Courting Miss Adelaide

Shaking off her dark thoughts, Adelaide held up her left thumb. “I’m thankful, God, for a thriving business.” Lifting her index finger, she continued, “I’m thankful for these comfortable rooms that give me shelter.” Then, “Thank you, Lord, for good friends.” Touching each finger in turn, she found, as always, many things for which to give thanks.

But today, it wasn’t enough.

She climbed out of bed and shoved up the window. The clatter of wheels, a barking dog and a vendor’s shout brought life into the room. She walked to the dresser mirror and picked up her brush. In her reflection, she found no ravages of age, no sign of crow’s-feet. Her nose was clearly too long, but, all in all, a nice enough face.

Nice enough for a handsome man like Mr. Graves to admire?

Adelaide blinked. Where had that thought come from?

She laid down the brush and leaned toward the mirror, then crossed her eyes. If you don’t stop that, Adelaide, your eyes will get stuck there. Recalling her mother’s warning, a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

Feeling better, she dressed, then hurried to the kitchen and made coffee. As she sipped the hot brew, her gaze traveled the room, pleased with the soft blue walls above the white wainscoting. Blue-and-white checked curtains, crisp with starch, hung at the window over the sink. This would be a cozy place for a child to have breakfast. The oak pedestal table circled with four pressed-back chairs, plenty of seating for a family.

Neither a crumb littered the floor nor did a speck of dust mar the table. She sighed. All too aware, she lived in the perfect, uncluttered home of a childless woman.

Enough of self-pity. Time to open her shop. Downstairs, she flipped the sign in the window and sat down to mend a torn seam when the bell jingled.

Sally Bender, dressed in drab green with her gray hair stuffed beneath a faded blue bonnet, tromped into the shop. “Land sakes, Adelaide! Are you buried alive under all these hats?” Before Adelaide could answer, Sally went on, “It’s high time you got out your frame so we can finish that quilt.”

Adelaide’s mother’s declining health had ended the quilting bees. “Good morning to you, too, Sally,” Adelaide said with a teasing grin.

“Oh, good morning.” Sally smiled sheepishly, but then parked fisted hands on her hips. “You know I’m right. It’s not good to mope like this.”

“I’m sewing, not moping.”

“You can’t fool me, Adelaide Crum. You’re hiding out here. The ‘Snip and Sew’ quilters haven’t met in months. Why, the church auction will come and go before we finish that quilt.” A spark flared in Sally’s eyes. “Is it man trouble?”

“No, just work.”

“Then start having some. Ask Horace Smith to the church picnic. Give me something to think about besides this unseasonable heat.”

Old enough to be her father, the town’s mortician looked barely more alive than his clientele. “If you’re relying on me for excitement, you’ll expire from a bad case of monotony.” She chuckled. “No doubt Horace would thank me for the business.”

Sally poked her arm. “Now you sound more like yourself.”

Putting aside her sewing, Adelaide rose. “I’ll set up the frame. We can start a week from Monday at ten o’clock.”

“Good. On the way home, I’ll stop and tell the others.” She drew Adelaide into a hug. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too.”

Sally spun out like a whirlwind. Adelaide whispered thanks for a caring friend.

Adelaide kept busy, but the morning dragged. Unable to concentrate, she had to rip out rows of stitches in Mrs. Willowby’s bolero jacket and jabbed herself twice with the needle. She laid the garment aside, then stuck the pricked finger in her mouth as she ambled over to the window.

The street was exceptionally busy, even for a Saturday. No doubt twenty-eight of these conveyances held those fortunate couples who’d been given a child.

What if an unexpected child had ridden the train? Maybe I’m supposed to be at the distribution, taking an opportunity God provided.

Adelaide whipped off her apron and raced upstairs for her hat and gloves.

Charles walked the few blocks to The Ledger, his stride brisk. Under his hat perspiration already beaded his forehead. He neared Whitehall’s Café and the aroma of strong coffee wafted through an open window, tempting him. Up ahead, a group of people huddled, heads bent, talking, unusual for an early Saturday morning. Coffee could wait.

As Charles neared the paper, his reporter came running from the opposite direction, his lanky legs skidding to a halt in front of him. “Mr. Graves, Sarah Hartman hung herself from a rafter in her barn!”

“What can you tell me about her?”

