Page 7 of Kidnapped (The Browns of Butcher’s Hill #1)

“ T hat’s a bit dramatic, isn’t it?” Phillip said. She was twenty-six years old? She didn’t look more than eighteen, with her pale skin, wide blue eyes, and slight frame. She was delicate, that was the word. Where his sister was sturdy, although he’d never say that to Sarah, Miss Wiest was delicate, fragile. No wonder her father was in a panic about her interest in Greta Adamsen.

She merely raised her dark brows at him.

“Your father is worried that you will somehow involve yourself in this. Bucciarelli and his gang are dangerous, let alone if they ever had their hands on you, they’d demand ransom money from your father.”

“I am not unaware of the dangers. Miss Adamsen is proof of how dangerous they are, but someone must help her. Her child must be rescued.” She looked away as if considering her next words carefully. “But don’t worry. I’ll not be involved. More’s the pity.”

“It’s getting chilly, miss,” her maid said.

“Yes. We should be getting home. Good day, Mr. Brown,” she said and turned away, her maid falling in beside her.

Phillip wasn’t sure what to make of Miss Virginia Wiest. He had a strange feeling she’d just answered him in a way meant to satisfy him but that was not remotely connected to the truth or what she intended to do. He watched her move down the street away from him, her long red wool coat swinging as she walked, the pheasant feather in her felt bonnet moving to and fro with her gait.

How would he ever control this woman’s movements, as Mr. Wiest had asked him to do? When he’d left Wiest’s office after agreeing to the man’s plan, Everly had followed him out and closed the door behind him.

“Don’t think you’ll be turning Miss Wiest’s head toward the gutter. You’re a servant, is all. Do as you’re told and keep your filthy hands to yourself,” he’d said.

Phillip had barely been able to hold his tongue. Everly had already made his work life difficult, shifting men around on the plant floor until all the worst workers were under Phillip’s leadership. It had been a rocky few months, but he was finally getting them to work together, which meant Everly would undoubtedly send him more troublemakers soon. His tirade this morning, witnessed by Miss Wiest and no doubt heard by every employee in the building, was enough to make him consider quitting his job, just blurting out that he was done with the Wiest Cannery Company.

Thankfully, he’d allowed himself time to let his anger cool off, as he had rarely done in the past, without leaving a position that paid well and where employees were treated with dignity, other than from Everly. Although Everly wasn’t bad with other employees or supervisors. Just him. Mr. Wiest offered his managers small shares in the cannery too. If business was good, he could count on several hundred dollars for his savings. He worked hard to make sure the cannery produced a quality product that sold well. Leaving his job would not be good for him or his family.

He went back inside, avoiding the second floor, occupied by Mr. Wiest and his unreasonable requests and Mr. Everly’s degrading words. Near quitting time, he was in the small office, a cupboard really, with two desks where he entered the days production figures in a tall, leather-bound book with faint lines for the rows and columns of numbers. He was nearly done doing a tally on scrap paper, checking his calculations before he would carefully enter the numbers in the book. He shared the office with Josiah Steinman, who hurried into the office at that moment.

“There is a boy at the gate asking for you,” Steinman said and pushed his wire-frame glasses up his rather large nose. “The watchman has told him to leave, but he won’t.”

“A boy? What would that be about?”

“Don’t know. He just said his mother sent him to fetch you.”

Phillip stood, scratched his head, looking longingly at the nearly finished papers that would release him for the day when done. “His mother?” he said, wondering if one of his employees was ill and unable to come in for the evening shift.

“Little colored boy. Darius, I think the watchman said his name was.”

“Darius Shoeman?” A shiver trailed down his back, someone walking across his grave, Eliza would say. “Josiah, I’m nearly done with my numbers. There they are on that strip of paper. Would you enter them for me? I have to get home.”

Steinman picked up the slip and nodded. “I’ll take care of them.”

“Thank you. I’ll pay you back when we’re next on the same shift,” he said and pulled his scarf around his neck.

“Not necessary. Hurry home now.”

Phillip skidded to a stop on the icy walkway outside the cannery gates, searching left and right for young Darius. The boy stepped out of the shadows, his crutch clinking on the crushed shells.

“Mr. Brown. Hurry!”

“What? What is it, Darius? Why did your mother send for me?”

“Saw some men near your house. Said they looked like bad ’uns. Told me to hurry here and get you.”

“Give me your crutch, Darius. Climb on my back.”

The boy did as he was told, and Phillip started off at a lope down the street, crossing between wagons and carriages, nearly sliding to his knees in the slush and mud. He told himself not to panic, not to give into terror and the poor decisions those feelings brought. A carriage swerved beside him to a halt.

“Mr. Brown! Whatever is the matter?” Virginia Wiest said through the open window.

“Don’t have time to explain. Good day to you, miss!” he shouted and turned down the next street. He heard Alfred Turnbull hawing at his team and turning the coach to follow him.

