Band of Sisters (27 page)

They’d reached the church and were about to climb the front steps when, from the corner of her eye, she saw a lady’s hand reach for her arm.

“Miss O’Reilly,” Olivia Wakefield pleaded, “I would be honored if you and your sister, and Mrs. Melkford, would sit with us.” She eyed Katie Rose as though awaiting an introduction. “You know Mr. Keeton, I believe, and this is Mr. Morrow—Curtis Morrow.”

Just behind her stood Joshua Keeton, and at her side, the man Maureen had seen at the far end of the hall at Morningside that hateful Thanksgiving Day tipped his hat.

But all Maureen could see was her shame before Joshua and her fear of Olivia’s connection to Drake Meitland. She began to decline.

“Please, Miss O’Reilly, I’d be honored.” Joshua offered his hand.

“No, no thank—” Maureen tried again.

“But we’d love to join you, and isn’t that kind?” Katie Rose pushed between them, introducing herself and taking Joshua’s arm.

Maureen couldn’t miss Olivia’s glad surprise or the light in Joshua’s eyes.

“There won’t be room for all of us in one pew,” Maureen stuttered, grasping at straws.

“You young folks go ahead,” Mrs. Melkford urged. “I’ll be fine in my usual seat.”

“No!” Maureen felt panic rising in her throat. “I’d not think of leavin’ you. Katie Rose, you must stay with us.”

“There’s room enough,” Olivia assured. “Dorothy isn’t well this morning, and Drake is away on business.”

I know exactly what business! Do you?

Olivia paused a half breath. “It will be a new beginning for us all.”

Maureen couldn’t seem to make her mouth protest as she wished.

“Truly, we never use all the seats in our family pew.” Olivia laughed nervously. “It’s silly to have it all to ourselves.” She stepped nearer Maureen. “Please, Miss O’Reilly.”

“Thank you, Miss Wakefield,” Katie Rose affirmed, guiding Joshua into the church.

Maureen couldn’t stop the rapid beating of her heart, couldn’t think how to regain control of the situation.

“Come, my dear, we’ll all go.” Mrs. Melkford took Maureen’s arm and smiled at Olivia. “It will be a nice change to sit with a family.”

Olivia Wakefield looked to Maureen as if someone had handed her the sun and the moon.

Is it possible she truly knows nothin’ of her brother-in-law’s wickedness or what goes on above stairs at Darcy’s? How can that be, when her sister is married to the man and he administers the affairs of their father?

Maureen was still trying to slip the mental square pegs into round holes as they found their seats. She sat between Katie Rose and Mrs. Melkford, with Joshua on one end of the pew and Curtis Morrow and Olivia on the other. Uncomfortably near the front of the church, Maureen would have much preferred to be tucked in her secluded spot in the balcony, able to safely observe everyone and everything without being observed. She closed her eyes against the all-devouring tension, hoping to keep her hands and voice from trembling.

As the congregation softly shared their greetings and morning gossip around her, Maureen coaxed her nerves to settle.
Is it possible I’ve misjudged Joshua Keeton? Olivia Wakefield would never pull me to the front of her church and sit me in her family pew if he’d told her of my past. But why wouldn’t he tell?
She shook her head, trying to dislodge the cobwebs that fought to take over.
Mrs. Melkford is convinced he’s a good man, that he truly wants to be my friend. But why would he?
She stole a glance at his face—one of calm assurance. He stared straight ahead, not trying in the least to catch her eye, or that of Katie Rose, his expression displaying peace and something Maureen could barely describe.

Contentment. He looks content.

And then the organ with its wondrous pipes began the service’s prelude. Notes danced and swelled in patterns, trilling up and down scales Maureen had never heard. She sensed Katie Rose’s intake of breath beside her and tentatively smiled for her sister’s newfound pleasure in music, a joy that neither of them had known except for the drums and pipes and flutes of Ireland and the simple pump organ at the church—a beauty to be sure, but nothing like this organ with its great reverberations that spun through the floor and up their legs, into their hearts.

