A Place to Belong (West Meets East Book 2) Page 4

  “Yes?” The woman who had answered the door was young and held a baby who looked to be around six months old in her arms. She glanced suspiciously from Clara to Arthur.

  Arthur gestured to baby James, still snoozing away in Clara’s arms. “Violetta Pruitt has just passed on, and we are in need of a wet-nurse for her son, James.”

  Before he could say more, Mrs. Dye pursed her lips and said, “I barely have enough milk for my own babe these days, Reverend. I certainly don’t have enough to spare for—” She stopped herself, eyeing baby James as though he were a fox dressed in baby clothes. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

  Arthur opened his mouth, but Mrs. Dye shut the door on him.

  “Well,” Clara breathed out. “That was rude.”

  Arthur didn’t seem surprised. He gestured for Clara to come away with him, placing his hand on the small of her back once more. “I was afraid of something like this. Let’s try Mrs. Forrester at the end of the row there.”

  They walked to the edge of the small town street and crossed to the last house. Arthur knocked, they waited, and the plea began all over.

  “Mrs. Forrester, we’re in need of a very special kind of help today. Violetta Pruitt has just passed on, and her baby, James, is in need of a wet-nurse and a home.”

  Mrs. Forrester was younger than Mrs. Dye, but that didn’t seem to increase her level of compassion. She crossed her arms, stared at James with narrowed eyes, and said, “The thing is, Reverend, I’m half wore out caring for my own baby.”

  Sure enough, the wail of an infant could be heard from the house behind her.

  “I don’t think James would be much trouble,” Arthur said.

  For the briefest of moments, Mrs. Forrester’s face pinched into a sneer. She straightened it out in a hurry and said, “I’m sorry, but no.” She, too, shut the door before Arthur could make more of an appeal.

  “I’m beginning to think that England isn’t as hospitable as the fairy tales I’ve read led me to believe,” Clara said, her voice tight. “How can these people turn their backs on a harmless infant?”

  Again, Arthur looked at her as though he knew the answer to that question and many more. “We’ll try Mrs. Dale at the farm next.”

  It was a long walk away from town, but the length of the walk didn’t change the response that Mrs. Dale gave them.

  “That child?” Mrs. Dale pulled no punches when Arthur appealed to her for help. She snorted. “No offense, Rev. Fallon, but every man, woman, and child in town knows who that bastard belongs to. We all know the story. No one is going to open their homes to the son of a whore.”

  The woman’s reaction was as unsurprising as it was hurtful. Clara took it far more personally than she should have, but she couldn’t help wondering if people would have said the same thing about her girl, had she not left her in Everland.

  “Don’t worry,” Arthur said in a comforting tone after several long minutes of silence. “There are all sorts of ways to feed babies these days. I’ll give him some milk from the church’s goat for now, and tomorrow I’ll either find a willing wet-nurse or travel over to Chippenham to see if the shops there sell that new infant formula.”

  “I’ll help in any way I can,” Clara said. She wished her own milk hadn’t dried up months earlier.

  Arthur smiled at her, though he was starting to look exhausted. And just as baby James was waking up and fussing. “You have your duties at Winterberry Park,” he reminded her.

  Clara gasped. “Oh, no. I suppose they need me back there, even though this is supposed to be my half-day. I…I could figure out a way to stay.”

  “Your first duty is to your employer,” Arthur reminded her, scooping James out of her arms. “I wouldn’t want to see you dismissed and sent away so soon after meeting you.”

  He glanced up at her as if he’d said something wrong, but as far as Clara was concerned, no one had ever said anything more right in her life.

  “I’m so glad we met, and that I was able to help you today,” she said.

  “As am I,” Arthur replied, adjusting James in his arms. “It has been quite a day, hasn’t it?”

  “It has.” Clara laughed, then gasped and pressed a hand to her mouth. “I shouldn’t laugh, not when poor Violetta has died.”

  “I think she would forgive you.” Arthur frowned, glancing from the baby to Clara. “I think Violetta would have liked you. I hope you’re not offended by me saying that.”

  “Not at all.”

