If you get caught in this dress”—Ella whispered to herself—“there’ll be the devil to pay.”
But the consequences didn’t scare her as much as losing her loved ones to starvation. If she, Marcella Elena Lipski, had to don her employer’s discarded gowns and search tourist locations for a husband—a rich husband who would bring her family to America—so be it.
Her first target area: Walsh’s ice cream parlor.
Breathless, Ella leaned forward in the wire-frame chair beside the window as a rich-looking couple approached on the sidewalk outside. When the frowning woman glanced up and confirmed she was not Mistress Theodore, a sigh escaped Ella, her heart beating at double speed.
The couple did stop in for ice cream, however. Three scoops each.
The parlor’s sugary scents—unlike anything Ella had ever smelled before—commenced her stomach to growling, and she licked her lips before she caught herself. What a wonderful thing, to be so rich.
Carrying their desserts, the man led his companion from the long counter to the table across from Ella’s. Her pulse clogged her throat as she attempted a graceful smile.
They didn’t spare her a glance, consumed in their clipped discussion.
Of all the ill-mannered … Ella rearranged the unfamiliar metal hoops under her skirt and sat straighter. Hiding her chafed face behind a menu, she sneaked glimpses of the couple. While their English conversation tripped and stumbled on her Polish-born ears, the few hissed words she interpreted revealed nothing. But their scowls and untouched dessert spoke a universal language.
Finally, the gentleman—the suave sort Mama intended for her to meet and marry—threw his napkin on his ice cream and stood. Storming from his companion, he approached Ella, who clutched her collar. Mumbling something in bitter tones, the man tossed a small card onto her table before heading out the door. Ella’s eyes stretched wide.
As the lady companion left in a huff, heading a different direction than the man, Ella flipped over the card and caught her breath.
A ticket to Mrs. Theodore’s spring ball.
One of the two hundred tickets she and her fellow housemaids had stuffed into invitations this very morning.
Floating to her feet, Ella tucked the slip of paper inside the tight cuff of her gossamer sleeve, which she pressed against her waist until she reached the walkway outside.
God bless that miserable, beautiful couple. Their fight must have been significant for the gentleman to chuck such a valuable ticket.
She crossed the street in the twilight air, weaving through the masses, peddlers, and newsboys calling out on every corner. People milled by on foot, drove past in carriages, some glancing her way. Did they suspect? Did it show on her face—that she’d come by a coveted treasure she had no business possessing?
Wait until she wrote Mama of her good fortune—the poor thing would faint, right there in the wicked Baron Zimmer’s potato fields. Ella’s lips curved upward.
When Tata—father—discovered the husband-hunting plan, though … he would explode. Mama’s hand had trembled when slipping Ella her orders in a letter before Ella left for America.
Clattering wheels and a dog’s barks drew Ella’s attention to a horse and cart thundering around the corner toward her.
The drayman laid his weight against the horses’ pull of the reins, roaring something in English.
Ella lurched forward. Her narrow hoopskirt minced her stride, and when the cart’s wheel caught her skirt tail, she twisted, cried out, and fell to her hands and knees on the unforgiving cobblestones. Deep pinching warned of coming bruises, but she wasn’t run over, thank heavens.
Propped on one palm, Ella checked her sleeve for the ticket, reassured when the stiff card brushed her fingertips. She gingerly gathered her skirt in preparation to stand, incidentally promoting her back end—oh dear.
The slow clop of horse hooves stopped near her. A breath later, strong hands helped her rise and face the drayman, whose fine dark eyes made her lungs ache just looking at him. The same drayman who doffed his low top hat to her every morning as she walked to work.
Now, he swiped off the curvy brimmed hat and checked her over for injuries, a frown rumpling his forehead. His dark hair, brim-creased and soft-looking at his temples, set off those keen eyes. Well-trimmed whiskers blended down past his cheekbones and grew darker in the center of his chin, lending a dangerous air.
Not that she was looking. She couldn’t afford to stand and admire a humble drayman while an invisible dumpling stuck in her throat. No. She was just being … observant.
His voice rustled over several English words. He took in her dumbstruck silence and tried again, “Przepraszam—I’m sorry. You all right, miss? Dog scared the horse.”
