The Law and Miss Mary

Mary gasped. “Why, the boy’s half-starved!” She glanced up at Samuel Benton. “He is hungry, Captain. Surely you will not arrest him?”

The captain’s blue eyes darkened. “That is my job, Miss Randolph. He broke the law. The reason does not matter.” He reached for the boy.

Mary stepped between them. “It matters to me, Captain.” She stared up at him, at his darkened eyes, his set jaw and drew herself to her full height. “But I can see there is no room in your St. Louis law for mercy.” She pivoted to face the vendor. “Unhand the boy, sir. I will pay for his roll.”

Hope leaped into the boy’s eyes. But the man in the apron let out a growl, tightened his grip on the boy’s skinny shoulders and looked over her head. “You do yer job an’ throw ’im in jail, Captain. There’s too many of the rapscallions roamin’ the streets an’ stealin’ from hardworkin’, decent people now. Y’ let this ’un go, an’ the rest of ’em’ll be swarmin’ around our stores like bees o’er clover.”

“There is no theft if Miss Randolph pays for the roll, Simpson.” Samuel Benton’s deep voice rolled over her shoulder. “Release the boy.”

“Wait!” Mary winced inwardly as the hope faded from the boy’s eyes, but he was going to run the moment he was free, she could see it on his face. And she saw something else written there, as well. Shame. And defiance. She fastened her gaze on him. “I need someone to carry my purchases home, and I thought perhaps you would do that for me, young man. In exchange for your services, I will buy you a thick slab of cheese to go with that roll. Is that agreeable to you?”

Pride replaced the shame. The defiance gave way to caution. The boy drew himself up straight and nodded.

“Very well.” She handed the man behind the boy a coin. “You may release him now.”

The man scowled, lifted his hands from the boy’s shoulders and walked away, grumbling beneath his breath.

The boy stayed.

Mary let out a breath of relief and turned to Samuel Benton. “Thank you for your help, Captain. But I no longer require your aid.” She did not bother to hide her disgust at his treatment of the boy. “If you will please give this young man my basket and tell me where the grocer is located, we shall be on our way.”

He stared down at her for a moment, then dipped his head. “As you wish, Miss Randolph.” He handed the basket to the boy, then returned his gaze to her and made a slight bow. “Good day, Miss Randolph. You have no need of my direction. The boy knows the location of the store. Mr. Simpson is the grocer.” He turned and walked away.

Mary watched his lean, broad-shouldered figure disappear into a nearby store, chiding herself for the disappointment weighting her stomach. What did it matter what sort of man Samuel Benton was? The captain was nothing to her.

Chapter Four

Mary looked down at the young boy clutching her basket and smiled. “And thus, we are left on our own. Where is Mr. Simpson’s store—” She shook her head and gave a little laugh. “I cannot keep calling you ‘young man.’ What is your name?”

The boy stiffened, his nostrils pinched slightly, his eyes narrowed and his mouth firmed as he stared up at her. Had she looked that wary when Captain Benton questioned her? No wonder he knew her answer was an evasion. She kept silent as the boy studied her. After a few moments, he relaxed a little, gave a small shrug. “Name’s Ben.” He pointed a bony finger down the street. “Yonder is the grocer’s.” He lowered his hand and gripped the basket handle. Probably to hide his trembling.

Mary started walking, letting out a quiet sigh of relief when Ben fell into step beside her. He had looked poised to run, and if he decided to do so, she could not stop him. Her lips twitched at the idea of her raising her long skirts and darting among the shoppers on the walkway chasing after the boy.

A puff of wind swirled up from the river, lifting a sour odor from Ben. She held her breath, waiting for the gust to cease, and glanced down. Tears filmed her eyes at the close sight of Ben’s grimy skin, the clumps of dirt and straw in his matted hair, his dirty and torn clothes. She guessed him to be nine, perhaps ten years old. So young. And so horribly thin. Had he no one to care for him?

Thoughts of the homeless children brought to her aunt Laina’s orphanage in Philadelphia crowded into her head. The tears in her eyes threatened to overflow. Was Ben an orphan? She blinked the tears back, released her breath and focused on the situation. Ben needed help, not pity. And she needed information. It was possible he had parents—though his unkempt, half-starved condition made it seem unlikely.

She stole another look at the silent boy. He was so easily frightened, so ready to run. How should she start? I always mask my questions with friendly conversation. Of course! How many times had she heard her aunt Laina say that? Mary smiled, looked down. “I like the name Benjamin.” She made her tone of voice light, friendly. “Is it a family name? Perhaps your father’s?”

No answer.

She tilted her head to get a better view of the boy’s face. His lips were pressed together and he was blinking rapidly. Her heart seized. “Ben—”

“This is the store.” He shot across the walkway, stopped by a store’s open door and looked back at her.