  If only he knew. Clara pressed a hand to her heart, then kissed her fingertips and touched them to James’s head. In a way, she felt as though she had known Violetta, and she was willing to do whatever it took to help her baby.

  And the fact that Rev. Arthur Fallon was involved only strengthened that feeling.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Stop, stop! Not that way.” Mrs. Musgrave heaved a sigh and marched over to the high table where Clara stood, polishing various brass items, in the downstairs workroom. “You’re wasting too much polish.”

  Clara wanted to throw up her hands and wail in defeat. Instead, she set the candleholder and the cloth loaded with polish down, took a half step back, and said, “Could you please show me?”

  Mrs. Musgrave pursed her lips, stared at Clara for a long, nerve-wracking moment, then reached for the candleholder and the rag. “You only need a small amount, just a dab. The idea is to work it in small circles through the brass.” She scrubbed at the piece with expert focus.

  Try as she did to pay attention to every detail of what Mrs. Musgrave was showing her, within seconds, her mind was drifting. Drifting back to Sunday. Drifting to poor Violetta and baby James. Drifting to Arthur, his kind smile, and his determination to do whatever it took to help James. She’d hardly been able to think of anything else in the last three days, and it showed in her work. It was why she had been banished below-stairs, doing a job that one of the under-footmen should have been doing. But Clara didn’t mind. She was happier with her thoughts and reflections about Arthur Fallon than she was in the company of anyone else in the house.

  Because for those few, short hours, she had felt as though she knew what she was doing. She’d felt as though she belonged.

  “Clara!” Mrs. Musgrave’s impatient shout snapped Clara out of her thoughts and wiped the smile off her face. “You’ll never grow into a competent maid if you spend all your time away with the fairies.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Musgrave. Sorry, Mrs. Musgrave.” Clara slumped, shoulders stooping. It did nothing to make her feel less like an elephant in a closet, attempting to thread a needle. “I’ll do better, Mrs. Musgrave.”

  The housekeeper stared at her, frowning. She shook her head. “Now. What did I just tell you about the proper amount of polish to use for one medium-sized candleholder?”

  Panic filled Clara’s gut. “I…uh….”

  “You’ll never guess who just arrived upstairs.” Clara was saved the embarrassment of asking Mrs. Musgrave to show her everything again by the arrival of Mr. Noakes, who went on to answer his own question. “Rev. Fallon and that baby.”

  The knot of guilt in Clara’s gut burst into cavorting butterflies, and she stood straighter, her smile returning. “Really?”

  Mrs. Musgrave gave her a curious, sideways look, then shook her head and addressed Mr. Noakes. “Word has it that he’s been all over town in the past few days, looking for someone to take that baby in.”

  Mr. Noakes scoffed. “It’s a fool’s errand if you ask me.”

  “But baby James is darling,” Clara said. She realized too late—when Mrs. Musgrave and Mr. Noakes turned twin stares of disapproval on her—that she’d spoken out of turn. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

  Mr. Noakes—who was a good four inches shorter than her—looked down his nose at Clara. “That’s right. You were there with Rev. Fallon when the woman expired.”

  Clara fought the irritation she felt at the way the butler spoke of Violetta. She was in hot enough water already without making faces at a
man who could have her fired.

  “I still don’t understand how you ended up there,” Mrs. Musgrave said with a shake of her head. She put down the rag of polish that she still held and moved to wipe her hands on a clean cloth.

  “It was just a coincidence,” Clara said. “I was talking to Arthur—I mean, Rev. Fallon—and Nancy came to fetch Mr. Croydon, and I thought I could be of some use.”

  Mr. Noakes still studied her with narrowed eyes, but Mrs. Musgrave sighed, shook her head and said, “Well, you can be of some use now. I’ll have Cook fix tea, and you can take it up.”

  “I can?” Clara brightened.

  Mrs. Musgrave arched a brow and glanced at her as she headed out of the room. “You’re a maid, Clara. That’s your job.”

  “Oh.” Clara felt heat rise up her neck and face. Mr. Noakes’s stare didn’t help the feeling that she’d done everything wrong.

