Orphan Train Escape Read online

  Orphan Train Escape

  Hearts On The Rails

  Rachel Wesson

  Copyright © 2018 by Rachel Wesson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Also by Rachel Wesson

  Prologue

  New York 1893, Carmel’s Mission

  Lily Doherty sang softly as she moved through the rooms of the sanctuary. It had taken the best part of five years to get Carmel’s Mission, the sanctuary named after her husband’s grandmother, working as she hoped. Initially, her project had been met by skepticism. So many New Yorkers believed the poor chose to live in poverty and decay. But she had persevered. With her husband, Charlie, and Mr. Prentice—Mr. P as she liked to call him—behind her, she hadn’t let any setback stop her from moving forward. Dr. Elmwood had also been a huge asset, helping the ladies and children with medical issues free of charge.

  Finally, things began to change. Word spread among the people she most wanted to reach, that the help she offered didn’t come with many conditions. She didn’t require them to change religions or start attending church in order to be helped. She didn’t impose her beliefs on anyone. Yes, she had Father Nelson and Pastor Adams working with her. Both men were similar and believed being a Christian meant you helped all those in need not just those you considered worthy. Of course, their hope was always that others would see their way of life as the best way and follow suit. It worked, too, as both men saw an increase in attendances at their respective services.

  Many members of the local community had got behind her idea and had offered their help as well, not only in money but also in labor. They were the people who touched her heart more. The men and women who had toiled all week long but still gave the sanctuary an hour or so. The women cleaned the rooms and made the large pots of soup she distributed to those in need as well as the residents of the sanctuary. Lily hoped it would continue although the numbers requiring her help were rising. She was particularly concerned about the number of children living on the streets. Something more had to be done for them.

  Charlie was worried about the economy. He had his head stuck in the New York Times again this morning. Where had the happy-go-lucky lad she had married gone? Smiling, she admitted to herself they had both grown in the last five years. Their marriage was a joy to both of them; their respective work a blessing. Charlie helped with legal issues as and when they arose. His employer, a man he had saved in the great whiteout of ’88, had recognized Charlie’s strengths and his position with the firm was rock solid.

  She tried to be more positive about the economy, although she had to admit it was scary hearing about the next bank closing. Mr. P also seemed more on edge than usual. And the news from her friends back in Clover Springs, Colorado was heartbreaking. Both Erin and Ellen had written about the number of miners finding their way to the town, their jobs gone overnight. The price of silver had dropped drastically and was still moving downward.

  Her office door opened, admitting a matronly lady. Lily smiled at the woman who worked almost as hard as she did.

  “Good morning, Lily. Lovely day isn’t it?” Mrs. Wilson’s smile could light up a room.

  “It is indeed, Mrs. Wilson. How are the ladies?”

  “Doing much better now you’ve secured more work for them. They were scared you would send them back onto the streets.”

  The news about the economy always hit the poor worst of all, as they were the ones to pay a heavier price. When you lived day to day, never having sufficient money to meet all your bills, any reduction in earnings would be devastating.

  “You know I would never do that.” She prayed to God she’d never have to. But if the economy did spiral downwards, would she have enough to keep the Sanctuary going?

  “I know Lily, but you have to remember not all of them know you like I do. They don’t know you were once as poor as they are. They wouldn’t believe me if I told them about your past. You are very much a lady now.”

  Lily grinned as she looked at her clothes. If you judged her solely on the way she was dressed, it was obvious she was financially secure. Her dress, while modest in fashion, was made of the highest quality cotton. Her hands were lily-white and not red raw like many of the women in the soup lines. She was lucky.

  She’d left a horrible past behind with the help of Doc Erin and Mick Quinn from Clover Springs. They had brought her to New York where she met Mr. P. Their visit coincided with the biggest tragedy to hit New York. Lily shivered, remembering how many had died during the ’88 blizzard. Was it really five years ago?

  Chapter 1

  Bridget Collins pushed the lank hair out of her eyes as she stretched her back. Everything ached from her head to her toes and it wasn’t yet midday. She could only imagine how bad it was for the older women who worked here. She was supposed to be in her prime – yet at nineteen she felt every year of her age and a hundred more.

  Oaks Laundry, where she worked, was situated in the basement of a tenement building where fresh air was the stuff of daydreams. She wished she could take a break but her supervisor, Mr. Webster, was even more on edge than usual. Mr. Oaks senior, the owner, must be on site. He was strict, although she preferred him to his son. The way young Mr. Oaks looked at her made her want to crawl out of her own skin.