While his heavily accented Polski words sunk in, his grip warmed her upper arms and logical thought flew from her head like so many ill-fated lovebirds. He smelled of fresh straw—no doubt from his wagon crates—and leather … and lemon drops? She tried to put space between them, but the pain in her knees forced her to grasp his elbows—she must wrap these bruises and put her feet up tonight to survive work tomorrow.
“Please, I will take you to my home.” His stubborn-little-boy expression might have been endearing had his words not shocked her cold.
“No, you will not!” Heat blazed from her collar to her ears.
He drew back. “Nie rozumiem—I don’t understand.”
Was the man an abductor … or bungling her language? “You will take me to my home.”
When understanding dawned in his gaze, he chuffed a laugh. “I beg your pardon. My Polish customers, they are always chiding me for pronoun errors.”
She chuckled and massaged her temples then slid her fingers into her poufy, American-style pompadour—a fashion she’d modeled to resemble one of Mrs. Theodore’s uppity coiffures. This morning, after the woman instructed her to discard a pile of perfectly good dresses, Ella envisioned herself wearing the gowns to seize conversations with dapper gentlemen—not a scruffy, too-handsome cart driver.
“What address, please?” he asked.
Puffing a red-blond strand from her view, she straightened. “Harper Street—number 219?”
After a quick nod, he lifted her onto the high wagon seat with more grace than she’d thought possible for a drayman, then vaulted up next to her. His proud, easy bearing didn’t belong to a cart driver. Had he been a butler, perhaps? No, too young for that.
He offered his hand. “Woody Harris, cart driver and deliveryman, at your service. Free conveyance for a week for the trouble I bring you.”
While her traitorous heart fluttered at the prospect of riding alongside this man every day for a whole week, she placed her hand in his. The world tilted, then righted under his candid appraisal. “I’m Ella. Thank you, Mr. Harris, that would be helpful.”
“Call me Woody.” Mr. Harris sat there, painted by evening shadows, studying her until her blush heated up again—were Americans always so bold?—then he urged the horse forward. “Good then, Miss Ella. I’m late for one stop on the way, please.” He winked. “No dogs, this time.”
Down by Morris Canal, the scents of rotting wood and rust lay heavy on the wind while a dark alley loomed to the left. Chills skittered over Ella’s arms. She clutched her collar and swallowed hard. Despite this man’s endearing qualities, she didn’t know him from anyone. He could be some murderer luring her who knows where.
Jumping off and gimping away might be the most prudent choice.
Her companion stopped the horse outside the alley, where blackened silhouettes approached. This “Woody” turned toward her, and Ella’s throat closed until he reached past her to lift a crate from the loaded cart, engulfing her with homey scents of yeast and crust. The alley figures grew closer in the darkness, but never taller…. Children? With smudged faces, they crowded the wagon and pinned expectant stares on Mr. Harris—er, Woody. Balancing the box on one knee, he took out a giant loaf of chlebem, or bread, and broke off chunks into their waiting hands, then did the same with a block of cheese.
Where did all these kids come from?
As each received their bread, Ella recognized the German danke and English, “Thanks, Woody.” But most spoke the Polski word dziękuję.
When the banter rose, she grasped the rhythm of Woody’s broken Polski and worked to make more sense of his word combinations. Still amazed he spoke her language, she at last untangled his hodgepodge of accents. With the recent deportation of Poles from much of Europe, thousands to America, he would have encountered many dialects on his freight route no doubt.
“Where’s Musty?” Woody asked.
“It’s Marciszewski!”
All the boys laughed, then two youngsters the drayman called “Newsie” and “Shoe Shine” pushed forward the runt—a chubby-cheeked thing dressed in short pants and shoes, but nothing else. Why, he was just a baby.
“Yeah, yeah … Musty.” Woody helped the child scamper up into his lap and roughed his hair, earning a begrudging grin. “Listen, fellas, I can’t stay long. I need to take Miss … Miss Ella home.”
A hush fell over the rowdy group as all eyes turned to her. She waved.
“What’re you doing with some ole girl, anyway?” This, in perfect Polski, came from an oil-spattered boy.
“Freckles.” Voicing his surprise, the drayman thumbed his hat back from his forehead. “Is that any way to talk to a lady?”
Vulnerability lurked beneath the kid’s stubborn features. After the boy shuffled his feet, Woody dipped in his coat pocket and pulled out a paper cone of candy—the lemon drops she’d smelled? “Here. Make sure everyone gets some.”