“Nothing except she’s an old lady who lived on a farm outside of town. Must’ve gone daft. Her daughter found her this morning.”

“Too bad,” Charles said without a trace of feeling. Long ago, journalism had taught him to distance himself from tragedy, to look at events as part of the job, not troubles affecting people’s lives. Otherwise, every death would have him bawling like a baby. Though, upon occasion, the sum of all those tragedies circled over his head like buzzards converging on the kill, disturbing his sleep.

“Did the sheriff say it looked like suicide, or the town gossips?”

James thrust out his chin, annoyance etching his brow. “The sheriff did. He found a crate kicked over beneath the body.”

Charles nodded his approval. “Good work. Get the sheriff’s statement. Interview the daughter. While you’re at it, ask about funeral arrangements for the obit.”

“Mrs. Hartman had one child.” James checked his tablet, clearly proud of his reporting skills. “Frances Drummond.”

Drummond? Charles had no idea why, but hearing that name left him feeling uneasy.

A crowd gathered as Adelaide slipped into the schoolhouse. Across the front of the room, the orphans sat in two rows of chairs, their young faces etched with uncertainty and a glimmer of hope. Adelaide counted nineteen boys and nine girls. Twenty-eight, the exact number the committee had expected. Her heart plummeted. Still, she couldn’t drag herself away.

She studied each child in turn. Some appeared to be in their early teens, others quite young; their small feet dangled above the floor. Though rumpled from travel, all wore proper clothing, with hair combed and faces scrubbed.

They were beautiful, every single one of them.

Across the room she caught the eye of Mr. Graves. His quick smile made her feel less alone in this room of instant families.

Adelaide’s gaze returned to a young girl of six or seven. Fair and blond, she leveled aquamarine eyes on the crowd. A brave little thing or maybe merely good at hiding her fear.

“Miss Abigail, what on Earth are you doing here?”

With huge proportions and a voice to match, Viola Willowby loomed over her. That a steady customer persisted in calling her Abigail, even though Adelaide’s Hats and Sundries hung in bold letters over her shop, set Adelaide’s teeth on edge.

She lifted her gaze, forcing up the corners of her mouth into something she hoped resembled a smile. Atop Mrs. Willowby’s head perched one of Adelaide’s finest creations—a floppy straw hat bedecked with pink cabbage roses.

“Hello, Mrs. Willowby.”

“I saw you leave the orphan interviews. Why were you there?”

“For the same reason as you.”

Mrs. Willowby gasped. “You can’t be serious! It…it wouldn’t be proper.” Mrs. Willowby pulled a lace-edged hanky from its hiding place in the depths of her ample bosom and touched the linen to her nose, as if she feared catching some dire malady that would render her as irrational as she obviously thought Adelaide to be.

Adelaide looked her square in the eye. “And why not?”

“You’re a spin—” Mrs. Willowby’s face flushed, unable to get the heinous word past her lips. “A maiden lady.”

Adelaide wanted to rip the stunning hat off her customer’s head and swat her across the face with it. But then she sighed, ashamed of herself. A Christian shouldn’t think that way. Besides, Mrs. Willowby represented the thinking of the committee, probably of their church, even the entire town. “You needn’t worry. They denied my request.”

“Well, I should think so!”

Judge Willowby, an equally large man, tapped his wife on the shoulder. “I’m sure Miss Crum is quite capable of rearing a youngster, Mrs. Willowby.” While his wife sputtered like an overflowing teakettle, he motioned to two chairs. “It’s time to start.” He turned to Adelaide. “Nice to see you, Miss Crum.”

Adelaide smiled at the judge. Clearly he found some good in his uncharitable wife.

Adelaide could understand why the Willowbys had been given a child. Years before, they’d lost their two children to diphtheria. Well-heeled, after finding natural gas on their property, they wielded a lot of influence in town.

While she…Well, truth be told, she was a spinster. How she disliked the word, but at thirty-one years of age, soon to be thirty-two, Adelaide had to accept it applied to her.

She moved to the back of the room and took a seat, recalling some years back her chance at marriage. She hadn’t loved Jack, the man who’d asked. Had her refusal been a mistake? Young at the time, she’d foolishly expected to fall in love. It hadn’t happened.

