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  her coat and stepped out into the cold foggy night, doubting her own good sense.

  Muttering to herself, she hurried down one street after another, inquiring of her acquaintances if anyone knew Mrs. Peach.

  There's no one of that name that I heard of," was the most common response. Not until she was ready to give up did one woman say she knew of a Mrs. Peach. Mrs. Pettibone received the information gratefully, along with the cup of hot tea offered to warm her. Once more on her way, she went directly to the address she was given.

  The house was charming; through its well-lit windows Mrs. Pettibone could see guests inside. She was certain she had been given the wrong address, but she quelled her doubts and knocked at the door.

  Mrs. Peach came to the door herself. She stood haughtily in the entry, looking down at Mrs. Pettibone on the stoop. 'This is the Peach residence. There is no one here by the name of Dawson. Perhaps you should check your address more carefully before vou come 'round bothering decent people next time." The door closed firmly in Mrs. Pettibone's embarrassed face.

  Mrs. Pettibone hurried away, then stopped confused and nonplussed at the street corner. A memory sparked and kindled. "Why! The insolent old tart," she breathed. The woman who had claimed not to know Callie stood in her doorway arrogantly tapping a distinctive ebony cane—just like the cane that had so impressed Callie. It was enough to send the landlady straight to the police station.

  Mrs. Peach was certain she had humiliated Mrs. Pettibone sufficiently to send her home red-faced, but she was never one to take chances. She marched to the back rooms of her house, clearing them of the girls

  and their men. She didn't believe in excessive greed, and what she might lose in one night's trade would be more than made up on other nights—provided she maintained her daytime image of a respectable old woman, and her nighttime image of a madam respectful of the privacy and pleasure of her clients. She closed the house promptly, paying no attention to the remarks of the disgruntled gentlemen being sent to their homes earlier and less satisfied than usual.

  She then sent for the men who transported girls to other locations for her. That very night Callie would be taken to another city. It was not an unusual procedure. Most of the girls with Mrs. Peach had come from somewhere else; otherwise it was too easy for a girl to get help from home, or for parents to cause trouble. So white slavers cooperated and all benefited by sending girls across the country and sometimes out of it. Mrs. Peach daily expected a Malaysian girl, a long-awaited prize. Patiently she sat down to w r ait for the coach that would remove the problem of Callie Dawson.

  Callie remained locked in the little room that had looked so welcoming when she had first arrived. In the beginning she was hurt that Mrs. Peach hadn't trusted her to stay in her room and had locked the door. As the hours passed and the sounds of girlish laughter mixed with that of men, Callie began to understand. She knew little of white slavery other than what she had read secretly in the newspapers. She collected her few scraps of knowledge, putting them together in a horrifying reality. She tried to open the door, using what she could find in the room as a substitute key. Nothing worked.

  She tried something simpler. She knocked lightly on the door. It was opened to her. Shyly, she said she had

  to tend to herself. A nodded assent, and Callie walked magnificently free toward the back staircase on the outside of the house. At the top of the staircase, Callie looked tentatively at the dark stairs, then back at the man standing guard near her room. She gathered up her long nightgown and ran, leaping downward into the darkness. The wooden steps were cold and clammy against her bare feet; the damp winter wind billowed inside the thin fabric of her nightgown.

  "Where you think ye're goin', girlie?"

  Callie stifled a frightened scream. At the bottom of the stairs stood a tall, burly man dressed as a footman. His big hand caressed her shoulder before he gripped her arm like a vise.

  "Out back," Callie stammered.

  "Mrs. P. makin' her girls go out back in the dead o' winter? Not likely, girlie. What I oughter do is let her think ya ran, an' keep ya fer myself. That's what I oughter do."

  "Let me go. . . . Please, I'll only go 'round back. I ... I promise."

  He laughed. In a quick move he ducked down and grabbed her behind her knees, his shoulder jolting into her stomach as he carried her back upstairs like a bundle of potatoes.

  In the upper hall he punched the man Callie had fooled into letting her free. "Ya damned fool, she nearly bolted. Hadn't been fer me, Mrs. P'd have your arse. Go get her. She'll see to this baggage."