The reverend welcomed the congregation, then called for moments of silent prayer and meditation, urging his flock to praise God for His goodness, thank Him for His mercies within the past week, and pray that the Holy Spirit be present in the service ahead.

Maureen kept her eyes closed as the white-robed choir made its slow entrance down the aisle. She knew, without looking, that they divided right and left at the altar rail, as usual. Their many-ranged voices joined with the praise of the congregation. For the first time, by the very nature of her seat, Maureen was caught in the midst of that heavenly host, that angelic choir she’d heard of on Christmas Eve, praising God and singing, “Peace on earth, goodwill to men.”

Only this day the hymns were about determination to forgive and new beginnings. The sermon echoed the theme, both in the new year and in individual lives. The reverend called for belief in a God who loves and pursues, a God willing and eager to forgive and to accept all into relationship with Him through Christ—a relationship that fully embraces.

He spoke of a woman named Rahab—a harlot and spy who was an ancestor of Jesus. Maureen felt her face flame and glanced at the listeners beside her to see if they’d get up and leave at what must surely be blasphemy. But they stayed.

And then he told of Bathsheba, who’d slept with King David in an adulterous relationship, saying that she, too, was in the bloodline of Christ. She listened for murmurs of complaint but heard only an uncomfortable shifting in seats among the congregation.

He listed five women in all, women of strange and suspect character in the eyes of the world—a scheming widow, a harlot, a foreigner, an adulteress, an unmarried teen mother—but women God loved, forgave, and honored in the maternal bloodline of His Son.

It was not a picture that coincided with her image of the blessed Mother or the demanding, damning God she knew.

A wild Protestant tale, surely! What did he say—that once they’d sought forgiveness and reconciliation, God blotted out their sins as though they’d never been? That He loved them as daughters?

Could He possibly love such as these—these women who lived the picture of my own desperation? And if He did, if He does . . . could He love me?

But the idea was so big, so preposterous, so presumptuous.

Where is the beatin’? Where is the ramrod of shame?
Maureen opened her eyes. Reverend Peterson lifted high his arms, invoking the blessings of God.
Where is the wrath?
she asked again as if to trip him up, as if to cause the hidden rod to fall.

But he called for the passing of the peace—a welcome shaking of hands and embracing of parishioners and strangers alike, an event unknown to Maureen and Katie Rose. Maureen stayed seated, though Olivia and Mrs. Melkford, even Curtis Morrow and Joshua, reached out to her and Katie Rose. And then, when she thought she’d survived all the foreign impossibilities, the reverend called for Communion.

“Must you be Protestant?” Katie Rose whispered to Mrs. Melkford as ushers shepherded people forward by pews to the Communion rail.

Mrs. Melkford shook her head. “It’s open to everyone, everyone who believes that Jesus is their Savior.”

Maureen sat back, mortified.
I cannot go. Even if He could save me from what I’ve been—like He did those women—He can’t change what I’ve failed to do for Eliza, for Alice.
A sob escaped her throat; she felt Katie Rose’s elbow in her ribs. She closed her eyes, and the faces of her friends loomed before her.
No, He can’t want me, can’t save me. And I can’t save myself!

When the usher came to their row and opened the little gate at the end of their pew, those on either side of her stood. Maureen didn’t know what to do. She pulled her knees to the side to allow Katie Rose and Joshua to pass.

“Get up,” Katie Rose hissed and pinched her. “You’ll shame them!”

And so Maureen did. She filed to the center aisle behind Mrs. Melkford. But when they reached the altar rail, just before they were to kneel to receive the bread and wine, Maureen turned and, eyes to the floor, followed the group of men and women who were leaving the rail—those she’d seen approach the Almighty to eat His body and drink His blood, no matter that there’d been no talk of confession beforehand, nor so much as the sign of the cross made after. She followed them back to her own pew, struggled with the catch on the little gate at its end until an usher came to help her, then slid in and kept her head down. She could not hold back the tears betraying her shame.

