Chapter 1

1845

Matilda Sheffield POV

It’s been five years since my William died and I miss him more every day. He was a handsome man with curly blonde hair that fell into his eyes. He tried so hard to tame his hair but no matter what he did, it refused to stay in place. One of my most favorite things to do was to tousle his hair as I walked past him. He would pause in his work and glance up at me, his pale blue eyes shining with love.

We had been married just three years when influenza swept through the town. My William was determined to help as many as he could. He didn’t have a medical degree, but he knew a little something about sickness. He was the second oldest of eight children with a widowed mother. His older brother had married and was living in Bartonville with his wife.

At the age of seventeen, he became an orphan when his mother passed away from cholera. He had tried to nurse her back to health, but was not able to do so. Then he watched as each one of his younger siblings became sick and they also died. It was a miracle that he survived.

But the doctor told him that he would have to be careful for the remainder of his life. His body had weakened from the disease and would most likely not be able to fend off even the slightest of colds. But William was determined to prove the doctor wrong. And for several years, he did.

We had dreams of a large family and we had decided to begin trying for our first child. We bought a house. The couple that had previously lived there had decided to move west and sold it to us for a decent price. We spent several months cleaning it up and making minor repairs to the porch, windows, and roof. William also added on a separate room in the back for the wash tub. A bath room, he called it.

But then, he became sick with influenza. He suffered for weeks. I tried every remedy I knew of, plenty of broth, keep him warm, cool his feverish head with a cloth, and I even went so far as to try to coax him into an ice bath. But no matter what I did, I wasn’t able to rid him of the terrible cough and the constant fever that would rise and then lower, but never fully break.

I was exhausted, but I refused to take in help to care for him. He was my husband and I was happy to take care of him. My heart broke each morning when I woke and found him in worse shape than the day before. He lost weight, his skin became pale, and his voice raspy from the coughing and dehydration.

His body was shutting down. I tried to coax broth and water into him, but his body rejected every bit of liquid that went into his stomach. After four weeks of fighting to keep anything down, he begged me to stop forcing broth into him. I cried in his arms knowing that without water or nutrition, I was going to lose him.

The doctor had come by about once a week to check on him. We had tried giving him quinine but it didn’t help. Everything the doctor told me to do, I did. Religiously. If William could have gotten better on faith and his positive attitude, he would have been up and about within a few days. But for all of our efforts, my William slipped from this life into the next five weeks after the cough began.

I was so distraught that I couldn’t bare to part with him, so I decided that I wanted to bury him in my backyard. The coroner and the doctor fought with me over my decision, but in the end, I prevailed. My William now rests along the back fence of my property, under a row of rose bushes. The bushes are still small, but I know that they will grow and provide shade over his resting place.

I swore the coroner and the doctor to secrecy. I didn’t want the townsfolk to think strangely of me. When you live in town, you don’t bury your loved ones in the yard. You take them to the community cemetery. But that isn’t what I wanted. William had no family other than me. No one in town cared for him the way I did. When anyone asked, I told them that he was buried with his family nearby. It is no one’s business where he rests.

So here I sit, pruning the roses in the stillness of the late spring morning. Thinking about my short marriage to William. We were together such a short time, but in that time, we lived a lifetime of memories. He encouraged me to remarry and I told him that I would consider it. But truth be told, I have no desire to find another. No one would ever measure up to the standard that was William Sheffield.

So many things have happened in the five short years since his passing. I decided that I wanted children but knew that I would never have a child out of wedlock. So, I purchased the property next door. It was a spacious home, built in a similar fashion as my home. With two stories and a cellar, it boasted six bedrooms, a kitchen, dining room, and sitting room. It took quite a bit of work to change it up to make it what I envisioned.

We had changed the sitting room into a play room of sorts. A place for children to read, play games, practice their sums and letters and to just be children. I removed all of the fancy furnishings and replaced them with sturdy, comfortable items. Items that would hold up under the abuse that comes from having children around.