  She pushed the shirts back into the water, having scrubbed the cuffs and collars with the harsh lye soap. Her thoughts drifted back to her childhood in Ireland, like the green, open fields she had run through with her brothers and sisters on their way to school. Mam had insisted her children would do better by learning to read and write. Only a proper education gave the poor a chance in life. Poor mam. Bridget never thought she would be glad her mam was dead. But it would have killed her to see how her children were faring. Coming to America had been her mam’s dream. She believed in the stories sent back to Ireland from people who had emigrated. This was supposed to be the land of opportunity. Bridget sighed, wondering how people had written home such tales of hope when the reality was so different. />
  Maura, her eldest sister was at home, her heart grieving for her fiancé, killed in the explosion at their work last weekend. In the space of two days, she had lost not only her job, but her hope for the future. David had idolized Maura, calling her his older woman – he’d been twenty to Maura’s twenty-two. He had protected the whole family against the worst of tenement life. Bridget squeezed her eyes shut to stop a tear escaping. She could still see David now, his big blue eyes lit up from inside. He was always smiling. How come the good died young? Her brothers, Shane and Michael, were running wild. She suspected they were involved with one of the many gangs who preyed on the poor. Kathleen, her favorite sister, was slowly going blind sewing button holes. Liam, the youngest boy, was out collecting rags as he tried to provide for the family at six years of age. He was particularly close to Annie, his junior by two years, and couldn’t bear to see her go hungry. What would they do?

  “Good afternoon Bridget, you look mighty pretty today.”

  Bridget stilled, her backbone going rigid at the sound of his voice. She hadn’t seen him come in, so he’d caught her by surprise. Pretty? Covered in sweat with lank hair and red, raw hands? He needed his eyes tested.

  “Good afternoon, sir.” Her tone was as polite as she could make it without being servile. Yes, he was the son of the boss, but that didn’t make him her better. Mam said the goodness of one’s heart was the value of a man, not how much money he kept in the bank.

  “I need to see you in the office,” Mr. Oaks said. “There has been a complaint.”

  As soon as he walked away, confident she would follow, she wilted. What type of complaint had there been this time? She was sick of his attempts to get her alone. How many times did she have to tell him she was a good, Catholic girl? What he wanted from her was for her husband alone. She pulled the tub away from the heat and, wiping her stinging hands on her apron, walked slowly to the office.

  She could feel the eyes on her back, although anyone checking on the women would think they hadn’t stopped working. The tension in the air was palpable. Those who had worked for Oaks Laundry and Sewing for years knew what being summoned to the office meant. For the men, it was bad news. For the women, the younger ones anyway, it was a lot worse. She saw a couple of the women cross themselves and hoped they had shared a prayer for her as well. She pushed her shoulders back. Whatever he threatened her with this time, she still wasn’t going to give in to him. Never.

  “There you are,” he said as she entered his office. “The walk across the floor seems to take you longer each time, Bridget.”

  She ignored the reprimand but stood with her hands balled at her sides, her fingernails hurting the insides of her palms. His grey blue eyes, almost colorless, were fixated on her chest as he addressed her. She glanced at his suit, the golden chain from his watch hanging from the pocket of his waistcoat another reminder of how wealthy he was. She glanced at his face momentarily, thinking of the comments someone from the factory floor had made about him wishing to model his appearance on the Prince of Wales. She had never seen a picture of the Prince but wondered if his wife thought a full beard and long whiskers to be attractive. It certainly didn’t suit Mr. Oaks making him look even uglier than his behavior.

  The office door closed behind her, shutting off most of the noise of the shop floor. The air in the office would have been sweeter than that of the laundry but for his presence. There was a pervading sense of evil about him, something she couldn’t explain in words.

  She refused to look him in the eye. Instead, she stared at a point above his head.

  “Why don’t you sit down Bridget and have some soup. It’s delicious.”

  The smell of the soup stirred her stomach. She hoped it wouldn’t start grumbling. She didn’t want the man to know how hungry she was. But if he thought she was going to sell herself for some food, he was wrong. It was time to try to take a little control back. She was an employee, not his servant. Or at least it was supposed to be that way.

  “You mentioned a complaint, sir.”

