“To be frank, many of them are better off with us than they were with their families,” Westbrook said. “We bring them up to be moral, upstanding Americans, even the immigrants. English only, and no tolerance for anything else.”
Arthur’s stomach lurched. “You punish them for speaking their mother tongues?”
“Spare the rod, spoil the child,” Westbrook said—with pride, of all things. “Their parents chose to come to our country; their children must integrate. Most of them only need it once; they rarely speak anything but English again.”
Arthur felt sick. He had been vaguely aware that this happened in schools and orphanages across America. But being aware that a misfortune sometimes befalls others is not the same as having it stare you in the face.
It might have happened to Rory.
“That will never do,” he found himself saying, and this was a condition that he had no right to insist on, but the words were coming out of his mouth anyway. “My father voted against the Immigration Act. He won’t want to donate to an orphanage that treats immigrant children differently from American ones.”
“We’re hardly the only ones,” Westbrook protested.
“It won’t do,” Arthur repeated. “Not for this donation. And our charity wants to donate quite a large sum of money.”
Westbrook frowned. “Well,” he said slowly. “I suppose most donations do come with strings attached.” He gestured. “Would you like to see the schoolhouse and dormitory now?”
“Yes,” Arthur said, steeling himself. “I think I should see it for myself.” The idea of seeing a place where Rory had lived as an unwanted youth made his stomach hurt again, but he should confirm that the children were otherwise adequately cared for.
His gaze stole to the altar. “Lovely antiques you have here. How long have you had them?”
Westbrook gave him a forced smile, his previous friendliness gone. “As long as I’ve been here.”
Arthur could swipe the snuffer when his back was turned, but what if the blame for the theft fell on the orphans?
This man was a pastor, but he’d also sold all of Rory’s mother’s possessions to bring in money. Arthur was going to hope funds could still motivate him. “My brother collects antiques, and he’s been looking for a snuffer exactly like this one. I don’t suppose you’d sell it to me? I’ll pay twice what it’s worth.”
Westbrook hesitated, then shrugged. “Why not? It’s only a material possession, after all. Far more honorable to take the money and spend it on our poor children. We’re entrusted with their care and their souls when others would see them abandoned.”
Arthur narrowed his eyes. “What good work you’re doing,” he said, with saccharine sincerity, as Westbrook reached for the snuffer. “After all, I’ve heard a bastard has no hope on Judgment Day. Then again, it’s hardly the abandoned child’s fault, is it, so I can’t imagine the judgment awaiting the man who made him that way.”
He was gratified to see Westbrook flinch.
Arthur made it back to Syracuse by dinnertime. He and Rory had agreed to meet at the Italian restaurant closest to their hotel, and Arthur found it pleasantly noisy inside. Three tables had been pushed together in the middle to accommodate a big family, one toddler making an enormous mess as she gleefully ate spaghetti with her bare hands.
Rory was already there, deep in a copy ofThe Further Adventures of Zorro, oblivious to the world.
Arthur’s heart lurched, and he wanted so badly to kiss him. Instead, he dropped into the small wooden chair across from Rory, which creaked under his weight. “I haven’t read that one.”
Rory looked up. “Hey,” he said, lighting up. “Did you get it?”
Arthur gestured to his briefcase. “I didn’t touch it,” he admitted, too quietly for anyone to overhear. “I know I’m not magic but, well, I’ve gotyourmagic in my aura, and I just thought better safe than sorry.”
“Smart.” Rory pushed a menu across the table.
Arthur pushed it back. “Order for me.” When Rory furrowed his brow, Arthur added, “It’s your food, your culture, and there’s probably nothing on that menu I won’t enjoy.” He pointed at the toddler, who had an entire meatball in one tiny fist and was eating it like an apple. “I mean, look at her. I want that to be me.”
Rory grinned. “You’ve never had meatballs?”
“I’ve had meatloaf.”
“Not the same.” Rory waved the waiter over, an older man who gave the toddler an indulgent smile as he passed the big table. Rory ordered for them in a blend of English and Italian, and Arthur’s heart hurt all over again.
As soon as they were somewhat alone again, the words burst out of him. “Did your father have you beaten for speaking Italian?”
Rory’s eyes widened.
“I’m sorry.” Arthur rubbed his face. “I shouldn’t have asked, and I certainly shouldn’t have just blurted that out—”
