Page 16 of Kidnapped (The Browns of Butcher’s Hill #1)

“ S it up as straight as you can,” Prosperi said to Phillip once they were delivered back to Wolfe Street via Miss Wiest’s fancy carriage. “I’ve got to listen to your lungs.”

Phillip pushed his shoulders back, the pain nearly overwhelming, before Prosperi stepped back.

“Amazingly enough, it doesn’t appear that you’ve punctured a lung. You’ve likely only cracked one or two ribs, although several more are bruised. Your eye will heal in time and will probably be bloodshot for some time, which may interfere with your sight. Your jaw is not cracked that I can tell, and only the one tooth shows a crack. Your shoulder is definitely out of its socket, and I’m going to have to get it back into place.”

Prosperi walked to the door of Phillip’s bedroom and spoke to Sarah. He closed the door and leaned back against it.

“Brown, I know we aren’t friends by any means, but as your doctor, I’m telling you you’re going to have to stop getting into fights. You’re not getting any younger, and one of these days you’re going to injure yourself past what can heal.”

Phillip looked up at the man, who had rightly said they were not friends, which made Phillip wonder why they weren’t. They were of an age; he wasn’t as educated as the doctor, but he was literate and wasn’t a common laborer, unlike most people Prosperi tended; and they’d known each other for several years and attended the same church—when Phillip went, which was not often. Was it just Prosperi’s interest in Sarah? It wouldn’t be a bad match for his sister if he was honest with himself. And even though he suspected Prosperi of merely looking for a nursemaid rather than a wife, the doctor probably made a decent living, enough to have a good-sized house and a live-in nanny for the children as well as a housekeeper. But still, even after thinking about their similarities, he could not like the man. There was something there he didn’t trust, which may just have been his concern for Sarah’s happiness—or something real that he’d just not identified.

“You’re right, Doc. But what was I supposed to do? They killed that man, Jackman, in front of me and had their hands on his wife and child, who would have been defenseless. I can’t not do something.”

“Understood. However, you seem to be in the position to have to do something more often than average. Lay down, Brown,” Prosperi said as Uncle Patrick came in the room. “Hold him down, Mr. Brown. I’m going to set that shoulder, and he’s going to howl.”

Patrick put a hand on Phillip’s good shoulder and one on his chest. “Do your worst, Doctor,” Patrick said and smiled.

“You don’t have to look so—” Phillip said before shouting out a word he would never say in front of a female. “Oh God. That hurt.”

Prosperi ran a practiced hand over his shoulder and declared it back in place. “Give yourself some time to let those muscles heal.”

Phillip sat up and took a deep breath as the residual pain ebbed away. “What do I owe you?”

Prosperi busied himself putting his instruments back into his leather bag and closing it with a snap. “You wouldn’t owe me anything if you would stop discouraging your sister from taking my pursuit of her seriously. But since I doubt that will happen, I’ll take two bits.”

“I don’t discourage her,” Phillip said.

Patrick was nearly out the door when he stopped. “Oh yes, you do. Sarah worships the very ground you walk on, and the idea that she might disappoint you terrifies her. Do what the doctor tells you. I’m going to fetch Jenny and Greta from Miriam.”

Phillip glanced at his uncle and at Prosperi. He dug a quarter out of his pocket and handed it to the doctor. “I’ll do better with the other.”

Prosperi took the coin. “That’s all I can ask for. Don’t be a fool and wreck that shoulder any more than you already have. Good day.”

Virginia finished her meeting with Ivan Pointer, the secretary who attended her correspondence and her father’s when it was of a private nature, and in this case it was, as it concerned Mrs. Jackman. He would report back to her in a few days about what steamer Mrs. Jackman would board to take her back to the British Isles and the arrangements for her further transportation to Glasgow. A letter penned by Virginia from the woman’s words had already been dispatched to her family about the sad news of her husband’s death and her travels with her baby back home.

As Mr. Pointer left, Virginia saw Mrs. Jackman walking by carrying several items of clothing. Virginia wondered how the woman was doing with all the sudden changes in her life.

“Mrs. Jackman?” Virginia said as she stood.

“Yes, Miss Wiest?” the woman said and turned to Virginia’s office.

“How are you doing?” Virginia asked and nodded to the stack of dresses in her hands. “Is everything fitting well?”

