Sari Robins - [Andersen Hall Orphanage] (14 page)

C
atherine pressed her hand to her opened mouth, shocked at the scene in Headmaster Dunn’s office. Furniture was scattered, books askew and Marcus wrestled on the floor with a swarthy, soot-haired man.

The men grunted and huffed as they battled with their fists. A bloodied knife was clutched fiercely in the attacker’s hand, his wrist held at bay in Marcus’s taut grip. The assailant was a burly brute with meaty fists, a huge back and bulging muscles protruding below his filthy rolled-up shirtsleeves. His garments were smeared in blood and the odor of unwashed male radiated from him.

The ruffian rolled on top of Marcus, pinning him to the floor. Marcus was the smaller, leaner of the two and seemed to be struggling with his bandaged leg.

“Help!” Catherine screamed over her shoulder, praying that someone would hear. “We need help in the headmaster’s office! Mr. Jones! Bertram! Come quickly!”

Catherine grabbed an umbrella from the stand by the door and whacked it over the lout’s head. The man
snarled, trying simultaneously to swat at her with one hand and stab Marcus with the other. Every time that meaty arm swung in her direction, she recoiled, then dove back in for another crack at him.
Thwack!
The umbrella splintered on the man’s head, breaking into pieces. Catherine tossed the broken handle at the man’s back and it bounced off uselessly. She grabbed a new umbrella and lunged forward for another whack. The man swatted at her and she jumped away.

Suddenly Marcus hoisted the attacker in the air with his leg, flipping the burly man backwards over Marcus’s shoulders. The assailant crashed onto his back with a reverberating thud as a
whoosh
of air gusted out of his lungs. The knife clattered into a corner. The assailant lay still, seemingly as shocked as Catherine was by the maneuver.

Panting, Marcus bounded up and pinned the ruffian’s chest with his good knee, setting his hands on the man’s shoulders, pressing him to the floor. His panting echoed in the suddenly quiet chamber. The silence after the storm.

A muted groan emanated from behind the great brown desk, chilling Catherine to the bone.

Headmaster Dunn!

Catherine sprinted behind the massive desk and found her beloved mentor lying in a pool of his own blood.
Oh, my God.

“How bad?” Marcus cried, as the attacker began thrashing about once more.

She blinked, roused from her shock. Crouching, she pressed her hand to Dunn’s face, panicked. “I-I don’t know! He’s as white as a sheet! And there’s so much blood!” So much blood…

The metallic odor assaulted her…she covered her mouth, as if to hold back her horror. Dunn looked so helpless, completely unmoving.

“Press down on the wounds to stem the bleeding!” Marcus shouted.

His orders whipped her shocked mind into action. She needed to find the wounds and stop the bleeding. Yanking open Dunn’s woolen coat, she tore open his once ivory shirt and tried to make sense of the damage.

A dark hole surged red on the milky-pale skin. “There’s a wound on his upper left shoulder!” she shouted. Thank God he was still warm; it fueled hope. The partially opened shirt was soaked crimson near his belly. It was difficult to undo the linen, it was so soaked with blood. But fear lent her hands strength. She yanked hard, exposing his wide, pale stomach. “Another on his lower left side, below his belly. I-I think that’s all.”

“Bear down on both but put the most force on the stomach wound!”

She pressed her hands to each of the gashes, using her stronger right hand on the lower one. Blood seeped through her right fingers, no matter how hard she tried to stem the flow. “I can’t stop the bleeding from the stomach wound!”

Sounds of struggle came from across the room, but she couldn’t see anything from behind the desk.

“Use cloth!” came Marcus’s shout, followed by a grunt.

With her right hand she pressed the wound and with the other, she untied her apron. She cursed her sticky, fumbling fingers, but soon the strings came loose. Removing the apron and bunching it, she held it against the gash, pressing down hard while trying not to hurt him. She replaced her left hand on the shoulder wound and began to pray.

Many boot steps clambered into the room, but Catherine was too intent on Dunn to even look up. “Someone fetch Dr. Winner!” she cried.

