by Cathy Gohlke
Olivia skipped ahead, and her heart broke as she knew it would. Aunt Lillian died in a sanatorium, alone—apart from her family—a year before the war’s end.
Morgan O’Reilly survived but never again saw the dying woman he loved. Even after saving their son, Morgan was treated worse than an enemy by Douglas and Lillian’s parents and blamed for Lillian’s death. Because she’d loved him? Because he was poor? Because he was Irish? In a family of abolitionists—a family determined to fight for human rights and freedom?
Olivia closed the journal and returned it to the bookshelf. It was a side of her father and family she’d never known, and she didn’t know how to bear its weight.
She barely remembered her grandparents. They’d lived north of the city, and her father had not fostered a close relationship between them. Perhaps this was why. She shook her head. It’s too harsh, that Aunt Lillian was denied the only love offered her.
But Olivia knew such contrariness was not only possible, it was accepted business every day in New York City. Prejudice and class systems had not died with the war.
The downstairs clock struck eight. Olivia had barely time to dress for church. But she couldn’t push the story from her mind. What became of Morgan O’Reilly, and how does Miss O’Reilly fit into the puzzle?
Olivia wanted only to return to her father’s study and journals, so she was more than vexed to learn that Dorothy and Drake had invited Curtis Morrow to join them in their family pew, then to spend Sunday dinner and half the afternoon with them.
“How could you invite him again, after that scene at Morningside?” Olivia hissed from the side of her mouth, eyes on the pulpit ahead.
“Why are you so rude?” Dorothy returned beneath her breath. “We’re only entertaining him.”
“With no ulterior motive?” Olivia folded her hands in her lap but would have liked to cross her arms.
“Yes, of course there’s a motive. Drake and I both hope you’ll fall madly in love with him, and then we can stop this charade!” Dorothy pretended to pout. “You can’t imagine how tedious it is, inviting every eligible bachelor in New York to dinner. If you’d simply pick one, we could all get on with things.”
Olivia’s mouth formed a grim line.
Dorothy smiled. “Stop being such a fussbudget.” She pinched her sister as the congregation rose for its call to worship. “What better things do you have to do?”
But Olivia could not tell her sister that she’d begun the diaries. Even she felt she was treading on forbidden territory. Still, her heart told her their father would approve. She couldn’t help thinking there was something that he’d want her to do. But she didn’t know what. Not yet.
For the happiness and laughter the two women shared, for the delights of stories and kitchen, of hearth and home, Monday came too quickly.
Maureen tugged her lawn shirtwaist, with the smallest of stains upon its embroidered cuff, beneath her navy woolen skirt. She buttoned the matching jacket—secondhand but new to her, altered by Mrs. Melkford’s pinning and her own needle to fit her figure perfectly.
Mrs. Melkford stepped back and clasped her hands with all the pride of a loving mother. Maureen pinned the neat hat she’d fashioned from bits and pieces in the bags of cast-off clothing over her curling, upswept hair. When she gazed in the looking glass, she felt for the first time as she imagined a princess might feel, going out into the world, blessed by mother and priest. But when she took up her purse, the hold and hiding place of her forged letter, she felt as though something foreign and dirty mucked her boots and soiled her jacket. She looked twice in the glass to make certain nothing showed across her cheek.
Could she have stayed and worked with Mrs. Melkford in her kitchen forever, Maureen would have been more than content. But she could not ask. Everythin’ for Katie Rose and myself depends on this job. I’ve spun too many lies for the sake of securin’ stability and a home for us; I daren’t go back now.
“Everything will go well, my dear; you’ll see. You look the perfect American.” Mrs. Melkford brushed a stray thread from Maureen’s sleeve and shook her head. “Oh, my. It does not do to get so attached to you girls. You come and go, and we old ladies never see you again.”
Maureen caught Mrs. Melkford in a quick embrace before hefting her carpetbag. “I could never forget you nor your kindness. I’ll come to you again and again once I’m settled. I promise.”
