Band of Sisters (28 page)

Maureen knew her face flamed, but she summoned her courage. “I’ve nothin’ to hide, nothin’ at all.”

“Mrs. Gordon, perhaps you could search Miss O’Reilly. She has a trolley to catch.” He snickered, stepping back, and a nervous twitter sped through the line.

“Open your purse,” the floor supervisor ordered. “Turn out your pockets.”

Maureen did as she was bid; both were empty of anything but her personal belongings. Mrs. Gordon lifted her brows and proceeded down the line.

“Why are you holding your cloak, Miss O’Reilly?” Mr. Kreegle challenged loudly. All nervous chatter stopped.

“I—I’ve simply not put it on,” Maureen stammered.

“Every other young woman is dressed to go into the cold.” He stepped closer. “Why, pray tell, are you different?”

“I’m not—”

“Hand me your cloak,” he ordered.

Maureen, angry to be doubted, angry that any of the women would be subjected to his sneers or play for power, thrust her cloak into his arms.

As he lifted her cloak, Maureen intuited rather than knew he would find something.
’Tis a ruse—a play upon the stage! He’s planted somethin’.

Every eye turned upon Mr. Kreegle’s searching, probing fingers, and Maureen knew she was not the only one who cringed at the way he clawed her cloak.
He’s planted somethin’ and now he can’t find it.
Maureen nearly smirked in return, until an unholy light came into the man’s eyes. Her heart sank.

“What have we here?” Maureen knew he feigned surprise as he fingered the hem. He manipulated something through the lining of the cloak, right to one of the pockets, until he was able to work it through a hole that she knew for certain had not been there that morning. “A hole in your pocket. Ingenious but futile, Miss O’Reilly.” He held up the turned-out pocket and pulled a pearl necklace from its hiding place in the lining, displaying it high for all to see.

Horrified gasps washed over the group, then silence.

Maureen felt her head spin. “’Tisn’t mine.”

Mr. Kreegle smiled. “I’m sure none of us ever suspected it was.” He hefted the cloak. “I believe we’ve found our thief, Mrs. Gordon.”

“I never took—” Maureen could barely catch her breath.

“Save your lies for the police, Miss O’Reilly. The rest of you may go.”

Maureen struggled against the growing tightness in her throat and chest as the women rushed past her and out the opened door, most not daring to look her in the eye.

“Close the door on your way out, Mrs. Gordon.”

Mrs. Gordon flashed an uncertain glance between Maureen and Mr. Kreegle. “Shall I telephone the police?”

“Well, let me see.” Mr. Kreegle walked close to Maureen, who instinctively stepped back. But he circled her, walking ever closer. “A police report would lead to trial. A verdict of theft would mean deportation as likely as imprisonment in this case, I imagine.”

Maureen’s senses flared.

“Now, I wonder . . . would that be deportation of Miss O’Reilly alone, or would that include her sister—her young, impressionable sister? What is her name? Ah, Katie Rose O’Reilly, employed by Triangle Waist Factory, I believe.”

Maureen felt a gnawing terror rise from the pit of her stomach, swirling with the knowledge that she’d never given this man her sister’s name or place of employment. “I didn’t take it. I don’t know how it got there, but I swear I did not take it.” She turned to Mrs. Gordon. “Please, you must believe me.”

Mrs. Gordon looked away, uncomfortable, Maureen thought, for the first time.

“But deportation won’t be necessary, will it, Miss O’Reilly?”

“No.” She shook her head. “No, please.”

“No, I don’t believe we’ll need the police,” he continued as if Maureen had never spoken. “I believe we can come to some agreement with our pretty little orphaned thief.” He dropped his smile and all pretense of mercy as he circled Maureen a second time, pulling a long red lock of hair from her bun and trailing it with his finger down the back of her neck.

Maureen closed her eyes at his touch and held her breath, felt the air being sucked from her throat, felt her chest constrict.

“You may leave, Mrs. Gordon. I’ll take care of this . . . situation.”