Freckles caught the candy with a nod, then Woody jounced the little tyke slumped in his lap. “Where’s your shirt, buddy?”
Musty shrugged and mumbled in Polish, “Almost summertime.”
When Woody passed the reeking child to Ella, she covered her wince—both from the odor and knee pain—and shifted the boy’s weight from her bruises to her upper legs.
“Musty” lifted worried eyes, and her heart trembled at the familiar signs of poverty. The same empty gaze as Eryk. Her lungs seized as she remembered her brother’s desperate coughs the night he succumbed to fever and malnutrition.
Musty blinked at her. How long since this poor child bathed? Since he satisfied his stomach? Since his mama held him?
Was his mother living?
Beside Ella, Woody shrugged out of his coat, vest—good heavens, and his shirtsleeves—leaving his undershirt. His new state of dress did nothing for her recent blushing malady. Though her brows rose, so did her regard for the man as he buttoned Musty into the too-big shirtwaist and retrieved a small length of rope from his cart to cinch the middle. “Every boy needs a shirt, no matter the season. There. Down you go.”
His movements drew her attention to a leather string at his throat, bearing a small ring. At her stare, he replaced his outerwear and tucked the necklace away.
With a few parting words, they left the boys and the alley behind, a tiny piece of Ella’s heart staying with them. There was much more to this Woody Harris than first met the eye.
“So, Ella of 219 Harper Street …” Her driver continued to speak in Polish as he studied her. “Just Ella?”
Pursing her lips, Ella folded her hands in her lap. Would he think less of her when she told him she wasn’t rich? Then again, what did it matter? He’d drive her home tonight and maybe to work next week. End of story. “Marcella Lipski, Austrian-Polish immigrant and housemaid. I came to America two weeks ago.”
His frank gaze skimmed her dress. Should she have given him her address? He’d been kind to the children, though. Surely he wouldn’t harm—
“Fancy dress for a housemaid. Did you steal it?”
“What? Of course not,” she huffed. Only borrowed. From the trash. Her eyebrow reared. “Did you steal the bread?”
“No.” The serious line of his lips quirked, then he snickered before focusing on the road again and mumbling, “Touché.” When he offered her a lemon drop, she refused.
“My employer told me to get rid of her old wardrobe, so I did. I needed dresses—other than my maid uniform.” Ella had ceased worrying about her fancy garb, since chances were slim she’d be recognized on this side of town. Better conditions than her family endured, though. They needed relief soon. Her sister Ina especially, always sick and the most at risk. Ella was their sole hope.
“The children are lucky to have you to bring them food. It’s kind of you.”
He gave a humorless laugh. “Precious little kindness. I’m afraid sometimes it only delays the inevitable.”
“Perhaps that’s more of a kindness than you know.” She silently dared him to contradict her.
After a sigh, he considered her, elbows on his knees. “Maybe.”
She dropped her attention to the curious scars on his hands, hands that dealt gently with the boys. A pat here, a ruffling of hair there, all the while he assessed their well-being, missing nothing. Did he, too, feel guilt for being unable to do more for those he loved? “I suppose everyone wishes they were richer so they could help others in need.”
His mouth pinched. “How many rich people you know are that generous?”
At the morose thought, she searched for a transition to happier subjects. “Surely, sometime in your life, you’ve wished to be someone you’re not.”
The startled frown he gave her killed the conversation. She stiffened, straightened her filmy skirts. Strange, the loss she felt at his silence. Had she stumbled onto a subject taboo for Americans? If he kept his promise and drove her to work tomorrow, she’d have to remember not to make the same mistake.
Escorting her to her door, Woody took one look at her closet of an apartment, then retrieved a half-loaf of bread from his cart and pressed it into her hands with the last of the cheese. Food he’d no doubt set aside for his own sustenance.
After he lit his guide-lantern and drove off into the night, she set the bread aside and plucked the ticket from her sleeve. So she had an inroad to society’s most popular event of the season. Now what? She knew no English, nothing of American customs, and the evening gowns she possessed were the hostess’s castoffs. Provided she could get into the ballroom at all, without alerting the head housekeeper who hired her.
Hungry and frazzled, Ella prepared her supper of bread, cheese, salad greens she’d gathered, and a hot cup of water—the best she could do without tea. She shoveled in the food before worry could steal her appetite.
