Band of Sisters (21 page)

But Maureen had no intention of “telling all,” not to Alice or to anyone else. “He’s not ‘my Irishman,’ and I’ve nothin’ to do with him!”

“That’s not the way it looked to me,” Alice chided. “He seemed to think you’re something to him.”

Maureen glanced over her shoulder, desperately wishing the line would move more quickly, anxious to get out of the store before the elevator door opened and Jaime Flynn or Drake Meitland reappeared.
What goes up must surely come down!

“Maureen—” Alice leaned nearer and spoke quietly—“you look absolutely petrified. What is it?”

But Maureen only shook her head.
Do they know each other? That man, Meitland, won’t even remember me, surely. Will he? What if Jaime Flynn asks him if I’m really livin’ at Morningside? Oh, by the saints, what have I done?

“Has that man frightened you? What did he say?”

Maureen could not bear to admit she’d taken money from a strange man or lied about her whereabouts or references or any of it.
And do they even care upstairs? I do my work; isn’t that all that matters? Is this my wicked imagination?
She shook her head again. She couldn’t tell Alice. But there was something Alice might know, and if it could be innocently explained, it might calm Maureen’s fears about a good many things. She turned and whispered, “What happens on the fourth floor?”

The light and blood drained from Alice’s face as she leaned away from Maureen. “Did he tell you to go upstairs?”

“Not exactly, but . . .” Maureen knew this was neither the time nor place to confide her fears, and the look of horror—or was it anger?—on Alice’s face told her that she’d already said too much. “I have to go.” She looked back to the line ahead. “Oh, why won’t they hurry?”

Three more minutes passed as the line moved slowly forward. The girls were only steps away from Mrs. Gordon and the pay envelopes.

“It’s the ‘floor of promotion,’ they call it,” Alice whispered behind her. “Some of the girls go for a time—always the prettiest ones. They don’t say why, but they come back with more money and nicer clothes; that’s what I know. I’ve never been asked,” Alice huffed. “Suppose they think I’m not pretty enough with my crooked nose. Not that I’d want to go, anyway.”

Maureen inched her way forward.

“See the girl just ahead, with the red beret? She’s been upstairs, and I saw her once in Manhattan and dressed to the nines, with one of the gentlemen who comes in here every Friday night—like clockwork, he’s so regular.”

Maureen swallowed.

“Some go to talk to Mr. Kreegle in personnel, and then they’re gone—fired, I guess, or sent to work somewhere else. I’m not saying there’s anything going on that shouldn’t, but—”

If Alice finished her confidence, Maureen didn’t hear her. For in that moment, as she accepted her pay envelope from Mrs. Gordon, the elevator door slid open.

Maureen did not stop to see if Jaime Flynn or Drake Meitland stepped onto the store floor. She raced down the stairs and through the employee exit door into the shower of snow. She did not stop running, did not respond to Officer Flannery’s wink or tipping of his hat, and never waited for the automobiles and horse carts to slow, but dashed across streets, weaving through the traffic—human, horse, and machine.

She’d never have considered paying for a trolley when she could easily walk the long blocks home, but she couldn’t risk being followed, could not risk anyone knowing where she and Katie Rose lived. She hopped aboard the first trolley she came to as it pulled from the curb. Her imagination of Jaime Flynn or someone like him finding Katie Rose at home alone while Maureen labored behind the counter of Darcy’s Department Store made her head spin and her stomach lurch.

The trolley car took her directly away from her route home. When she thought she’d put sufficient distance between herself and the store, she hopped off and trekked a meandering path through deepening snow back to her flat, knowing she was probably behaving foolishly, risking her health and taking precautions that were not warranted. But each time the image of Jaime Flynn’s lustful smile or Drake Meitland’s fury and power rose before her, so did the memory of the hands and smell and temper of Julius Orthbridge.

She dared not voice her fear to anyone, least of all to Katie Rose. She simply knew she must repay Jaime Flynn, and quickly.
If I can do that, I’ll owe him nothin’. I’ll be in no way beholden to him. He can’t touch us if we’re makin’ our own way—not here and not through his connections at Ellis Island. It will be no one’s business who we know or where we live. Oh, please, God, let that be true!

By the time Maureen reached her own block, she was breathless, drenched from the snow, and she’d quite forgotten her promise to Katie Rose to go window-shopping and to gather Christmas branches from the tree market. The innocent thrill of electric lights strung along the main streets of Manhattan seemed a world away. All she could think as she bumped her leaden boots against the doorway was that it was high time Katie Rose applied for the job she’d championed over attending school. She had to know that Katie Rose was with other women during the day, that she was not alone.
And we must pool our money and repay this debt before Jaime Flynn or his friends come callin’.

The circle meeting ran late, but Olivia knew it was simply that the women were loathe to part.

“A new sort of fire is burning!” Carolynn, her smile radiant, pressed Olivia’s arm on her way out the door; Olivia returned her friend’s affection.

“Livvie!” Dorothy called. “Wait for me; we can walk together.”

But Olivia didn’t want to wait. She knew what Dorothy would ask, but she didn’t know what she would—what she in good conscience
could
—tell her.

“Please wait!” Dorothy repeated, breathless, as the sisters hurried down the sidewalk. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to avoid me.”

Olivia stopped on the spot, feeling as if she’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

“What is it, Livvie? Whatever is the matter?” Dorothy’s hand on her back did nothing to make Olivia feel less guilty.

“I should have told you. I should have told you from the beginning.”

“Told me what?”

Olivia looked away.

“Come home with me,” Dorothy ordered. “We’ll talk.”

“No.” Olivia took her sister’s hand, pulling her forward. “You come home with me. We can talk freely there.”

