The Benedict Bastard (A Benedict Hall Novel) (30 page)

“Oh, you might be surprised,” Blake said, his tone as mild as hers was sharp. “You just might be surprised.”

 

Margot found her father on the front porch, sprawled in one of the Westport chairs with his head back, gazing past the branches of the camellia into the starry night sky. He had a fresh cigar clenched between his teeth, its tip glowing red in the starlight. A slight breeze had sprung up, carrying away the stifling heat of the day.

Margot drew a deep breath. The cigar smoke was fruity and strong in the night air. She settled into the other chair, and stretched her legs out in front of her. “Father,” she said. “I’m glad you’re still up. I have to tell you something.”

He turned his head without lifting it, and squinted through the cloud of cigar smoke. “Good Lord, daughter. Hasn’t there been enough?”

“Yes. There has definitely been enough. But there’s more to come.”

“About the child?”

“No. I don’t know any more about him than you do, I’m afraid. This is about Blake, and about his nurse—well, my nurse, too. Sarah Church.”

“Fine girl,” Dickson said.

“Yes. We all think so.” Margot linked her hands before her, and watched her father’s face. “Her family lives in one of those northern neighborhoods.”

Dickson raised one bushy gray eyebrow. “Covenants,” he growled. “Those developers trying to push them out?”

“Yes. You always know everything, don’t you?”

“My city. I like to know what’s going on.”

“The Klan had a hand in this, I understand.”

He puffed a cloud of smoke into the darkness, where it hung for a moment like a gray cloud, until the breeze broke it apart. “Goodwin Company, I suppose. They’ve got a reputation for it.”

“Yes. That’s the name Blake mentioned.”

Dickson lifted his head. “What does Blake have to do with this, Margot?”

“Sarah came to him for help. Her family was given no time—some men came to their home, and told them they had to go. They frightened her mother.”

“They can’t do that,” Dickson said with assurance.

“They did.”

“We can fix it. I’ll give the mayor a call, and—”

Margot put a hand on his arm, and he gave her a wary glance. “The thing is, Father,” she said, in the sweetest tone she knew how to produce, “Blake already did that.”

He thundered, “What? What are you telling me, daughter?”

She kept her hand where it was, hoping to keep him calm as she explained. “Time was terribly short, Father. Those men told the Churches they had to go immediately, and Mother went missing that same night. You and Blake had to rush off to Walla Walla, and so—” She pressed his arm with her fingers. “Blake called the mayor, and—” She had to pause for a breath, aware of how preposterous the whole thing was.

Dickson rumbled, “What did he say to Ed that was so awful?”

She lifted her hand, and dropped it back into her own lap. “He pretended he was you. Blake did, on the telephone. Asked for Mayor Brown’s help, and—it seems—received it.”

Her father was silent, puffing on his cigar. Margot sat listening to the faint clatter of the camellia leaves in the wind, the occasional bump or rustle from indoors as the family settled itself for bed. She had told Blake to go to his own bed, that she would handle this, and now all she could do was to wait for her father to decide how he felt about it.

After two or three minutes had passed, Dickson said, “The Churches still in their home?”

“As far as I know.”

“Hmmm.” Cigar smoke swirled away on the breeze. “Blake probably thinks I’m going to fire him.”

“I suspect that’s his concern, Father. You wouldn’t, though, would you?”

A strange sound came from Dickson’s throat. At first, Margot tensed, because it sounded as if he were choking. Then, as she leaned closer so she could see his face through the haze of smoke, she saw that he wasn’t choking, or coughing. He was laughing.

“Is it funny?” she asked, and at the same time felt a giggle rise, as if her father’s mirth was contagious.

Dickson took the cigar from his mouth, and guffawed. “Funniest thing I’ve heard in years!” he said, when he could catch his breath. “His Honor bamboozled by my butler! That’s rich!” He went off into another gale of laughter, one that ended in a coughing fit.

Margot was chuckling, too, a relief after the grimness of the day. She patted her father’s back until he stopped coughing, and then the two of them sat on in the darkness, grinning at each other. “You smoke too much, Father,” Margot finally said, her lips still twitching.

