Band of Sisters (8 page)

Mrs. Melkford looked at her steadily. “You sewed a twenty-dollar gold piece into your sister’s hem?”

Maureen nodded.

Mrs. Melkford sighed. “Well, it’s not enough. Even so, you might as well say good-bye to that.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’ll wash her clothes in the hospital, my dear.” She studied Maureen, hesitated, and looked away again. “I’m sorry to say that not everyone is honorable—even in America.”

Maureen groaned inwardly, knowing precisely what she meant; it was one more strike in a miserable day.

She slumped back, thrusting frozen hands into her pockets. And she felt the dollars—thirty American paper dollars—she’d completely forgotten. Surprised, she started to show them to Mrs. Melkford, about to explain about Jaime Flynn and his offer. But something about the memory made her uncomfortable; something about it felt dishonorable in its own right, and she hesitated.

When she looked up, she saw Jaime Flynn watching her from the next aisle of the ferry. He winked, tipped his hat, and turned away.

Olivia’s October birthday ball had been grueling enough. But Thanksgiving marked the first major family holiday without her father and the foretaste of a long winter.

Dorothy and Drake had offered to celebrate the feast at their home, but Olivia insisted that they sit down at the Wakefield family table. She could not imagine spending their father’s favorite holiday elsewhere—and Olivia knew that if Dorothy and Drake hosted the day, they would parade yet another entourage of would-be suitors before her. She craved a quiet time with those who’d known and loved her father well.

But when they waltzed through the front door, late by nearly an hour, Dorothy and Drake were not alone.

“Olivia, dear.” Dorothy pressed her sister’s arm in greeting. “I meant to tell you that we’ve compelled Mr. Morrow to join us for the day.”

Olivia could not muster a smile.

Dorothy pulled her aside as the men handed coats and hats to the parlor maid. “He’s a business associate of Drake’s—all alone today—horrendous! I knew you wouldn’t mind.” She whispered, “I sent word to Cook. We all know how she hates surprises!”

“You didn’t send word to me!” Olivia hissed.

But Dorothy shot her sister a warning glare as Drake introduced Mr. Curtis Morrow.

“We’re so glad you are able to join us, Mr. Morrow,” Olivia lied.

“It’s most kind of you to invite me, Miss Wakefield. I feel I may be intruding on a family holiday.” He bowed slightly. “Please allow me to express my belated condolences on the death of your father. I understand your loss was great.”

“Yes, it was. It is,” Olivia returned, trying to keep the irritation from her voice, wishing Dorothy would take up the conversation. “Did you know my father, Mr. Morrow?”

“I’m sorry to say I never had the pleasure.”

She nodded again and looked away, relieved when Grayson, the butler, appeared at the dining room door.

“I believe dinner is served.” Olivia hesitated only a moment before taking the arm that Drake offered and leading her guests to the table.

The Thanksgiving meal, which had normally included more than a dozen guests, celebrated with such joy when her father was alive, dragged into the late afternoon. Dorothy and Drake kept a lively conversation running with Mr. Morrow concerning the rising opportunities in real estate investments. The two men congratulated one another heartily on their business acumen and strokes of genius but deplored the lack of new investors willing to realize the market’s potential.

Olivia silently marveled that there was no mention by Drake of the missing founder of their feast and fortunes or her father’s lifelong custom of asking those around the table to share what they were especially thankful for. She sighed inwardly, supposing they’d already rejoiced in the treasures of their hearts. She resigned herself to tight smiles and polite nods when necessary, but her real appreciation was for the change of light and shadows that crossed the table as the day waned.

“You’re very quiet, Miss Wakefield,” Mr. Morrow observed as Grayson lit the candles.

“Am I? I beg your pardon.” Olivia laid her napkin upon the table. “Perhaps I’m a little tired.”

“We’ve overstayed our welcome.” Mr. Morrow was quick to lay aside his own napkin.

“Nonsense, Curt,” Drake insisted, waving him back to his seat. “It’s just that Olivia has no interest in business. We’ve bored her.”