  "Don't tell her. Please, I won't try . . ."

  He threw her onto the bed and leaned over her, his broad, pockmarked face thrust into hers. "Here's where you belongs, girlie—on the mattresses. Fergit it, an' next time I'll not be worryin' how fast I gits you up here."

  Callie turned her head from him. He grasped her

  face, spittle glistening on his lips as he pressed his mouth against hers, forcing his tongue between her teeth. The man fumbled with the placket of his trousers. His exposed flesh burned hot against her thigh. Under his groping hands Callie squirmed, kicking and clawing at him.

  A sharp crack sounded. The man bellowed in quick pain and rage, arching against Callie. He rolled over her across the bed, gaining his feet. His face was red and contorted, his hands clenched and ready to attack. His trousers sagged ludicrously around his hips.

  Mrs. Peach stood steely-eyed and unintimidated, staring him into docility.

  Callie jumped from the bed, seeking safety -anywhere. "Mrs. Peach! He tried . . ."

  The cane whistled through the air and came down on the girl's shoulder. She screamed, her arms raised to protect her face and head. "Obedience, you little bitch! Defy Mrs. Peach! My girls are obedient!" She struck Callie's back and buttocks repeatedly with the ebony cane. Callie backed away, crying and stumbling, trying to put the chair between herself and her tormentor. The cane came down on her upper arm.

  "Stop! Please! It hurts me!"

  "Obedience! All my girls are obedient!"

  "Don't! Please!" Callie screamed, tears choking her.

  Twice more the cane whistled and struck, once on her back, once on her head. Then Mrs. Peach straightened her dress and hair and walked out of the room, taking the footman with her.

  Callie huddled where she stood, stifling sobs, afraid to make a sound. She hurt And there was no escape. This was to be her new life.

  She had no idea how long she had been lying on the bed crying when she heard the next disturbance. Callie tensed, pressing herself against the headboard.

  Then the whole house fell silent. When she heard footsteps coming down the hall, she panicked, unable to think what to do. Her mind was filled with the vision of the cane coming furiously and painfully down on her again. She scuttled under the bed. Mrs. Peach entered, accompanied by the footman.

  "Where is she?" he asked. "She couldn't have gotten out again."

  With knowledge born of long experience, Mrs. Peach walked directly to the bed. She lifted the coverlet and probed with the black cane. No matter how Callie squirmed and backed away from it, the black stick found her, poking and prodding and hurting.

  "Leave her where she is. We know where to find her." Once more the door closed and Callie heard the lock click into place.

  An hour later the door to her room opened again. This time there was no conversation, and no nonsense. Two men she had never seen before accompanied the footman and Mrs. Peach. Without a preliminary word they lifted the entire bed from over her. One man reached down and jerked her to her feet.

  "Get dressed," Mrs. Peach ordered.

  Callie ran to the cupboard. She grabbed the first dress her hand touched and clutched it to her. Fearfully she looked from the three men to Mrs. Peach.

  Mrs. Peach smirked. "You'll get used to the likes of them oglin' you. Get on with it."

  Callie stood rooted, the dress pressed harder against her. She shook her head woodenly.<
br />
  Mrs. Peach raised her cane. "You'll do as I say!"

  "I can't ... make them leave . . . please."

  Mrs. Peach struck the cane flat against the table top, making Callie jump and gasp in fright. "Off with that gown, girlie. You're wastin time and my patience. We haven't all night."

  Callie began to whimper. Her hands shook so violently she fumbled with the gown.

  Mrs. Peach poked roughly at her with the cane. Shaking and crying, Callie managed to pull the nightgown over her head. Mrs. Peach grabbed for the gown, but Callie hung on to it. "Oh, no . . . please . . . please. Make them turn around."