Benjamin Bourke’s head appeared above the desk. The twelve-year-old boy’s eyes widened and his tea-skinned face drained of color. Distantly she worried about a young lad witnessing such horror, but she couldn’t think about that now. “Fetch the doctor immediately!” she cried, desperation making her voice shrill.

Quickly Benjamin ran from the chamber.

Cursing and grunts came from across the room.

Suddenly Marcus was beside her. He pulled her hands away and studied the wounds. His features were grim.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Her voice caught.

Placing her now blood-soaked apron back on the gashes, he ordered, “Get some bandages. And some water. I’ll take care of him. Go!”

His commands gave her hope and quickly she stood.

As Catherine raced out the door, she stole a glance at the blackguard. Kirby Jones and Jack O’Malley had apparently arrived at her calls and essentially sat on the soot-haired ruffian while he thrashed about on the floor. With his bruised face, thick red lips curled into a bloodied snarl, his unkempt black whiskers and bruised deep-pocketed dark eyes, the man was positively terrifying. Reassuringly, the brute’s hands were bound together with a leather cord and that cord was strapped to the leg of a heavy armchair.

Thank heavens Marcus excelled at what he did. And if there was any man who could save Headmaster Dunn, it was he.

Pushing all thoughts of death and dying aside, Catherine rushed out the door intent on finding bandages and water. And quickly.

“I’m so sorry, Marcus,” Cat’s words were threaded with grief.

Sitting on the top step of the veranda, Marcus didn’t bother to turn. He could feel her behind him, staring at him, judging him. He’d been a worthless sod as a son and when his father had needed him the most, he’d botched it once more. Well, he’d have no further opportunity to let his father down. Death was his final failure.

“Dr. Winner…Dr. Winner said that you did everything possible. That because of your battlefield experience, you probably gave…your father”—her voice cracked—“more of a chance than even he could’ve.” She sat beside him on the step and gently grasped his limp hand in hers. Her touch warmed, but little could breach the coldness that draped him. He knew that he should squeeze her hand, give her some sort of reassurance; she was grieving, too. But for his life, he could hardly move; he was exhausted down to his soul.

“Is there anything that I can do for you, Marcus?” Cat asked quietly.

Her flaxen hair was wild about her face like bits of straw, reminding him of when she was a girl. But instead of a rosy bloom on her cheeks, they were smeared with blood. Her gray gown was soaked in crimson and even her shoes looked as if they’d been dropped in a bucket of blood. No longer did she smell of delicate fresh citrus. Instead the metallic, cloying odor of death surrounded her.

The stench of mortality was all too familiar to Marcus. In war, Marcus tried to detach himself from the reality of death as much as possible, allowing him to survive and do what was necessary. But when the loss was so close, so personal, the boundaries wouldn’t rise. He couldn’t escape the finality of it all. Or the grief.

Marcus felt a piercing ache deep in his chest, but strangely, it was his mother’s face that shimmered before his vision, not his father’s. It was his mother’s brown eyes
brimming with sadness, as she laid a frail hand on his cheek and said a final farewell. Sorrow sliced through him so keenly he found it hard to breathe.

His mother had been the one person whom he could count on. The one individual who’d loved him completely. Who’d given her love freely, wholly and without condition. She’d never judged him. She had embraced his multitude of flaws as simply amusing parts of her beloved child. Even though it had been twelve years, he felt her loss like a cavernous hole in his heart where an icy wind whistled through.

When she’d died, Marcus’s grief had been excruciating. He’d run off to the forest every day so no one could see him weep. Alone in the dark coppice, only the creatures of the wood heard his howls.

And the adults had left him to his grief. Yet a part of him hadn’t wanted to be alone. He’d been sixteen, and even though he’d wanted to be treated like a man, deep inside he’d felt like a child, alone and afraid and aching for his lost mother.

His friends had been the ones to help him break out from the grief. He clearly recalled his seventeenth birthday. He’d taken off to the woods once again. Alone with his sorrow, he’d thought about the cake his mother would have made for him and the candles she would have hand-dipped especially for the occasion. But in the midst of his melancholy, his cronies had arrived bearing a box tied with twine. In it, they’d said, was a gift worthy of the adventuresome Marcus Dunn. They, obviously, wanted their old friend back, not the morose loner he’d become.

