Band of Sisters (16 page)

“What is it, dear?” Mrs. Melkford frowned. “Don’t tell me they’re not treating you well. How could they not? Is it the store? The family?”

Maureen did her best to compose her face. “It’s all lovely. My job is all that I’d ever hoped it would be! Today I collected my first pay envelope, and I’ve made a new friend—Alice. We share the hat counter, and she’s helped me with my American wardrobe and learnin’ what she calls ‘the ropes’—that’s everythin’ about clerkin’ that I need to know.”

Mrs. Melkford pressed Maureen’s arm. “You’re rather thinner than when you left my kitchen.”

Maureen mustered a laugh. “It’s just that I’m a bit out of breath from runnin’. It’s been less than a week . . . but perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I need some fattenin’ up with your good cookin’! I rather fancy a cup of tea and one of your puddin’s!”

That brought a smile to Mrs. Melkford’s face. “I was hoping you’d say that. When we return, you—and your sister, if she’s released and able—must stay to supper. We can always telephone the Wakefields to send a car.”

“Oh no!” Maureen stumbled over her words.

Mrs. Melkford raised a questioning brow. “You don’t need to get back right away, do you? Oh, I suppose they will want to welcome and entertain your sister.”

“No—I mean I would never ask them to send a car.”

“But, my dear, your sister won’t be well enough to walk or be out in the night air.”

Maureen didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t tell her that she was not taking her sister to the Wakefield mansion, but to the Lower East Side, to what Maureen had learned was the least desirable part of New York.

“No, you’re right. She mustn’t be out in the night air.” Maureen looked out over the water. “I was just wonderin’ . . .”

“Yes?”

“I was just wonderin’ what you’d think of us stoppin’ for the night with you?” Maureen knew it was a bold question, a bold presumption.

“Why, I would love that!” Mrs. Melkford’s eyes shone. “But won’t the Wakefields be expecting you?”

“No—not tonight,” Maureen stammered. She clasped Mrs. Melkford’s hands between her own. “You’ve been so good to me. I know it’s a great deal to ask, but I’d love for Katie Rose to know the warmth of your kitchen—just for tonight—as you’ve shown it to me. Tomorrow we’ll be on our way, but . . .”

Mrs. Melkford glowed as if someone had handed her the moon. “And so you shall. As long as you’re sure we’ll not worry the Wake—”

“We won’t,” Maureen assured her.

“Well, then, that’s settled.” Mrs. Melkford sat back, satisfied. “You girls will stay the night and go to church with me tomorrow. Afterward, we’ll have a fine dinner, and I’ll send you on your way, so you’ll get home well before dark. You’ll need a good rest for your work on Monday.”

Maureen sighed, relieved beyond words.

“Have you inquired about schooling for your sister?”

“Not yet; I’m not certain she’ll be up to it straight away.”

“Mmm, perhaps not. Best to have a full recovery first—perhaps another week. But from what Nurse Harrigan said last week, I’d expect her to be well on that road.” Mrs. Melkford tucked her purse beneath her hands, clearly pleased. “At any rate, I’ll keep you for the night.”

The ferry docked before they finished making plans. Mrs. Melkford ushered Maureen through waiting stations and past officials that had loomed as land mines before her less than two weeks ago. When they reached the contagious disease ward, Maureen was told to wait in the hallway while Mrs. Melkford inquired.

Doctors and nurses, orderlies and staff members in white coats and uniforms paraded in and out of heavy doors on the side and end of the hallway. Only once did Maureen glimpse a patient on a gurney, and that from a distance.

The minutes of the hall clock ticked off, one by one. A half hour passed. Forty-five minutes. Maureen began to wonder what she would do if Katie Rose needed more care, if the chicken pox left her with some disability. She remembered a boy at home whose joints had swelled so that he went lame after the chicken pox and a girl who, it was whispered, had gone nearly mad before she died. Maureen tugged anxiously at her waist cuff.
Stop. Stop!
she scolded herself.
Don’t be borrowin’ trouble that’s not your due. One blessed thing at a time!

And then the door swung open, and Katie Rose, dressed in a navy American walking skirt and ivory waist, walked through, a bit tentatively, on the arm of Mrs. Melkford. When she caught sight of Maureen, a smile spread across her pale face, illuminating the scars of her illness.

Maureen jumped to her feet and, with a heart too full to speak, swooped her sister into a great hug. But Katie Rose was truly skin and bone, and Maureen stepped back quickly, lest she break her.

“There, now,” Mrs. Melkford cooed. “She’s all right, just in need of a bit of mothering.” But she looked over Katie Rose’s head and slightly shook her head at Maureen.

“They said the scars might not fade,” Katie Rose whispered. “They said—”

Maureen couldn’t understand any more, for the tears that laced her sister’s words.

“For now, we’re going home and have a good meal and a good rest,” Mrs. Melkford asserted. “Everything will look brighter tomorrow.”

Katie Rose, still fighting tears, bit her lip until it drew blood, and Maureen, not knowing what to say to comfort her, simply offered her handkerchief and wrapped her arm around her younger sister. The three walked to the dock and straight onto the ferry, taking a place by the stove. Katie Rose laid her head on Maureen’s shoulder and, apparently weary from the short journey, fell asleep.

It gave Maureen an opportunity to scrutinize Katie Rose unobserved. The scars were dark, in various stages of healing, but white spots, like pocks, stood out on her face. She’d not seen this stage of the chicken pox in exactly this way and wondered what it meant. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t matter. They would get past it. And yet Maureen knew how Katie Rose valued her beauty.
As would any woman,
Maureen thought,
especially one so young.