“Stuff and nonsense. You’ll be too busy with your job and sister and the Wakefields—all as it should be. But I’ll see you next Saturday, and we’ll go together to see how your Katie Rose is doing. If they release her, well and good. If they don’t, perhaps they’ll let you see her. And I expect to see you in church on Sundays—you mind that.” She looped the button beneath the collar of Maureen’s coat. “Now be off with you, child.” Mrs. Melkford hugged her again quickly and closed the door.
Determined not to look back, Maureen drew a deep breath and covered the two blocks to the trolley stop. Reading Mrs. Melkford’s directions, she smiled. The dear lady had detailed everything—from the cost of the trolley ride right down to turning in the front door of Darcy’s Department Store.
Despite her nervousness and the regret that nipped her heels, Maureen loved the trolley ride—a miracle in the midst of the street—but her breath caught as she stepped from the car. Darcy’s sign stood out in great black letters against its storefront, which covered most of the bustling Manhattan block. How many hundreds of things can one of these department stores possibly sell that they’re housed in a place so huge and grand?
The flush of confidence she’d felt upon leaving Mrs. Melkford fell away, and all the worries of looking old-fashioned, provincial, and fully Irish swam like minnows in her stomach. She shifted the carpetbag clasped between her palms, sure she looked thirteen and poor and shamed all at once. She wished mightily for the safety of Mrs. Melkford’s kitchen and nearly turned back.
But her feet carried her forward, and when she reached the plate-glass door and passed through, she caught sight of a tall, redheaded woman reflected in a large mirror on the far wall—someone dressed as neatly and fashionably as the women clerking behind the counters and wearing the hat she’d fashioned herself. Tentatively Maureen set her bag at her feet and touched the feather near her temple, just to be certain she was truly that woman.
“May I help you, madam?” a clerk in a slim skirt, white shirtwaist, and dark jacket asked, just as if Maureen were there to buy something, as if she could buy something.
But Maureen was dazzled by the sheer size of the store, by its counters of gloves and rows of hats and displays of ruby brooches and sparkling earrings and watches. Each way she looked, there was more to see and more of everything in the world than she had ever dreamed. Maureen clasped her throat and swayed slightly.
“Are you all right, madam?” The clerk reached her hand to steady Maureen.
“Yes, yes, thank you, miss. A bit warm, I am.” Her brogue came thicker than usual.
The clerk drew back and sniffed.
Maureen sensed the snub and straightened. “I’m here to apply for a shop position.”
The clerk smiled condescendingly. “I believe there are no sales positions available at this time.”
“I’ve been referred.” Maureen refused to act cowed, though she felt it entirely. “By the Wakefield family and Mrs. Melkford of the Missionary Aid Society.” She had no idea if those names would mean anything to the woman but thought they sounded imposing.
“The Wakefield family?” The woman blinked, looked momentarily uncertain, turned on her heel, and whispered to an older woman behind the nearest counter. Both women scrutinized Maureen from head to foot. Maureen stared boldly in return. Now was not the time to falter.
“You’d best come with me,” the second woman said, not pausing to see if Maureen would follow.
But Maureen, grabbing her bag, did follow, through a maze of counters, clear to the back of the store. They stopped before a wall, and Maureen w
ondered if the woman had lost her senses, until the wall opened, revealing a tiny room with a man inside.
“Fourth floor, Eddie.” The woman stepped inside the minuscule room, then said impatiently, “Are you coming?”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Maureen stepped into the tiny room, feigning understanding.
The young man swung a lever; a caged door closed. He pushed a button, and the wall slid shut before her. Maureen gasped as immediately the tiny room jolted and jerked. She felt as if the floor might be falling beneath her feet. She grasped the wall, feeling the blood drain from her head and her stomach plummet to her toes.
The woman and the young man glanced her way, exchanged a quiet snicker between them, and turned their faces toward the gate. She saw the woman turn slightly, mouth “greenhorn” to the man called Eddie, and he grinned again.
Maureen clenched her jaw.