  With a deft stroke of the cane, Mrs. Peach tore the gown from Callie's grasp. "Well, now, that wasn't so bad, was it? It's time you started growing up, dearie. If it weren't for men takin' their pleasures, what place would a woman have? You're past old enough to know that-Shamed, Callie tried to hide herself from their leering eyes. She quickly reached for her underthings. Involuntarily her eyes caught repeated glimpses of the lustful faces of Mrs. Peach's hired men. She crouched over, her back to the wall as she fumbled awkwardly, trying to get her feet into the waistline of her petticoat.

  "Stand up straight! Be proud of what . . " Mrs. Peach stiffened, her head and back rigid as she listened.

  The doorbell jangled through the house, followed by the shrill voices of the girls. Callie hastily put on her petticoat, not bothering with ties or buttons. She dragged her dress over her head.

  Warily Mrs. Peach looked at her men. "It's too soon for the coach to take the girl. Keep her quiet while I see what it is. If it's trouble, take her out the back way. Hide her, and be certain she doesn't make a sound."

  Callie stood mummified, afraid of drawing the attention of the three distracted men if she made a sound. One of the men was looking out the front window. Another leaned out the door trying to hear what

  was going on downstairs. Then Callie heard the unmistakable, strident voice of Mrs. Pettibone in an indignant rage.

  "Well just see about this, Mrs. Peach! I've the police with me now, so none of your hoity-toity nonsense this time. Callie! Callie Dawson! Can you hear me? Are you here, child? Callie?*

  Callie's captors needed no more. "Get the girl!"

  Callie screamed Mrs. Pettibone's name, then ran. With the frightened eyes of a deer at bay, the girl put the table between herself and the men. She screamed wildly as the footman came for her from one side and another man stalked her from the opposite side. The oil lamp wavered and smoked dangerously as she grabbed it, holding it aloft. She thrust it first at one man, then the other. "Dont come near me! No!" Her voice was shrill and hysterical. "Stay away! Mrs. Pettibone! Help me!" She threw the lamp, missing the footman by several feet. The oil spilled across the floor, and gold and blue flames ran rapidly along its trail. Overturning the table, she ran for the door. One of the men pushed past her, fleeing as the noise downstairs became more angry and insistent. The footman lunged to put out the fire. The third man grabbed Callie by the hair, his large dirty hand closing over her mouth.

  Everything became a scattered blur of panic-filled impressions as policemen raced up the stairs. Callie was flung to the floor as the white slavers thundered toward the outside stairway, and Mrs. Peach and Mrs. Pettibone and the girls alternately screamed in fright or rage. Callie crawled along the floor, seeking the shelter of the bed again.

  Mrs. Pettibone was the last to make her way up the stairs to Callies room. Callie, huddled beneath the

  bed, repeated hopelessly, Tm here. Tm here. Don't leave me, please don't leave me."

  When Mrs. Pettibone's sturdy shoes appeared at the edge of the bed, Callie began to cry harder. Mrs. Pet-tibone called to her, and still the girl did not come out. Straining, the landlady went down on her hands and knees and peered under the bed skirt "Lord, child, what's come of you? They didn't . . "

  "Yes! Yes! He . . . he . . . touched me . . . Mrs. Pettibone . . . help me!"

  Mrs. Pettibone's first instinct was to get Callie home, into warm clothes and filled with hot tea and broth. Then she would try to make some sense of the girl's ravings. God forbid the girl had been violated. Most likely the Bereans would turn her out in the cold without a hearing if that were the case. Not a decent family in England would want her for anything but a menial. There would be no future for her.

  It took far more than Mrs. Pettibone had planned to calm Callie, and she got no rational response from her. At her wit's end, Mrs. Pettibone called for the doctor. Finally a draught from him and several nights' sleep began to restore Callie.

  It was a week before Callie awakened without having had a nightmare tear her from sleep. Mrs. Pettibone approached her warily, not trusting this first calm morning. Callie ate a light breakfast, then fell back against the pillows wan and shaken. "Are you feeling better, Callie?" she asked.

  Callie nodded.

  "Well, I've some news for you if you've a mind to listen."

  Callie looked at her, fear showing plainly in her blue eyes.

  "Tosh, girl. All news is not bad! This is good." Mrs. Pettibone told Callie of the letter she had written to the Bereans.