In the upstairs bedrooms, we placed four small beds in three of the bedrooms and the other room held one bed. This would be for the help I would have to hire once all of the children arrived. The two bedrooms downstairs were larger and we were able to place three beds per room. Knowing that we would have a mix of boys and girls, I decided to have the boys sleep downstairs and the girls would be upstairs.

My brother, George Knight, helped with all of the renovations. George is three years older than me and has not found a lady to call his own. I have tried to encourage him to marry, but each time he shrugs his shoulders and tells me that when the time is right, he will find her. He reminds me that patience is a virtue and that the good Lord will produce a wife of Godly character in the Lord’s time, not ours.

Every time he says that, I just shake my head and smile. George is a successful contractor and has helped to build many of the shops, hotels, and other businesses in town. Which made him the perfect person to ask about how to go about turning two houses into an orphanage. My goal was to keep the younger girls and the boys at the second house, with a full-time caretaker. The older girls would stay with me, in my home. This would cease the town gossips from wagging their tongues.

They didn’t feel it was appropriate to have an orphanage for boys and girls. If they had their way, the young orphan boys would be left out on the street. But I didn’t think that was the right thing to do. After all, the scriptures do not tell us to only care for the girl orphans. It instructs us to care for all orphans. And to me, that includes the boys.

But as I said, it took quite a bit of time to complete the renovations. I wanted everything in place before I began to take on any children. I was fortunate that William had left me with quite a sum of money. And one of his good friends, Josiah, was a banker. Josiah was good at investments and helped me to invest a good portion on my finances. The money made from the investments would hopefully be enough to sustain us.

I was brought of my musings when Mary, my full-time caretaker, called out to me that the children would be coming out to play soon. I looked up and waved at her, letting her know that I understood. Mary was a sweet young lady. She was an orphan herself and knew the horrors of many orphanages across the country. She had expressed an interest last year when I posted the advertisement. I was impressed by her attitude and decided to hire her immediately. She was determined to offer our orphans the love that she was never shown as a child.

And so it was, when the houses were ready, the furnishings in place, the pantries stocked with supplies, and with Mary by my side; we opened the St. Louis Orphanage for Lost Souls. It has been two years that we have been open to take in children and I have enjoyed every minute of it. We have children of all ages; two boys in their teens, three young ladies in their teens, and about a dozen little children all below the age of eight. The older children go across town to school during the day, while Mary and I teach the younger children to play and have fun.

“Mama Sheffield!”

I turn to the sound of one of the little boys running to me. I opened my arms and he jumped into my lap. Charlie is four and lost his parents in a tornado six months ago. They were living in Texas and he had no family. The local authorities contacted me about sending him to me and I immediately agreed.

“What are you doing, Charlie? Did you have a good night’s rest?” I asked him.

“Yes!” he squealed and raised his hands in the air in excitement.

“Is it time to play?” I asked.

“Yes. You gonna come pway with us, Mama Sheffield?” he asked in his soft little voice. I chuckled at his voice. All of the little ones called me Mama and I loved it.

“Pl…pl…pl..” I formed the sounds for him. “Can you say this? Pl.”

“Pl,” he repeated.

“Good. Now put it together. Play.”

“Pl…pway.” He giggled at me.

“Better. We’ll keep working on it,” I chuckled at him, ruffling his unruly, wavy, blonde hair. So much like Willliam’s hair.

I helped Charlie to stand and we walked hand in hand back to the group. It was playtime. And I never missed playtime. We circled the children together, each one holding hands. Their favorite game was ‘Ring around the Rosie’. They equally enjoyed playing ‘Blind Man’s Bluff’. As the children sang and giggled, I smiled to myself and sent a silent prayer to heaven to my William for encouraging me to fulfill my dream. This was my calling, to love on the lost and lonely children of the world.

The days are busy. We spend most of the day either taking care of the children or taking care of both houses. Mary and I try to spend a little bit of time together at the end of each day to discuss the good and the bad. It helped us to both stay abreast of any concerns or problems that may be festering. Most days, we would sit in the parlor with a cup of tea and relax. But other days, we would have to determine how to solve a problem. Today was one of those days.