Mrs. French had the seamstress she often used for herself and for new employees’ uniforms take Mrs. Jackman’s measurements. Dolly’s Dress Shop would deliver several dresses, skirts and blouses, nightclothes, shoes, and unmentionables for her as the woman’s own clothing had been torn or ruined several days ago when Campbell’s men invaded her home, and there hadn’t been much to begin with when Mr. Turnbull and several housemen had returned with her to her apartment to retrieve a few personal items. Mrs. Jackman had been busy sewing new clothes for her daughter from fabric the seamstress had already delivered.

“I cannot begin to thank you for all you’ve done for me and me babe,” Mrs. Jackman said. “Everyone has been so kind to me and Glynnis. I’m so very sorry to have lost Peter but am looking forward to being home in Glasgow with family. My sister and her husband own a bake shop, and I’m sure I can work for her some while me Mum or Peter’s watches the babe.”

“That sounds like an excellent plan. Did you get everything of yours from your apartment?” Virginia asked.

“Oh yes. There wasn’t so much, but what there was means something to me and will mean something to Glynnis when she’s older,” she said. “There was a note in our Bible that wasn’t in Peter’s hand, I don’t think. I can’t read much. Mrs. French says there’s an address. I wondered if it would mean anything to that poor woman whose son was taken.”

The back of Virginia’s neck tingled. “I’d be happy to take a look at it, if you don’t mind.”

“I’ll get it in a trice. Thank you, miss,” she said and curtsied, even though Mr. Smith had told her several times that Americans do not curtsy. Mrs. Jackman was back quickly and handed Virginia a folded square of paper. “Glynnis is hungry, so I’ll just fetch the note later when you’re done looking at it,” she said and hurried out the door.

Virginia unfolded the paper and read it. She would have to act quickly if the information was accurate. She examined the paper, wondering if it was Mr. Jackman’s writing or someone else’s and if it was put in their family Bible to be kept safe. She had no way of determining that, nor could she allow this child to be hurt. She could not. She must do her best regardless of her father’s dire warnings and her own fears.

Virginia was soon dressed in a very plain dark skirt and shirt, both in heavy wool that she used for traveling. It was comfortable with only a light corset and very warm. She pulled on her stockings, added a pair of wool socks over top, and laced up her leather boots. It was Colleen’s day out, and Mr. Turnbull had taken the family carriage for repairs he or his staff could not do themselves. Mr. Crimlock would have to do. She asked Mr. Smith to send him to her.

She dug through the drawer in the small cabinet beside her bed until she found what might be of use, although the idea of hurting another person was horrifying. She pulled the spring-loaded knife with a beautiful pearl handle out from under a book she’d been reading and a long scarf she wrapped around her shoulders on cold nights. Her mother’s brother, Uncle Simon, had bought it for her on one of his many trips to the western states and spent an hour or more showing her how to use it on a day her father was not home. He’d told her all the ladies in the western towns carried one or a small pistol. She’d thought he was being ridiculous, but perhaps it was true.

She put the knife in her pocket and some coins in her other pocket and met Mr. Crimlock at the front door.

“I’m going out for a bit, Mr. Smith. Mr. Crimlock will be with me.” She hesitated and then did what she knew she must. “If I am late for dinner, please get this note to Mr. Brown.”

“Yes, miss. Are you sure you don’t want to wait until Mr. Turnbull returns with the carriage?”

She shook her head and tightened her bonnet. “No. We’re not going far. I’ll be fine.”

Smith hurried to open the door. “If you’re sure, miss,” he said and pulled Crimlock aside. “Do not let Miss Wiest out of your sight.”

Crimlock nodded, undoubtedly remembering his last excursion with his mistress when he had been forced to apply to Mr. Brown for help. “I will do my best, Mr. Smith.”

“You’d best do better than that, young man. Our young lady is precious to us.”

Crimlock hurried through the door to her side. “Where is the closest trolley stop?” she asked.

“Trolley stop, miss? Whatever for?”

She set off toward the street, Crimlock falling behind her. “We’re going to take the trolley rather than walk to Orleans Street. It’s a good distance away.”

“Orleans Street? Yes, miss, it is, and we’ll have to catch the correct trolley, one going to the edge of the city.”

“We can’t give them our direction?”

“No, miss. We must catch the correct trolley. The north route, I imagine.”

“Lead on, Mr. Crimlock. We’ve not got a moment to spare.”

Crimlock guided her to a trolley stop, where many people were waiting and watching the street for the trolley arrival. “Come along, miss. We’ve got to get in line.”