Curious, and more than a bit relieved at the interruption of his bereavement, Marcus had opened the box. Inside had been a bottle of gin, a map and a young lady’s cotton chemise. His chum Kenny Lane had explained that Mar
cus’s charge for his birthday adventure was to drink the gin (with his friends of course) then to follow the map and find the owner of that cotton chemise. It had been a birthday celebration that Marcus would never forget, thanks to the kind of cheer that only seventeen-year-old boys and a willing Delores Tafton could bring.

Remembering it now, Marcus almost smiled, but his lips seemed leaden and his heart not quite able to muster the cheer. He was older now, and knew that no bottle of gin or roll in the hay was going to make this pain disappear.

His next birthday had been not nearly as memorable, he recalled, but it had been easier to face without his mother. Each birthday even more so after that. Year after year had separated him from his mother’s death, and eventually the sorrow had dulled to a blunt ache. On the rare occasions when Marcus would consider his lack of grief, he felt guilty for his callousness. But there was naught he could do for it. Moreover, he was too busy to overassess his feelings. There were studies to be learned, games to be played and friends to laugh with. As his arguments with his father had grown more acrimonious, his mother’s memory had taken on a sweet, hazy quality. Gone was the bitter tang of anguish.

Now grief crashed upon him like a wave battering a seashell against the reef. He was drowning in salty tears, unable to surface from the pain enough to breathe. His chest hurt, his eyes stung and he felt frozen in a silent agony of the soul.

A soft hand caressed his face. He looked up. Cat sat beside him, wiping away his tears. He hated the pity he saw in her gaze. Hated how weak he must seem. A grown man crying for his lost mother who’d died twelve years before. Deep down, he recognized that losing his father had rekindled his grief for his mother. Just as with her final ill
ness, he had felt impotent, like a failure because he couldn’t do more to stop the fever from burning the life out of her. But now, truly, it was his fault. He’d been in the house as a murderer attacked his father, and he’d been so wrapped up with Cat, he’d not heard…had not acted in time…It had been within his power to save his father. And he’d failed.

He didn’t know what to do with the pain, the grief, the guilt, so he pushed the emotions aside and rose, standing out of Cat’s reach. He wiped his eyes. “I have to go.”

“Where?” She stood. Her gray gaze was soft with concern and her features creased with worry.

He looked away, unable to meet her eyes. “I need…I just…” He swallowed. “I need to go sit with my father.” The words were out before he’d even considered them. He knew that there was no more he could do to help his father, that the Uriah Dunn he’d known was no longer in that empty shell. Yet, he needed to do it. He couldn’t quite understand why, but it was imperative.

“Of course.” Cat nodded slowly. “I’ll make sure no one disturbs you.”

“Thanks.” He swallowed. “And if you could get me some towels and water…I’d like to…cleanse him.”

“Of course.”

As they turned toward the orphanage door, she spoke softly. “I have a friend who told me something interesting once.”

“Hmmm,” he murmured, following her inside.

“She said that in her tradition, to sit with a…lost loved one…is a way to honor that person. That to clean the…” She swallowed. “…body is a sacred endeavor.” Stopping, she turned around. Biting on her lower lip, she shrugged, not meeting his eye. “Somehow, I know…that your father…he loved you
so
well…he would be
pleased that you would do him this honor. It would mean a lot to him.”

Quickly, she spun on her heel and kept walking as if afraid she’d overstepped her bounds.

He stood dumbly, watching her go as the backs of his eyes burned with unshed tears. Cat’s compassion moved him. It gave him a strange warm feeling deep inside his chest that thawed some of the bitter grief. Somehow, he didn’t feel so dreadfully…ill-judged, useless…misunderstood…unwanted…

His feelings were in a scramble, but one true belief shone though: he had someone on his side. His father was dead, murdered. His mother long buried. But in this dark, cruel world, there was a flicker of warmth, a welcoming smile and a woman that truly cared about him.