“Go away, you ragamuffin!” A woman loomed out of the darkness of the store, pausing in the doorway. “Urchins like you are not welcome around decent people! Go away, I say!” She made shooing motions with her hands, then drew her long skirts close so they wouldn’t touch Ben before she started out of the store.

Ben cringed away from the entrance.

If that woman makes Ben run… Mary rushed forward, placed her hand on Ben’s shoulder and pulled him to her side. She could feel his bones through his shirt. And his shaking. She straightened to her full height and gave the shorter woman her haughtiest look. “Ben is with me, madam. And he is very welcome.” She ignored the older woman’s gasp and, holding tight to Ben, brushed by her into the store.

The interior was cool and dark. Mary halted to allow her eyes to adjust to the loss of sunlight and to get her bearings. Silence fell. She swept her gaze around the room, met varying degrees of shock or disgust on the faces of the store’s patrons and lifted her chin. “Come along, Ben.” The click of the heels of her shoes against the wide plank floor echoed through the hush as they crossed the room. She stopped in front of the grocer cutting meat on a chopping block at the far end of a long counter in front of the back wall.

“Good day, Mr. Simpson.” She gave him a cool nod. Gave another to the waiting customer who had backed away at their approach.

A scowl drew the grocer’s thick, black brows together. “Get that thief outta here. I don’t—”

“Ben is here to carry my purchases, Mr. Simpson.” There were startled gasps behind her. The grocer’s scowl deepened. She ignored a flurry of whispers and stared straight into the man’s angry eyes. “And I am here to open an account. My brother and I are new in town and must establish our trade somewhere.” She watched his scowl dissolve to the level of a frown. “My brother is the new manager of the Mississippi and Missouri steamer line. Of course, if you would prefer we take our custom elsewhere…” She turned away.

“No need fer that. My wife’ll serve ya.”

The words were low, reluctant. Mary turned back. The grocer inclined his head at a stout woman behind the middle of the counter and went back to his work.

Mary headed toward the woman, another spate of whispers accompanying her as customers moved out of her path. She didn’t have to urge Ben to come with her, he matched her step for step, his head bowed, his gaze darting about the room like a trapped animal.

“Come again, Mrs. Turner.”

Mrs. Simpson’s customer glanced at Ben, snatched up her parcel and rushed away. Mary stepped forward. “I should like to open an account, please.”

“Of course.” Mrs. Simpson smiled at Ben, looked back to give her a welcoming smile. “And the name?” She dipped her pen and poised it over a book.

Mary stared, taken aback by the cheerful attitude. She returned the woman’s friendly smile and let the hauteur slide from her voice. “James Randolph.” She placed the list Ivy had given her on the counter. “These are the items I need today. And also—” she took her basket from Ben, placed it beside the list and indicated the crushed bun in the bottom “—this bun and a thick slab of cheese.” She glanced down, caught Ben eyeing a large barrel, and looked up. “And two pickles from your brine barrel.”

Mrs. Simpson nodded, turned and began selecting the items on the list from the shelves on the wall. Mary took the opportunity to look around the store. She caught the customers staring at her and Ben and gave them each a sweet smile. There was a sudden bustle of activity as they returned to their business.

“Will there be anything more, Miss Randolph?”

Mary turned, looked down at the filled basket and shook her head. “Not today, Mrs. Simpson.”

The woman glanced toward her husband—who was wrapping a cut of beef in paper—then looked down at Ben, slipped her hand into a crock to pull out a piece of taffy. “I heard you tell Mr. Simpson that you and your brother are new in town, Miss Randolph. Welcome to St. Louis.” She dropped the piece of candy beside the roll and the piece of cheese and slid the basket across the counter. “I look forward to serving you again.”

“And so you shall, Mrs. Simpson. Thank you for the welcome, and for…everything.” Mary smiled, met the woman’s gaze in silent understanding, then handed the basket to Ben and headed for the door.

Sam turned the key in the lock, pulled the door open and stepped back. So did the man beside him.

“C’mon, Captain. It was only a little scrap.”

Sam shook his head. “You pulled a knife, Hogan.” He jabbed his thumb through the air in the direction of the cell.

“Yeah, but—”

“No buts. You know the rules here in St. Louis. You pull a weapon during a fight, you go to jail.” Sam placed his hand on the laborer’s beefy shoulder and applied enough pressure to move the man into the cell. He swung the door shut and shoved the key into the lock.

Hogan grabbed the bars. “C’mon, Captain. My boat leaves tonight. I gotta get to the levee and load cargo or Captain Rolls’ll have my job.”

“You should have thought of that before you pulled that knife.” Sam turned the key, yanked it from the lock and started for the outer room.

“How about we make a deal?”