Band of Sisters

by Cathy Gohlke

  “Good, then, as have I,” her aunt returned.

  “If Katie Rose could live with you—” Maureen began, but her aunt cut her off, shaking her head.

  “Katie Rose must go—leave the village—and she must go now. Gavin Orthbridge has set his eye upon her.”

  Maureen felt the blood drain from her face. “He’s a boy!”

  “He’s fourteen and Lord Orthbridge’s son. He’s only bided his time for Margaret’s death, till the girl has nowhere to go. He’s already told her he can assure her of a job in his father’s house. You know what that means.”

  Maureen knew exactly. It meant the same for Katie Rose as it had meant for her, and there would be no escaping, not once the disgrace came upon her.

  “If she stays with me, there’ll be no way to save her. The Orthbridges or your uncle will see to that—especially if it means security or gold.” Her aunt spread her hands. “I’ve never been able to change that man’s course once the drink or the gold has him in its grasp.”

  Maureen felt that vile truth rumble in her stomach, sensed the floor drop beneath her chair. She could not imagine a life like her own for Katie Rose. It was not to be borne. “I’ll take her with me, though I don’t know how. Every penny went to Lord Orthbridge to pay for Mam’s rent and their food. I’d thought to go to Dublin, where no one knows me, and begin again, maybe work in a shop.”

  “With no references.” Aunt Verna laid a practical hand upon her hip.

  Maureen’s shoulders drooped. The only letter of reference she’d ever possessed was from Lady Catherine—a last effort to protect Maureen from her son. But when Maureen had given her notice, Julius Orthbridge had rooted through her things, found the letter, and burned it. Foolish, foolish me for not simply runnin’ away! The plan Maureen had laid such hope by now sounded feeble in her mouth. “I’d hoped to start over,” she whispered. “I wanted Katie Rose here, safe with you. Uncle owns the tavern. I thought—”

  “You’re not listenin’. She’ll not be safe with me.”

  “I am listenin’.” Maureen stood, angrily. “I said I’ll take her with me, then. I’ll find work for us both. I’ll go into service once more if I have to but never to be used like that again. And Katie Rose must never go into service! Never!” She bent her head into her hands. “Dublin’s not far enough to hide us both. I know Julius Orthbridge. He’ll come lookin’. And his son’s of the same cloth.”

  “Sit down and calm yourself, Maureen.” Her aunt spoke sternly. “There’s another way.”

  But Maureen could only see in her mind the image of a drunken, bare-chested Julius Orthbridge, could only relive that first dark and fearful night. The night Lady Catherine lay dying, when he, reeking of whiskey and bearing a globed lamp that cast its shadows up and down the walls from the open window’s night breezes, had barged into her servant’s quarters and thrown her roommate to the hallway.

  No matter that her screams had rent the night and were surely heard throughout the estate, they’d brought no one—no one to help her, no one to save her from the animal intent on relieving his lust. Not then, nor any night thereafter. They were all too afraid or too beholden to the English lord.

  But neither fear nor debt had bridled their tongues, and within the week the entire village had heard the gossip. Whether or not they’d pitied her, they’d openly shunned her. The image of Katie Rose facing such a night, such a life, clawed through her brain.

  “Take hold, Maureen! Take hold!” Her aunt shook her, forced her into a chair. “Drink this.” Aunt Verna forced something strong and vile-smelling between Maureen’s teeth, something that shot a hot path down her throat and shook her awake, making her sputter and cough.

  “That’s better. You need your senses about you. We’ve not much time. You must listen carefully.”

  Maureen tried to focus her brain.

  “Do you remember the tale your da told over and over when you were but a girl?”

  Maureen barely remembered her da, though she’d loved him with all of her heart. He was part of another life, a good life she could hardly claim as her own. She shook her head.

  “About the war in America—the war between the states, north and south—the American Civil War, they called it,” her aunt coaxed. “He’d gone to America to make his fortune—worked in service as a groomsman for some wealthy family in New York. They had some sort of falling-out, though your da never said what. When the war called for soldiers, he served with the Union, and he saved a man’s life—an officer. The game leg your da hobbled upon came because he took a Confederate bullet meant for the American.”