“My apologies, Miss Wakefield.” Mr. Morrow gave her his full attention. “We’ve been rude and neglectful. May I ask what interests you especially?”

Olivia hesitated, but Dorothy did not. “She’s mad about causes, Mr. Morrow. My sister bears the weighty heart of a reformer.” Dorothy smiled.

“You exaggerate, Dorothy,” Olivia protested feebly.

“Not at all,” Drake interrupted. “Give credit where credit is due. Olivia was a veritable pillar in last year’s mink brigade with the shirtwaist workers’ strike—rode in the backseat of her father’s touring car in the parade and everything.”

“There was more to it than that, Drake,” Dorothy chided.

“Oh yes, she wrote a letter to the editor of the
Times
.” He smiled condescendingly, took a sip of his wine, and set the glass down. “But I don’t believe they printed it.”

Olivia’s fists clenched beneath the table, but before she could speak, Mr. Morrow intervened.

“I understand the women won their point. I believe I read about an hourly wage increase and a reduction in working hours.”

“Too small a victory,” Olivia argued.

“But you must have been proud that your efforts yielded success.”

“I was not proud, Mr. Morrow,” she countered, glad to disagree. “The women of the factory in question suffered much in their strike—no pay throughout the process, police and government brutality, arrests, beatings, humiliation paid for by powerful men who wanted to silence them. And in the end a paltry victory. No closed union at one of the biggest factories, no lasting ‘success.’”

“But if they—”

“They, like the smaller factories that settled, desperately need a union. These women are largely poor immigrants.” Olivia’s righteous blood rose for the first time in months. “Their pay is not ‘pin money’ as the papers suggested, but the difference between food on the table and standing naked in the street.”

“Olivia!” Dorothy reddened. “Your language, please.”

“What did I tell you?” Drake raised his eyebrows in Morrow’s direction.

But Curtis Morrow did not digress. “I confess to knowing little about the needs of New York City’s garment workers.”

“Then allow me enlighten you, Mr. Morrow. The owners have no reason to negotiate or properly treat their workers when they hold every ace in their poker game.”

Dorothy looked as if fainting might be an option. “Mr. Morrow, please excuse my sister. She is—”

“She’s quite right, Mrs. Meitland. I know practically nothing about the working poor of this city.” He looked Olivia levelly in the eye. “And I should learn, now that they pay the rent and mortgages my investments depend upon.”

“You own tenements, Mr. Morrow?” Olivia felt disgust rising in her throat.

“Apartment buildings, Olivia,” Drake interjected. “Mr. Morrow owns apartment buildings throughout the city.”

“Recently acquired,” Mr. Morrow stated but shifted in his seat. “And please, Miss Wakefield, all of you, call me Curtis.”

Olivia was about to speak when she felt her sister’s foot connect sharply with her ankle. “Curtis is new to New York. Drake recently assisted him in some investments—real estate is simply booming in this city.”

Olivia stared at Dorothy. It was the third time she’d emphasized the real estate “boom.”

Drake’s warning glare was unmistakable.

“And we’re so glad he has joined us as our guest today,” Dorothy finished graciously, meekly, and went back to her wine.

Olivia did her best to withhold judgment while she processed the trio. “Does that mean real estate is not your primary business, Mr. Morrow?”

“Curtis, please.” He smiled evenly.

She did not blink.

“No—not until recently. I’m just up from Washington. It seems the literary world is bustling in New York—and that is my primary business. So I’m considering making a permanent move to your fair city.” He raised his glass. “That would mean, of necessity, changes in the major areas of my life—not least of all, my investments. Your brother-in-law has been good enough to guide me in areas I know nothing about.”

“And that includes the purchasing of tene—”

“Apartment buildings,” Drake amended.

Dorothy coughed. “Curtis, tell Olivia about your publishing business. I know she will find that fascinating. She’s something of a writer in her own right.”

Curtis Morrow raised his brows appreciatively, but before he could set down his fork to speak, Grayson stood beside Olivia. “Begging your pardon, Miss Wakefield, there is a . . . a woman to see your father.”