She found herself among a crowd of men, women, and children waiting to board the trolley and head to their work or their home or just to visit a relative or friend. The horses came to a stop and a man jumped down from the wagon seat to collect. “Half penny. Pay your way. Move to the back and make room for others.”

Virginia found herself pushed forward and dug in her skirt for a coin, but Mr. Crimlock already had a penny in his hand. “Two,” he said and guided her up the step. There was barely room to move, and she had no idea where she would sit, if there was even a place for her to sit.

“You there,” Crimlock said to a young man. “Stand and hold a strap so this lady can be seated.”

The young man stood, reluctantly, Virginia thought, and she found herself seated beside a large, older woman holding a chicken in her arms. The trolley bumped along, the noise from the wheels and the constant chatter from the riders nearly deafening, but on some level it was exciting, even freeing. These were the people who made the city alive with work and commerce. She didn’t know what she would find when she got to Orleans Street, but she must do her best to save this child.

Because that’s what the note said. Bucciarelli is moving boy on 23rd. Must intercept. Be at Orleans at six of the night. Clearly, Campbell was looking to get Greta’s child away from Bucciarelli as more leverage for her to return to the Durmands’ and continue to give him information about that harbor property. She already knew the number of the house from Colleen’s sister’s friend and could not waste one more minute now that the note confirmed that the Orleans house did indeed hold Greta’s son, William. It was nearly four in the afternoon now. She did not have much time.

The trolley ride was bitterly cold, and she was glad she’d had the foresight to wear thick undergarments and heavy socks. After changing trolleys, they arrived on the corner of Orleans and Caroline. She’d never been on this particular street, but she’d been in the area before as the hospital she often donated to was located nearby.

“We’re looking for house number 1349,” she said and tried to make out the number near the door of the home closest to them. The neighborhood seemed to be well-off middle class, with side yards and landscaping and curtained windows on two- and three-story buildings.

“This one is number 78,” Crimlock said and glanced at her. “We’ve got thirteen blocks or more to walk, miss. Are you sure you don’t want to go back to Shellington?”

“No. There’s a child in danger of being lost to his mother forever.”

“Maybe we should have sent word to Mr. Brown. He knows how to take care of these sorts of things.”

“He was badly beaten just a day or two ago. He is in no condition to leave his home. We’re going to get this child and hurry home before Mr. Campbell is aware.”

Crimlock took off his hat and scratched his head. “I don’t think we could hurry anywhere. We’ve not got a carriage. And we’ll be quite a distance from a trolley stop.”

“Mr. Crimlock, I understand your reluctance. There is some danger involved, I will admit, but if we are there before this man comes to take the child, we should be away before anything untoward could happen. But this is not what you agreed to when you came to work at Shellington. You are free to return home.”

“Well, miss,” Crimlock said, red-faced, “if you think for one minute that I’d leave you here, why, I don’t know what to say. I’m here to watch over you and help you, and you telling me to go home won’t stop me from doing exactly what Mr. Smith told me to do.”

Virginia smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Crimlock. I didn’t relish the idea of wandering on my own. Come. We need to hurry now.”

Virginia’s toes were numb after just a few blocks, and she had to ask Mr. Crimlock to slow down several times as her breathing was erratic in the cold air. But each time she forced herself to think of little William, living with a stranger, and she pressed on. The neighborhood was less prosperous as they traveled the eleven hundred block, with some homes needing obvious repairs. They passed an abandoned church and a few people scurrying by in less-than-adequate warm clothing. Virginia’s fingers had joined her toes, making her wish she’d brought her fur muff with her, and Mr. Crimlock walked closer to her than previously, nearly touching her with every stride.

“We’re nearly there,” he whispered and looked around. “I feel as though there are eyes on us from everywhere.”

“I’m sure there aren’t. It is not even five of the clock. I think this is 1349 up ahead.”

Virginia hurried as much as she was able, anxious to learn if William was still here or if her plan had been in vain. Would the little boy believe that she would return him to her mother? Would this Campbell person have sent someone ahead who was, as Mr. Crimlock suspected, watching them this very second?

“We’re going to walk past the house and cross the street at the next corner, miss,” Crimlock said. “Take a look across the street now from around my shoulder.”

Virginia slipped her hand through Crimlock’s arm and peered past him. The home they sought was in the middle of a group of five attached homes. There did not seem to be anything different about number 1349 than the others, and she did not see anyone suspicious or loitering nearby. They reached the corner and crossed to the odd-numbered side of the street. Virginia’s stomach was rolling, and she worried her hands shook from fear more than the cold. She turned up the muddy walkway to the house and knocked on the door, Mr. Crimlock behind her, surveying the street.