  Maureen blinked.

  “I can’t believe ya don’t remember.” Aunt Verna waited, then went on. “The officer was so grateful that when your da came home to Ireland, the man wrote him a letter, offerin’ to set him up in business if only he’d return to America.”

  Yes, Maureen remembered. Half-fantasy, half-real—she never knew where the truth lay . . . or the letter. And what good had letters done her?

  “That letter was the talk of the town, the first letter straight from America to be found in the village, and an invitation to streets paved in gold. And though never said aloud, ’twas the reason his first wife married him; God rest both their souls.”

  “What?” Maureen tried to push the web from her mind. “Mam said the letter was Da’s fireside tale.”

  Aunt Verna pressed on. “Your da and his first wife were expectin’ their first child. They planned to sail for America as soon as the babe was weaned. But she labored early, and mother and child died before the midwife reached them.”

  “I never heard that.”

  “It was never talked about. But your da grieved mightily and walked very near the abyss for seven years or so. It would have been better if he’d returned alone to America, but he hadn’t the heart. Then, finally, Margaret caught his eye and lifted his spirit. Though I think he never loved her as he did his first.”

  Maureen bristled. It was not a thing to be said the day of her mam’s burial and surely not by her mam’s sister.

  “Don’t look at me so. You were not there. You did not see.” Aunt Verna sighed and stood to stir the fire again, though it needed no stirring. “Your da had saved the letter, and once he and Margaret married and were expectin’ a bairn, he wrote to the man in America again, seein’ if he was still of a mind to make good his offer.” She set the poker down. “And the man heartily replied to come on, to bring his new bride and their babe, as soon as he was born. Promised to set him up in business and treat Morgan’s firstborn as his own son. He even sent money for the passage, first class.”

  “And is this another tale for a winter’s night? Because if it is, I—”

  “I read the letter with my own eyes. I read it to your da because he could not read and Margaret was visitin’ our folks when he came with it from town.” Her aunt returned to her seat. “They laid their plans, and after the babe came, hale and hardy, your da sold most everything but his good name. Most importantly, he sold his land. They waited until sweet William turned three years old, to be sure he was strong enough for the voyage, and set off for Dublin. Three weeks they waited for the ship to sail—some problems with the keel that needed mendin’.”

  Maureen knew the rest by heart.

  “Cholera swept through the city—a plague on two feet. William died, and they buried him there.” Her aunt stopped and stared into the fire. A moment passed before she lifted the corner of her apron and swiped her mouth. “A sweet and lovely lad.” She tucked her head to one side, and Maureen caught the shine in her eyes.

  “The great ship sailed for America without your mam and da. Your mam could not bear to be parted from the country holdin’ William’s grave, and she convinced herself that God had cursed your da and his letter and the entire scheme of goin’ to America—that the Almighty made him pay with the lives of his children for the notion of risin’ above himself. She’d have no more to do with it, no matter how your da begged, no matte
r how he reasoned. She was sure they’d both die before reachin’ the golden shore.”

  “Da owned his own land?” It was the part of the tale that Maureen could fathom least. None in the village owned so much as a grave plot, save her uncle, who owned his tavern. Lord Orthbridge owned all the rest.

  “And he could have bought it back with the money saved from the voyage, but Margaret hid it, convinced as she was that it was cursed; your da became just as enslaved as all the rest to Julius Orthbridge. She was not a good wife, my sister.”

  Maureen did not stir. The story rang true with every memory of her da’s bent back and white hair, of his sad retelling of the tale as he knew it—stolen gold and the lost letter—minus his wife’s deception.

  “She could not risk Morgan’s findin’ the letter, so afraid she was of goin’ to America. So she asked me to destroy it and give the gold secretly to the church—none to know the giver. She said I dared risk Morgan’s wrath if ever he learned the truth—and risk the curse of death, better than she; I was barren anyway.”

