Courting Miss Adelaide Read online

  Mrs. Drummond’s gaze darted to her husband.

  “How old are they?” Mr. Drummond asked.

  “The boy is ten, the girl is, let’s see…” Wylie scanned a paper in front of him. “Seven.”

  Mr. Drummond rubbed his chin. “Two pair of hands would be a help,” he said, considering. Then he smiled. “The missus would like a girl. We’ll take them both.”

  “Excellent. We don’t want to split up siblings unless we have no choice.”

  Mr. Drummond nodded. “Family means everything. Husband, wife…” He hesitated, his tone emotional. “Children. Nothing should divide a family.”

  Mr. Wylie pushed the papers away and looked at Charles. “Any objections, Mr. Graves?”

  The couple had the proper references, had said all the right words, but what did that prove? The entire exercise was ludicrous. But perhaps no more so than nature’s method of selecting parents guaranteed they’d be adequate for the job.

  Yet some kind of sixth sense twisted a lump in his throat, made him hesitate, but just as quickly, he dismissed it. The others knew them, had greeted them warmly.

  For the hundredth time he questioned why God, all powerful and all knowing, allowed unsuitable people to have children. He could only be certain about one thing. A child would be better off living in Noblesville than roaming the streets of New York City or living in one of its crowded orphanages. “I have none.”

  “Good!” Mr. Wylie sent Mr. Drummond a smile. “I’ve been meaning to thank you, Ed, for helping fix the church roof.”

  Ed nodded. “Glad to do it. We can’t expect the parson to hold an umbrella over his head while he’s preaching.”

  While Wylie ushered the Drummonds from the room, Charles rose from his chair and crossed to the window. Even in the sudden downpour, the streets crawled with horse-drawn wagons and buggies. A typical Saturday, the day area farmers came to town to transact business or sell produce.

  Like most county seats, the courthouse dominated the square, giving a certain dignity to the mishmash of architecture surrounding it. Noblesville was a nice little town. The decision to move here had been a good one. He’d been able to help his brother’s family and to bring The Noblesville Ledger back to life. That had been his father’s plan, but long before that revelation, owning a paper had been Charles’s dream, a dream he’d soon achieve.

  His hand sought the telegram inside his pocket, notification his father had died peacefully in his sleep. Charles crushed the flimsy paper into a tight ball. Maybe now, he could put his past to rest.

  He looked down the block to The Ledger, then across the street to Miss Crum’s millinery shop. She wanted a child to love, not a worker for her store.

  Charles turned from the window. “I’m uncomfortable placing these youngsters to be laborers on farms.”

  “Work never hurt anyone.” Wylie hunched forward, biceps bulging in his ill-fitting coat until Charles expected to hear ripping fabric. “Hard work builds strong bodies, sound minds.”

  “Some of these ‘Street Arabs’ have been pickpockets and beggars,” Paul spoke up. “We’re saving them from a life of crime. If they work hard, they’ll make something of themselves.”

  Charles’s thoughts turned to Miss Crum, an easy task. She stuck in a man’s mind like taffy on the roof of a tot’s mouth. Her eyes had captured him the first moment he saw her. A dazzling blue, they were deep-set under straight, slim brows, gentle, intelligent eyes. Her hair, the color of pale honey, had been smoothed back into a low chignon. Clearly a proper, straitlaced woman, the kind of woman who attended church on Sunday wouldn’t abide a man like him.

  She’d shown a passel of courage facing the committee, even more strength of will when she’d left with her dignity pulled around her like a cloak. Of all the women he’d met that day, Miss Crum was the only one he felt certain would give a child the kind of home he’d read about in books.

  He might have fought more for her, but thoughts of his widowed sister-in-law’s struggles had stopped him. Besides, to object further would have been a waste of time. He’d soon discovered folks in Noblesville resisted anyone who challenged their customary way of life.

  By noon all the children had been spoken for. The actual selection of the orphans would take place in two weeks on the day of distribution. The four men shook hands, relieved they’d finished their job, at least for now. After the distribution, the committee had agreed to keep an eye on the children and their guardians as best they could.

  A fearsome responsibility.

  Outside the courthouse the men dispersed. Charles pulled his collar up around his neck and dashed to the paper in the pounding rain, splattering puddles with every footfall. Ducking into the doorway of The Ledger, he removed his hat, dumping water on his shoes, his spirits as damp as his feet.

  His gaze shifted across the street to the CLOSED sign in the window of Miss Crum’s millinery shop. In the months he’d been here, he’d never seen the shop closed on a Saturday.

  As he opened the door to the paper, he couldn’t help wondering what Adelaide Crum was doing right at this moment, after four men had dashed her hopes as surely as the sudden storm had wiped out the sun.

  Chapter Two

  Adelaide woke with a start, bolting upright in bed. Something important was to take place today. Then the memory hit and she sank against the pillows. The children would arrive today.

  For her, another ordinary day; for twenty-eight couples, this day had blessed them with a child.

  The past two weeks, she had relived the meeting with the committee numerous times, trying to see how she could have convinced them. Wasted thoughts. Wasted hopes. Wasted tears.

  She’d been certain God approved of her desire to rear a child, yet the committee had turned her down. Could she have been wrong? Didn’t God want her to mother an orphan? If not, why?

  I’d be a good mother. I’d never be like Mama—crabby, critical, always taking the pleasure out of everything.

  After a decade of caring for her mother and running the shop, at first her mother’s death had been a relief. The admission put a knot in Adelaide’s stomach, and she said a quick prayer of repentance.

  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.”