Sons of an Ancient Glory (45 page)

Glancing out at the afternoon's deepening gloom, she gathered the baby closer, shivering in spite of the room's warmth. Like the late afternoon shadows pressing in from outside, a distant specter of uneasiness infiltrated her thoughts, dimming her earlier glow of contentment.

Over the past few weeks, she had grown increasingly aware that she wasn't well. At first she hadn't been all that concerned, only impatient with her slow recovery from Teddy's birth. But she was practical enough to realize that she was no longer a young chick, and she could hardly expect to breeze through the birthing process as if she were.

Moreover, if she were to be entirely honest with herself, she would have to concede that it had been a risk from the beginning, having Teddy. She couldn't have been overly strong when she conceived; no doubt months of famine and the scarlet fever had taken their toll on her. It was only natural, she tried to remind herself, that it would take time to recover her health.

But Teddy was over four months old now, and instead of feeling stronger, she felt her strength failing. Exhaustion was an ongoing problem. Weariness seemed to plague her from the time she left her bed in the morning until she collapsed on it again at night. Yet there was no good reason for her to feel so depleted. It wasn't as if she were overworked, after all. Johanna and Daniel John helped out as much as they could. Aunt Winnie came in once or twice a week and spent the day. And although Evan was already far too busy, he always found time for her and the children.

She had said nothing at all to Evan, of course. He fretted enough on his own without her adding to it. But he was obviously suspicious of her attempts to convince him that she was actually doing quite well. In fact, both he and Sara were set on finding extra household help for her—a notion that made Nora feel altogether useless. Just two weeks past, Sara had even gone so far as to send over a girl from one of the immigrant societies, on a “trial basis.” The experiment had proved an utter failure after two days' time, when Nora caught the girl being hateful with poor Johanna and sent her packing.

Secretly, she rather hoped Sara wouldn't find anyone else. She didn't like the idea of having a stranger about the house doing work she ought to be doing herself. She liked even less the notion of a stranger helping to take care of her precious baby boy. She knew Evan and Sara had only her best interests at heart, but she couldn't help but wish they would forget the whole idea.

Something else, however, had begun to worry Nora more than the fatigue. For weeks now, at the most unexpected times, a heaviness would suddenly settle over her chest, followed by a dull, squeezing pain. It seldom lasted long—a few seconds at most—but it was occurring more and more frequently.

Although she hadn't breathed a word about it to anyone, she was afraid Dr. Grafton might have noticed something when he last examined her. He had asked her endless questions about herself, listening to her chest for what seemed an excessively long time. Although his manner had been as friendly and professional as ever, Nora thought he might have been quieter than usual. That same day, he surprised her by suggesting that she consider weaning Teddy early, hinting that she should do whatever she could to conserve her strength.

Nora was trying her utmost to appear fit and strong around Evan, determined he should not suspect anything amiss. Yet she could no longer pretend to
herself
that everything was as it should be, and she wasn't altogether certain that she was doing the right thing, trying to hide her condition from Evan. The children had to be considered, after all. What if something
should
happen to her, and Evan were caught totally unprepared? How would he manage? With Teddy still an infant and Johanna not only physically handicapped but emotionally troubled as well—how
could
he manage?

Glancing up, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror across the room. She lifted a hand to her hair, tucking a few gray wisps under the darker strands about her temples. Impulsively, she pinched her cheeks a bit, watching as a faint pink stain crept over them.

But the color quickly fled, and the reflection that stared back at her seemed that of a stranger: a gaunt, ashen-skinned stranger, with dull, shadowed eyes which at the moment glinted with something that looked very much like fear.

After sending one of the kitchen boys from the downstairs tavern with a message for Jess Dalton, Nicholas Grafton hastily scrawled another note, this one for Evan Whittaker:

Forgive my absence, but emergency demands my immediate attention. Will talk with you later in the week. N.G.

Grabbing his medicine case, the doctor tacked the note on the outside door of the mission room, then hurried downstairs.

He had not expected this call quite so soon, yet now that it was here, he wasn't surprised. Both he and Elizabeth Ward had known for days the end was rapidly approaching. Nicholas was convinced that the only thing that had kept the stricken young woman going was her concern for her baby daughter. She had never ceased hoping and praying that a letter would arrive from her father in England, a letter that would ease her mind about her little girl's future.

Nicholas's jaw tightened as he climbed into his carriage. Every time he thought about the foolish, stubborn man in England who had turned his back on his only daughter, he wanted to drive his fist through a wall.

For weeks he had watched Elizabeth Ward's hope turn to anguish at the deafening silence from her father. And now, at the end, the poor girl must endure not only the crushing pain of her disease, but despair and fear for her child as well.

