Band of Sisters (9 page)

Stepping across the threshold, the woman turned again to Olivia with eyes empty as the sudden dead of winter.

Drake closed the door.

Maureen had not felt the damp and raw of New York’s bleak November as she’d made her way along cobbled and paved streets to the address printed on her da’s precious letter. She’d felt only the warmth of hope, hope, hope beating in her chest.

But with the all-important letter reduced to ashes in the Wakefields’ grate, and with nothing better than a shove and a kick through the front door, the cold seeped through Maureen’s woolen shawl and skirt and chemise, right down to the chilled bones beneath her flesh and the feeble heart they covered.

The late-afternoon mist became a frigid drizzle. Shivering against the dampness that trickled down her neck, she pulled her dripping shawl over her hair, adjusting the wet, woolen weight across her shoulders. The miserable turn of the weather reflected the miserable turn in her soul.

She’d tried to prepare herself for the possibility that Colonel Wakefield, like her da, might no longer be there. She’d never prepared herself for the rough treatment of the man called Drake.

She supposed him Olivia Wakefield’s husband. If so, she pitied her yet wondered that American women were so outspoken to their husbands in front of strangers. Still, Drake’s actions and wishes had prevailed.

“Katie Rose,” she whispered as she trudged through rain-wet leaves and muddy gutters, “what will we do now? What will become of us?”

The very whispering aloud made Maureen shiver. It gave her fear voice.

“There must be another way,” she spoke louder. Those words heartened her a little, so she tried again. “Of course there’s another way. There’s never only one way.” It sounded fine spoken into the rain, but she didn’t believe it and walked a little faster—down East 20th, across Park Avenue and Broadway—as though she could outrun the inevitable.

What if I told Mrs. Melkford that I have a job—that the Wakefields gave me a job in their great house?
Maureen turned down Fifth Avenue and crouched on a low stone wall beneath a tree—the first she’d seen surrounding a residence more modest than the Wakefield mansion. Dusk settled heavily.
She’ll know I’ve lied when I come back with no money and no place to live. They’ll not let me have Katie Rose if I’ve no job.

Maureen buried her head in her hands. She would have sobbed if she’d been able to muster the energy. But she was too worried to sob, too frightened at the thought of losing Katie Rose to Ireland and Gavin Orthbridge.

When she lifted her head without inspiration, the night had truly come. Without a map she’d be fortunate indeed to find her way back to Mrs. Melkford’s.

Just keep walkin’, Maureen O’Reilly. You must have come halfway. Washington Square . . . Washington Square . . . It’s bound to be straight ahead, and West Fourth is just a bit from there.

Twice she tripped, the weight of her sodden skirt stretching inconveniently over her boots. A sudden weariness made her clumsy, but she pushed that away, willing herself forward.

By the time she’d traipsed another four blocks, she began to slow.

As the rain had slackened, fog had settled in across the ground, as thick as any Maureen remembered over the lakes of Ireland. But suddenly the scene changed. In one swift breath, as though a magic fairy’s wand swept the night, lights, evenly spaced along the street, created a glow like stars hanging above her reach. Maureen gasped. She’d never seen anything so bright and beautiful, so close at hand.

She looked up and down Fifth Avenue, as far as she could see, through the fog that lay beneath her waist. She’d seen electric lights, but never like this—not out-of-doors and framing a street. “It’s a sign—a sign that somethin’ good will come.” She dared say the words.

Maureen stood and shivered all the more, realizing she was soaked through. She stuffed frozen hands into her pockets, hoping to warm them, and felt something crumpled there. Digging deep, she pulled out the bills the man, Jaime Flynn, had given her. She wondered if it was enough to rent a flat, to buy food, and how long it could last in New York. She unfolded the bills from the paper that enclosed them.

Something was written on the paper. She stepped beneath a streetlamp and in the pool of electric light held the paper close. “‘Darcy’s—34th Street, Manhattan,’” she read aloud.

“What did he say?” Something about knowing of a job and a friend—a friend who would act as a relative? Maureen frowned, her heart quickening.
Who is Darcy—his friend? What sort of job did he mean?

Fear and hope alternated in her mind. He didn’t seem like someone she should trust.
His eyes held that lustful light that kindles in men’s eyes—not quite like men of Lord Orthbridge’s cloth, who’ve nothin’ and none to fear, but men who know how to take possession of what they want.
She swallowed.
But he offered to help. And the Wakefields, though they surely have aplenty, refused.

She dared not presume that Mrs. Melkford would produce a miracle—she’d only helped because Maureen was so certain things would work out with the Wakefields.
No. I must convince Mrs. Melkford that I’ve worked it all out, that Katie Rose and I have a certain future and are in good hands.

Maureen tucked the paper and the bills inside her purse and drew in her breath.
But what if this man Darcy wants references? Everyone wants references—hard work, character, length of term.
She pondered the improbability of surviving an interview without them.

“Well,” she said aloud, “I’ll just have to get references, then, won’t I?”

But what if he wants what I’m not willin’ to give? What if he’s like Lord Orthbridge?

Maureen cringed at the thought.
But what choice do I have? If I go back to Ireland, I’ve nothin’, and Katie Rose is lost. If I stay here, at least we have a chance for a different life—eventually. ’Tis a big country.

She sighed, hoping she was only borrowing trouble that she’d never have to face.
Still, I’ve done what I had to before to survive and care for my family. Whatever it means, I’ll see it through.

Maureen closed her purse decisively, the click of the clasp sounding too loud in the lonely street.

“At last! I was ready to telephone the Wakefields!” Mrs. Melkford exclaimed. “They made you walk in this weather?” But she didn’t give Maureen time to explain. “You must get out of these wet things, child! Oh, I should have never let you go alone. The idea!”