Keeping busy hadn’t been a problem. She faithfully attended the First Christian Church, went to prayer meetings on Wednesday nights, where she communed with the Lord, but with not one eligible bachelor. Within the pages of books, she found adventure, but put little stock in the fictitious men who whisked women away to live happily ever after. No, Adelaide lived in the real world, had her feet planted firmly on the ground. Men couldn’t be counted on. Her chest constricted. Her mother’s life had proved that.

Her gaze returned to Mr. Graves. Light streamed through the window behind him and the rays caught in his thick hair, giving him a halo of sorts. Though with that strong jaw and stern expression, he hardly looked like an angel. But he did, she had to admit, look fine.

Mr. Wylie walked to the front and asked for quiet, then introduced Mr. Fry, an agent of the Children’s Aid Society.

A thin fellow with slicked-back hair and a hooked nose walked to the podium, eyeing the crowd over his reading glasses. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Children’s Aid Society is grateful for your interest. Many of these children were homeless, sleeping in doorways and privies, selling matches or flowers, working as shoeshine or paperboys. Some begged for food. When they came to us, many wore filthy rags infested with vermin.”

The children sat unmoving, staring ahead with somber gazes, showing no reaction to Mr. Fry’s words. “You may wonder why New York City has such a vast number of orphans.” His hand swept over the children. “Some of these children aren’t, in fact, orphans. When John’s family—” a thin boy scrambled to his feet “—immigrated to this country, he and his family became forever separated.” John sat down.

“Death or desertion of one parent left eight of our twenty-eight children with no one to care for them. Unwed mothers left a few on our doorstep.”

Someone murmured, “Poor things.”

Tears stung Adelaide’s eyes. More than anything, she wanted to take every last one of these children home and try to make up for the deprivation of their young lives with warm hugs and fresh-baked cookies.

“In some cases, family members brought them to us, trusting we could provide them a better life, which, with your help, we’re attempting to do.”

Adelaide couldn’t imagine giving up a child. Nothing could make her do such a thing.

“Mr. Brace, our founder,” Mr. Fry continued, “realized we couldn’t handle the problem alone. He devised this plan to place the ten thousand orphans we presently have into rural areas and small towns, where they’ll receive an education and enjoy the benefits of a healthy environment and family life.”

The numbers boggled Adelaide. Surely with that many homeless children, there’d be one child for her.

Perhaps if she went to New York—

“Your local committee,” he said then consulted his notes, “comprised of Mr. Wylie, Mr. Paul, Mr. Sparks and Mr. Graves, has approved the eligibility of your homes.”

Involuntarily, Adelaide’s gaze again sought Mr. Graves. Even from this distance, the sight of his determined, serious face shot little pricks of awareness through her limbs.

She forced her attention back to Mr. Fry.

“I’ve been told more requests were made than we could provide on this trip. Perhaps in the future as more children come to us, we can remedy that situation.”

Adelaide caught her breath. If they came again, then, next time she might convince the committee.

Who was she fooling? No one in Noblesville, or New York, would give a single woman a child. If only she could give her world a twist and watch it transform like the bits of colored glass in the kaleidoscope she’d seen at the mercantile. Maybe then, she’d change a few stubborn minds.

“Along with periodic visits by one of our agents, these gentlemen have agreed to oversee the children’s welfare. At any time, the agreement to care for a child can be broken, either by the family or by the child.”

Perhaps a little girl would be unhappy in her new home and the committee would reconsider their decision.

He cleared his throat. “Now, let’s meet the children.”

Mr. Fry introduced the bigger boys in the back row. Half listening, Adelaide’s eyes remained riveted on the little blond-haired girl. At last, Mr. Fry gave her name. She stood along with an older boy beside her.

“Emma and William Grounds are brother and sister. Emma is seven, her brother, William, ten. Their father deserted his family years ago and their mother recently died. Both youngsters are in good health.” Emma and William clutched each other’s hands, their eyes conveyed a warning—they were a matched pair, not to be separated.

Mr. Fry continued down the row and the Grounds children sat down. Laying her head on her brother’s shoulder, Emma stuck two small fingers in her mouth. Two precious German children, whose father had left them, as hers had done. Adelaide yearned to pull them into her arms until that longing bordered on pain.

Oh, Lord, please bring these children into my life.