“Tell me what happened, Mary,” I coaxed.

“The older children arrived home from school, as usual. But I noticed that Julian was in a sour mood. I approached him and asked what was going on. He shrugged and told me that nothing happened. I let it go but then noticed that one of Susan’s hair bows was missing.

“When I asked what happened, she told me that another boy at school had pulled her hair and her bow fell out. Then she told me that Julian pushed the boy and the teacher saw it. Julian was punished but the boy who pulled her hair was not.”

“Hmmm. And did you ask Julian about it?” I asked.

“Yes. He just shrugged and said that just because Susan is an orphan doesn’t mean she can be bullied. Then he said that the other boy is always saying things that are mean or picking on the girls,” Mary explained, sighing in frustration.

“I witnessed the bullying first hand myself, when I was growing up in the orphanage in Philadelphia. One person decides they are better than the others and before you know it, you’re getting picked on, beat up, and no one does anything. Why are the weak always picked on?” she cried.

“I’ll take care of it tomorrow. Do not say anything to the children. Do you know who the other boy is?” I asked, taking a sip of my tea.

She nodded. “I don’t think you will get anywhere. It’s the mayor’s son, Sylvestre.”

“Yes. That will probably make a difference. But I will go and talk to the headmaster first and then I will ask to speak with the mayor as well.” As I spoke, there was a knock at the door.

I rose from my seat and walked to the door. I was surprised to find the mayor, Mr. Bernard Pratte, standing at the door. A young man of about ten was standing with him.

Mr. Pratte removed his had and said, “Mrs. Beecham, I apologize for the late hour. I was just apprized of an incident that happened in school today. May we come in?”

“Yes. Of course.” I ushered them into the parlor and introduced them to Mary.

Once everyone was seated, Mr. Pratte began, “I had a busy day going over plans with the city engineer to construct a hospital and did not return home until late. Upon arriving home, I noticed that my son, Sylvestre, had a black eye. When I inquired as to what occurred, he informed me that one of your boys beat him up.”

I began to come to the defense of Julian, but Mr. Pratte cut me off, saying, “Obviously, I was concerned. But I have never known any of your charges to be disrespectful. In fact, I have seen how well-behaved Julian is during church functions. I also know my son. I have witnessed a change in him since I took on my role as mayor.

“Suffice it to say, after a trip to the woodshed, Sylvestre confessed to picking on Susan. He also confessed that Julian did strike him but it was in Miss Susan’s defense.”

“Thank you for seeking the truth, Mr. Pratte,” I replied, wondering what he would say next.

“Again, I apologize for the late hour, but I wondered if it might be possible for Sylvestre to apologize to both Susan and Julian. I was told that Julian received five lashes for his actions toward my son. And he should not have received any.”

“Unfortunately, it is quite late and the children are already in bed. While I appreciate the gesture, would it be possible to have Sylvestre apologize tomorrow? Perhaps, in the schoolroom? This way, he can also apologize to the school master. If this is possible, then I would like to be in attendance when it occurs. While it will not take away the punishment that Julian falsely endured, it might cause young Sylvestre to think twice before he acts like a bully and then allows another to take the blame for his actions.”

“Agreed.”

“But Pa!” Sylvestre whined.

“Silence, boy! You have caused enough trouble. Just because I am the mayor does not give you cause to be rude. Your Ma and I are not raising you to be a bully. My time as mayor is a service to the community and I will not take advantage of my role. And I will most certainly not allow my child to do so.”

I had approved of Mr. Pratte when he was elected into his position and so far, he has proved to be a good man. He has not had an easy time of it. Last summer, when the river flood and a large portion of the city was flooded, he managed to keep the peace and worked hard to find a solution to the housing and food shortage that occurred as a result. Recently, I had heard talk of his desire to build a hospital that would accommodate a large number of patients at one time. And now, watching as he steered his son back to the path of right living, I found peace knowing this man was in charge of our city.