If she were caught in one of Claudia Theodore’s ball gowns … she’d be dismissed and left without references. Minus her income, her precious family was as good as left without hope.
With a fresh shirt on, Woody let himself in the service entrance of Pierce’s sprawling three-story brownstone then nodded to Cook as he passed. His fingers eased off the loan payment in his pocket. He’d be too late for his usual Friday supper with the Pierces, but would feel better getting the funds into the right hands.
Thank God for a friend who trusted Woody enough to loan the money to start his livery. For three years, he’d made his bread and butter from the combined livestock, smithy, and freight business. Hauling the cart didn’t pay much, since most businesses hired their own deliverymen, but the freight route made a good cover for his finding more street children to help. Lord willing, Pierce’s trust had deepened enough for Woody to ask the question burning in his mind of late. His boys’ reaction to Miss Lipski only stoked the flames.
Youthful giggles and whispers met him before he reached the upstairs family room, coaxing a grin.
Pierce’s wife peeked up from her embroidery and smiled. “Woody.”
“Good evening, Beth.”
“Uncle Woody!” Lizzy and Laura abandoned a pile of puzzle pieces in the center of the floor and rushed him from both sides, leaving their baby brother to crawl after them. The scene warmed his heart and brought a twinge of envy as it had every Friday night for the past four years.
Pierce sat up from his place on the couch and folded his newspaper. “Girls. Give the man room to breathe.”
After hugging the blond darlings pulling at his clothes, Woody made a show of “finding” lemon drops for each of them, then fell into the velvet-covered chair opposite Pierce. The girls popped the sweets into their mouths and skipped back to their puzzle before the fireplace.
“Would you like tea?” Beth scooped up little Gerald before he could gum the toe of Woody’s boot. “Cook kept a plate in the warmer for you. Everything all right?”
Taking his “nephew” from her, he settled the lad on his knee. “Just a few delays. I’m sorry I didn’t send word. I would take tea, thank you, but ask her to pack the dinner for later, please.”
He couldn’t eat right now with the question he wanted to ask Pierce weighing on his stomach. Besides, one never knew when a pretty foreigner might need his supper.
Upon Beth’s exit, Pierce crossed his ankles and pinned him with a stare. “A few delays? You haven’t missed our Friday dinners in a year at least. Nothing bad happened, I hope.”
“Nope.” Fishing the loan payment from his hip pocket, he transferred the bills to Pierce’s hand. “Nothing bad. On the contrary … I met a girl.”
As if waiting for a slap on the back and a “gotcha,” Pierce squinted.
Gerald squirmed in Woody’s hold, and when bouncing didn’t suffice, Woody propped his boot on his knee and set the boy in the triangle he’d created. After several failed escape maneuvers, the Lilliputian grinned and squealed at the game. “I well-nigh ran her over.”
Pierce’s foot thumped the floor.
“Who’d you run over, Uncle Woody?” Lizzy asked, backlit by the fire.
“A lady in town, sweetheart. Don’t worry, she’s fine now.” He hoped. She had limped back into her snuggery of an apartment. He’d have helped more, had propriety allowed.
Pierce frowned. “You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
“Who was she? Did she involve the authorities?”
“No, nothing like that. She was a foreigner. Polish-speaking. I think she was bruised from the fall, but she didn’t complain.” In his line of work, he encountered many a socialite, prude, and fishwife. He’d braced for an outrage. Instead, she peered up at him with those kitten eyes … How could he not offer aid at that point? And when she’d expressed her thanks in deep-throated Polish … What a beautiful reward.
Gerald gnawed Woody’s knuckle with his slippery little mouth, then made a face and looked toward the door—wishing his mother would return with tastier fare, no doubt.
The lad’s sweet round cheeks and fuzzy head made Woody wonder, not for the first time, what his own child would look like if he had one. It was the atmosphere in this home—unlike anything he’d known growing up—that birthed a longing in a man for all things sweet and tender.
Pierce traced the bridge of his nose with one finger. “Maybe she was too afraid to complain. You’re a bit of a dark wolf, you know.”
Dark wolf? Really? “I hope not. I offered her free conveyance for a week.”
Pierce’s finger stilled.