  Callie shuddered. "Do you know these people, Mrs. Pettibone?"

  "No, I don't, but your father spoke of them often enough. He must have thought well of them. You'll be safe and sound now."

  Callie's words ran together. "Are you sure though? Are they cousins? I've never met anyone named Be-rean. Papa said nothing to me. If they were really cousins wouldn't he have told me?"

  Mrs. Pettibone sighed, not knowing what to do. She couldn't blame the girl. Mildly she wished Ian had had the good grace to die somewhere else, not leaving Callie on her hands. "They'll be giving you a home, and that's what you need. It's what you've been wanting. Well, now here it is."

  "But are they really my cousins!?" Callie shouted. "How do I know they are not just like Mrs. Peach? I thought she was wonderful. She acted like it. I thought she cared. I thought . . ." She burst into tears, and Mrs. Pettibone came around to the side of the bed, gathering her into her arms.

  "Hush now, Callie. It's enough. You got a long taste of wormwood, and that was all. Not all the world is as sweet as it tastes at first. Some of the sweetest things hide only the bitter root. Just like the wormwood, so good as they go down, sweet an' all. Then we find the taste was false. The real thing addles the mind and sours the stomach. That is the way of things. It's always been man's way from the beginning of time. After the fall, God left us our Eden, but it's a bitter Eden, child. It can't be helped, and it comes to us all sooner or later. But you, Callie, you've learned your

  lesson early on. Maybe you're lucky for the learning. Remember to look at tilings clearly; don't let your mind get fuddled by appearances. You remember that, and you'll be all right. Now sit up here, and dry your eyes. Tears won't help. It's faith you're needin."

  "But . . ."

  "No more to be said. You'll go to the Bereans when they come for you, and you'll be grateful for the home they give you. If it isn't right, you'll know, and you can always come to me for help."

  "Will they want me when they know . . ."

  "They won't know! Not if I can help it. And don't you breathe a word. Even if those men never . . . harmed you, the Bereans might not believe you and

  "Put me out?"

  "They'll never know."

  "What if they do? What if they look at me and can tell what happened? What if they want me for the same reasons Mrs. Peach did? What if I can't get back to you?" Callie was shaking as the frightful images built up in her mind.

  "You're makin' up witches' tales. Stop it! I won't hear any more. The Bereans will be good people, and you'll go with them!"

  Very late that night Callie admitted to herself that mixed with the fear and dread of what the Bereans might be, there lived a wistful hope. She was so tired and alone and afraid. If only the Bereans could be all she wished for. If only they would really want her, she would be forever grateful and willing to give of herself wh
atever any of them needed. If only—but if only were words that Ian had scoffed at, saying they were the words that made inaction seem a virtuous occupation. Words such as those were a luxury he had never

  let himself or his daughter indulge in. Callie turned on herself for her wishful thoughts. But underneath her good sense at squarely facing her reality, she still hoped that this one if only was true.

  Ma

  Chapter 5

  James Berean was eager to be done with his business in London. Already he and Peter had been in London two days, and James was fretful. He wanted to give Peter time to recuperate safely away from the questioning, suspicious gaze of Albert Foxe, but he worried about Frank. He wasn't sure to what lengths Frank's jealousy of Peter would take him. He knew only that Frank would do what he thought was right. Frank was an honest man, but how much Frank's view was colored by the intense frustrations he lived with, James didn't know, and it worried him.

  Regretfully he admitted he was getting old in mind and body^ He had awakened this morning in his hired-for-the-night bed cold and stiffly cramped in all his joints, and uneasy in his mind. He missed Kent and his wife and his family and the hot brick that warmed his feet at night.

  He woke Peter. "I want to get the girl and be gone from here this morning." He didn't really want Callie Dawson, he thought. She was another uncertainty to add to a new year already filled with uncertainties.

  He was too old to steer another young life on the proper path. After a lifetime of firmly held, vigorous opinions, James now questioned whether he knew anything. He couldn't guide his own sons, his own daughter. What was he to do with Ian Dawson s daughter?