“Father?” She was taken aback. “Does she not know—?”

“What does she want?” Drake demanded.

Grayson stiffened, clearly uncomfortable speaking between his employer and Drake Meitland. “She claims to possess a letter assuring his assistance.”

“Not another charity beggar!” Drake stormed. “Tell her to go away; the estate is settled.”

“A letter? From Father?” Dorothy asked.

“She said it is an old letter, ma’am—an ‘old obligation,’ she said, to be precise.” Grayson straightened, waiting upon Olivia.

But Drake threw back the rest of his wine and stood. “It’s my concern; I settled the estate. I’ll get rid of her.” He tugged his vest into place. “Please, go on with your meal. I won’t be a moment.”

But when he’d left the room, silence reigned. Two full minutes passed. Grayson poured coffee.

“Who could be claiming an obligation after all this time?” Olivia wondered aloud. “Is it anyone we know, Grayson?”

“I think not, ma’am. She said her name is Miss O’Reilly. She recently arrived from Ireland—this week, I believe she mentioned.”

“This week?” Dorothy gasped. “What business could Father have had in Ireland?”

“None that I know, madam,” Grayson answered respectfully, but Olivia suspected from the squaring of his shoulders and pulling back of his chin that there was something he was not saying.

“O’Reilly,” Olivia mused aloud. “What is there about that name that sounds familiar?”

Dorothy shrugged and bit into a morsel of apple pie, moaning in pleasure. “Father’s favorite! I’m glad you had Cook make it, Livvie. It wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without it!” She smiled. “But we’re neglecting our guest. Please, Curtis, you were about to tell us—”

“Please excuse me.” Olivia rose from the table. “Don’t think me rude, but I would like to meet Miss O’Reilly.”

Curtis Morrow stood.

“Drake will take care of her, Livvie; there’s no need,” Dorothy urged.

But Olivia was nearly to the door. As she reached it, a woman’s anguished cry came from the drawing room at the end of the hallway. Olivia stopped short, feeling like a child caught spying on her elder, but reminded herself that she was mistress of the house, that if anyone should feel out of place, it should be Drake.

She mustered her courage and pushed open the drawing room door.

A flame-haired woman bent over the hearth, beating her purse upon the open fire, crying, “No! No!”

“What—?” Olivia gasped.

Drake grabbed the woman’s arm and jerked her back, but she wrenched away and fell to the hearth, raising her purse to beat the fire again. It was no use; the hungry flames shot high, consuming the paper she sought to reclaim. The woman sat back, covered her face with her hands, and sobbed aloud.

“What has happened?” Olivia demanded. “Drake, what is the meaning of this?”

“He’s burned the letter! He’s burned Da’s letter!” The woman lifted her face to Olivia’s, her green eyes wide and stricken.

Drake’s face reddened. “I told you I’d take care of this, Olivia.”

“I don’t understand. What justification can there be for such treatment of a guest in this house—ever?” Olivia stared from Drake to the disheveled woman, who could have been no older than she, and back to Drake.

But Drake, clearly working to control his fury, did not answer, and the young woman apparently could not. Olivia pushed between them and helped the woman to her feet. She felt not much more than skin and bones.

“Miss O’Reilly was just leaving.” Drake spoke with authority, taking the broken woman’s arm from Olivia to escort her roughly from the room.

“But what is this about a letter from Father?”

“Your father?” The flame-haired beauty turned, wrenching her arm from Drake. “Is Colonel Wakefield your father?” she nearly begged.

“Co—Colonel?” Olivia stuttered, as taken off guard by the question as she was by the woman’s thick brogue. “Yes, yes—well, he was. Drake has told you that my father passed away?”

The woman’s face fell and her breath caught in a sob. “Then it’s true. Then it’s no matter.”

“What is no matter?” Olivia stepped closer, wishing to help.

“Enough of this,” Drake insisted. “Miss O’Reilly has another appointment and must be on her way.” He ushered her to the front door, ignoring Dorothy and Curtis Morrow, who had emerged from the dining room.