  She reached for the polish and the candleholder she’d been working on, but Mrs. Musgrave’s call of, “Well? Don’t just stand there. Come along,” had her throwing it down and rushing out of the room. Anything to be out from under Mr. Noakes’s scrutiny.

  Because the cook, Mrs. Carlisle, kept a kettle perpetually heated on the stove, tea was ready in no time. Clara was sent upstairs with a tray of snacks that would have tempted the heartiest soul, and she only got lost once on the way to the sitting room where Arthur was waiting. Her heart thumped against her ribs as she walked through the large, open doorway into the wide, comfortable room loaded with sofas, side-tables, and comfortable chairs. Arthur stood by one of the huge windows that looked out into the garden, bouncing a fussy James in his arms. It was such a beautiful sight that Clara had to stop to catch her breath.

  As she did, Arthur turned and saw her. His anxious expression blossomed into a full-fledged smile. He was so handsome and so genuinely happy to see her that she nearly dropped the tray.

  “Oh, dear.” She recovered and rushed to set the tray on one of the side-tables, managing no other disaster besides knocking some of the biscuits off of the plate where they’d been arranged.

  “Do you need help?” Arthur asked, striding across the room to her. He caught his foot on the edge of the carpet, but recovered more or less gracefully.

  “No, not at all.” Clara picked up each of the biscuits and popped them back on the plate. Only afterwards did it dawn on her that it might not have been polite to touch what was supposed to be someone else’s food. But instead of dwelling on it, she stepped away from the table and over to where she could get a better look at James. And Arthur. “How is the little man doing today?”

  Arthur answered with an ironic laugh. Clara could instantly see why. James’s diaper was fastened wrong and slightly damp. A smudge of something darkened his cheek, and he alternated between trying to suck on his fist and making noises as though he were winding up to wail.

  “Here, let me take him.” Clara reached into Arthur’s arms and took James to hold him close. “There, there, little one. I’ve got you now.”

  She was highly aware of Arthur watching her as she took one of the serviettes from the tea tray, licked the corner where it was folded, and wiped the smudge off James’s cheek. James began to calm, nuzzling against her breast.

  “Did you find someone to feed him?” she asked, glancing up.

  The sight of Arthur watching her with a warm smile would have made her trip over her feet if she’d been walking. His cheeks were pink, and his eyes shone. It took him several more seconds of staring at her before he blinked, shook himself, and said, “No. I had to buy that formula I mentioned. I have some in the bag over there.” He twisted to point over his shoulder with his thumb at a serviceable sack resting on one of the sofas.

  “You don’t happen to have any diapers in there?” Clara asked.

  “Any what?” He blinked at her.

  “Oh. That’s right. Nappies?” She pinched some of the cloth of James’s diaper to demonstrate.

  “I do, actually.”

  Arthur headed to the sofa with his bag, and Clara followed him. He produced not only a diaper, but pins, powder, and some sort of ointment. Clara could see that the bag was filled with tins of formula, a bottle, and everything else under the sun that a baby might need. The fact that Arthur was so prepared—and also so completely clueless—filled her heart and brought a laugh bubbling up from her throat.

  “It looks like you’re being very well cared for,” she said as she lay James on the sofa and proceeded to change his diaper.

  “Not really,” Arthur confessed, running a hand through his hair. “I bought all the accoutrements that babies need when I was in Chippenham the other day, but I don’t know the first thing about how to use them.”

  “At least he seems to be eating well,” Clara said, one eyebrow raised, as she removed his dirty diaper.

  “It was touch and go there for a while,” Arthur said.

  He watched as Clara wiped James’s bottom with a spare diaper, then folded a new one and tucked it around him. She fitted the pins in place, then lifted James into her arms, resting his head against her shoulder.

  “There we go,” she said. “Good as new.”

  Arthur finished cleaning up after the change, then sat on the sofa beside Clara. He studied her with admiration, and maybe something more. “It’s uncanny,” he said. “You’re so good with him. And he’s clearly taken with you. How do you know so much about caring for babies?”