  Heat raced up Maureen’s neck. She hated her aunt’s accusing tone but understood. They’d both known the pain and betrayal of her mother’s selfishness. She was certain her mother had known the price Maureen paid for rent for their cottage and food, but never once had she questioned her. Maureen thought of herself as her mother’s workhorse. Her aunt must have felt something of the same.

  “I didn’t do it.”

  Maureen looked up. “What?”

  “I didn’t give the gold to the church and I didn’t destroy the letter.” Aunt Verna stood and clasped her hands. “I knew that one day she would rot in her selfishness and that your father would need the money and the hope. He was a good man, your da. But working for the Orthbridges did him in—that, and . . . well, the rest.”

  Maureen stood. “You kept the gold? Then why didn’t you give it for our rent and food when Da died? Why did you let Mam send me to the grand house, into service?”

  “I didn’t know what it would mean. I thought only that it would get you away from her. She would have turned you into herself, and I could not bear it—not for you. I didn’t know Lord Orthbridge would . . . would hurt you.”

  Maureen sat down again. “Hurt me.” What could she say? “Yes, he hurt me.”

  “I swear by the Virgin Mary that I never imagined it.” Aunt Verna sat down heavily. “I was foolish. I’m sorry, Maureen. I’m so terribly sorry. Margaret would not have taken the money, she was that sure it was cursed. But I should have stolen you away, sent you to America or London, to start fresh.”

  The idea was so big and unbelievable that Maureen laughed, one helpless, soulless laugh. “I couldn’t have gone. I was obliged to help Mam. I would have stayed—for her and for Katie Rose.” She looked at her aunt. “There’s no way out—no end for me. First it was looking to Da’s needs after his stroke; then it was providin’ for Mam, and now I must protect Katie Rose.” How could she have hoped to escape?

  “You’ll go to America and Katie Rose with you. You’ll stand up to that man and have him make good on his promise to your da. You’re Morgan’s firstborn now—his firstborn livin’.”

  Maureen laughed bitterly. “You’re crazy, Aunt Verna.”

  Aunt Verna’s lips pulled grim. “I’m not accustomed to bein’ told I’m crazy by a slip of a girl, and never under my own roof.”

  “I’m a soiled woman, Aunt. I’m nobody’s ‘firstborn son’ or ‘slip of a girl.’ I’m near crazy myself.”

  With a toss of her hand, Verna waved her niece’s melodrama aside and bent to the hearth, prying a stone from the space nearest the fire. “You should go on the stage for all of that, Maureen. You sound as dark as your mam, but there’s more to you than she ever reckoned. You’ve just forgotten what it is to hope, to have a chance at life. You’d best set your mind to put that life to good use.”

  Maureen watched as her aunt pried a second stone, lifted out both, and wedged a poker beneath a third. From their opened graves, she pulled a rectangular metal box, dusted the dirt with her apron, turned a key set in the lock, and removed a small pouch and twice-folded paper from inside. She laid both on the rug by the hearth, then replanted the box, easing the bricks into place.

  “There, now.” Aunt Verna looked up, smiling, and knelt before Maureen, cupping her hands. She spread the neck of the pouch, turned it upside down, and spilled gold coins into her niece’s palms. “What do you think of that?”

  Olivia Wakefield’s maid pulled the last pearl button through the loop of her mistress’s deep-apricot watered silk. She dusted a faint, shimmering powder across her shoulders and pinned the best and last of the autumn’s garden roses in her upswept hair. Then she stood back, critically examining the masterpiece from coiffed head to slippered toe, and smiled. “Perfect, miss.”

  “Thank you, Mary. You’ve outdone yourself.”

  “You’re ready for the ball, miss.” Mary tucked a wayward wisp behind her mistress’s ear.

  “Now or never.” Olivia smiled, then sobered. “I’m not much for balls.”

  “But this is your birthday, miss. Mrs. Meitland said that everyone who is anyone in New York will be here. The Ascots, the Vanderbilts, the—”

  “Please, Mary.” Olivia raised her gloved hand to stop the outpouring. The less she knew or thought about the grand event her sister and brother-in-law had orchestrated, the better chance she had of pretending a composure she did not feel.