C
atherine had left Marcus to his father, checking in on him now and again. Poor Marcus. It pained her to see how devastated he was. He blamed himself, she knew, when there was no fault in his quarter. In fact, if Marcus hadn’t arrived, Catherine didn’t want to think about the damage that the murderer might have inflicted on the children. Knowing Headmaster Dunn, he would have been glad it was only he who had suffered. He’d always put others before himself.

Rubbing her eyes, Catherine choked back her tears. Lord, how she missed him. It was like a stone barrier protecting her from the outside world had suddenly disappeared, and it was up to her to brave the elements alone. For herself and the children. She felt the enormity of her responsibility like a weight on her soul.

But the bitter wind seemed somewhat tempered by having Marcus near. He gave her grief a focus, and allowed her to feel not so wretchedly alone in this sorrow.

He’d stayed with his father all through the night, until
the undertaker had removed Headmaster Dunn that morning. Then Marcus had disappeared, to where she did not know. She worried for him and wished he’d return soon.

With Marcus gone, Catherine had been left to face the grieving children and the staff. They’d expected her to be a pillar of strength when all she’d wanted to do was melt into a useless puddle of tears.

Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore. She’d closeted herself in Headmaster Dunn’s study, closing the doors. Yet the stench of blood was even now too potent for her hollow stomach and she had no choice but to open the windows for air. So she could not escape the muted sobs of the children outside as their strict schedule was thrown into chaos by the headmaster’s sudden death.

The main house was too silent; absent were the sounds of chattering voices, playful laughter and slamming doors that usually pervaded the halls.

Thank heavens Jared isn’t here. It’s a blessing he doesn’t have to face Dunn’s murder
. But her mind reared away from the excruciating reality. She couldn’t grasp it, it was so bizarre.

On her knees, she worked in a daze, knowing she had to keep moving or she would shatter. Hands belonging to someone else collected the precious books from where they lay scattered around the hardwood floor of Dunn’s office. Catherine was ghostly cold; moving, functioning, but not feeling anything. She couldn’t; it was too much for her fragile composure.

Bucket, soapy water, rags. Catherine tried to think of anything else she might need, but her mind was clouded in a thick fog. Such a mess. Such a nasty mess. Headmaster Dunn would hate for his office to be so unclean. To be cluttered with books, papers and keepsakes was one thing, but he always abhorred filth.

She labored as if in a dream, talking herself through each step. Chairs righted and set aside. Books cleared and placed out of the way. Can’t get any water on Dunn’s prized collection. What would happen to these precious books without their guardian? The children…Her mind reared away from any thoughts of the future, clouding into a daze of solitary purpose: to cleanse this room of the taint of carnage.

Next, scrub the floor.

Standing before the last stack of books, she turned and studied the dark stain splayed behind the desk. It was almost the color of Cook’s molasses pudding. An odd shade for someone’s lifeblood. A shudder ran through her; perhaps she was not so detached after all.

She turned away, examining the furniture. To clean the stained floor, the desk had to be moved.

Leaning forward, Catherine pushed with all of her might, making sure that her good leg took the brunt of the effort. The bulky desk budged barely a finger’s width. She tried again. Her arms quaked, her heart was pounding with the effort and her feet scrambled for purchase. The desk barely moved a half a finger’s width more.

“Here,” a deep voice pronounced. “Let me help you.”

Blinking, she straightened, shocked by Nicholas Redford’s sudden appearance. She had not heard the door click open, yet there he was and the entry yawning wide open. She shouldn’t have been so surprised to see Headmaster Dunn’s protégé, but everything seemed so illogical to her these days.

Redford placed his large, gloveless hands on the side of the desk and set his broad shoulder to the corner. He was a tall man with a wide forehead fringed with thick black brows that matched his black, collar-length hair. He had sharp cheekbones, shadowed by scruff, a jagged nose,
wide lips and a hint of cleft chin. The faint scent of almonds he wore always reminded Catherine of honey cookies.

Redford was the most celebrated orphan to come from the orphanage. With hard work, dedication, and a razorsharp intellect, he had worked his way up to being a Bow Street Runner, and was now the respected owner of a new enquiry firm. Dunn could not have been more proud if Redford was his own son, and Redford returned the fondness. Of course Redford would come when he’d heard the awful news…

“Well?” he asked, waiting crouched with his shoulder set to the desk.