He looked at me and smiled, saying, “Let’s meet at the school at eleven o’clock in the morning. This way, following Sylvestre’s apology, the children might be dismissed for lunch. I do believe this will cause a slight bit of upheaval. Will that time be convenient for you, Mrs. Sheffield?”

“Yes. I believe that will be best. Thank you for coming by and visiting with us. Mary and I were, in fact, just talking about this very thing before you arrived. I hope, Sylvestre,” I looked at the young man seated before me, “that you will remember this as you continue to grow into manhood. Our Lord instructs us to care for the orphans, not to hurt them more than they already are. In fact,…”

I paused, wondering what the mayor would think of my next words. I looked up at mayor and smiled. Would he be open to the idea? It would give Sylvestre an opportunity to understand that not everyone lives the same. That there are people, adults and children alike, who have no one in the world. I decided that I would at least offer the idea and see what it brought.

“What if, young Sylvestre, were required, as part of his penance, to help here at the orphanage for say, three weekends? He will come every Saturday and help with the children, help me with the care of the property, but most importantly, get to know the children and learn about them.”

I waited patiently as the mayor pondered my idea. I watched as Sylvestre’s eyes darted between me and his father. He was fearful that his father would force him to do this. That he would be made to spend time with the children who had been ridiculing.

I didn’t have to wait long before the mayor said, “I think it’s a splendid idea. It’s not much difference to serving the community as I am. I have taken on this role to learn about our city and to bring about the changes that will benefit the people. Yes. It is a wonderful idea. In fact, I propose an amendment to your timeline. Let’s agree that Sylvestre will come each Saturday, until further notice. Upon such time as you and I both agree that he has learned how to properly care for the orphans.”

I nodded in agreement. Poor Sylvestre was mortified. He was shocked that his father had prolonged his sentence indefinitely. It was actually quite ingenious. The boy would have to prove to not only his father but to me that he had truly learned his lesson. The pair left and Mary and I chatted well into the night about how we could aid the lad in learning kindness, humility, and gentleness.

The next day I made my way to the school house to meet with Mr. Pratte. I arrived at the same time as he did and we both entered the school house together. The school house contained two rooms. The smaller room housed the younger children, aged six through ten. Those children were taught by a young woman who had recently moved to the area. She was kind and gentle with the children and each of my wards who attended her classes, adored her.

The larger room was for the older children, aged eleven through sixteen. Many of the children in this class were from affluent families, but the classes were available to all who wanted to learn. These young ladies and gentlemen were taught by the headmaster, Mr. Pierce. He was a kind man outside of the classroom. However, inside the classroom, he was a strict disciplinarian. He expected nothing but the best from his pupils. He felt that it was his job to work alongside the parents of his students to assist in shaping them to be solid, well-rounded citizens.

As we entered the classroom, all eyes were on us. The mayor spoke, “I apologize for the interruption, headmaster. But Mrs. Sheffield and I have come to ensure that a wrong has been made right. If you will indulge us for just a few moments?”

Headmaster Pierce rose from the chair behind his desk and said, “Most certainly. Please, join us.”

He gestured for us to move to the front of the classroom. I stood off to one side, my eyes on both Julian and Sylvestre. Julian’s head was slanted as if contemplating why on earth I was earth with the mayor. Sylvestre, on the other hand, had slouched in his seat and refused to look at his father. His face held a look of mortification and disbelief that his father had followed through on his promise to see the situation corrected.

Mayor Pratte began, “Mrs. Sheffield and I were made aware of a situation that occurred yesterday. After digging into the situation, I gained some evidence that you, unfortunately, were not aware of Mr. Pierce.”

The mayor looked at Sylvestre and said, “Sylvestre, come to the front of the classroom.”

His tone, left no room for argument and the boy slowly made his way to the front of the classroom, knowing that his punishment was near. When he was standing by his father’s side, Sylvestre looked up at him, his eyes pleading for mercy. Finding none, a lone tear fell from his eye. I wanted to feel sorry for the lad, but I stand by the knowledge that this was the only way he would learn humility.

His father gave him a stern look, his patience beginning to wear thin. Sylvestre nodded in defeat and turned to the headmaster. “Yesterday, I lied about what happened,” he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion.