At first he had been convinced that Edward Winston, Elizabeth's father, would reply immediately to his letter on her behalf. No matter how wronged the man might consider himself, he was a father. And a father, as Nicholas knew firsthand, had a way of putting aside any wrong to himself when the well-being of his children was at stake.

But as time went on, Nicholas reluctantly accepted the fact that there would be no reply, no last-minute letter to restore the dying young mother's hope. Apparently, Edward Winston had been unmoved by every plea for his daughter, despite the fact that his heartlessness would send her to the grave unconsoled—and might well cause his granddaughter to end up in a city orphanage.

People like Edward Winston seldom considered the consequences of their pride, Nicholas thought angrily: the long-lasting and sometimes widespread effects of their selfishness. Did they ever give a thought to the lives that might be damaged, or even destroyed, by the intractable withholding of grace, the stubborn refusal to forgive?

Shaking his head, he drove on, dreading what would be, almost certainly, his final call on Elizabeth Ward. Perhaps eventually he would be able to feel pity for the man in England, whose pride of name evidently meant more to him than his own child. But for now, the only emotion he could find in his heart for Edward Winston was a seething rage for the additional, unnecessary pain he was inflicting on his dying daughter.

With a sigh, he stepped up the pace of Little Milly, his aging mare, praying all the while that Jess Dalton would have gotten his message and would be at Elizabeth Ward's apartment by the time he arrived.

Be Thou my vision, O Lord of my heart,
Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art.

A
NONYMOUS
(I
RISH
, E
IGHTH
C
ENTURY
)

T
he man who flung open the door when Evan knocked at the upstairs flat was a big hulk of a fellow, obviously inebriated.

He towered over Evan. Standing in the doorway, he raked one large hand through thinning brown hair as he looked Evan up and down. His stained, dun-colored shirt gaped open over a swollen stomach. He reeked of bad whiskey and body odor.

For a moment, Evan could only stare, hoping he had the wrong address, that this was
not
the uncle Billy Hogan had spoken of.

Clearing his throat, he finally managed to find his voice. “How—how do you d-do?” he stammered. “I wonder if I have the r-right address. I'm looking for one of m-my choir m-members—Billy Hogan.”

The man eyed him with a look of distaste. Evan was beginning to wonder if he was going to answer him at all.

“You're the Englishman,” the man in the doorway finally snarled. “Whittaker.”

His words were slurred. Somehow he managed to make Evan's name sound like an obscenity.

Evan raised his chin slightly. “I-I am Evan Whittaker, that's correct. And you are—”

“Billy ain't here.”

“I see,” Evan said after a slight hesitation. Irked by the man's coarseness, he nevertheless kept a civil tone. “Are you, ah, B-Billy's uncle?”

“What do you want with the boy?”

Apparently, the man was bent on being rude. Biting down on his impatience, Evan forced himself not to reply in kind. “We've b-been missing B-Billy at rehearsal lately. I was afraid he m-might be ill.” He paused. “I hope that's not the case.”

“He ain't ill and, and like I said, he ain't here.” The red-rimmed eyes narrowed suspiciously. “We don't need no Brits sniffin' about down here. You'd best be minding your
own
business, not ours.”

It took everything Evan had to maintain his composure. Reminding himself that the man was obviously drunk, he drew in a deep, steadying breath. “I simply called to inquire after your nephew's whereabouts, to m-make certain he's not ill. Perhaps I could come b-back another time—”

“Don't bother yourself.” The man's face contorted into an ugly scowl. “There's no need for you to come back a'tall—the boy don't live here anymore.”

Evan frowned. “He d-doesn't live here? But, then—where
does
he live?”

“In the alleys with his newsboy chums, more than likely.”

Evan caught a momentary glint of drunken cunning. Something warned him that the man wasn't telling the truth.

“I d-don't suppose you'd have any idea where I m-might find Billy and his friends,” he ventured.

“I would not.”

Evan stared at him, disgust and anger mingling. “Yes…well, thank you for your time. I shan't b-bother you any longer.”

He could feel that baleful glare drilling into his back all the way downstairs. When he exited onto the street, he actually gave himself a shake, as if to throw off a clinging viper.

For a moment he stood outside the tenement, trying to think. Spying a policeman just up the street, he started toward him. As he approached, he recognized Sergeant Price, a familiar face about the Five Points.

To Evan's vast relief, the sergeant insisted on accompanying him in his search for Billy Hogan. “Why, the newsies are all about the place, Mr. Whittaker: in the Five Points, in the Bowery—a number of them bunk uptown, to be near the newspaper offices. You can't be going off on your own. Come along—I know most places to be looking.”

Giving his nightstick a twirl, the policeman took Evan by the arm and propelled him down the street.