Mr. Fry instructed the selected couples to seek out the children and the meeting ended. Almost against her will, Adelaide moved toward the Grounds siblings. She froze when she spotted Frances and Ed Drummond, wearing black out of respect for Mrs. Hartman’s untimely death, talking to William and Emma.

As Adelaide watched, Emma tentatively took Frances’s hand. William sat silent, his arms hanging limp. A woman who’d accompanied the orphans on the train joined the couple and spoke to William. Apparently overcoming his hesitation, he took his sister’s other hand.

Disappointment slammed into Adelaide’s stomach. She swayed and sank onto a nearby chair. Her children were going to live with that angry man and his spiritless wife. Helpless to act, she watched the four of them cross to the registration table. The Drummonds signed a paper and left the room before a miracle could bring those children into her arms. Didn’t God care about them? About her?

Across the way, Judge and Mrs. Willowby left with a dark-eyed, curly-haired boy in tow. The same process repeated all around the room. Soon all the orphans were spoken for and on their way to new homes.

A heavy stone of misery sparked a sudden, uncustomary anger. Adelaide approached the table where the men who’d denied her application sifted through paperwork. “How could you allow the Drummonds to have the Grounds children?”

Mr. Paul, his face turning a deep shade of crimson, leapt to his feet. “Now see here, Miss Crum, it’s not your place to criticize the decisions of this committee!”

Mr. Wylie took Mr. Paul’s arm. “No need to raise your voice, Thaddeus.” He turned to Adelaide. “The Drummonds are fine people. Ed sits on the county council, helps his neighbors. You probably heard Mrs. Drummond recently lost her mother.” He grimaced. “A few years back, their only child died in a horrible accident. They deserve this new beginning.”

Face pinched, Mr. Sparks came around the table. “You’re mistaken about the Drummonds. They pay their bills and attend church.”

Adelaide wanted to challenge their view, but that meant butting her head into that stone wall of men. Without a doubt, Frances was a good person, but she’d changed into a colorless, weary creature, perhaps downtrodden by her husband.

“Do you have proof they’re unsuitable?” Mr. Graves asked.

Adelaide moved forward. “The day of the interviews, Mr. Drummond looked very angry—”

“If that’s a crime, we’d all be in trouble.” Mr. Wylie chuckled. “I know you’ve never been married, Miss Crum, but it’s not uncommon for husbands and wives to argue.”

She tamped down her annoyance. They hadn’t seen Ed Drummond’s expression. But they’d already gone back to their paperwork, dismissing her with silence.

All except Mr. Graves, who studied her with dark, somber eyes. But he remained mute.

She turned to leave, then stepped into the bright sunlight, watching wagons and buggies roll away from the schoolhouse. Her gaze lingered on the smiling couples with youngsters.

For a moment, she regretted refusing Jack’s offer of marriage.

But then she remembered how he’d gobble dinner, barely speaking a word, and later, hands folded over a premature paunch, would fall asleep in the parlor until he roused enough to go home. No sharing of dreams, no laughter, no connection. His only thank-you for the meal was an odorous belch.

Without a doubt, her main appeal to Jack had been the income from her shop. Adelaide lifted her chin. If marriage offered no more than that, she could manage nicely without a man. But a child…A child was different.

Charles watched Miss Crum leave. What had she seen or heard that upset her enough to challenge the committee? With his own misgivings needling him, he followed her. “Miss Crum!”

She pivoted. His heart stuttered in his chest, a warning that when it came to Miss Crum, he was fast losing his objectivity. “I need to ask. What made you say the Drummonds wouldn’t make good parents?”

She met his gaze with an icy stare. “I’ve seen Ed’s temper. Frances appears heartbroken, unable to care for two children.”

“That’s understandable. She lost her mother—”

A light touch on his arm cut off his words.

“Have you ever had a bad feeling about anyone, Mr. Graves?”

“Sure.”

“Then you can understand my concern. I have a bad feeling about that man.”

As a newsman, he might use intuition to guide him, but he needed tangible evidence, not the insight of one disgruntled woman. “With nothing to base it on—”

“I know the committee’s position. They made it clear the day I applied.” She gave him a curt nod. “Good day.”

Watching her leave, he regretted the committee’s decision. No point in getting sappy about it. He wasn’t in the business of securing everyone’s happiness, even the happiness of a woman with eyes the color of a clear summer sky.