“If you’re certain?” Mrs. Gordon asked, hesitating at the door.

He pulled a pin and another tendril from Maureen’s bun, tracing it down the other side of her neck, fingering the collar of her shirtwaist. “Quite certain.”

Memories of Julius Orthbridge barging through her door late at night bullied their way into Maureen’s brain. She felt the world and darkness closing in, began the intentional numbing of her heart. She heard the door open, sensed Mrs. Gordon passing through and with her any feeble hope of protection.

“We can, no doubt, reach an understanding,” the man crooned, self-assured, arrogant, continuing his pulling of pins from Maureen’s hair.

She could not reply but felt the dam behind her eyes begin to overflow. With each pull of the pin, he undressed her mind and all its bulwarks. Her upswept hair, symbol of refinement and womanhood, tumbled to her shoulders, leaving her naked, exposed of spirit.

The trickle down her cheek seemed only to inspire him. “We’ve much to discuss, don’t we, Miss O’Reilly?” The timbre of his voice was oily, slick, like the rodents along the wharf in Dublin. His breath foul, smelling—tasting—of rotting fish heads and onions piled behind her uncle’s pub. “Such a pretty face.” His finger traced her jaw, her neck; his hand began its descent.

Maureen cried out, but he pressed himself against her and laughed. “Go ahead and scream. There’s no one to hear you, little Paddy. No one to save you.” He pulled at the buttons of her waist.

The horror and truth of his words drove a knife into her heart.

And then, unbidden, came words she’d read in Mrs. Melkford’s Bible:
“When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up.”

She jerked away.

Kreegle laughed and jerked her back. “Feisty, are we? That’s all right. I don’t mind a little fight in a woman.”

“Help!”

Kreegle laughed again.

From the recesses of Maureen’s brain came another Scripture she’d heard in Mrs. Melkford’s church:
“For the Lord your God is he that goeth with you, to fight for you against your enemies, to save you.”

You would fight for me?

As Kreegle ripped her buttons, a new strength flowed into Maureen’s heart, through her core, and out into her limbs. She clenched her fists and pushed them both at once up and into Kreegle’s chin, knocking him backward.

He regained his footing, and Maureen saw a familiar succession sweep through his eyes—anger, challenge, then lust with the thrill of the hunt, the determination to overpower his prey.

But refusal, rage, and a bewildered vestige of hope raced through her calves and into her pointed-toe boots, straight to his shins.

He swore, grabbed her again, and pinned her arms behind her. She kneed him, once and sharply, in his groin.

Kreegle doubled over but grabbed Maureen’s skirts, pulling her to the floor with him. She kicked him in the face, a toe to his eye, a sharp heel to his nose. He covered his face and she kicked his hand, his head, the blood staining red through his thinning hair.

Maureen scrambled backward, across the floor and to her knees, her feet. Unmindful of her purse, heedless of her cloak, she wrestled with the knob of the door and, throwing it open, raced down the stairs and out into the freezing night.

“I’m no longer a powerless village girl, but an independent, workin’, wage-earnin’ woman of New York City. And if I’m to be deported, I shall go havin’ had my say, wearin’ my dignity.” Maureen spoke the words aloud as she marched to work on Tuesday, hoping for the courage she feigned. Her arms sore and bearing bruises from Mr. Kreegle’s grip, her head weary from the cold and from the raw throat building there, she trooped on, determined to face her accusers.

Katie Rose had offered little sympathy at the loss of her cloak and purse, certain that whatever had happened, Maureen had brought it on herself. “You’ve no sense of propriety! After your behavior at church on Sunday, I’m surprised at nothin’! Besides, your tea is cold, and it’s your own fault for bein’ late. I’ll not heat it up again.” Katie Rose had turned her back on a shivering Maureen.

Maureen had laughed, very near hysteria, at the notion that she should care about the temperature of her tea after what she’d been through with the demon at the store—the demon she’d fought and bested at his own game. She’d laughed until Katie Rose had stomped out, slamming the door, on her way down the hall to the toilet.