She held her sister closer and kissed the top of her head, her gaze filtering through the faces crowding the rails. It was the last ferry of the day, and the day shift was traveling home. Maureen blinked at a familiar form across the wide deck. There stood Jaime Flynn, his back to her, but his accent carried on the breeze. He seemed to be introducing a lovely young girl at his side to a well-dressed gentleman standing before them.

Maureen pulled her hat lower and shielded her face with one hand but turned her ear to catch whatever of the conversation she could.

“My cousin, just over from Manchester,” he said.

The Irish don’t usually have cousins from Manchester!

“I’m sure we could arrange an outing, Mr. Whitson,” Flynn nearly fawned, though the girl glanced—uncertainly and miserably, Maureen thought—between the men.

Maureen turned toward the water so that none of her face could be seen and cradled her sister protectively. Still, her heart beat quickly and her throat tightened. She pushed a stray hair from the young forehead and thanked God for her sister’s face, just as it was.
Don’t fret, Katie Rose, whatever may be. Scars are not the worst that could come. They may be a savin’ grace.

When all the circle women had gone and the parlor maid had finished clearing the tables, Olivia sat with Dorothy before the drawing room fire, nursing a fresh cup of tea.

“And what brought that on?” Dorothy asked, staring into the fire.

Olivia took her sister’s measure and decided against telling her about the journals just yet. “The O’Reilly woman.”

Dorothy’s shoulders fell in a long breath. “I thought so. I’ve been thinking of her—and that day, too. Drake is determined to protect our inheritance—that’s all.” She blushed and looked away. “Sometimes I think he’s rather overzealous.”

Olivia agreed but would not wound her sister with the words she felt sure Drake deserved. “He takes too much on himself, especially in houses that are not his own.”

Dorothy’s color deepened. “He’s my husband, Livvie.” She picked at the upholstery on the arm of her chair, and the silence stretched between them. Olivia nearly spoke, but Dorothy lifted her eyes. “Do you think she might have had a legitimate claim?”

“Yes, I fear she may.”

“But how can—?”

Before Dorothy could ask more, Olivia continued. “At any rate, her letter is gone, and Miss O’Reilly has disappeared.” She set her cup in its saucer and massaged the back of her neck, wishing to alleviate the tension growing there. “And yes, if you’re wondering, she is my parallel to the poor man in Sheldon’s story. Only I didn’t care for her as the Reverend Maxwell did for that man.” She stared at Dorothy, feeling the miserable weight of her mission. “We, who were raised by a man who asked every day, ‘What would Jesus do?’ and who had apparently promised her or her family something, allowed her to be thrown into the cold.” Olivia wrapped her arms round her shoulders, suddenly feeling the chill. “Did you see the emptiness in her eyes?”

“I can’t stop thinking of it.”

Olivia shook her head, frustrated that she could not turn back time to that Thanksgiving Day and rewrite the moment.

“Did you hear what Julia said about poor immigrant women?” Dorothy glanced at her sister, then quickly back to the fire.

“She’s right, you know. I’ve thought of that a hundred times since Thanksgiving. What did we—what did I—send her to? Did she have anywhere else to go?” Olivia dropped her hands to her lap.

“Do you think she really could have known Father—I mean, how is that possible? What could he have promised her?”

“I have every reason to think I should have cared for her—every reason to regret that I didn’t stand up to Drake on her behalf. And I’m thinking that it doesn’t—it
shouldn’t
—matter if Father promised anything or not.” Olivia stood and picked up her hat and cloak. “We must find her, Dorothy, and we must find her soon.”

“You can’t expect me to go to church—or school—or anywhere in public like this!” Katie Rose exploded at Sunday morning breakfast, the first spark of life Maureen had seen her sister exhibit.

“But, my dear, the Wakefields will be there. They could give you a ride home in their touring car,” Mrs. Melkford insisted.

Maureen nearly choked on her tea. She’d not even thought of the Wakefields attending the same church as Mrs. Melkford. There were half a dozen churches in between Mrs. Melkford’s and Morningside. “I didn’t know you knew the Wakefields.”

“I refuse to meet them for the first time in public like this!” Katie Rose fumed.

“I don’t know them,” Mrs. Melkford, her eyes confused by Katie Rose’s outburst, answered Maureen. “It’s a large church; I hardly know anyone yet. I just started attending there last month—it’s so much closer to my apartment than St. John’s, where my Henry and I used to worship—but I’ve heard the name. I didn’t realize the father had passed until you told me. But surely they’d come for you girls; you’re living with them.”

“I won’t go!” Katie Rose insisted.

“I don’t think Katie Rose is ready to go out, Mrs. Melkford.” Maureen pleaded her sister’s case but knew she did it selfishly.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” Mrs. Melkford said. “I know you’ve only just arrived and that you’ve been through a great deal. But Nurse Harrigan said that you’re really quite well.”

Katie Rose frowned, her lower lip protruding.

Mrs. Melkford smiled and patted Katie Rose’s hand across the table. “You’re tired, and here I am, eager to show you off.”

“Show me off?” Katie Rose, her face splotched and red with astonishment and barely faded blisters, gasped.

Maureen sat close to her sister. “I know you don’t want to go out today, but you must understand that Mrs. Melkford has been wonderful to us. If not for her, we wouldn’t even be here. They might have refused us entry.”

But Katie Rose was clearly not as taken with Mrs. Melkford as was Maureen. “We don’t need her,” she hissed to her sister. “The Wakefields—they’re our sponsors.”

Mrs. Melkford’s color rose, but she sat back, straightening the napkin in her lap.

“Apologize to Mrs. Melkford!”

“Never mind.” Mrs. Melkford’s mouth formed a line as she picked up the breakfast cups. “Perhaps it’s best if you gather your strength.”