Wordlessly, she positioned her palms above his, planted her feet and readied.

“Heave!” he called.

The massive desk skid across the chamber with a mighty groan. It slid so quickly, Catherine would have fallen but Redford caught her in a firm grip about the waist.

Steadying her, he looked down, his dark brown eyes searching her gaze. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” She stepped out of his embrace, looking away, unable to meet his eyes. She didn’t want him here, didn’t want to talk to anyone. She just wanted to be alone to clean the room.

“Can you tell me what happened?” His voice was gentle, but she sensed the powerful emotions he held in check.

Crossing her arms, she hugged herself, not wanting to discuss it. Still, Catherine reminded herself that Redford had never turned his back on the place that had given him his start. He was always available to help out at Andersen Hall when needed, whether it was lending his muscle
when they rebuilt the orphanage’s dairy or helping the children find suitable positions upon leaving the home. He was a good man who loved Dunn well. She owed him the truth.

“Headmaster Dunn…” She felt like she was talking through a mouth full of liniment, it seemed so difficult to speak. “…was attacked…Marcus…Marcus fought the man…stopped him…but we were too late for Headmaster Dunn.” Her shoulders sagged with defeat. “We were too late…”

He said nothing for a long time. She stood miserable, having no desire to breach the silence.

The muffled sounds of sobbing could be heard through the open door as well as the scuffle of many feet on planked floors.

“Do we know why?” he asked gruffly, his voice steeped in anger kept under taut control.

She shrugged. “The man had…” Her eyes burned, but she pushed away the pain, unwilling to surrender to it just yet. “He had the headmaster’s watch…” What a waste, for a wretched ornament! Her anger seethed and she pushed the heels of her hands into her eyes so hard she saw stars. “He mentioned a strongbox…The fool…If only…if only…he hadn’t believed…” She quaked, feeling as if she was going to splinter with the pain.

Strong hands gripped her shoulders and squeezed. “The bastard will pay,” Redford’s voice was infused with quiet fury. “If I have to do it with my bare hands, he will die for this.”

“That which cannot be saved
must
be avenged,” a gruff voice murmured from the threshold.

Catherine looked up, blinking away the white haze that plagued her eyes. She almost hadn’t recognized Marcus’s voice; it was so rough with strain and emotion.

Marcus’s bruised eye had yellowed to a greenish blue and his lip was still puffy, but the swelling had diminished. He’d changed clothes at some point, but still, he looked as if he’d hardly cared while he’d dressed. His ivory cravat was so loose it fairly hung down the front of his unbuttoned green coat. The striped waistcoat underneath was slightly askew. Although his white breeches were clean, his brown boots were scuffed, and he leaned heavily on his crutches.

She marveled at how he could think of his ruse for his mission at a time like this. Yet she knew that Headmaster Dunn would have wanted him to stay the course, even at a time like this.

Redford released her and turned. His hands were balled into fists and his russet eyes flashed fire.

“Dunn.” His tone was curt as he noticeably did not use Marcus’s rank.

“Redford.”

Neither man moved to shake hands or express any welcome to the other. The air practically crackled with tension.

“I’d heard you were back,” Redford bit out.

Marcus turned to her, pointedly ignoring the other man. “I’ve sent for my belongings.”

Redford’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

Catherine shook her head, trying to clear it. “Belongings?”

“You’re going to need some help around here. My…” His voice faltered, then his features hardened to stone. “My father would have wanted me to stay.”

“Since when do you give a bloody damn about what your father wants?” Redford charged, stepping forward menacingly. “He posted to you for years and never got one blasted response. He waited for any word from you, feared you for dead—”

“My relationship with my father is none of your bloody business,” Marcus’s tone was brittle. “Nor is where I choose to reside.”

“It is when it implicates Andersen Hall,” Redford retorted. “You turned your back on this institution and everyone in it seven years ago. Don’t think that you can just prance back in and all is well.”