  “Yes, but not against you, Bridget. Your work is always to the highest standard.”

  What was she doing in his office then? He hadn’t said her work was of high quality when she got demoted from the sewing department to the laundry. But she kept her mouth shut and waited. He had something on his mind; she could tell by the tone of his voice. He was baiting her. To him, she wasn’t a person, but a plaything. Something to amuse himself with when he got bored. And she wasn’t the first.

  When she started in the laundry, the girl called to the office on several occasions was Mary Rourke. Mary, who ended up in the Hudson River, her swelling abdomen evidence of her so-called crime. Poor Mary. She’d been desperate. This evil man had told her she had to pay for her father’s mistakes. The same father who had thrown his own daughter out when the evidence of what she had done came to light.

  But Bridget wasn’t Mary.

  “You aren’t curious about why you are in here?” he asked.

  “I expect you will tell me, sir.”

  She had to be careful. Her temper was rising, and it could easily cost Bridget her job. Her pay wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep the roof over their heads when combined with what Kathleen earned. They depended on what young Liam earned from rag picking to supplement the cost of food.

  “A girl in the sewing section…”

  Her heart thumped when he didn’t complete his sentence. She could feel his eyes boring into her body. She knew he was talking about Kathleen, but she was a good girl. She wouldn’t give cause for complaint unless someone had done something to her.

  “If you have touched her, you—" she spat.

  “Bridget Collins, remember yourself. You know I wouldn’t put a finger on such an insipid creature. I prefer my women to have fire in their bellies. Makes for a much more satisfying arrangement if you catch my drift.”

  He wasn’t exactly subtle. Of course, she understood him.

  “But as the complaint was made, we had no choice but to send your sister home. Her position has already been filled.”

  Her stomach dropped at the same time as her heart started beating faster. He’d fired Kathleen. Now, at a time when jobs were like gold dust. Her family couldn’t survive without Kathleen’s wages. But then he would know that. He was using the situation to remind her he held complete power over her future and that of her siblings. Her fingernails dug deeper into her palms.

  “Don’t you have something to say?” he asked.

  “No, sir.” She wasn’t going to apologize. Kathleen hadn’t done anything wrong, she was sure of it. The sixteen-year-old girl was too shy and afraid of her own shadow to cause trouble. Mam used to say Kathleen was born with a heart too sensitive for this world.

  He moved closer to her, blocking her exit. She stepped away from him until the office table prevented her escape.

  He pushed a strand of hair away from her face while she held her body rigid, so it wouldn’t flinch. She wasn’t going to show him any fear. He delighted in making people fear him.

  “Now, tell me Bridget, how will we make this situation work? I have been told to fire you as well. We have to make an example, to show the other workers that laziness and poor workmanship will not be tolerated.”

  She stared over his shoulder, refusing to rise to his tricks. They both knew there wasn’t a lazy bone in her sister’s body. But protesting that wouldn’t change anything.

  He moved so close it was almost as if the only thing separating them were their clothes. She could feel his breath on her neck, his expensive cologne making her nostrils sting.

  “Bridget, we could have so much fun together. You wouldn’t go hungry. You might be able to afford a nicer home. Your brothers wouldn’t be in danger of being locked up.”

  She couldn’t help flinching. What did he know of Michael and Shane?

  “Yes, I know your brothers. In fact, I may have mentioned my concerns to a couple of friends on the force. They can’t be all
owed to prey on the poor. Making people’s lives miserable with their thieving, drinking, and debauchery.”

  If she had been anywhere else, she may have been amused by the irony of this man using those terms about someone else. Isn’t that what he did every day? He may not steal in the conventional sense, but keeping his workers locked in this basement for twelve hours a day and paying them a pitiful wage was a different form of stealing, wasn't it?

  “You will have to be very nice to me, Bridget. I hold the power to destroy your little family. Although it would pain me, believe me, I will do it.”

  “Pain you? Nothing could make you feel anything with a heart of iron. You won’t get anything from me, Stephen Oaks. I told you before, and I will tell you again. My body isn’t for sale, not at any price.”

  He grinned, making her stomach roil. “Now we both know that isn’t true. Every woman has her price. For women of my class, it’s marriage and a suitable home. In return, they know they have to fulfil their duty. For women of your class, some good food usually is enough for them to—"

  “Not me. I was brought up better than that. Now do your worst, but you won’t have me.”