Folly (10 page)

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"What've you got there?" Ben Franklin was quick. James pushed two candies into his cuff before his hand was jerked into view.

"Give it to me!" Ben snatched the sweet.

James grabbed at him but mostly for show. He wasn't going to fight with Ben Franklin. He only wanted Sunday dinner to be over and never come again.

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OLIVER 1884 Visitors

When Oliver was a boy, spectators had been permitted into the wards at night to observe sleeping foundlings. He wondered whether they hadn't even been
encouraged
to visit, on the chance that a potential benefactor's heart might be swayed by the sight of a stray curl resting against a slumbering cheek ...

He'd had a naughty streak, even he would admit that, as dry and sensible as the boys might think him now. He and Rawson Smith had planned many an entertainment for the denizens of Ward Three. It had begun honestly enough, when Oliver awoke one night, with a total stranger sitting on his bed, rearranging his blanket. He'd screamed. Who wouldn't? He'd startled the woman, the matron, and the whole dormitory full of boys. The next

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time, Rawson did it on purpose, with the same prolonged effect on the audience. The time after that, Oliver added moaning, and a few twitches, before rolling himself off the edge of the bed. Rawson then sat up in terror, grabbing the skirt of a tiptoeing lady visitor, claiming he'd dreamt of Death wearing a cape. The final event had involved a boiled beet, carefully saved from dinner. Oliver remembered the sharp-tasting juice sitting in his mouth while he'd waited to leak "blood" during the evening tour ...

That had been the end of it. Oliver and Rawson were caned and wrote five hundred lines each:
I will not create false nightmares but will instead accept God's mercy to the forsaken poor
.

Night visiting had soon after been terminated.

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MARY 1877 Telling About the Letter

The day came when Mr. Daniel knocked twice and were standing there still when I'd wiped the carrot shreds off my hands to open the door. He handed me a small bundle of letters but kept one apart.

"This one is for you, Mary."

I suppose he didn't expect me to know my letters. He pointed to where my name were writ out, bold and square.

Did he notice my upset? "It may not be bad news," he said, quiet-like, trying to reassure me. "Bates can read. And Eliza. Take it to the table." He nudged me across the stoop and waited. Finally, he closed the door for me. I were that shook, wondering what calamity I held there, feeling the paper under my thumbs until it warmed.

I'll give Bates credit that his voice changed as he read.

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To Mary Finn
,

My sister Fanny wrote to us that you ran away, which news has broken your father's heart. We received word from you also, writ by your friend, but it did not balance our disappointment. We wonder that a girl so young should be so headstrong. For the safety of the children you are not welcome here again
.

You now have a half sister, Phoebe, born May 12, 1877, and another one coming, though it shames me that you are related by blood
.

We all are well here in Pinchbeck, except your brother John, who passed from this earth on the 10th of September. He is buried next to your mother, Mary Ann Boothby Finn
.

Your father asked me to write
.

Sincerely,

Margaret Finn

I tore the paper from Bates's hand. Margaret
Finn
? How dare she? Small John, dead and buried? I slid into

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the chair, instantly swallowed by the shock. I shook off whosever hand touched my back, my face hidden while I wept for my dear brown-eyed boy. It were certainly that cough that took him and I blamed Margaret Huckle for not knowing about chest plasters or bowls of steam or spoonfuls of honey before bed. But worse, letting myself be sent off made it my fault, and then going further away instead of home. I cringed, remembering Mam, her littlest boy lost on account of me.

The bell jangled above our heads, from the library.

"They'll be wanting their tea," said Mrs. Wiggins. "You've had your cry. Now splash your face and get on with it. Take the post up too."

I were sniffing and bubbling when I lifted my head to see all their faces turned elsewhere, giving me that whole minute to mourn my baby brother. Nut slid his hand under mine, setting me off again. But I upped and put on clean cuffs, changed my apron, and took the tea tray to the library. I put it down on the nice doily that lay over the table by the window.

"Thank you, Mary," said Lady Allyn, barely smiling. At the desk, Lord A. kept moving his pen, not looking up. Neither of them had half a care for me, even if they'd known that my brother had died. I backed out of the room that held all those prized books, all the words written by men who'd got servants bringing tea and not one of them thinking how it mattered that I had spooned honey into Small John's fevered mouth, or mended his blue jacket,

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or been proud of him picking out the letters on a gravestone.

Somehow I knew there were a gulch between what got writ down about history and what were remembered by the people who went along living it. No doubt the scholars checked their facts about battles and such nonsense, but weren't those battles fought by boys who'd wished for their mams, or bought peppermints or arm wrestled to win a bit of tobacco? Days went by, girls left home, children died, and who marked it all?

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JAMES 1888 Finds the Tree

James didn't think of climbing the tree until he was nearly ten years old and being chased by Harvey Hooper for the purpose of having his "poxy little mongrel's face pushed in."

"Touch me and
you'll
get the pox!" he'd shouted, but that idea didn't have much plunk with a brain the size of Harvey's.

Until that day, James had often hidden behind one tree or another, but had never considered climbing. One hand on the bark, ready to slip between the tree and the wall, he happened to glance up, and had an instant of soaring recollection--of Mister's strong hands clasping his waist, lifting him high enough to catch hold of the lowest branch.

James leapt, and surprised himself by being able to

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reach, just as Harvey's voice called out, "Nelligan, I'll get you, wherever you've hid your ugly face." James grinned, palms smarting, feet scrambling till they suddenly found a spot and he was safe. The next branch was hardly higher, an easy climb. He watched the yard, spying on Harvey's confused face and stomping-away boots. James shifted his wedged bottom, and--Coram's ghost! He could see right over the wall and into the street!