“My father didn’t object to my return,” Marcus interrupted, his gaze colder than winter.

“Of course he didn’t, the man’s a saint! But that doesn’t make you worthy of forgiveness.”

“You bloody toady! You didn’t have a father of your own so decided mine would do!”

Their arguments had cleared the mists in Catherine’s mind to clarity, allowing the sorrow to leak through. It was so heavy it felt like a rail parked across her shoulders. “Stop it!” she cried, raising her hands. “I can’t take it!”

The men seemed to become mindful of her presence. Still, they eyed each other with wariness that bespoke old animosity.

Redford shifted his shoulders. “If I believe that there is a true change of heart, mind and
deed
, then perhaps…”

“Who the hell are you to judge me?” Marcus’s tone was harsh.

Moving over to the desk, Catherine leaned heavily, besieged by their animosity and by her sorrow. The emotions hammered at her, making her feel battered.

Marcus stepped forward. “You, Mr. Redford, weren’t the one laying his life on the line for King and Country the last seven years—”

“Donning a uniform does not make you honorable,” Redford retorted.

“Neither does taking up a tipstaff and—”

“I can’t take it,” her voice was barely a whisper. “It’s simply…too much…”

“He started,” Marcus insisted, wagging a finger. “I was merely trying to do the right thing—”

Redford snorted, crossing his arms. “There’s a first time for everything.”

Sudden anger swept through her like a flash fire, dispelling the despair. “Will both of you please grow up!”

Redford turned to her. “Now see here—”

“Really, Cat.” Marcus scowled, then winced at the pain from his bloodied lip. “You cannot speak to us as if we were children.”

“Then stop acting like them!” She stepped forward, the urges to weep and scream warring within her so profoundly she shook. “If not for my sake, then at least for the sake of Headmaster Dunn, please, find some way to get along.”

Redford was frowning, pensive. Marcus was studying her as if she was a heretofore unknown specimen.

“I understand that you are both dreadfully upset. It’s a terrible…” her voice faltered. “Terrible day. Emotions run high…But still, if we don’t pull together, we will rend apart.” Pressing her hands together she pleaded, “Even if you don’t mean it, you two need to put on a brave face and stand shoulder to shoulder. For the sake of staff, the board, the children…There is so much more at risk here than your childhood rancor.”

The men exchanged a glum glance of truce. The tension in the room eased a notch.

She pointed to the blood-soaked floor. “Better that you take your animosity and direct it at the true culprit here.”

The men’s gazes traveled to the floor, and she could see their grief, even as each man tried to mask it. Distantly
she wondered if these men were at odds because they were so alike. But she was too exhausted to truly care. She simply wanted them to behave.

“You’re right,” Redford acknowledged, squaring his shoulders. “Now is not the time or the place.” The anger simmering in his dark eyes seemed to promise that that day would come.

“I didn’t mean to upset you, Cat,” Marcus murmured, looking away.

Quiet descended in the chamber, broken only by the muted sobs drifting through the window, mixed with bird-song and the rustling leaves.

After a moment Redford turned to Marcus. “There was only one assailant?”

“No one came to the bugger’s rescue,” Marcus replied, leaning forward on his crutches. “But the lads searched the grounds just in case. And I had them patrol last night.”

She pressed her hand to her chest, alarmed. “Alone?”

“In groups of four with explicit orders to send for help if anything or anyone was about,” Marcus added soothingly. “They encountered no one.”

Redford scratched his chin, his cocoa brown eyes sharp with speculation. “Was anything else found on the thief?” Redford seemed to have slipped into his Bow Street Runner role. Probably as a way to deal with this catastrophe.

“Just the watch.”

Redford nodded slowly. “So you believe that robbery was the motive?”

“He mentioned a strongbox,” Marcus replied, his face suddenly hardening. “But I haven’t yet had a real crack at the knave. When I do…”

A shiver slid up Catherine’s spine. She could hardly imagine what he meant, and she didn’t wish to know. In her heart, she just wanted it undone.

“John Newman is the warden at Newgate Prison,” Redford stated, straightening as if coming to a decision. “Only he can grant permission for prisoners to be questioned.”