  Mary curtsied again, a habit that made Olivia want to bob up and down, too.

  “Please tell Dorothy I’ll be down directly.”

  “Yes, miss.” Mary curtsied once more but hesitated. “The guests are arriving. There’s already a dozen carriages by the—”

  “Dorothy and Drake will greet them.”

  “Yes, miss.” Mary bobbed less certainly but obediently pulled the door behind her.

  Olivia sighed, relieved to be alone at last. She blinked at the softly powdered oval in the looking glass above her dressing table, recognizing the face but unnerved by the lackluster eyes reflected there. She hated this vulgar display of wealth and eligibility Dorothy and Drake had concocted. She’d argued and pleaded but in the end hadn’t known how to stop them.

  “Father, I miss you tonight most of all,” she whispered. At last she breathed deeply, straightened, took up her dance card, and marched toward the battle.

  Along the upper hallway, she paused and turned the brass knob of her father’s study. One moment. Just one moment. Olivia slipped inside and leaned against the closed door, breathing in the faint, lingering scent of his tobacco. She strolled the perimeter of the room, running gloved fingers over his collection of stones chipped from the bases of pyramids in Egypt, tracing long shelves of leather-bound volumes. She smiled as she spun his globe—something she was ordered not to do as a child—and smiled again as she blessed the marble busts of his literary trio, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis—“Tous pour un, un pour tous.” She ran her fingers for the hundredth time over the last stack of books he’d been reading. All of it yours a year ago. All of it mine now.

  Olivia sank into the leather chair behind his mahogany desk, turned her face to the moon-filled window behind her, and fingered the string of pearls at her neck—his last personal gift given on her last birthday, a quiet and earnest family affair that he’d understood she loved so well. You understood so many things.

  And she had understood him—understood what he was about to say, about to dictate, even before he’d formed the words. She’d been his protégé in travel and research for historic articles ever since her disappointment—ever since she’d sworn off men, a determination her father had assured her would pass with time. She’d been his secretary and typist for treatises on issues of social justice. She’d embraced the causes he’d espoused, and that had been enough for her—to work at his side—until last year.

  With his first sign of heart trouble, he’d stopped traveling and insisted that she embrace a cause of her own, a l
ife of her own. That was when she’d taken up with other young women from her church, forming a circle. They’d embraced the garment industry workers’ strike, hoping that wealth could influence where desperation and a righteous cause could not. But the crusade was short-lived, at least for her.

  When her father suffered a massive heart attack, Olivia had given up her crusade for social justice to nurse him. He’d lingered three months, arguing all along that her time with him was too great a sacrifice from her own life and aspirations.

  Oh, Father. It was so little.

  He’d encouraged but never pestered her to marry. Now that he was gone, it seemed the topic of every conversation with her sister and brother-in-law.

  They’ve tried to assume the position of father, mother, and matchmaker—all in one. It does not suit them. It does not suit me.

  “I thought I’d find you here.” Dorothy, magnificent in ivory silk and diamonds that sparkled in the light of the hallway’s chandelier, stood, eyebrows raised and hand on hip in the doorway. A perfect halo of electric light spread round her. “Hiding, Miss Liberty?”

  Olivia smiled at their father’s pet name for her—a title bestowed when she was born the same day Lady Liberty was dedicated in New York harbor. “Seeking courage, I’m afraid.”

  “You’re not a coward,” her sister chided.

  “I miss him, Dottie,” Olivia pleaded, hating her own pleading.

  But it softened her older sister, if only for a moment. “I miss him too. But that’s why you need someone, Livvie. You’re turning into a recluse, shut up in this house.”

  Olivia turned away. “While he was alive, I had a purpose. I felt more alive—a part of something greater than myself.”

  “Father had that way about him.”

  “But now—I don’t know. I feel . . . adrift.” Olivia raised her shoulders helplessly.

  “A ship without its mooring?”

  “Yes . . . exactly.”