Chapter XI
THE OFFICER RAISED an eyebrow at this and turned his gaze on Mae.
“Good morning, Officer Donovan,” she began. “My name is Mae Turner. It was you, then, that brought my son, Simon Turner, in yesterday for truancy?”
“Yep.” Officer Donovan’s eyes settled on her face and then moved from her head to her toes with slow appraisal. “Found him wandering out at Riverside during school hours, throwing stones at the birds.”
Donovan. She had seen him before—not here. Three days ago, at the Foundling House. She had been sitting in a chair waiting for the intake matron when the door opened.
* * *
Before The Note
As a small gong denoted the ten o’clock hour, Mae noted the doors opening along the foyer.
Criss-crossing through the main opening from one hallway to another was a straight double line of marching children, bookended by two nuns.
The children were all dressed in uniform gray outfits.
The girls on the left with gray wool one-piece dresses, navy cardigans, and white wool knee socks, while the boys on the right with gray trousers, white button-down shirts, and navy coats.
From this distance, she could see their eyes cast down and their arms hanging loosely at their sides.
It was well-orchestrated with only the clopping of feet echoing in the vast space.
One of the younger boys looked toward Mae.
His big brown eyes and fluffy hair were reminiscent of Simon when he had been the same age.
She smiled at him. Just as he smiled back, he fell out of step and caught his toe on the heel of the child in front of him.
He fell to his knees, and the loud thud resounded in the main hall.
Mae gasped and her shoulders lurched forward toward him.
Before she could stand, he quickly straightened, rubbed his knee and tried to limp forward.
The nun at the back quickened her pace and laid a hand on his shoulder.
As she steered him firmly to keep step with his female counterpart, the line swallowed him back in as they marched on.
There was no change of expression, no words of comfort.
She dropped back to her original place at the back as Mae's eyes followed the procession.
Her heart squeezed in her chest as the line turned down the far hallway and disappeared.
The front door burst open, sending with it a large gust of icy air.
An officer came in dragging an older girl around the age of thirteen.
The nun who had helped her earlier scurried over to the desk again.
“Good morning, Officer Donovan. Let me get Sister Bethany for the intake.” The nun smiled at the girl, who was trying ineffectively to pull her arm from the officer’s firm grip, before shuffling away to a different office.
Sister Bethany stalked out to the main desk, trailed by the front-desk nun. “Hullo, Officer. Which case is this?”
“Case 4189,” he replied, handing her the case file.
The young blonde-haired girl’s wriggling paused.
She looked frantically around, and her eyes landed on Mae sitting patiently near the front desk.
As the girl’s face found Mae’s, the battered left side of her face became visible.
A greenish-purple bruise ran from her temple to her jaw, the large fingerprints embedded on her skin in still-raised welts.
Mae tried to school her features, but not before a gasp escaped her throat.
Mae stared at this young girl whose dress was far too revealing for her young age.
The dress was worn through the waistline, and the bust was cut low to expose her budding breasts.
A faded red petticoat hung beneath the hem of her skirt, and the girl’s small ankles could be seen above her tattered boot cuffs.
“Follow me,” Sister Bethany huffed as she turned back to her office. The girl’s shawl had been dislodged from her shoulder, and she clutched it in her right hand. Her skinny left biceps looked like a string in the meaty grip of the officer.
As the group entered the office, Mae shuddered.
That poor girl. This was why people begged the system to take children in the first place.
Beaten, turned out, abused. Suddenly, the lines from minutes ago became agreeable—necessary, even.
At least these children were fed and provided for.
They didn’t have to sell themselves for bread or for a place to lay their head.
“Mornin’, Mum,” a deep, lilting voice interrupted her thoughts. Looking up, a middle-aged woman in a snow-white linen wimple stood at the desk. Her voice sounded contradictory to the woman’s slight frame. “You lookin’ for intake information on a recently committed child?”
“Yes, thank you. A Lily Kerr. I believe she was committed yesterday.”
“Follow me, please,” she instructed. Mae followed her around the desk to the office in the back corner. “Now, on what authority are you making this inquiry?”
“On behalf of Henry Turner, Esquire. I am here to confirm the intake particulars.”
“Let me see,” the nun opened the intake book and flipped back a page. Running her fingertip down the page, she paused. “Yes, I can confirm the child in question is here, entered yesterday at 10:15am. The commitment papers were in proper order.”
Mae slid a pen and notepad from her satchel and noted the time. “Was anything noted on intake regarding the child’s condition?”
“Yes. The child was received from Bellevue following treatment for burns. The papers note the injury occurred while the child was left in another’s care.” Her voice remained neutral, although Mae saw a quick downturn of her lips.
Mae forced herself to reply professionally without emotion, “The parent was not present at the time?”