And then Maureen had lain awake half the night, into the wee hours, alternately shivering in fear and wondering at the voice that had come into her head, the surprising flow of strength to fight that slime of a man. Most surprising of all was its clarity of vision and solidarity with her own spirit.

She longed to talk with someone, but who? She wondered if she should have confided in Katie Rose—about Mr. Kreegle, about her suspicion of Drake Meitland or her dread of Jaime Flynn, about her worry for the women who’d disappeared, about the new voice in her head. But Maureen had heaved a sigh and turned over.
She’s too young to hear such things. Someday, when it’s settled, when we’ve made our way and have nothin’ to fear, perhaps I’ll tell her then—two grown women, together. But it’s a burden she should not have to bear now. What could she do but worry and fear? And how will I protect her?

Maureen had no idea what to do but knew she must stand up for herself. Fighting back against Mr. Kreegle had been the greatest revelation of her life. She could fight. She might not always win, but she could stand for herself, and although she dared not think that the Lord had accepted her, cared about her, He’d done something magnificent for her in bringing those Scriptures to mind, in infusing her limbs with strength beyond her own. He’d stood with her against evil. No one less could have done such a thing.

Perhaps it was a mistake, an automatic action on God’s part—that answerin’ of a prayer in a way I’d never imagined. He may never do it again, may be on His guard not to help me in future, but He stood with me last night.
And that gave Maureen pause, courage, and the daring to hope—a little.

Clasping the edges of a woolen blanket thrown over her shoulders for lack of a cloak, Maureen stomped through the ice and slushy streets. She pulled open the employee entrance door and marched up the stairs. She folded her blanket and placed it on the cloakroom shelf as if she’d done it every day of her working life. She combed her hair into place, smoothed her skirt and waist, and walked, head high and fingers trembling, to her post.

“You’ve more nerve than sense to show up here today!” a girl who stood at the counter next to Maureen’s whispered. “I thought sure Mr. Kreegle was going to fire you!”

Maureen smiled thinly and set to polishing her counter. The bell rang, the doors were unlocked, and Darcy’s was opened for business.

Mrs. Gordon’s pale face as she made her rounds told Maureen that she knew at least some version of what had transpired last night.

But Maureen banked on the hope that Mr. Kreegle would not want anyone to learn that he’d been pummeled by a woman. She hoped that his shame would stand between her and the upper management of the store. What could he say? What dared he say?

Two hours after the store opened, Mrs. Gordon appeared before her. “Miss O’Reilly,” she began, standing in front of her counter.

“Yes, Mrs. Gordon?” Maureen straightened and looked her in the eye, no longer frightened by the woman who’d shown herself weak and intimidated before Mr. Kreegle, ready to abandon Maureen because she’d been told to remove herself from a room.

“Due to the uncertain nature of your indiscretion, management has decided to give you another chance.”

Maureen squared her shoulders. “I’ve done nothin’ wrong. I did not take that necklace.”

Mrs. Gordon blinked in the face of Maureen’s stare, focusing beyond her shoulder, but did not respond to her declaration. “I’m to tell you that you have been demoted to the stockroom and placed on probation for the next two weeks. If in that time you perform satisfactorily with no further complaints against you, you will be allowed to remain a part of Darcy’s staff—in the stockroom, of course, and at that rate of pay. You will receive no pay for this week’s work. If, however—”

“That isn’t fair.” Maureen felt new rage flow through her veins at the injustice, at the fear of no pay, and in the newfound strangeness of standing up for herself.

“Fair? Is theft fair, Miss O’Reilly?” Mrs. Gordon’s voice rose enough to attract unwanted attention from the counter clerks nearby. She lowered it. “Mr. Kreegle said that if you and your sister would like alternative employment, you may have it, as long as you’re willing to relocate across state lines. In that case you—”

“No.” Maureen knew her voice faltered. “No!” came louder.

Heads turned their way.

Mrs. Gordon visibly composed herself. “You are most fortunate you have not been dismissed. I don’t know why formal charges have not been filed against you.”