You’re not my Lord, and I’ve no right to partake. Oh, God! Why do You call me to this possibility and then send me away in public humiliation?

To Maureen’s relief, Katie Rose did not interrogate her about why she’d not partaken in Communion. Her sister alternately bubbled and fumed throughout the afternoon and evening about Olivia Wakefield’s smart hat and stylish fur coat and her invitation to an undoubtedly lavish New Year’s dinner—a dinner she boasted she would have gladly and thoroughly enjoyed had Maureen not spoiled everything by “being impossibly rude in church.”

By the time Maureen walked into work on Monday morning, she never wanted to see or hear of Olivia Wakefield again.

The store opened on schedule despite a heavy snow that began in the early morning hours. Maureen stood anxiously behind her counter, freshening her display, ten minutes before the bell rang and the doors opened. She noticed that the girls who’d staffed the floor last Thursday were on duty.
No one else is missin’. Oh, Eliza, Alice—where are you? What’s become of you?

“Good morning, Miss O’Reilly.” Mrs. Gordon stopped by Maureen’s counter. “I trust you have sufficiently recovered from your sudden illness.” Her tone was snide.

“Thank you, ma’am. I’m much better today.” Maureen looked away, wondering if Mrs. Gordon helped to choose the girls who disappeared, if she was an integral part of the racket—for she’d come to think of it as just that—or if the woman was simply a miserable employee who ignorantly pressured working girls under the orders of the store’s management.
But you work with management; how could you not know? How could you know and turn a blind eye? But isn’t that what I’ve done—because I’m afraid?

Maureen didn’t try to communicate with the girls at lunch. She did not think it her imagination that the room was quieter, the girls more subdued and less talkative than usual. Nor did she think she imagined that they were all watched more carefully than usual by the floor supervisors. Even Mr. Kreegle walked through the room once, and Maureen felt certain he searched the faces and posture of the young women.
For what? Signs of knowin’? Is knowin’ grounds for being stolen away or dismissed, or is there somethin’ else they’re lookin’ for?

By the end of the workday, Maureen’s nerves were ground raw and her head ached. She gathered her hat and cloak and purse from the employee cloakroom and headed for the stairwell, determined to take the trolley for once.

Such a relief it will be to ride through the snowy streets rather than plow my way on foot! I hope Katie Rose is home early enough to fire the stove and lay our tea.

Intent on her plans, she didn’t realize until she’d reached the door that it had been closed, that Mr. Kreegle and Mrs. Gordon stood sentinel, cross-armed before it, or that the other girls hung back, whispering nervously.

“In a hurry tonight, Miss O’Reilly?” Mr. Kreegle challenged.

“It’s snowin’,” she said lamely, taken by surprise. “I’m anxious to reach the trolley.” She stepped back, wishing she had the courage to press forward.

“You’ll need to delay your travel plans, miss. You all need to delay travel plans.” He barked, “Get in line and wait your turn.”

Maureen drew in her breath.
What can he be thinkin’?
Neither she nor the other women had perceived there was a line, but they dutifully and quickly formed one.

Mr. Kreegle cleared and raised his voice. “There’s been a rash of thefts from the store counters—a thing Darcy’s will not tolerate, certainly not from our own employees.” He nodded toward Mrs. Gordon; she stepped before the door. He made his way down the line, glaring at each young woman in turn. “From now on, before you leave each evening, purses, coats, and pockets will be searched.”

A rush of indignation followed by a whisper of fear swept through the ranks.

“Let’s begin with you.” Mr. Kreegle spoke to the girl behind Maureen. “Mrs. Gordon?”

“Open your purse and turn out your pockets,” Mrs. Gordon ordered the terrified young woman.

When the search yielded nothing, she proceeded to the next clerk.

Why did they bypass me?
Maureen could not imagine.

“Feeling left out, Miss O’Reilly?” Mr. Kreegle asked. She hated the way he smiled at her. “Shall I search you myself?”