Oh, the hubbub! What that narrow brick wall had been hiding! James stretched out along the branch--that day, and whenever he could afterward--watching the wild world outside from the safety of his perch.

The tree gave James a new life, a room to himself, the crow's nest on a sailing ship overlooking the Outside. His branch was higher than anywhere he'd ever been in an outdoors place, perhaps as high as the dormitory windows. The light was different under there, pretty and lacy, always shifting as leaves fluttered, a perfect green curtain. He couldn't go every day, not even every week, but sneaking up there was even better than sitting at history lessons. It was the Now part of history, thought James. His breath came fast as he climbed each time, knowing there'd be ... something
different
to see. At the Foundling, every minute could be predicted and accounted for. The Outside was so busy and crowded that James could never predict or account, much as he'd tried. No list could ever capture it all.

His view of that stretch of street (which street was it? He wished he knew its name) became his secret source of

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knowledge, like finding a book written in a language that none of the other boys could understand. And he'd certainly never show them.

As he lay up there, twitching and giddy, poked by rough tree knobs, James tried to memorize everything, to tell all the things for sale to Mama Peevey that never were in the shop at home.

Oh, it was too much to think about while watching! He wanted to save some for later, like the sweets that Lady Bellwood and the other lady visitors gave to him on Sundays.

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MARY 1877 Love

I suppose you'll think I'm a right hussy when I tell you we got to kissing the third time I ever saw him. I will only say that it were soon after I had the letter from Margaret Huckle and I were oddly jumpy. There were something tingling inside, making me laugh when I ought to be crying, making me notice the colors or the taste of things. The rules were not sitting so firm in my mind.

You'll remember that Caden Tucker had given notice as to where he might be loitering at a certain time, should I happen to be there too. I had been worrying since morning what reason to use, but then a gift were presented, in the shape of Master Sebastian's emerging teeth. This were his second time to alter my life's bumpy path, and he just eight months old. As Mam would say, this leading to that,

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the history of a person could be so directed by the incidental nub of a tooth chafing its way through.

The baby's fussing were a wish come true. Before tea I were sent to fetch gripe water, ready-made, and oil of clove from the chemist, though I could have certainly mixed up my own, as my brothers and sister would tell you.

I made the purchase and slipped it into my apron pocket. I pulled my shawl tighter round me, seeing the torches being lit against the fog.

"Have you got it?" asked Miss Hollow, who were waiting in the kitchen, tapping her pointed little boot.

"No, ma'am." I were inspired. "I'm to go back in an hour, after tea."
Pray let the bulge go unnoticed
.

No one blinked an eye except at Miss Hollow's exasperated tromping up the stairs.

"Now, there's a woman needs a man like a cake needs frosting," said Bates.

"You hush your sass," said Mrs. Wiggins, but we knew she felt the same way.

"Mary could make the baby stop, couldn't you, Mary?" said Bates.

"Aye, but I'm in scullery, aren't I?"

I set to peeling potatoes and rinsing them, and slicing the bread, and cleaning anything Cook put her hand on almost before it were put down, so as to keep ahead and take my time after.

I scrubbed up and quick dabbed on a bit of Miss Lucilla's rose scent when I were collecting her tea tray.

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"What's that pong?" said Nut, waving his hand back and forth over his nose.

"You'll want to be washing that grubby wee paw," I said to him, "before Bates cuts it off to use for a blacking cloth."

"He wouldn't," said Nut, tucking his fingers into his vest pockets and stepping back.

"He might."

But Nut were done sniffing me. Thanks to my brothers, I'd learned long ago with little boys that distraction saves the day more often than not.

Mrs. Wiggins and Eliza were indignant that I'd be traipsing out in such a mess of weather--and wouldn't they have whinged if they'd known where I were headed? But out I went into the drizzle and grime of that November evening, to find the boy I were longing for with all my skin and spirit. There were indeed a dread fog that evening. It didn't matter a bird splash that I'd prettied my hair, as it were wet and dangling in two minutes out of doors.

This leads to that. There were plenty before that almighty kiss and Lord knows plenty after, so where did the leading
start
? One thing is clear: it were the fog, that particular night, that led to the kiss, wrapping us around in mystery, so even the plainest thing--a girl, and a boy in uniform--even that were given portent. And that kiss led straight to where you are and to where I be now.

I had only the time it would otherwise take to get to

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Messrs. Finley & Dobbs, Apothecary, which were perhaps eighteen minutes, there and back. I paused at the end of Neville Street, dithering, wondering should I keep going over to Russell Square and what were the chances he'd even show his face?

My name were called, "Mary!" bringing to mind an owl that haunted the lane back in Pinchbeck. But it weren't an owl, not in London. It were him, Caden Tucker. Liar, scoundrel, and heart's delight, though only the third did I have a hint of yet.

"Out for a stroll?" he said.

"Not likely," I said. "When the air's as woolly as a sheep's behind."

"Oh, then it's me you're looking for," he said, with those eyes as bright as first daylight in the gray mist.

He caught me up with both his hands at my waist. My heart jumped and my hands landed on his damp jacket shoulders. The fog were so close that even as our bodies bumped together his face were not entirely real until his mouth were on mine. I closed my eyes and tasted him, hungry as I'd never been.

Eliza had told me, the day we met this boy, how kissing him might be. She'd listed the color of his eyes and the shape of his lips and the slight beard that softened his jaw and had never yet felt a blade--teasing me to consider what I'd forfeited by not pouncing on him as she claimed she would have if she hadn't promised herself to Bates.