A gray-haired, unkempt woman opened the door.

“I don’t want any,” she said and began to close the door. Virginia slipped inside.

“But you have something I want. Where is the little boy?”

The woman shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I can hear a child crying. Is that William Adamsen?”

“What if it is? Ain’t none of your business.”

“Bring him here,” Virginia said in a stern voice, feeling the anger and frustration she’d felt for weeks about this poor child creep up her spine.

“How much you going to give me?”

Virginia slapped the woman across the cheek with every bit of strength she had left. The woman tumbled to the chair behind her and glared up at Virginia.

“Now. Get him now.”

“He’s in there,” the woman said and pointed to a door.

“Open it,” Virginia said after trying the knob. “It’s locked.”

The woman pulled a ring of keys from her skirts with one hand while holding her reddened cheek with the other. She pushed the door open and turned away.

“You first,” Virginia said. She had no intention of being locked in the foul-smelling, dark room.

The woman walked ahead and plopped down on an old chair, kicking aside garbage as she went. Virginia knelt down beside a small boy who’d wedged himself against the wall, tears streaming down his face, holding a grimy blanket. He smelled of a dirty diaper. She looked back at the woman.

“You are a disgrace. To allow a child to wallow in his own filth. What is the matter with you?”

Virginia turned back to the boy. “William?”

He looked up at her, terror in his eyes.

“William. I know your momma. Her name is Greta. Did you know that?”

He nodded and chewed on the small bit of silk that still covered one corner of the blanket.

“I’d like to take you to her. Will you come with me?”

William stared straight ahead. The child was terrified and dirty and most likely hungry, and Virginia had no idea how to get him to trust her. She turned to the woman.

“Where are his coat and shoes?”

“Sold ’em.”

“Stand up. We’re going to your sleeping room. Hurry now. I haven’t much time.”

The woman hurried ahead, and Virginia followed her up a dark stairway and into one of the two rooms in the hall.

“I want two pairs of your warmest socks and the heaviest sweater you own.”

“Why would I give you my things? You’re nothing to me.”

“Because I will bring the magistrate down on your head for kidnapping and you will go to jail,” Virginia said and watched the woman’s face whiten. “Now hand me the socks and sweater.”

Virginia hurried back down the narrow stairwell and waited until the woman went into the room ahead of her. “Here, William. Let me put this warm sweater on you and some socks for your toes.” The child let her dress him, and she hummed the lullaby his mother had mentioned, “Over in the Meadow in the Stream So Blue . ” His head came up, and he stared at her as she sang. “Your mother told me you love that song.”

He inched closer to Virginia, and she put her hands out to him. She heard the front door open, and Mr. Crimlock call to her.

“Miss? Miss? I think we should hurry.”

Virginia picked up William, and he laid his head on her shoulder. She grabbed his tattered blanket and wrapped it around him as she turned to the woman sitting on a rickety chair, her head in her hands.

“I would get out of here,” Virginia said. “They are coming for him soon.”

She hurried out, following Mr. Crimlock into the bitter-cold air. He took the child from her and bundled him to his chest. They headed back to the trolley stop, and she prayed they would not have to wait long for it to come. “You must promise me, Mr. Crimlock, that you will get this child to his mother. Whatever happens. You must promise.”

“I promise, miss.”

The blocks seemed to go faster, both of them walking quickly. Virginia fought to keep her breath even and wrapped her scarf around her nose.

“Only two more blocks, miss.”

She nodded, unable to waste any breath on words when she needed each one of them to remain alive. She was panting by the time they saw the trolley.

“Hurry, miss,” Crimlock said. “Can you run, miss? The trolley is filling up!”

Virginia forced her legs to move faster, but Crimlock was farther ahead with each step. She waved an arm forward when he looked back at her, now twenty feet or more ahead of her. “Go,” she said with her last bit of breath. She continued, walking slowly now, her hands on her hips, and saw him climb up the trolley steps, still holding the child. She caught up to the few left waiting to pay and board when a hand wrapped around her arm, yanking her backward. She could see Mr. Crimlock looking through the open window of the trolley, his mouth hanging open and fear in his eyes.

Virginia shook her head at him as the trolley rolled away. She looked at the man holding her arm and struggled to breathe.