Her Patchwork Family

Well, Robert Baker, does thee want my business?

Finally, he bowed. “Don’t orphanages usually order a large quantity of uniforms—one for boys and one for girls?” The man led her down the aisle.

“I considered that and rejected it. It’s like marking the children as odd, different from other children. Being orphaned is bad enough without being branded. Doesn’t thee think?”

He nodded. “But it is less expensive—”

“Funds from Mrs. Barney’s estate are more than adequate.”

“Follow me, miss. We’ll look at my selection for girls first, if you please.”

She followed him down the neat aisle of folded shirts for men over to the girls’ section. Felicity was relieved to discover that the man was not about to lose her as a customer, just because her children’s home had evidently ruffled a few fancy ostrich feathers in town. With any luck, Felicity would be rewarding the man’s decision by becoming one of his best customers, ordering more children’s clothes than he could possibly keep in stock for the many children she planned to care for.

Felicity’s eyes opened wide. By the scant moonlight, she distinguished the gray outlines of the furniture in her room. What had wakened her? She listened. The house was quiet. Still, something had roused her. She rose and donned her blue-sprigged wrapper and slippers. She slipped down the hall and peeked into the room where a very clean Katy and Donnie should have been sleeping in the high four-poster bed. Except that they were sleeping on the rag rug beside the bed. The forlorn sight wrenched her heart.

She nearly stepped into the room to lift them onto the bed. Then she halted. They would adjust eventually. She would never forget the image of the two of them with tightly shut eyes and agonized expressions sitting in the heaping soap-suds, neck-high tub of water on the back porch. Vista, singing under her breath, had ruthlessly scrubbed them with a soft brush. Such beautiful children.

Felicity turned away to the room across the hall and found the bed where Tucker should have been sleeping—it was empty. Her heart tumbled down. If the boy had run away—a year in jail. She hurried down the stairs and out the front door, looking up and down the dark street. Just turning the corner ahead was Tucker. No! She kicked off her slippers and picked up her skirts and ran.

Within seconds, she was at the corner and around it. The boy didn’t hear her. He was walking, head down and hands in his pockets. She put on speed. Just before she reached him, he turned. She clamped a hand on his shoulder.

“Tucker,” she said, her heart beating wildly, her breath coming fast. “Why are thee out here?”

His expression showed his shock. Before he could say a word, a man came around the corner ahead of them. Felicity’s heart began doing strange antics. It sank to her knees and then leaped into her throat. The fact that she was outside barefoot and in her night clothing hit her like a wet mop in the face. This could spawn gossip for years to come.

The man walked toward them, head down and hands in his pockets just like Tucker. She saw it was the judge. She wished she could become invisible.

“Turn around and start walking normal,” Tucker whispered and did what he’d just told her to do.

Felicity hurried to follow his example. The two of them walked, her hand on the boy’s shoulder. Every moment she expected to hear the judge call for her to stop. And since she couldn’t lie, what possible explanation could she give to explain why they were out in the night?

Tucker and she came to their house at last. When they came to her abandoned slippers, they paused as she slipped her feet into them. Then they walked up the flagstone path and through the front door. Felicity had never been so grateful to hear her door close behind her. Either the judge had not seen them or he had chosen to be merciful again and behave as if he had not seen them. And she must make certain that Tucker’s night wandering ended now.

Tucker tried to go on, but she squeezed his shoulder and led him down the hall to the moonlit kitchen. “Sit down at the table.” When he made no move to obey, she added, “Please.”

The boy sank into the chair. She sat down across from him. He would not meet her gaze. “Tucker…” What could she say? He knew he should be upstairs in bed. So she just sat, letting her tight, serrated worry flow out. She prayed, waiting for the Inner Light to lead her.

“Are we going to sit here all night?” the boy finally snapped.

She stared into his eyes. “That’s up to thee.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” The boy’s tone showed plainly that he didn’t hold her in any respect, probably held no adult in respect. The defiant eyes that returned her gaze told her much more than she wanted to deal with tonight.