Suddenly the little room stopped, jerked, and jolted once more. Eddie pulled back the accordion gate, and the wall opened before them. “Fourth floor, ladies,” he announced.
The clerk walked out, her head high. When Maureen felt certain the tiny room would no longer move, she followed, straightening her skirt. The young man winked appreciatively, and Maureen felt the heat rise in her face.
“It’s an elevator, that’s all,” he whispered. “Nothing to worry.” And he winked a second time. Maureen fastened her eyes straight ahead and quickened her step.
The hallway opened into a series of rooms. As they passed open doors, Maureen glimpsed men and women bent over long ledgers with pens in hand, and others hunched or sitting straight before a half-dozen metal machines that shouted clackety-clack as their operators punched raised buttons. Farther down the hallway they passed a room of tailors, straight pins between their lips and cloth measures round their necks. She heard a more familiar hum from somewhere beyond, and though she couldn’t see them, she envisioned treadle sewing machine operators—something modern but familiar from her days at Orthbridge Hall.
At last they came to a closed door. The woman knocked and, not waiting for a reply, walked in, Maureen at her heels.
A graying and middle-aged man with a loosened tie hanging over a paunch stomach sat behind a desk, banging away on one of the clackety-clack machines Maureen had seen through open doors.
“Well?” He didn’t look up.
“Excuse me, Mr. Kreegle; this girl says she’s come with references.” The woman spoke loud enough to be heard.
The man barely glanced at Maureen, never breaking rhythm on the machine. “Send her to Bert.”
“Not those references, Mr. Kreegle.” The woman fidgeted. “The Wakefields sent her—and some missionary society woman.”
The clacking stopped. The man studied Maureen, his eyes lighting on her carpetbag.
Maureen felt the warmth shoot up her neck but lifted her chin and set her bag squarely at her feet, as if it was perfectly proper to apply for a shopgirl position with all her worldly goods in tow.
“You can go, Mrs. Gordon.” He leaned back in his chair as the door closed. “You say the Wakefields sent you?”
“Yes, sir, for a sales position.”
He looked doubtful.
“The Wakefields of Morningside, sir.”
“A bit out of their line, I’d imagine.” He frowned, looking her up and down but resting his eyes in places that flustered Maureen.
“I’m a friend of the family,” she lied and felt the heat rise up her neck again. “Our fathers were friends.” That felt more natural.
“I see.” But clearly he didn’t. Still, he pulled a printed form from his desk drawer. “Fill out this application and bring it back tomorrow.”
“I could bring it back today,” Maureen offered quickly.
“Eager little thing, aren’t you?” He grinned. Maureen hated his grin.
“It’s just that I need to begin, sir, to establish my employment,” she stammered.
“Just off the boat?”
Maureen thought she’d best be clear, lest she lose her nerve and the opportunity to speak with someone in authority. “My sister has been detained at Ellis Island until I can provide proof of my ability to care for her.” No need, she thought, to mention the chicken pox.
“I see.” He leaned farther back and swept his eyes over her again. “Is she, by any chance, as good a looker as you?”
Maureen shifted her purse to her other hand. “I’ll need a letter statin’ guarantee of employment and my wages. I’ll need to earn enough to live on and to support us both.”
His brows arched. “Bold, too.”
Maureen astonished herself with her boldness.
“Sales clerking’s not the highest-paying job.” He stood and walked clear around Maureen, eyeing her up and down, then leaned against the desk, bringing his height more in line with hers, his eyes close to her face. “There’re jobs that pay better. Some jobs pay much better.” He smiled and moved closer, pulling a tendril from her upswept hair to her neck.
Maureen stepped back, but he stepped forward again, until she pressed against the wall.
“I want to be a shopgirl. I’ve always wanted to work in a shop.” Her nerve was fading fast and her brogue thickening.
He leaned closer, almost smirking. “A shopgirl?”
She shoved her purse between them, pulling out the letter with Mrs. Melkford’s signature. “You see, Mrs. Melkford of the Missionary Aid Society knows I’ve come, and she’s written this letter of recommendation.”