“Mr. Brown! Get in this carriage! That boy looks nearly frozen.”

Phillip bent at the knees to catch his breath, Darius still clinging to his back. “I don’t know what is going on, but a neighbor thinks there’s trouble. I’ll not put you . . . put you in danger.”

“Mr. Turnbull will drop you one street away. Now hurry and get in. Time is wasting if there is trouble.”

Phillip knew he could be home faster and not out of breath and near frozen if he accepted the offer. He walked to the carriage, where Turnbull was shouting at others to come around him and opened the door.

“No, Mr. Brown. No. I’ll walk. Just give me my crutch, sir,” Darius said as he scrambled down from his back.

“Come in the carriage, please. You look so cold,” Miss Wiest said.

Darius was taking small steps away, moving his crutch back a few inches at a time. “My mama told me never git in a carriage with white folk. That I’ll never see her agin iffen I do.”

“Come along, Darius. I’ll not let anything happen to you. Your mother trusts me, or she wouldn’t have sent you to me.” Phillip bent over, picked up the boy, gave Turnbull some instructions, and got in the carriage. Miss Wiest threw a thick, warm quilt over them both and sat back in her seat, staring at the boy. It must have been unsettling to hear what Darius had said. Unsettling and yet very true.

“I have no intention of keeping you from your mother. Mr. Brown works at the cannery for my father, and I saw he could use some help. I have no ill will toward you. What is your name?” she asked.

Darius was sitting on Phillip’s lap and peeped over the edge of the blanket. “Darius, miss. Darius Shoeman.”

“It is nice to meet you, Darius. I’m Miss Wiest.”

“I told the coachman to stop at the top of the alley behind your house,” Phillip said and looked at Darius. “Make sure to thank your mother for sending you to me, and tell her to keep all of you in the house until we know what is happening.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Here we are,” Phillip said as the coach slowed down. He jumped down and reached for the boy, handing him his crutch. “Will you make it from here?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll stay out of the ruts. There is my mother!”

Darius hurried to her, and she sent him on to their house.

“Mr. Brown, you’d best get home right away. I think some men got in the house, or are trying to, and your uncle won’t be home yet. I’ll send Willis once he is home.”

“I don’t want your husband begging trouble at my door,” Phillip said. “Do you know how many men?”

“Three, I think. My oldest girl was doing the mending by the window in the front room. She saw two go around the back of the house, and one knocked at the front. She said he pushed in when Jenny opened the door.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Shoeman,” he said and turned back to the carriage.

“Be careful now, sir.”

He raised a hand as he trotted away, thinking about what he was going to do. Miss Wiest opened the carriage door when he was close. “What is going on, Mr. Brown?”

Phillip looked up at Turnbull. “Get her to safety, Alfred. If you can, get word to Timothy Sweitzinger at Station Five. I may need some help.” He closed the door on Miss Wiest, and Turnbull started turning the team on the narrow street.

Phillip walked behind the houses on the cross street until he came to the alley that went behind his house. He wasn’t carrying his gun and only had two knives on his person. The sun was setting behind the houses, leaving long shadows in the snow. He wove between houses until he had to cross Pratt Street, which would leave him exposed to anyone watching. He heard a wagon rolling along behind him, its driver singing an off-key tune and hawing to his mule. Phillip waited until the wagon passed and followed behind it, crouching out of sight as he went.

Once on his block, he stepped into the shadow of his neighbor’s outbuilding, moving carefully in the snow toward his yard. He saw a movement at the edge of his property when a man’s head turned, following the sound of the wagon going down the alleyway. He waited until the man faced forward again, stepped up behind him, and tapped him on the shoulder. The man turned quickly and directly into Phillip’s fist. No one came to the man’s rescue or called to him, so Phillip dragged him into the outbuilding on his neighbor’s property. Old Jed McDuffy would stand guard himself, but it would take Phillip ten minutes and considerable shouting into an ear trumpet to get him to understand what he needed the man to do. Phillip dropped the iron bar on the shed door.

He went to where the man had been hiding and found a satchel with two guns, rope, and a long-handled knife. He put one gun in his pocket and one in the back of his pants.

“Chester?” he heard from the direction of his house. “Are you there?”

Phillip deepened his voice. “Yeah.”

“Think something’s happening in there. Get ready.”

Phillip stomped his feet as if in response to the other man. The racket coming from inside increased, and the man, his back to Phillip, had his eyes on the house. The door burst open, and a man shuffled outside, a crying and struggling Greta Adamsen in his arms with Sarah latched on to his back, screaming and scratching at his face and eyes. Phillip charged forward, taking the outside man down to the ground with his weight and a pummeling of fists and elbows.

The man holding Greta sloughed off Sarah, who fell in a heap into the muddy yard, and turned to Phillip.

“Back away, Brown, or I’ll slit her throat from ear to ear.”

Phillip stood, his eyes never wavering. “You won’t get far. Why don’t you leave before you’re caught in a raid? Let the woman go. She’s done you no harm.”

