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