“I know. How do you suppose Blake made himself sound like me?” That set them both off again, snickering like schoolchildren. The tension of the evening bubbled away as if a cork had been pulled from a bottle of something fizzy.

At least, Margot thought, once their amusement abated, some good had come out of these troubled days. When they rose at last, and went into the house side by side, she thought that her father, at least, would recover from the tragedy of Preston’s suicide.

She wished she could be as confident about Edith.

C
HAPTER
29

Olive Ryther scowled across her cluttered desk. “I don’t like my home being interfered with,” she said.

“I’m aware of that,” Margot said.

Dickson stood behind Margot’s chair, his hands in his pockets, his jaw thrust out in his characteristic way. “The city does a great deal for you and your children,” he said.

“I do a great deal for the city.”

“No one is arguing about that, Mrs. Ryther. You’re very well thought of.”

“Someone’s always coming in here trying to make me do things I don’t want to.”

Margot tried to speak in a soothing manner. “We only want what you want, and what’s best for the children who come to you—the ones you take such good care of.”

“I can’t be certain this is the child you’re looking for,” the old woman said truculently. “And it’s hardly fair for you to decide you want him now—take him away from his foster family, who have probably become attached to him.”

“Mrs. Ryther,” Margot said, “we didn’t know the child existed until recently.”

Her father was less placating. “My son’s dead, and now I need to know my grandson is safe. Well cared for.”

Mrs. Ryther sniffed. “God cares for these little ones,” she said. “We’re just His instruments.”

“Fine,” Dickson said. His voice had dropped, and Margot could feel his temper building, like a lightning storm growing behind her. “I want to know, just the same. I hardly think God would object to that.”

The look Olive Ryther directed at him through her spectacles might have withered a lesser man, but Margot knew her father. Such a look would only ricochet off the iron casing that was his normal demeanor, and might cause more damage on the rebound than it had on its original trajectory. Without looking back, she saw by Mrs. Ryther’s face, the flicker of the eyelids, the brief pursing of the lips, that she was right.

Mrs. Ryther lifted the felt cover of the book, and adjusted her spectacles on her nose. She turned pages with deliberation, occasionally glancing up to look at the two Benedicts over the rims of her glasses. “So many children,” she muttered. “Tossed away as if they were rubbish.”

“I can assure you,” Dickson rumbled, his voice so low it was nearly inaudible, “that this little boy isn’t unwanted in the least. Only unknown.”

“Someone should have thought of that.”

“Yes,” Margot said hastily, feeling her father stiffen at her shoulder. “Yes, that would have been ideal. But the people involved—that is to say, the young girl who gave birth to him—she didn’t know anything. Literally.”

“You mean Miss Morgan.”

“I do.”

“Hmm.” Mrs. Ryther turned another page. Each page was covered in an uneven, looping hand, and Margot wondered if even Mrs. Ryther could read it. “I don’t hold with keeping girls in ignorance. It doesn’t help them.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Margot said with assurance. “Nurse Church and I work hard with the Women and Infants Clinic to solve that very problem. Education is the only way I can see to change it.”

“Nurse Church is an outstanding young woman,” Mrs. Ryther said. “A credit to her race.”

“A credit to her
profession,
” Margot said. She said it half under her breath, not sure either of her companions could hear her, but Dickson nudged her shoulder, and she knew he, at least, heard, and understood.

Mrs. Ryther turned another page, and ran her forefinger down a column of entries. “Here,” she said, with some reluctance. “This may be the one you’re looking for.”

Margot stood up, and her father came around the chair to stand close to the desk. Mrs. Ryther turned the ledger so they could see, but as Margot had expected, her handwriting was illegible.

Mrs. Ryther tapped one of the entries. “An infant came to us in the winter of ’twenty-one, sent with a nurse from Vancouver. A sizable cash donation came with him.”

“But no names?”

“That’s not uncommon. These rich people think they can bury their indiscretions under piles of money.”

“Evidently they succeeded,” Dickson said.

Mrs. Ryther looked up at him. “Mr. Benedict,” she said, “I have no control over what has happened before children come to me. Once they’re here, I do everything within my power to care for them, to see they’re settled, to see they have a future. It’s not easy. Not many families are interested in taking my children.”