“The record states that the parent is unknown. The child was unattended when the injury occurred. The Court considered that sufficient for commitment.”
Mae furrowed her brow, recalling Winona’s retelling of the story.
She had said she came looking yesterday.
Mae had to admit she was inclined to agree with the finding of the court regarding the burn, but the absence of the mother’s name?
She pursed her lips before continuing. “And her condition now?” Mae jotted down this information.
“She was examined on receipt. She is safe now. If the Court issues further directions, we will comply promptly.” The practiced tone was completely neutral.
“And if I need to inquire further regarding her care?” Mae’s pen poised above the paper, ready for the note.
The nun’s tone became curt as she snapped the intake book shut more firmly than necessary before saying, “Any further inquiries must go through Mr. Foster. He handles the movement and placement of the children.” She stood to see Mae out.
“Things move along quickly with Mr. Foster. The child needn’t wait. ”
Mae nodded and scribbled down the name. “Thank you, Sister. I appreciate your time,” Mae replied, turning toward the exit.
Outside, she repositioned her bag and checked the name she'd written in her notepad. Foster. The clerk had mentioned him too, in passing, as if the name were important. She rubbed her eyes. She had too much left to research before the library closed.
* * *
He had handed the case file to Sister Bethany without breaking stride, without looking at the girl again.
Now, he was looking at Mae with the same expression he had worn then.
Mae raised her eyebrows at this bit of information. They had often picnicked at Riverside together. Simon had always begged her to pack extra slices of bread to feed the birds. He would never have thrown stones at them. She kept her face neutral.
“Throwing stones at the birds,” she repeated evenly.
“At Riverside. That's right, Ma’am.”
“My son has fed those birds since he could walk, Officer.” She held his gaze. “He wouldn't throw stones at them.”
There was a beat of silence. Officer Donovan's expression didn't shift. “Kids change, Ma’am,” he said.
The muscle in her jaw worked. Mae noted that he didn't defend the detail. He dismissed it. “My husband has just passed. Simon hasn’t been back to school yet.”
The officer grunted. “Good thing I found him then. Boy, at home without a father is just the type we end up seeing here later as they grow up.” Mae's mouth fell ajar. She slammed her lips back together, forming a thin line.
“Officer, my son isn’t a truant. He is a twelve-year-old boy who just lost his father and is grieving.”
“A boy needs a man at home to look up to, Missus. A woman can’t provide the things a growing boy needs like a father can.
He’ll be taken care of down at the Foundling House.
They’ll make sure he finds himself with a new father to bring him up right.
Probably send him along on the trains west if there’s men needing boys who can work. ”
At this, all the hairs along her back and arms lifted to attention.
Alarm bells began faintly in her subconscious and grew in intensity until the drumming of them pounded within her ears.
She had come here looking for an ally. As she studied his bland expression, she understood that this was something entirely different.
She blinked hard and forced herself to keep asking questions.
“W-west?” she stammered. “What do you mean, west?”
“Orphan train.” He replied simply. “Best idea them reformers ever had. Children raised in the city without men to look out for them… that never turns out. Puts more strain on all us trying to keep the peace. Yep, them orphan trains ship ‘em out west where they’ll find more opportunity than thieving or prostituting round here.”
Mae blinked at his candor. “B-but… Officer, you’re mistaken. Simon has me—”
“Well, not much to be done now. If it’s one of Foster’s kids, he’s as good as gone.
Yep, long as there’s trains running, he’ll be finding his way to a good home soon.
” The thought of two empty chairs in her cold, silent home was more than she could bear.
Her eyes swung slowly over to the clerk at the desk who had been listening to the entire exchange, pretending to organize his desk.
He looked up at her from his chair and leaned forward, “I’d make sure to get him back soon, Ma’am. Things move quickly with Foster's cases—boys of a working age go fairly quickly.” His soft eyes and foreboding words reached into her heart and squeezed life back into her limbs.
She nodded as the words sank in. The name bounced around in her mind, and she turned to the sympathetic clerk. “Who is this, Mr. Foster? Do you know anything about him?”
“I believe he oversees all the orphan placements from here to out west. Pretty efficient man, but—”
“Carter!” Donovan beckoned from an adjacent office. At the bellow of his name, the clerk stopped suddenly. His eyes widened, and he shrugged at Mae before scrambling toward Donovan’s voice.
Mae’s heart sank as her hand began to reach out toward this man who obviously knew more.
Her fingers clenched into a fist, her nails biting into her palm.
The buzz of activity quickened with every minute of the morning rush.
Turning toward the exit, she bumped into an older man with a thick gray beard standing right behind her.
His cane fell to the floor, and she picked it up absent-mindedly to hand it back to him.
Mae righted herself and squared her shoulders.
She must get to Simon at the Foundling House as soon as possible.