  The happiness that had enveloped Clara flattened. Her smile dropped. She supposed she could tell him she came from a large family and that she’d had to care for her younger siblings, which was true, but a greater part of her knew, deep down, that Arthur deserved the truth.

  “I had a baby,” she said, quietly, eyes downcast.

  “Oh.” Arthur blinked rapidly, flushing. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were married.”

  Clara shook her head. “I’m not. I never have been.”

  “I see.” She snuck a peek at him. Arthur frowned at the carpet, seemingly puzzled. When he glanced up suddenly and met her eyes, it was all Clara could do not to flinch and look away. “Did your baby…that is, was there a…a tragedy?”

  It was clear as day to Clara that she’d have to explain the whole story. She sighed, figuring it was better to get it over with now, even if it meant Arthur knew how much like Violetta she was.

  “I gave her up,” she said. “I took her to a place in a town near where I used to live, a place called Everland, where I knew she’d have a better life than anything I could give her.”

  “But,” Arthur said slowly, his frown even more confused. “But you’re so good with James. You’d make an excellent mother.” His cheeks flushed an even darker red.

  Clara shook her head. She swallowed, licked her lips, took a few quick, shallow breaths as she built up to her confession. At last, she rushed out in a low voice, “Children should not be raised in whorehouses.”

  The silence that filled the space between them was so brittle it was painful. Clara could hear her heart beating in her ears, feel the pulse in her neck. She couldn’t look at Arthur, couldn’t bear to see what he must think of her now.

  “So,” he said, even slower than before, “you were a…you conceived your baby as…you….”

  “I was a prostitute, yes.” Somehow, his nervousness put her a little more at ease. He was still sitting next to her, after all. He hadn’t leapt up as though she were diseased, or demand she leave the room. She risked looking at him. “It’s embarrassing, but it’s true,” she went on. “Back in Wyoming, before I came here, I was forced to make a living that way.”

  “Forced?” Arthur’s single word was strangled, and a mixture of anger and pity filled his eyes.

  Clara shrugged. “It’s not that unusual a story for out there. My pa thought he could get rich quick with all the gold and silver being discovered in the West. He packed the entire family up and moved us out to California without making sufficient plans. Things got bad, and Pa couldn�
��t handle the shame. He up and left in the middle of the night. Of course, that meant that the rest of us had to fend for ourselves. Ma took in washing, and my brother, Amos, went down in the mines, even though he was only ten. I was older. Some of the men in camp used to joke that they’d pay me a dime for….” She pressed her lips shut, not wanting to say it aloud.

  She shook her head. “There came a point where we got hungry enough that instead of telling the men off for making those suggestions, I…you know.” It was still humiliating to think of all the things she’d done to put food on the table.

  She forced herself to take a breath and look at Arthur. “Things changed after a while. Amos moved on when the mine closed. Ma remarried and took the younger kids with her. She was so embarrassed by what I’d done, even though it kept a roof over her head. And her new husband wouldn’t let me in the house. So I moved on too. I couldn’t think of anything else to do but what I’d been doing. I’d never really learned any skills. But as luck would have it, I ended up in Haskell, Wyoming and met Bonnie. I went to work at her place, but it was so much more than just another whorehouse. She teaches her girls to read and write, and the doctor in town takes good care of us. I never got sick, like some of the other girls. But I did end up with a baby.”

  She paused as James wriggled in her arms and shifted his position. One he was settled again, she shrugged. “That’s pretty much the whole story. I knew I couldn’t go through giving up another baby, and I knew that eventually it would happen again. So when Bonnie and Mr. Gunn and Mrs. Strong started finding positions for us girls over here, in England, I knew I had to get away.”

  “But you left so much behind,” Arthur said, barely above a whisper.

  Clara swallowed. “I did. But a lot of what I left was painful. I’ll always miss my baby, but I like to think that some sweet, honest couple who needed a child of their own is raising her to be a good woman. Like you’re determined to help little James here find a place where he belongs.” She moved James so that she could look down into his face and smile, painful though it was, and think about her girl. “I didn’t want my girl to ever have to make the decisions that I had to. Now she won’t.”