He hesitated but took the letter, running his eyes over the page.
“And I’ll be seein’ the Wakefields this evening. They’ll be eager to know who carried out their wishes so quickly.”
He stopped smiling, seemed to reconsider, and stepped back. “Sit down.” He pointed to a chair against the wall. “Fill out the application. I’ll have one of the girls start you on the floor.”
“Do you have a pencil, please?” Maureen regained a measure of composure. “And my letter of employment. I’ll be needing that.”
“Stop by before you’re through for the night; I’ll have it then.”
She straightened.
“Never mind. I’ll send it to you on the floor.” He lit a cigarette, threw the saving, damning letter on a pile of correspondence, and went back to punching buttons on the machine.
Shaken, Maureen took up the pencil. She carefully completed her application, boldly printing the Wakefields’ address as her place of residence and Mrs. Melkford as her secondary character reference.
By midday, Maureen had been given a tour of the store and cloakroom by a junior clerk, a rundown on company rules and regulations as they affected salesgirls by the floor supervisor, and a station as something of an apprentice beneath a weary clerk named Alice in the department of ladies’ hats.
Maureen didn’t know if her placement was a random choice on the part of Darcy’s staff or because they’d noticed her smart, deep-blue hat on the way in. She hoped the latter. Regardless, she was determined to make a good showing—a hard worker and a personable, fashionable salesgirl.
“What do you mean you can’t read the prices?” Alice snapped when Maureen made her first sale. “Don’t you read and write?”
“Yes, surely!” Humiliated, Maureen dropped the sales pad and pencil and whispered as she retrieved them from the floor, “It’s just that I don’t know American money yet.” How had she not thought to ask Mrs. Melkford? “I’ll learn ever so quickly—I promise—if you could just explain it to me, please.”
“Well, I like that. Girls smart as a whip apply here six days a week, and you waltz in off the boat with not a brain in your head!” Alice muttered, whispering the price to Maureen. “You’re lucky clerks don’t make change! Pretend you know what you’re doing!”
The afternoon wore on with no breaks; Maureen was loathe to ask even about visiting the washroom.
“There’s no sitting down, you know,” Alice admonished when Maureen perched on the stool behind the counter during a
slow period. “They’ll dock your pay for that—didn’t Old Blood and Thunder tell you?”
Maureen stood immediately. “Blood and Thunder?”
“That’s what we call Mrs. Gordon, the floor supervisor,” Alice whispered. “Suits her, don’t you think?”
Maureen watched from the corner of her eye as Mrs. Gordon severely reprimanded a quivering and shame-faced clerk for not clearing her counter of unwanted merchandise quickly enough after a sale. Maureen thought it a perfect name.
Before the end of the day, Maureen had learned to read a sales slip aloud to customers. But at closing she still did not completely understand the money and was thankful beyond words that all transactions were carried out on the floor below. Her too-small secondhand boots had rubbed blisters across her toes, and the backs of her heels bled until raw. Mrs. Melkford’s breakfast seemed but a dim and distant memory.
“You’d best bring a lunch with you tomorrow,” Alice advised. “You can eat in the cloakroom. If you’re here for the whole day, you’ll get a lunch break—but only half an hour. There’s hardly enough time to go out, and besides, bringing it along will save you.”
Maureen had not thought that far ahead. “I’m wonderin’ if you might know of a house of lodgin’ for ladies—something nearby that’s not too dear.”
“Why on earth do you want to know about lodging? I heard you’re living with some high-and-mighties.”
“Word travels quickly.” Maureen looked away and folded the cover of her sales book over. “It isn’t for me. No, it’s for my sister, you see. She’ll be comin’ to stay soon, and we thought we’d like a place of our own—eventually.”
“Well, I don’t blame you.” Alice sighed. “Sometimes I think I’d like to live up with the swells or over in Gramercy Park.” She looked pointedly at Maureen. “But then I wouldn’t want them telling me this and telling me that. We get enough lording it over in the store.”
“It’s nice to have a bit of privacy, isn’t it?” Maureen confided.