It grieved her. “Tucker Stout, I don’t understand what took thee out of thy comfortable bed in a comfortable home—”

“I like being on my own. I don’t like people interfering with me, see?” His brows drew together.

“I must on the whole agree with thee.” Peace began trickling through her, soothing her rasped nerves. “I also like being on my own. And I don’t like interference of any kind either. So we have that in common. What interference are thee expecting from me?”

The boy snorted. “You’ll be telling me to wash my hands and do this and do that and say grace at the table and don’t pick my nose—”

The last forced a chuckle from her. Her good humor surged back. “Does thee do that often?”

Rebellious, Tucker made as if to rise. She pressed a hand over his and said, “Sit, please.”

He stared and then capitulated, scowling.

“May I ask thee a question?” She waited for his permission.

Finally, he realized that she wasn’t going to speak until he granted her the opportunity. “Okay, ask me.”

“If thee runs away and is caught and sent to jail, won’t they tell thee to wash thy hands, and do this and don’t do that?”

He stared at her.

“I would think that Vista and I would be preferable to jail guards.” She folded her hands in front of her on the table and waited. Would he accept this simple truth?

He lifted one shoulder and demanded, “So what do you want me to say, lady?”

“Nothing, really. I will ask for no promise from thee. And I am not going to tie thee to thy bed. Or bolt thy door and window shut. And this is the last time I will come after thee. Thee must decide for thyself which to choose—this home or jail.”

Tucker looked at her as if she were speaking in ancient Greek.

Felicity rose. “I will bid thee good-night. Will thee turn the lock on the back door, please? Thank thee.” She walked up the stairs without a backward glance. Oh, Father above, heal this wounded heart. Only Thee can. I cannot.

In her room again, she took off her robe and slippers and sank onto the side of her bed, still praying. Forcing herself to have faith, she lay down again, trying not to listen for Tucker’s footsteps on the stair. Her final thought was not about Tucker but about Judge Hawkins. What was he doing out well after midnight? And had he seen her with Tucker? And if he had, what would he do?

Chapter Three

After a too-short, two-block walk, Felicity strode up the Hawkins’ front stone pathway. Her every step tightened her anxiety. She mounted the steps. And before she could turn tail, she sounded the brass knocker on the door twice politely. The judge’s troubled eyes had haunted her for several days, etching her heart with sympathy. What beset the judge? Did God have work of mercy for her to do at this home?

Even if the answer had been no, she couldn’t have stayed away. She’d stewed for hours till she’d come up with a reasonable excuse to visit him at his home, where she might glimpse a hint of what tortured his eyes. So here she was with deep apprehension—deep, gnawing apprehension.

While she waited, golden twilight wrapped around her with its heavy humidity. She took out a handkerchief and blotted the perspiration from her face. Why did women have to smother themselves with gloves, high shoes and hats even in summer?

Drawing in the hot, moist air, she resisted the urge to pluck the bonnet from her head and tear off her gloves. She needed all her “armor” to meet Tyrone Hawkins face to face without a courtroom of people looking on. Her hand again tingled with his remembered touch that first day at the wharf…

The door opened, revealing a dainty older woman with silvered blond hair.

Felicity smiled, uneasiness over the unsolicited visit skating up her spine. “Is Tyrone Hawkins at home, please?”

The woman looked her over thoroughly. “Yes, my son is home. Won’t you step in?”

This gave Felicity another jolt. The judge’s mother had answered the door herself? The judge lived on Madison Boulevard in a home nearly as large as the house she had inherited. These types of estates needed staff to maintain. Wondering at this discrepancy, Felicity crossed the threshold. She followed the woman through a long hallway out onto the shaded back porch. “Ty, we have company.”

He was already rising from his wicker chair. “Miss…”

Though her heart was fluttering against her breastbone, she said, “I am Felicity Gabriel.” She offered him her hand, a fresh wave of awareness of his deep sadness flowing through her. “We met yesterday in court?”