No, sir—” Mrs. Bains bounded after him.

Tessa could hear the thumping much more clearly now that they stood in the passage. It most certainly came from the tiny closet. A rusty hook and hasp held the door shut. Tessa saw Mitch’s hands tremble when he reached for them.

The door swung open with a creak. The dim light from the passage barely reached inside but Tessa’s horrified eyes saw—

A child. A boy, she thought, crunched into the suffocating, small space with his body bent nearly double and his head tucked down.

Before she could even draw a breath, Mitch reached inside, lifted the child with careful hands, and set him on the floor of the passage. Everyone surged forward.

Tessa saw the truth then. Throughout the tour she’d been willing to give Mrs. Bains the benefit of the doubt, assign her the role of struggling housemother with good intentions.

But the small boy on the floor, surely no more than eight years old, had been shoved into a closet with his hands bound behind his back and a gag tied over his mouth.

As everyone watched, Mitch gently removed the gag. He loosened the boy’s hands even as the party began to argue with the housemother.

“How could you, Mrs. Bains?” Mrs. Wright demanded, turning on the woman.

Mrs. Bains’ face had turned bright red. “That is a very naughty boy. He does nothing but cause trouble and grief. I could not let you see him, could I? What would you think of me?”

“Better to wonder what we think of you now! Madam, this institution needs to be closed down.”

“Yes?” Mrs. Bains shrieked. “And then what will happen to these children? Tell me that.”

Tessa, listening with one ear, watched her husband help the child to stand, ask him a question, and feel him over gently, touching his back with gentle hands.

He raised his head, and Tessa got a look at his face—eyes burning, lean cheeks drawn tight, mouth hard with anger.

He stepped up to Mrs. Bains, interrupting her defensive tirade. “This child has been caned.”

Once more everyone went silent. Except Mrs. Bains. She screeched.

“Of course he has! I told you he’s a very bad boy and will not obey. What else was I supposed to do?”

“You might,” Mrs. Wright said indignantly, “try love.”

“Love? I have no time for love.”

“So,” Mitch gritted through clenched teeth, “your answer is to whip him and shut him—bound and gagged—into a dark closet?”

Tessa had never seen Mitch look so dangerous. At that moment, she believed him capable of anything.

“What if the child had smothered?” Mrs. Wright demanded.

And Mrs. Bains, all pretense of warmth and caring fled, answered, “It might well have benefitted this world.”

“I have to get out of here,” Mitch muttered and pushed past everyone in the passageway. With Tessa at his heels, he marched straight outside, where he stood inhaling great breaths of air.

“Boss, you all right?”

Marty stood outside the car, looking concerned.

Ignoring him, Tessa faced her husband and seized his hands.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “That was my fault. I never should have asked you to come here with me.”

He glared at her, and in his eyes she saw—memories. Shadows and old horrors. A flare of pain.

Never had she imagined seeing the composed and controlled Mitch Carter look this way. The truth tumbled upon her.

She said, “That happened to you, didn’t it? You were shut—shut in somewhere. Just like that boy.”

“It doesn’t matter.” As if he convinced himself, he repeated it. “Doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Mitch, what will happen to that boy?”

“If he’s lucky, he’ll grow up and make something of himself. Then it won’t matter for him, either.”