“No need to feel sorry for me,” Aggie said. “I learned my lesson. Miss Marchlander taught me not to let people hurt me. I’ll never, never let anyone hurt me again. That’s what I told her, and that’s why she sent me away.”
“Oh, Aggie,” Frances began, and stretched out a hand again.
But Aggie stiffened. “She said I was a waif—somebody no one wants. But someone will want me. I’m going to have a real family. I’m going to live with people who love me and are good to me, until …”
Frances waited a moment, then asked, “Until what?”
Aggie shook her head, murmuring, “Never mind.”
“You’ll make someone a fine daughter,” Frances said, trying to smile reassuringly. Aggie looked as though she had something to tell her. Maybe she could be encouraged to confide her problem later.
In a small voice Aggie said, “I’m not a cute baby. And I’m not pretty like Mary Beth and Nicola. But someone will want me, won’t they?”
“Of course they will,” Frances said firmly, but she unhappily remembered some of the farm wives who only wanted foster daughters strong enough to handle the household chores. Aggie deserved a much better life than that.
Miss Hunter’s voice carried throughout the room. “Bedtime, children. We’ll arise early, because we’ll have to travel to New Jersey to get the train.”
There was a sudden hush, as if each child was afraid to breathe or even think. Frances knew what they were feeling. Tomorrow they’d begin a very different kind of life. Frances had been in their shoes. And Frances remembered.
“Come along now,” Miss Hunter said. “Off to bed with you.”
As the children filed out of the room, Miss Hunter spoke quietly to Frances. “You got along with them nicely. I knew you would, you being a teacher.”
“I know how they feel,” Frances said.
“These poor little foundlings and waifs? Well, as best you can, I suppose.”
Frances didn’t try to explain. She listened politely to Miss Hunter’s advice about how to handle troublemakers, and how to arrange orderly visits to the small necessity in the railway car and to the privies at depot stops, and how to keep the boys from hanging out the train windows or climbing over the other passengers in the railway car.
But Frances’s mind went from child to child. No matter whether there’d been tears or smiles, each of them was facing a difficult journey.
“I’ll be fine, and so will the children,” Frances assured Miss Hunter. She meant what she said with all her heart and tried to push away the doubts that kept repeating, Don’t be so sure. You know as well as you know your own name, Frances Mary Kelly, that on this trip anything can happen.
7
THE PLATFORM AROUND the depot was bustling with travelers and well-wishers; salesmen lugging heavy cases; a few nicely dressed children—two of whom stuck out their tongues at the orphan train riders, then hid behind their mother’s skirts; gentlemen in stiff collars and tall hats; and uniformed policemen who roamed through the crowd, their eyes constantly searching faces. Here and there were a few exsoldiers with shabby clothes, and a few beggars, who disappeared when they saw the policemen approaching.
Miss Hunter and a burly conductor helped Frances and the young orphan train riders squeeze through the crowd.
Caroline clung to Frances’s skirts, burrowing into them as though trying to hide.
“Don’t be frightened, Caroline,” Frances said. She remembered that Caroline was afraid her father would come looking for her. “You’re safe with me.”
But Caroline continued to hide, warily peeping out to scan the faces of the people on the platform.
Frances checked her list. She read each name aloud, and made sure the child climbed the steps and got into the coach car—Caroline first, of course. It was a difficult task. Lizzie Schultz had been fussing too much for Mary Beth Lansdown to hold her, so Frances offered to carry the baby herself. Lizzie’s plump little arms were wrapped tightly around Frances’s neck, and she refused to let go.
Suddenly, to Frances’s surprise, Lizzie was plucked from her arms. A deep voice said, “All the other children seem to be aboard. I’ll help you with this one, ma’am.”
Before Frances could react, a strong hand gripped her elbow. She was firmly and quickly escorted up the steps and into the coach car, where the children had already claimed their places.
Frances turned to the tall, handsome stranger who had helped her. He was probably not much older than she was. His chin and jawline were lighter than the rest of his sun-browned face, so Frances realized that until very recently he must have worn a beard. His eyes were a deep blue, and his curly hair was thick and dark. He was dressed in black and wore a flat, black, broad-brimmed hat pulled low over his forehead.