The man laughed, his lips and mouth a bloody mess. “Not letting her go. Get out of the way.”

“No.”

The man pricked the knife in the woman’s neck, pulling it away and pointing it at Phillip. “See that drop of?—”

There was a great clang as a cast-iron skillet came down on the man’s skull. The knife dropped from his hand, and Greta Adamsen fell away, caught in Phillip’s arms. The poor woman shook with terror, barely able to get her breath. Eliza stood over the man, weapon in hand still, prepared to do more injury.

Sarah jumped up from the mud and took the skillet from Eliza’s hand. “Hurry and get in the house. I hear the police wagon.”

Phillip turned, Adamsen still clinging to him, and saw Timothy Sweitzinger, pistol drawn, hurry into the yard, several uniformed policemen following him. “Is everyone all right?” he shouted.

“There’s two on the ground here that could use some doctoring and a jail cell, and one in McDuffy’s shed.”

“What’s going on, Phillip?” Timothy asked as his men swarmed the criminals. “Who’s this you’re holding?”

Phillip put the woman on her feet gently, holding on to her as she trembled, unable to stand unassisted. “Greta Adamsen. Miss Adamsen, this is Captain Sweitzinger of the Baltimore Police. A detective.”

The woman’s eyes rolled back in her head, and Sarah hurried to her side, Eliza with her. “We’ve got to get her back in bed. She’s freezing, terrified, and probably in shock.”

Timothy and Phillip watched them lead Miss Adamsen away, the woman barefoot and stumbling with nearly every step.

“Who is she?”

Phillip thought briefly about making up some mad story and just as quickly decided against it. “Found her on our front stoop near three weeks ago, near froze, bad gash on her head, unconscious. Two weeks went by until she woke up. Someone recognized her as servant to the Durmand family.”

“Durmand who’s a city councilman?”

Phillip nodded. “She’s been seeing a man who works for Durmand. He says he never hurt her, and I believe him.” He turned to Timothy. “She said Bucciarelli has her son. He’s using her in some way, but I don’t know what.”

“Should have told me about this when it happened.”

“Maybe.”

Timothy looked around the yard, hands on his hips, as if the answers to all the issues Bucciarelli presented, all the danger he promised, would be revealed as they stood there side by side. They heard shouting in the alley and a policeman trying to stop Uncle Patrick.

“Let him through, Petey,” Timothy said.

“I live here, damn it anyhoo,” Patrick said as he hurried into the yard. “Are the womenfolk safe?”

Phillip nodded. “Yes. They’ve had a scare, though, and I don’t know what the house looks like inside; they put up a hell of a fight.”

“’Course they did. I’ll see what help they need.”

Phillip turned at a soft voice.

“Mr. Brown? Mr. Brown? Is everyone safe? I could not wait another minute to hear what happened and if you need assistance.”

“What are you doing here? Alfred? What were you thinking?” he shouted at the man holding Miss Wiest’s elbow and doing his best not to look Phillip in the eye.

“Oh, fiddle. Mr. Turnbull advised me often and with fervor to retreat. He bears no blame. If you must shout and be unpleasant, do so with me. He will be busy walking the team. I will find out what happened from the women,” she said and walked past him.

He could hear her struggling for breath and was unsure if it was due to exertion or anger. “Miss Wiest? Please do sit down.”

She kept walking and closed the kitchen door behind her.

Timothy stood, hands on his hips, looking from the door to Phillip, a smirk on his lips. “She doesn’t mind you a bit, does she?”

“Damn it to hell. Her father will kill me after if he ever hears of this.”

“Who’s her father?”

“Alistair Wiest.”

“Your boss? The owner of the Cannery?” Timothy asked with barely concealed mirth. “Miss Virginia Wiest, heiress, beautiful beyond belief? That’s who just gave you what for?”

Timothy could no longer hold back his laughter.

“She’s got an unnatural interest in Miss Adamsen and doesn’t understand the danger that Bucciarelli presents. Her father has discouraged her and tasked me with keeping her safely away,” Phillip said and shook his head. “She doesn’t pay a bit of attention to what I tell her, and when she does, she’s already figured out a way to ignore my warnings.”

Timothy wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “My God. I never thought I’d see the day.”

“What day?”

“The day a woman, a little slip of one too, had you so caught in her snare. I’ll enjoy watching this progress, but in the meantime, I’m going to the station house and claim these arrests. Always looks good in my file.”

Phillip watched Timothy walk out of his yard, still laughing and waving a goodbye. They’d known each other since they were six years old and had been best friends, confidants, for all that time. He didn’t know what Timothy thought about he and Virginia Wiest, but there was nothing pleasurable about being caught between the company owner and a woman who would never do as she was told. Beautiful, Timothy had said. Was she? He was being ridiculous. Of course she was beautiful. Her blue eyes alone rendered him speechless on occasion. God. What a coil.