Crossing the street, he slipped between a buckboard hauling sacks of feed and a dray wagon. The image of Adelaide Crum nagged at him with a steadfastness that left him shaken.

Yet, the lady saw things as black and white, right or wrong, while he found areas of gray. Not that it mattered. He had no intention of getting involved with her, with anyone.

He had all he could do running the paper and helping his brother’s family. He didn’t want another complication in his life, in particular a complication of the female sort.

Yet something about Adelaide Crum made him question his decision.

Chapter Three

Tuesday morning Adelaide sewed pink ribbons on to a child’s bonnet, each tiny stitch made with infinite care. On the table beside her, her Bible lay closed. Unread.

As she worked, she pictured Emma Grounds, the little German girl, wearing this hat as they picked daylilies out back. She imagined bending down to gather the girl to her, nuzzling her neck, inhaling the scent of warmed skin, the scent of a child.

Sighing, she pinched the bridge of her nose, fighting tears, then knotted the final thread, snipped off the ends and laid the finished hat on her lap. In reality, a customer would buy this bonnet for her daughter or granddaughter and it would be gone, out of Adelaide’s grasp as surely as Emma.

She removed her spectacles and laid the hat on the counter. The bell jingled over the door. The sight of Laura Larson brought a smile to Adelaide’s face. Laura’s youthful spirit might be encased in a plump, matronly body, but her laughter lit up a room like firecrackers on the Fourth of July. Without her help, Adelaide couldn’t have managed the shop during her mother’s illness. “Hello!”

Laura strolled toward her, her gaze sweeping the shop. Slicked back into a bun, some of her salt-and-pepper curls escaped to frame her round unwrinkled face. “My, my, haven’t you been busy.”

Leaning on the counter, Adelaide viewed her surroundings through Laura’s eyes. Hats lined every shelf and perched on every stand. Already full when she’d become work-possessed, display cabinets burst at the seams. “I guess I’m overstocked.”

Laura giggled, sounding more like a young girl than a grandmother in her fifties. “I’d say so. Do you have some hat-making elves tucked away in the back?”

Adelaide smiled. “No, I made them all.”

“Why so many?”

What could Adelaide say? She’d been drowning her sorrow in hats? That for the past two weeks she’d been sewing, rather than praying about her problems? “Would you like some tea?”

“Tea sounds wonderful, if you have the time.”

Adelaide headed to the kettle on the tiny potbellied stove in the back. “One thing I have plenty of is time.”

“What you have plenty of, dear, is hats,” Laura said, following her.

Pouring steaming water into a prepared teapot, Adelaide chuckled. For a moment, the sound stopped her hand. How long had it been since she’d laughed?

Adelaide gathered two cups with saucers and added a teaspoon of sugar in each, the way she and Laura liked their tea. She carried the tray into the showroom.

Laura joined her at the table, a cozy spot where her customers leafed through copies of Godey’s Lady’s Book while enjoying a restorative cup of tea.

“Why not mark them down and run an ad in the paper?” Laura said. “You’ll need the space when it’s time to display wools and velvets.”

Running an ad meant seeing Mr. Graves. She would like to strategically poke a hatpin into every member of the committee, even The Ledger’s editor. Of course, she’d do no such a thing.

Filling Laura’s cup, Adelaide sighed. “I’ll run an ad.”

Laura took a sip, and then rested her cup in the saucer. “You missed Wednesday night’s prayer meeting. Again.” Laura touched her hand. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Adelaide lifted her head, meeting Laura’s gentle and accepting, ready-to-listen eyes. Her gaze skittered away and settled on the bonnet lying on the counter, then over to her unread Bible.

She considered telling Laura about her struggles, but it might sound as if she blamed God. And she didn’t. It was her fault she resisted His will for her life. Or was it the committee who refused His will? Her mind had been so full of hurt and discouragement she no longer heard with certainty the quiet, inner voice that had guided and sustained her.

Laura gave her hand a squeeze, but said nothing, simply waited. Tenacious as a bulldog tugging at a trouser leg, Laura wouldn’t let go until she got the story.

“A couple weeks ago, I asked to care for one of the orphans coming to town on the train, and the committee turned me down.”

“Oh, no.”

“Afterward—” She bit her lower lip until she could continue. “To keep busy, I made hats.”