Dickson shifted from one foot to the other, and cleared his throat. “I understand, Mrs. Ryther,” he said. “I apologize for the inference. It’s been a terrible time for my family. We’ve had a—a death. And my wife has not been well.”

“You think finding this child will solve your problems?”

“It may,” he said frankly. “I don’t know for a certainty that it will, but I have to try.”

 

“He’s in the Rainier Valley,” Margot told Frank, once they were alone in their rooms at Benedict Hall. Their shades were drawn, the windows open to admit a breath of fresh air, but still their small sitting room was stifling. The camellia blossoms had withered and fallen, littering the windowsill with browned petals. Margot had changed out of her skirt and shirtwaist, and rested now in a light dressing gown, barefoot and bare legged.

Frank was in his undershirt, and he had kicked off his shoes and socks as well. His prosthesis glimmered in the rays of the setting sun, and he exercised it reflexively, in a way Margot had gotten used to, bending the elbow, working the fingers. He said, “Mostly farms out there.”

“Sarah sees women and babies from that neighborhood. They tend to have big families. Odd that someone would want to take in another child when they already have so many.”

“Labor,” Frank said. “Farmers, ranchers . . . they need labor. Big families are useful.”

“He’s not yet three.”

“He’ll grow. Think of the orphan trains, and all those ranchers.” They had spoken of that, of the thousands of little children shipped across the country to be adopted by rural families, not always with happy results.

“What a horrible thought. It’s the sort of thing Olive Ryther would hate.”

“Maybe she didn’t know. She doesn’t even know for sure where he is!”

“No. Sarah’s asking around. She knows those people so much better than I do.”

“Try not to worry about it until you’re sure.”

“I just wish I could get this settled before I go back to the clinic, and the hospital.”

He put out his right hand, and caressed her bare thigh where the dressing gown had fallen away. “For now,” he said, “you’re still on vacation. Try to let it rest. Nothing you can do tonight.”

She was about to agree with this, when her private telephone rang.

“Don’t answer it,” Frank said, moving his hand to her waist. “You’re not supposed to be at home.”

“Sarah knows I’m here, Frank.”

He circled her waist with his arm, and pulled her closer. “You could be out.” He kissed her shoulder, and grinned at her, his eyes very blue in the low light. “We might have gone out to dinner, or be taking a walk in the park.”

“Frank.” She kissed his forehead, then pulled free. “We might have, but we didn’t. If it’s Sarah, I don’t want to miss her.” She had to get up to reach the telephone. She picked it up from the coffee table, lifting the earpiece from its cradle. With a wry smile at Frank, she said, “Dr. Benedict speaking.”

“Margot.” It was Sarah, and her voice was tight and worried. “I found him. That is, William Jackson found him, and I’m sure he’s right.”

“That was fast, Sarah.”

“It’s a berry farm. I haven’t seen it, but William looked into it for me. I’ve treated a few of the children who work there—too many, to tell you the truth.”

“How do you know it’s him?” Margot carried the phone to the window, where she stood staring out into the dusk, her shoulders already beginning to hunch. Frank must have seen, and he came to stand behind her, rubbing the back of her neck with his good hand. She closed her eyes, and leaned gratefully against him.

“One blond child, about three. All the rest are dark, some of them Chinese, and a couple from the reservation.”

“Good Lord, Sarah, how many children do they have there?”

“I can’t even tell you.”

“Who are these people?”

“They call themselves the Jenks family. I think there were three brothers, and they all came out from someplace in the South.”

“What can we do?”

“We’ll have to go there in person. If we send William with a message, they’ll just send him away again.”

“All right. They know you, so it would be good if you come, too.”

“Yes, I know a couple of the women well enough, I think, though they won’t like seeing me there.”

“We wouldn’t let you go alone, Sarah.”

“No. Not a good idea. Now, the streetcar goes to Columbia City, but this farm is farther east. Do you think Blake could drive us? If we start early, I can be back to open the clinic on time.”

“Yes. I can see you’ve thought this through. I’ll go speak to Blake now. And Father. I think he’ll want to be with us.”

“I’ll meet you at the clinic in the morning, then. And, Margot—” Sarah paused. “Margot, I don’t think Mrs. Benedict should come. I know she wants to find the child, but from what I’ve seen—she might be upset.”