“Speak up. The entire classroom needs to hear what you have to say,” his father demanded.

The headmaster had heard his words and his eyes held instant remorse. He hadn’t heard the whole story, but it was enough to know that he had punished the wrong boy yesterday. His only words were, “Explain.”

It was a few painful moments as Sylvestre recounted the events that had led up to the fight between himself and Julian. After he finished his tale, he turned to Susan and said, “I’m very sorry that I pulled your braids. I promise not to do that again.”

Susan stood to her feet, and looked him in the eye and said, “I accept your apology, but do not think that I will forget. And do not assume that this makes us friends.”

Then she sat down. I was proud of her. I had not coached her on what to say. In fact, neither she nor Julian knew that I had met with Mr. Pratt or that we would be here today. Susan showed him grace but also set boundaries for the future. He would do well to head her words.

I watched as Sylvestre took a deep breath and looked at Julian. Julian was glaring at him, his eyes full of condemnation. I feared that it would take more than a verbal apology for Julian to let this go. After all, he took a lashing for something he didn’t do.

“Julian, I owe the biggest apology to you. My lie got you into trouble and you took a lashing for something that you didn’t do,” Sylvestre said, then chuckled briefly. “Well, you did punch me, but that was after I punched you for shoving me.”

His father cleared his throat. Sylvestre looked his father and then back at Julian. “Anyway, I shouldn’t have lied about what happened. I hope that you can forgive me. I am truly sorry.”

Julian looked at me, his eyes pleading with me. I could see the conflict in them, he didn’t want to accept the apology, but he knew that he should. I didn’t offer him any counsel other than a small smile that I hoped relayed my faith in him. He nodded slightly, then rose to his feet.

“Sylvestre, this is not the first time that you have picked on the girls. I have watched silently in the past. But yesterday, I could no longer do so. You see, Susan is a friend and I cannot allow someone to hurt my friends. I accept your apology because that is the right thing to do. But your actions going forward will determine whether that forgiveness is warranted or not.”

Julian’s words were strong and clear. He took another breath and said, “I promise you this. If you EVER pick on one of the girls again, I will thrash you so badly, you will have more than a black eye.”

I gasped at his words. I had not taught him that. But I also knew a little bit of Julian’s history. Prior to coming to the orphanage, his father had been abusive to his wife, Julian’s mother, for years. Julian understood that what his father had done wasn’t right and he was determined to be different. While I was shocked by his words, I also understood them.

“Now, Julian, I don’t think that was necessary,” the headmaster spoke up.

“Actually,” Mayor Pratt interrupted, “I think it was appropriate. Son, you have one more apology. Let’s hear it.”

“Yes, sir,” came the reply.

“Headmaster, I caused disruption to yesterday’s lessons. My lie also caused another to receive a lashing that he didn’t deserve. This put you in a bad position and I apology for disrespecting your authority in this classroom.”

Although it was difficult to watch, I was proud of young Sylvestre. His demeanor showed that he was truly apologetic. Time would only tell if it truly had made an impact on his attitude.

The mayor then explained that as further punishment, Sylvestre would be volunteering his time on weekends at the orphanage, so that he might better understand the plight of others. The headmaster agreed that it was a fair punishment, but added that because he had disrespected the classroom, Sylvestre would also have to stay after class to assist in tidying the school house. The mayor and I left the classroom, both satisfied with how the meeting had gone.

I had just arrived home from the meeting at the school and I stepped up onto my porch when I heard a baby crying. I turned to the right side of the porch to find a little girl with big blue eyes and long blonde hair crying. She was holding onto a black blanket as she frantically looked around.

“Mama! Mama!” she cried; her voice almost hoarse.

The poor thing must have been sitting here for quite some time. I made my way to her and sat down on my knees in front of her. As I reached for her, she continued to cry for her mother, but she allowed me to bring her to me. As I lifted her into my lap, a note fell onto the porch. I opened the note and read its contents:

Please take care of my Charlotte. She is special. Keep her safe.