Free Fairer than Morning by Rosslyn Elliott Page B

had seen on his last trip to the poorhouse? Was she still there? He almost hoped he would not see her, as there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t even help Tom or himself. If they went hungry and cold, he had no business thinking of himself as a rescuer. For some reason, God had ordained that the girl, Will, and Tom be subject to the whims of others in this harsh world. He did not understand why it should be so. He tried to be a good person, as his mother would have wanted, but his master owned him by law, body and soul, for another year and a half. If he tried to break his indenture, the master would set the law on him and he would be recaptured. And even if he escaped, there would be no one left to protect Tom from the full force of Master Good’s brutality.
    Just the thought of the master churned sour anger in his stomach. The other day the master had knocked him down for what he called an impudent stare. Perhaps it was impudent— Will hoped it was. He didn’t see how he could contain himself at all times in the situation at the Good house. He wasn’t a boy any longer, but a young man of eighteen.
    As he drew the cart to a stop at the foot of the hill and climbed the steps, the anger in his gut hardened into cool determination. He would help that girl, though he didn’t know how just yet. He was sick to death of doing nothing for himself or Tom, imprisoned by the parchment he had signed. Even if he could not stand up for his own nonexistent rights, he might be able to do something for this young girl who was not legally bound to anyone.
    When he arrived at the poorhouse door, his gloves muffled the thud of his knock. There was no answer. He pounded again, harder. Perhaps they could not hear.
    But the door opened, and to his surprise, it was not the old woman but the same young girl he had met before. She regarded him with equal surprise, her eyes shadowed by her bonnet, her fair hair twisting down in locks over her shoulders. “You have a delivery?” she asked.
    â€œYes,” he said. This was his opportunity to talk to her alone. “What’s your name?”
    â€œEmmie. Emmie Flynn.”
    â€œI’m Will Hanby.” They stared at each other. The faint smudges of exhaustion under her eyes emphasized her fragile beauty, the drooping grace of a flower blighted by frost.
    â€œWhere’s the old woman?” Will asked, afraid the crone would scream from the hallway at any moment.
    â€œDead,” Emmie said. “Yesterday.”
    Will could not say he was sorry. Without the old woman’s sharp tongue to drive him away, perhaps he could figure out a means to help the girl.
    â€œBut the new overseer for the women will come soon,” Emmie said.
    He moved closer and lowered his voice. “Why are you here? Can I assist you in some way?”
    Her expression grew distant. She brushed away a truant lock of hair from in front of her face. “No, there’s nothing you can do.” She turned away.
    â€œWait.” He put his hand on the door for fear she would try to close it. “I know a man who knows the owner of a glass factory. Would it be possible for you to work there?” He had no idea whether Dr. Loftin would even agree to ask Mrs. O’Hara such a thing, but it was his only recourse.
    She looked over her shoulder at him. “But I would have nowhere to live.”
    â€œThere are boarding houses near the factories. It would be better than . . . here.”
    She turned back to face him, lips parted as if to say something, but wordless, just searching his face. “All right then,” she whispered, and fled down the hall.
    When Will returned from the almshouse, he pulled the cart up beside the pigsty and walked back to Dr. Loftin’s home. The white back door set into the white brick was discreet; he would not disturb anyone if he passed the borrowed gloves to Dr. Loftin’s maid.
    But for the second time that day, a