“All right. We’ll be at the clinic at seven, will that do?”

“I’ll see you then. I want to thank your father, too, for what he did for my family.”

This made Margot smile. “I’m sure you’ll have your chance.”

 

Frank insisted on being included in the party the next morning. “I don’t want you down there alone,” he told Margot, as they rose early and, for once, had coffee and toast brought up to their rooms.

“I won’t be alone, Frank,” she said. “Blake, Father—”

He shook his head. He spoke in his usual laconic manner, but she could see he meant it. “I’m going with you, Margot.”

She saluted. “Yes, Major.” He made a face at her.

It was an odd sort of group, Margot and Dickson and Frank in the rear seats of the Cadillac, and Sarah Church in the front with Blake. Blake had tried to insist she sit in the back, but she shook her head. “You know what they’re like, Blake. It’s better to keep it simple.”

“Well, Nurse Church,” he said, touching his cap with his forefinger. “I’ll let you decide this, but just for once. You remember what I said before.”

“I do,” she said, dimpling at him. “But I’m quite happy to ride in the front of this beautiful motorcar with you.”

Frank looked puzzled by this exchange, but Margot knew what Sarah meant. There was a hierarchy of prejudice among the people they treated at the Women and Infants Clinic. She would have preferred to find that these people were open-minded about racial differences, but she usually found the opposite to be true. The Negresses who came to them were thrilled to have a nurse they felt comfortable with. The others—Italian, Irish—were all too glad to find someone they felt was lower in the world order than they were themselves. Sarah was unfailingly graceful in the face of all of it.

Margot, on the other hand, had snapped at more than one woman who turned up her nose at being treated by a Negress. Her usual line was, “Well, Mrs. O’Donnell, you are welcome to take your custom elsewhere.”

The truth was, of course, as both she and the offending patient knew very well, that Mrs. O’Donnell and those like her had no money to take to another practitioner. Margot wasted no energy on their offended expressions and stiff-necked responses, and she refused to tolerate even a hint of rudeness to Sarah.

As they drove south and east from the clinic, Sarah twisted in her seat to explain the situation to them.

“There are three separate families there, as nearly as I can tell,” she said. “They have some children of their own, and a number they’ve taken in. At least, that’s what they call it. They’ve ‘taken them in,’ which I’m afraid means they give them a place to sleep and food to eat, in exchange for their work picking raspberries and blueberries, and then blackberries in the late summer. They have a day stall at the Market where the women sell the produce.”

“We probably have some of their berries at Benedict Hall,” Margot said.

“I’ve seen a number of the children at the clinic for infected scratches, earaches, that sort of thing. Once or twice there have been serious injuries, but those I sent on to the hospital. I’ve never seen one that didn’t have other issues—rashes, bruises, lice. One little one—couldn’t have been more than five—fell off a truck and broke his arm. He was supposed to be holding the bushels in place.”

“I remember him,” Margot said. “I didn’t know where he came from, though. A woman came with him to the hospital. I thought she was his mother.”

“I don’t know which are their natural children and which aren’t,” Sarah said. “And they won’t talk about it. They don’t talk much, in fact, and they usually wait until the children are really sick before they bring them to see us. I’ve had no luck persuading them to bring them all in for vaccinations and general examinations.”

Frank said, “Aren’t there laws about child labor?”

“Several have passed,” Margot said, “but the federal courts ruled them unconstitutional.”

Dickson said, “Ought to keep the government out of business. Farm families—”

“If these
are
families,” Margot said sharply. “Even so, this is the twentieth century. We don’t need children working like mules to put food on our tables.”

“You’re exaggerating again, daughter.”

Margot thrust out her chin at him. “You just don’t want to know about these things, Father. So much easier for you—and for me and Frank and all the rest of us—if we don’t have to worry about five-year-old children picking the blueberries we eat for breakfast!”

Dickson’s mouth pinched tight, and Margot let the subject drop. It was one of the arguments she and her father had pursued for years, but now it was personal, and uncomfortable. She felt Frank’s eyes on her, and she touched his thigh with her hand. Despite her assurances that it would all go well enough without his presence, she was glad he was here.