Maureen could not remember having been fussed over, could not have said that anyone had ever drawn a hot bath for her, rubbed her hair dry before the stove, or made her sit while she was served a steaming bowl of turkey soup that tasted so delicious, so nourishing. No matter that the long day had proven disastrous, no matter that her nerves had been stretched taut and wound tight as a child’s top, she giggled at the kindness and grandmotherly warmth of Mrs. Melkford.

“And I’d just like to know what is so funny, Maureen O’Reilly?” Mrs. Melkford stood in the midst of her small kitchen, her nightcap askew and her hands clamped to her hips.

“I’m sorry—truly, I am.” Maureen coughed to constrain her giggles and wiped a laughing tear from her eye. “It’s just that you’re so good to me—so very, very good, and I love the pleasure of it.”

Mrs. Melkford colored in return. “Well, it’s nice to be appreciated, but I’d prefer that you’d been better treated. The thought of sending a young woman out alone after dark, let alone this time of night, is appalling—and in such weather! Whatever could they have been thinking?”

Maureen sobered.

“What is it, child? What did they say?”

Maureen drew a deep breath and spun a lie. “The comin’ home in such weather was fully my fault. I told them I was stoppin’ nearby.”

Mrs. Melkford opened her mouth to speak, but Maureen rushed on.

“I didn’t want to seem a burden the first time I met them. I wanted them to understand that I can manage on my own, with just a little help.”

Mrs. Melkford’s eyes softened and she took Maureen’s hand. “But you can’t manage alone, my dear.”

“As soon as I’ve begun a proper position, everythin’ will be fine.”

“They offered you a place, then? In service? In their home?”

Maureen shook her head. “I told you I don’t want to go in service—never again.”

“But that’s the occupation you gave for the ship’s manifest. It’s one of the best paying, most secure jobs a single woman in New York can take. Your lodging, your meals are provided, and the pay is—”

“No. No, I won’t do it.” Maureen could not keep her voice from rising. “I must provide a home for Katie Rose. I can’t do that if I’m housed in the servants’ quarters of some great house. And I was given an address—an address for a position.”

“Oh, that’s something, at least.” Mrs. Melkford poured them each a cup of tea. “What is the position? Where are they recommending?”

Maureen opened her purse and offered the paper Jaime Flynn had given her. Mrs. Melkford squinted at the paper. “‘Darcy’s, 34th Street, Manhattan.’” She frowned.

Maureen held her breath, hoping Mrs. Melkford would confirm the safety of the area.

“Darcy’s Department Store,” she said, tapping the paper. “That’s just off the old mile-long shopping district.” She stirred her tea, took a sip, and placed her cup in its saucer. Then she brightened. “I suppose that’s all right!”

“Department store?” Maureen didn’t know the term.

“Yes—oh, it’s like a group of shops, but all in one very large store. Ladies’ hats and gloves and shoes and day wear and undergarments. Jewelry and linens, children’s clothing, even some things for men—all under one roof.”

“I’ve always wanted to work in a shop.” Maureen could not believe her fortune. Perhaps Jaime Flynn was a good man, as good as his word, after all.

“It’s hard work, mind you,” Mrs. Melkford cautioned. “On your feet ten, twelve hours a day, running to and fro and waiting on customers—not really good for a woman’s health. And with the Christmas season upon us, the work will be ferocious.”

But it seemed wonderful to Maureen. “I’ve worked as a lady’s maid, and in service before that, I was on call day and night, with only a half day off on Sundays.”

“The pay is not much, and they’ll expect you to dress well—respectably and somewhat fashionably—to represent the store.”

Maureen’s heart fell. “I’ve only these things I came in.”

“Did you tell the Wakefields that?”

“No, I couldn’t.” Maureen drew in but honestly said, “I couldn’t bear to say such a thing.”

“A little pride is understandable, my dear, but it well may be your undoing.” She stood and brushed off the crumbs from their late supper. “Well, at least we can do something about that. The Missionary Aid Society has charity bundles—cast-off shoes and clothing and the like from society matrons. They’re not very practical, but we’ll likely find something suitable among them.” She eyed Maureen’s figure critically. “You’re a tall one, but there’s not much meat. We can make do.”

Maureen sighed. It was more, by far, than she’d expected.

“I suppose Monday’s soon enough to apply. That gives us a day or two to fit you out.” She placed the dishes in the sink. “Are they expecting you tomorrow?”

“The shop?”

“The Wakefields. Are they expecting you to move in with them tomorrow?”

Maureen hesitated.

“They are expecting you to live with them, aren’t they? At Morningside? Gramercy Park is fourteen or so blocks from Darcy’s, but you’re young; you’ll have no trouble with that. You’ll not make enough to live on your own, let alone to support your sister, you know.”

“No, no of course not.”

“Sunday? Monday?”

“They’ll not be expectin’ me before Monday.” Maureen checked her clothes to see if they were dry. She couldn’t bear to look into Mrs. Melkford’s eyes and lie outright.
And after all, I only said they’re not expectin’ me before then. I didn’t actually say they’re expectin’ me at all.

“Well, I’m just as glad to have you here for a few days more.” She patted Maureen’s hand. “Henry and I never had children of our own, and I do enjoy you girls.” She straightened to the business at hand. “The Society’s running on light duty through the weekend, thanks to the Thanksgiving food donations from churches and donors. I’ll not be needed there before Monday. We can outfit you, and you can rest up a bit before your big day. That will surely give the Wakefields time to contact Darcy’s owners and clear your way—unless they gave you a letter of reference to present directly.” Mrs. Melkford tipped her head. “Did they?”