by Cathy Gohlke
Praise for Promise Me This
“Gohlke tells a gripping tale of sacrifice, loss, love, and hope against the setting of familiar historical events.”
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
“This dramatic and heart-wrenching interpretation . . . will enthrall fans of character-driven Christian fiction and readers who enjoy Francine Rivers.”
LIBRARY JOURNAL, starred review
“This grabs the reader from the first sentence. The characters are well-defined. . . . Readers will come away with a fresh understanding of that horrible day.”
ROMANTIC TIMES, 4½ star Top Pick review
“A historic disaster becomes the crucible forging bonds of loyalty, love, and sacrifice between young Michael Dunnagan, Owen Allen, and his sister, Annie. The bonds are tested by grief, war, disease, and separation. Gohlke’s attention to detail provides believable characters, good dialogue, and historical accuracy.”
LIFE:BEAUTIFUL magazine
“Gohlke’s historical romance . . . explores the depth of human nature and emotions through its three-dimensional, compelling characters. . . . Promise Me This will certainly satisfy romance readers who enjoy historical details and character-driven plots.”
CHRISTIANBOOKPREVIEWS.COM
“Gohlke does not disappoint with her third novel, a carefully researched story full of likable characters struggling to cope with the difficult realities of grief and wartime. . . . [A] sweet, compelling story.”
SHELF-AWARENESS.COM
“[A] riveting story [that] is mesmerizing and compelling as well as historically accurate. . . . This novel of hope, redemption, and promise amid profound despair is one that will bring the story of the Titanic alive during her centennial.”
FICTIONADDICT.COM
“With a masterful touch, Cathy Gohlke breathes fresh hope and poignancy into a story that delivers in every way.”
TAMERA ALEXANDER, bestselling author of A Lasting Impression
“Stunning. Simply one of the best—if not most powerful—books I have ever read.”
JULIE LESSMAN, author of A Heart Revealed
“A story of hopes lost and found, of dreams surrendered and reborn, that blossoms with warmth and quiet power in a priceless portrayal of undeserved grace.”
SIRI MITCHELL, author of A Heart Most Worthy
Visit Tyndale online at www.tyndale.com.
Visit Cathy Gohlke’s website at www.cathygohlke.com.
TYNDALE and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.
Band of Sisters
Copyright © 2012 by Cathy Gohlke. All rights reserved.
Cover photo of New York harbor copyright © by TriggerPhoto/iStockphoto. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of skirts copyright © by Bettmann/CORBIS. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of legs copyright © by CORBIS. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of floral pattern copyright © by Annmarie Young/Shutterstock. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of fabric copyright © by c. /Shutterstock. All rights reserved.
Designed by Ron Kaufmann
Edited by Sarah Mason
Published in association with the literary agency of Natasha Kern Literary Agency, Inc., P.O. Box 1069, White Salmon, WA 98672.
Unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version.
The Scripture quotation in the dedication is taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version,® NIV.® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.TM Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com.
Band of Sisters is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Gohlke, Cathy.
Band of sisters / Cathy Gohlke.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-4143-5308-1 (sc)
1. Sisters—Fiction. 2. Irish—New York (State)—New York—Fiction. 3. New York (N.Y.)—History—1898-1951—Fiction. 4. Ireland—Emigration and immigration—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3607.O3448B36 2012
813´.6—dc23 2012011647
Build: 2012-08-07 11:22:10
For My Mother
Loving, Courageous, Inspiring
Whose name, Bernice, aptly means “Bearer of Victory”
In celebration of your eighty-fifth birthday
She is worth far more than rubies. . . .
She opens her arms to the poor
and extends her hands to the needy. . . .
She speaks with wisdom,
and faithful instruction is on her tongue. . . .
Her children arise and call her blessed. . . .
“Many women do noble things,
but you surpass them all.”
PROVERBS 31
Contents
Acknowledgments
Part 1 Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Part 2 Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Note to Readers
About the Author
Discussion Questions
This book was born of a passion to end modern-day slavery and most of all to ask: What can I do to help in a need so desperate?
I’m not the first to ask this question and am profoundly grateful to and inspired by those who have gone before, the countless men and women who have forged trails of hope and established organizations—visible and underground—that work for the abolition of slavery and the healing of its victims. It is a privile
ge to join my voice with yours.
In the research and writing of this book I am deeply grateful to . . .
—the late Charles Sheldon, author of the novel In His Steps, which posed the question, “What would Jesus do?”—a book given to me by my mother one Easter Sunday long ago, a book and a question that changed my life.