“I should let Drake know I’ll be late.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.” Olivia feared she clasped Dorothy’s hand too tightly. “This won’t take but a few minutes, and it’s . . . it’s private.”

“Ah, something to do with our handsome Mr. Curtis Morrow?” Dorothy teased.

“No.” Olivia felt her face flush. “Well, not entirely, but yes, in a way. He’s helping me, and I think he’s on to something.”

“Helping you?” Concern sprang to Dorothy’s face.

“Let’s not talk in the street,” Olivia urged, aware that passersby were staring.

The sisters walked quickly, arm in arm, to Morningside.

Grayson took their coats and stirred the drawing room fire. “Tea, ma’am?”

“No,” Olivia replied. “Just close the door, please, Grayson.”

“You’ve held me in suspense long enough,” Dorothy pressed. “Now what is it?”

“You remember the Sunday we talked about Mr. Sheldon’s book and what happened at Thanksgiving?”

“Our stellar family holiday?” Dorothy’s eyebrows lifted.

Her sarcasm grated, but Olivia pushed past it. “I told you I wanted to search for the O’Reilly woman.”

Dorothy looked wary. “And Drake told you to leave it alone.”

“You of all people should know I couldn’t.” Olivia gauged her sister’s reaction. “Curtis offered to help me.”

“To help you? You can’t be serious! Besides, it would be like looking for a fallen leaf in autumn—or an Irish maid in Manhattan. There must be a million!”

“But not a million O’Reilly women who’ve probably arrived in New York within the last two months. You saw her—her boots, her shawl. She can’t have been here long.”

“Even so, where would you begin?”

“Curtis has hired a private investigator.”

“A private investigator!” Dorothy drew back as if dirty water had been thrown at her feet.

“Stop repeating everything I say,” Olivia countered. “He stopped by yesterday and said that the investigator has not found anyone matching her description yet—”

“Well, there you are!”

“But he believes that it will be a simple matter of tracing her through records kept at Ellis Island.”

“Surely those records are not open to the public.”

“I don’t think the rules are evenly applied, especially when a few dollars change hands.” Olivia sighed. “But that’s not the point. The point is that Curtis and I will find her soon, and when we do, I will do all in my power to help her. . . . I will embrace her as the sister Father intended for us.”

Dorothy sat back and frowned, though Olivia believed she was trying to absorb the idea.

“I want to know if you want to be part of this, if you want to meet her, embrace her, too.”

“Embrace her? How can I after what Drake said?” Dorothy looked miserably into the fire. “And how can you ask me? How can you go against his wishes and put this divide between us? No matter what Morgan O’Reilly was to Father, this woman is not our sister. I’m your sister.”

Olivia reached for her hand. “The very closest of sisters. Dottie, you know I love you with all of my heart.” She squeezed the fingers she’d known and loved all her life. “But ever since I saw Father’s handwriting again, since I read his journals, and especially since reading
In His Steps
, I’ve known that this is something I must do. I must find her and help her. I must be a sister to her . . . regardless of keeping Father’s wishes. It’s what I believe Jesus would do, what He would have me do. I’m sure of it.” She let go of Dorothy’s hand. “And no matter how much I love you—and you know I do—I love Him more. I’m learning, little by little, to love Him most of all.”

Time spread between them before she asked, “Do you understand? Please tell me you understand.”

Dorothy picked up her gloves and began pulling them on her fingers one by one. “I’m trying to.” She stopped and laid her hands in her lap. Watery pools gathered in the corners of her brown eyes. “You know I want to do what our Lord would have me do. But I can’t go against Drake’s wishes. He will forbid me outright, and that will drive a rift between us all.”

“I know. I understand that. Truly, I’m not asking you to do anything.”

“But you see this as the thing the Lord would have you do. How can you not judge me harshly for not doing the same?”

“I’ve no right to judge. I’m only giving you the opportunity, if you want it. I don’t want to do this behind your back.”

Dorothy shook her head slowly. “You think me a coward.”

“Never! We’re each to follow the Lord as closely as we can understand Him to be leading us—there’s no way for one to judge another or to say He’s leading this way or that.” Olivia stood and paced before the fire. “But there is something I must ask of you.”

Dorothy looked up.

“Please don’t tell Drake.”

“He’s my husband, Livvie; how can you ask that of me?”

“Because I’ve told you this in confidence.” Olivia knelt before Dorothy. “Perhaps Drake is justifiably worried about protecting our inheritances. But there’s no reason for him to fear that yours will be touched in any way. What I do with my share is up to me. I won’t have him trying to keep me from doing what I believe—what I know with all my heart—to be right.”

Dorothy sighed again and laid her hand on her sister’s head. “I wish I could be so brave, so true to my convictions. But my time, my money, even my . . . my person . . . are not mine alone.”

“Those are shared gifts of married life; I know that. I
honor
that, Dottie. But I’m not married. I may never be . . . but for this moment I’m called, and I’m called to help Miss O’Reilly.”

It was nearly dark by the time Dorothy rose to go. Olivia accompanied her sister home in the family carriage, snuggled close beneath heavy steamer rugs, just as they had traveled together when young girls.

Though Olivia harbored no fondness for Drake, she momentarily envied the scene she witnessed through Meitland House’s bright drawing room window, keenly aware that there would be no one to greet her at her own threshold. The return ride to Morningside was short but colder for the loneliness of it.

Olivia had just been served her evening meal when Grayson stepped uncertainly into the dining room. Olivia was glad for the interruption. “Yes?”

“Pardon me, ma’am. There is a man at the back door, a Mr. Joshua Keeton of County Meath, looking for a Miss O’Reilly.”

Olivia dropped her fork.

Grayson lifted his shoulders. “He insists that she came here, that she lives here. He maintains that he won’t leave until he’s spoken with the master of the house.”