by Cathy Gohlke
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 smil
ed. “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.
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.
M
aureen 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?”