—Daniel, my son, who challenged me to write about a “current need.” You planted a mental seed that inspired me to address modern-day slavery through a historical setting, enabling me to participate in this platform to raise awareness.
—Natasha Kern, my agent, for fearlessly championing books of strong spiritual and moral purpose, for sharing the vision behind this book and your insights on this manuscript, and most especially for your understanding, friendship, and wise counsel.
—Stephanie Broene and Sarah Mason, my gifted editors, for convincing me that while my heart is steadfast, my first draft is not, and for helping me bring to the page my heart’s intent; Babette Rea, my innovative marketing manager; Christy Stroud, my enthusiastic and dedicated publicist; and the wonderfully creative design, PR, and sales teams, and all the others at Tyndale House Publishers who’ve worked so diligently to bring this book to life and to readers. You are amazing!
—Dan, my husband, who read this manuscript in its early stages, gave me insights, and enthusiastically shared treks through Ellis Island by day, less enthusiastically trudged through the Battery with me by night, hoofed through parts of Manhattan’s Lower East Side in all kinds of weather—including the steep and winding stairs of aged tenements and old churches. You even combed a Brooklyn graveyard with me in search of the graves of Triangle Waist Factory fire victims. I love you, and I love exploring the world together.
—family, friends, and writing colleagues who have shared this story’s vision and unique journey, sometimes generously brainstorming plotting dilemmas with me and sometimes faithfully praying when the research became too dark to traverse alone: Elisabeth Gardiner, my daughter (who also read and gave valuable insights bathed in prayer through the manuscript’s first draft), Bernice Lemons, Gloria Delk, Rachel Kurtz, Carrie Turansky, Terri Gillespie, Dan Lounsbury, Angela Wampler, Reverend Karen Bunnell, Connie Wilkinson, Ed and Betty Sprague, Barb Tenney, Andee McKenica, Carol Sise, Kimberly Artrip, Liz Hook, Patti Lacey, my Elkton United Methodist Church family, writing colleagues through ACFW, and the amazing women I met through Proverbs 31. I know I don’t walk alone, and I am grateful beyond words.
—park rangers and historians of Ellis Island, the committed and enthusiastic staff of the Lower East Side Tenement Museum in Manhattan, newspapers and archives of old New York, and the wonderful people I met in Greenwich Village and from NYU who were willing to share their stories and insights into the life and history of New York City. I couldn’t have created this story without you or the wonderful books, maps, and news articles you brought to my attention.
And thank you, always, Uncle Wilbur, for reminding me that a sure way to know if I’m working in the will of God is to ask, “Do I have joy? Is this yoke easy? Is this burden light?”
My answer is “Yes! A thousand times, yes!”
OCTOBER 1910
Widowed crones, their ragged skirts and shawls flapping in the rising gale like so many black crows, threw back grayed heads and keened a wild lament. Though slow of gait, they kept a dozen steps ahead of Maureen O’Reilly, the eldest daughter of their dead neighbor. Not one dared walk beside the “Scarlet Maureen,” no matter that they’d been handsomely paid for their services from the young woman’s purse.
Maureen didn’t care so much for herself. She expected nothing more or less from the village gossips. But she did care for the heart of her younger sister.
She pulled Katie Rose, the lily flower of her family, close. Together the sisters trudged up the rocky hill, part of a bleak and broken parade, toward the stone-walled churchyard. Twice they slipped, cutting their palms, the path muddy from the morning’s rain. Once past the churchyard gate, Maureen pushed to the front of the troop, lifted her chin, and set her lips tight as the prow of a ship, daring the women to snub her sister.
The Keeton brothers had dug the grave that morning, and Joshua Keeton, the second eldest, nodded respectfully toward Maureen—an act so out of village character that Maureen turned away without acknowledgment.
The priest intoned his series of Latin prayers into the wind, finishing with the “Our Father.”
The Keeton brothers lowered the wooden coffin into its bed.
The priest sprinkled its top with holy water and resumed in his monotone, “Grant this mercy, O Lord, we beseech Thee, to Thy servant departed, that Margaret Rowhan O’Reilly may not receive in punishment the requital of her deeds . . .”
Maureen had attended enough wakes and burials in her twenty years that she could recite the passages by heart. But she’d never buried her mother—and that made this day different from all the rest. Shunned from normal attendance at the village church, she’d wanted this service to penetrate her heart; she’d wanted to repent and mourn the loss of her mother as deeply as Katie Rose mourned—Katie Rose, who could barely stand for the grief of it all.