Under the heat climbing his face, Woody cleared his throat once, twice, then untangled Gerald’s fingers from his boot laces. His friend had never seen him show interest in a lady, and no wonder. If anyone had a right to avoid the altar, he did. His parents’ miserable marriage ruined thoughts of wedlock for him … until he got to know Pierce and the sweet moments his family afforded him. Yes, he might consider matrimony now, a family of his own. A virtuous match might lend credibility for his orphanage idea. Except, none of the young ladies at church shared his passion for helping the hopeless.
A thin, determined face came to mind.
He first spotted Miss Lipski a week ago comforting a street child with a scraped knee. Every time he’d passed her since, her blond hair and resolute green eyes turned his head. More than that, something about her reminded him of Molly. Made him want to look out for her, help her. Perhaps because both women shared the same watchful bearing of housemaids.
After returning with tea, Beth retrieved her son, now standing with his hands buried in Woody’s hair, then quieted the runt’s fussing with a few crumbs of cookie. “What did I miss? You gentlemen look awfully suspicious.”
Woody took an eternal sip of tea.
The twitch in Pierce’s mustache didn’t bode well. “Woody’s getting married.”
While Beth’s eyes tripled in size, hot tea suctioned into Woody’s lungs. He grabbed a napkin off the tea tray and coughed until Pierce pounded his back. Unsure if he’d rather enter the next life by choking or a beating, Woody waived the attention and managed a long pull of air.
Gerald frowned at him like he’d stolen the last cookie. Had the girls not fallen asleep on the floor, they might have jumped into the excitement.
Finally, Pierce sobered and recounted the tale to Beth, who speared Woody with a shrewd grin. “Was she pretty? Has she met your boys?”
“Yes. And yes.” Woody chanced another draw of tea and swallowed. “I was on my way to deliver food when we had the accident.”
“How are they?” Beth hugged Gerald tighter.
“Musty was shirtless again. I’m not sure if a bully steals his clothes or if he’s figured out he can sell them for food.” On his right, the fire crackled in the hearth. Were the boys warm enough? Unlikely. “They didn’t know what to think of Miss Lipski. The ones who remember their mothers looked ready to weep. The small ones stared at her like she was some type of fairy.”
Palming Molly’s ring through his shirt, Woody remembered his purpose for coming.
Two years ago, he spotted Freckles and Oliver digging through the city trash heaps and offered to buy the boys a meal, never imagining he’d become so involved with so many children. But Molly’s memory urged him on. Figuring they’d scatter if he reported their needs to the authorities, he doled out food often and helped some get jobs at Pierce’s textile mill where they’d earn fair wages.
The more he provided for the boys, the more he cared, and they in turn accepted him into their close-knit pack as the big brother they never had. Still, they needed so much more. “The street’s no place to grow up. The oldest boys are hardening to any kindness. They need homes, real families.”
Beth’s eyes glistened, and Pierce rested his cup against his mouth.
“I’m wondering …” Woody ground his palms together. Asking for help from a wealthy person still went against his grain. Lord, we’ve discussed this, and time’s ticking. Help me now. “What if I got backing to start an orphanage? There’s one on Bleeker Street, I know, but it’s filled to overflowing. Besides, some people won’t take in immigrant children, not knowing their language or background.”
Slowly, Pierce placed his empty cup on the tray. “I’ve had that thought. Worthy cause. I’ve too many volatile investments to give serious ongoing support, but a donation in my name may help. Have you tried the church?”
Woody gave a hesitant nod. “I’ve talked to Pastor Bridges. He liked the idea. But …” When Pierce eyed Woody in the astute way he’d learned both to love and hate, a sigh pressed for release. “He suggested I make amends with my own … kin before thinking of running an orphanage.”
“Hmm … I know you’ve thought long on this, but I’d have to agree with him. As a matter of ethics, I can’t comfortably support the project until your pastor does.”
Might have known. Woody grunted. “That door closed to me long ago. I don’t foresee it opening anytime soon.”
The silence stretched long and awkward. Pierce and the pastor would want the best for him in their own way, but they didn’t know Woody’s parents like he did. He stood with an old-man groan and gripped his friend’s hand. “Thank you for listening, Pierce. I enjoyed the tea, Beth.”
As he chucked Gerald under the chin and left with his warm supper, Woody couldn’t shake the weight in his chest. If Pierce wouldn’t support him, he’d have to proceed on his own. The boys would fare better over the summer, though, which gave him time to work on a plan.
Perhaps this was his cue to begin building a solid reputation in his pastor’s eyes, settle down. Secure a wife.