But the lowering of the coffin spelled only relief for Maureen. For the seven years since her father’s death, Maureen had served at the landlord’s grand house as the only means of support for her mother and young sister, first as a scullery maid and later, because of her earnest work and graceful ways, as a parlor maid. When the landlord’s eye fell upon her, she was barely fourteen.
His mother, Lady Catherine—a good and godly woman—had seen the lust in her firstborn’s eye and taken Maureen under her wing. For six of those years she’d employed her, trained her in the ways of a fine lady’s maid, kept her as safe as she could. But even Lady Catherine could not outlive her strapping, willful son. Once she was gone, so was Maureen’s protection.
And that was what Maureen thought of as the priest droned on. Not so much for herself—she was beyond safety, beyond redemption—but protection for Katie Rose.
Maureen pulled a tear-matted wisp of chestnut hair from her sister’s pale cheek. Thirteen and so beautiful—too beautiful not to be noticed. The thought pierced Maureen’s heart. The sooner Katie Rose was placed under the protection of someone good and kind, someone strong and not beholden to or at the mercy of the landlord, the better. Their mother, in her last years of consumption, had not been willing to hear of it, not been willing to part with the jewel of her life. But it was up to Maureen now, and she knew what must be done. If only she could make her aunt agree.
Maureen started as Katie Rose pulled from her side, lifted a clod from the earth, and dropped it atop the lowered coffin. Maureen winced to hear the finality of the thud—earth on wood—but did the same, and the village followed suit.
The keeners began again their long, musical wailing. The small band retreated down the hill, the men stopping at the pub to drink to Margaret O’Reilly. “A fitting end,” they solemnly chorused, “to a great lady’s passing.”
But the women, expecting a well-laid tea, followed the road round to the cottage of Verna Keithly—aunt to Maureen and Katie Rose and sister of dead Margaret O’Reilly. When the troop reached her cottage door, Verna pulled the door handle, and her nieces passed through.
The band of women, having lingered a few steps behind, hesitated, stopped, and the leader, the blacksmith’s wife, whispered loudly, “She’ll not be staying, will she?”
Maureen looked back to see her aunt’s spine straighten as she removed her gloves.
“You’ll not be expecting us to join her for tea, Verna Keithly,” the cooper’s wife admonished. “Surely not!”
Aunt Verna tilted her head, smiled, and said simply, “No, Mrs. Grogan, I don’t believe I will” and quietly closed the door.
Maureen felt her own eyes grow wide. But her aunt smiled, wrapping a work-roughened hand round Maureen’s wrist. Maureen bit her lip at the sign of affection. But the tremble threatened anyway, s
o she turned her face aside, whispering, “You’ll live to regret this kindness to me. They won’t forget, you know.”
“My only regret is in not being kinder sooner.” Verna turned her niece to face her and hugged her properly. “I’ll do better before this night is through. I promise.”
Her aunt’s words quickened the hope in Maureen’s heart. Perhaps she’d grant her wish, after all. Surely she’d see the need, the urgency, once Maureen explained her plan.
“Shall I set the kettle, Aunt?” Katie Rose sniffled from the kitchen.
“Please! Tea first; I’ll cut the cake directly. But let’s get a bit of something warm going for later. I’ve a good shank of lamb already roasting.” She hung her damp cape on the hook nearest the door. “Good food—that’s what’s needed. Maureen, you scrub the potatoes. Katie Rose, cut the bread.”
As Maureen passed, her aunt whispered, “Once Katie Rose is abed for the night, we’ll talk. We need to talk before your uncle comes home.”
Maureen looked at the clock. “He’ll be closing soon, won’t he?”
Aunt Verna harrumphed. “Not tonight. First round’s on him—’tis the first one that loosens purse strings for all the rest. So kind and generous of the grieving brother-in-law, wouldn’t ya say?” She raised her brows in sarcasm, knotting her apron strings behind her. “They’ll drink and sing and smoke and dance their hearts out. He’ll cha-ching his till the whole night long. By then we’ll have things settled.”
After the washing up, when her sister finally yawned with the weariness and emotion of the day, Maureen sat by Katie Rose as the girl knelt to say her prayers, then tucked her sister in herself. Maureen knew that Katie Rose had spent the last year doing all the cooking and sewing and tucking, ever since their mam became too ill to care for either of them. No matter that her sister was nearly grown—it was good to do for her now, if only for this night, their last together.
When Maureen returned to the little parlor, Aunt Verna had stirred the fire and laid more peat, indicating a long chat was in the offing. Maureen sat down, less certain now the time had come. But she could not miss this opportunity to sway her aunt to her thinking, and so she began before Aunt Verna had taken her seat. “I’ve been thinking of Katie Rose and what’s best for her.”
