by Cathy Gohlke
Alice nodded, the first hint of camaraderie between them. “Here.” She tore the bottom off a sales receipt and scribbled a name. “Mrs. Grieser owns a tenement on Orchard Street—ask anyone; it’s a couple buildings past the corner of Orchard and Delancey, down on the Lower East Side. You’ll have to watch out for the fellas in the Bowery, and it’s a bit of a hike in bad weather, but not so far you can’t manage. You can take a trolley if you must.” Alice passed her the slip of paper. “Tell her that Alice Draper sent you—she’ll give you a good rate and a safe room.” She hesitated. “Just use her side door. The front opens a few doors from a bar. Make no mistake.”
“Thank you!” Maureen nearly hugged her.
“You might not thank me—it’s not the Ritz, and it’s certainly not the Wakefields. But it will do for a place of your own to start. If your sister’s working too, you’ll do all right.”
The front doors were closed and locked; a bell rang through the store.
“That’s it for today!” Alice sang over her shoulder, already trotting toward the cloakroom. “See you tomorrow—soak those feet!”
Maureen smiled as she buttoned her very American secondhand cloak. Her feet ached, her stomach gnawed and growled, and she had blocks and blocks to walk to find Orchard Street in the hope of sleeping a few hours before starting it all again. But she was gainfully employed in a fine and respectable department store, she had the letter in her pocket that she needed to have Katie Rose released into her care, and she’d spent her first day dressed not as a lady’s maid, but as an American shopgirl.
Pinning her hat in place, she whispered to the mirror above the dressing room shelf, “Well, then, Maureen O’Reilly—shopgirl.” Maureen turned her head from side to side, smiled at the attractive young woman smiling back, then hurried down the stairs and toward the side door, behind the other chattering women.
She’d reached the door when a nervous, girlish laugh and a deep but vaguely familiar Irish brogue made her turn back toward the nearly deserted store. Beyond an aisle displaying scarves and handkerchiefs, a raven-haired girl no older than Katie Rose, in a simple woven dress and tattered shawl, blushed prettily as she stepped backward into the elevator. Pressed too close to her chest, one hand round her back and the other clutching a small knotted bundle, like those of the poorest immigrants just off the ship, stepped a too-eager and attentive Jaime Flynn.
“I’m sorry, dear. We’re full up. I won’t have another vacancy for a month, at least.” Mrs. Grieser shook her head. “Such a pity. You’ve come all this way, and it’s dark as pitch out there. I don’t know what to tell you.”
Maureen refused to cry. She’d been so certain the room would work out. “I understand, mum.” But she didn’t leave the step. “It’s just that I’ve only arrived, you see, and I’ve nowhere to go.”
“Dear me, I can’t think why Alice would send you all this way on such a night. She should have sent a note by day.”
Maureen couldn’t tell her that Alice had no idea she’d traipse more than three dozen blocks in the raw wind that very night. She’d considered weaving a story to satisfy Mrs. Melkford, to allow her to return to her home for another night. But after seeing Jaime Flynn with the young girl in the elevator, Maureen felt a greater urgency to establish herself legitimately and quickly.
“The only thing I can suggest is Mr. Crudgers’s tenement.” Mrs. Grieser stepped outside the door and pointed down the street. “You see the bar? It’s not a place to send a young lady, but he might have a vacancy above stairs. He lets out rooms and half flats.” She eyed Maureen uncertainly. “But I wouldn’t stay any longer than you have to, and keep your door bolted at night.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Grieser.”
The lady shook her head sadly but closed the door on Maureen.
Maureen wearily, warily hefted her bag and picked her way down the street. The November cold had more than seeped into her bones, and the cup of tea and ham sandwich she’d stopped for sat like a lump in her stomach.
“What have I done?” she whispered into the dark. Oh, Mrs. Melkford, I wish . . . But there was no point wishing and no one to call upon but herself. Maureen was sure of it.
“Twelve dollars a month—in advance.” The bartender and landlord pushed a half-smoked cigar in his mouth, lit up, and inhaled deeply. He ran his eyes over Maureen appreciatively.
“Twelve dollars,” Maureen repeated, trying to avoid his eyes. “That’s awfully dear.” Though she didn’t know if it was. “I’m only wantin’ the flat for a week. I’ll not be stayin’.”
The man shrugged. “Take it or leave it. There’s them that’ll take it for that—and more.” He pulled the cigar from his mouth and smiled—yellowed teeth with dark spaces between. “We could make another deal. Maybe you have somethin’ you’d like to barter, Red.”
Maureen shook her head, pulling bills from her purse, willing her fingers not to tremble. At least the bills had numbers on their faces. “Twelve dollars it is, then. One month.”
He stepped closer.
“My sister is joinin’ me—and perhaps another friend.”
He grunted. “Won’t matter to me. Toilet’s down the hall.” He pulled a suspender to his shoulder and stepped into the hallway. “Use the back stairs, unless you’ve a mind to join my customers.” He laughed down the hallway.
Maureen closed the door and braced her back against it, her heart beating its way to her throat. Never had she planned to live above a pub. Never had she so brazenly bluffed her way through an entire day. The weariness of it all came suddenly upon her.
But it was a place of her own. A place she could pay for—or would, as soon as she’d earned and returned the loan to Jaime Flynn. A loan for which she was, at this moment, most grateful. Maureen slid to the floor, tired beyond words, and pulled her hat from her head. She’d close her eyes for a minute, no more, and then find the bed and set things to rights for the morning.
Maureen jumped at the crash of breaking glass; raucous laughter bubbled from below. The first thing I’ll do is buy a latch for this door and then a . . . But her eyes, heavy beyond memory, fluttered closed, and that was the last she knew.
A predawn clatter of the milk wagon outside her window pulled her from sleep. Maureen found herself still on the floor, her backside braced against the door, though she’d fallen to her side in the night. She pushed herself to her knees, to her feet. Her neck creaked and all her bones ached. Her feet complained, and she realized she’d not even removed her too-tight boots.
She’d no idea of the hour, but there was the barest of gray lights through the window. Whatever the time, there’d be little enough to wash and straighten her clothes for the day. She’d nothing else suitable to wear, and she dared not show up at Darcy’s Department Store crumpled.
The toilet down the hall stank before she ever reached it. Maureen held her breath and, after the briefest of visits, fled back to her room.
The water ran in red tint from the pipe, and though the flat had been described as “furnished,” there was no kettle or pot for boiling water.
Maureen tore her petticoat to wrap her bleeding feet and stuffed them back inside her boots. She made herself as presentable as possible, then limped to the street, hoping to reach Darcy’s before the majority of the staff. She needed every precious minute to repair the night’s damage to her face and hair.
She reached the sales floor as the bell rang to open the doors.
“Ohhh,” Alice cooed, her brows raised as she took in Maureen’s rumpled skirt and waist. “You look a bit worse for wear.”
Maureen straightened but could not deliver a smile. “I had a time with the water this mornin’.”
“At the Wakefields’?” Alice tipped her head to one side. “Don’t they have maids to draw your bath and fetch and carry your breakfast?”
Maureen turned away, closing her eyes to muster courage. If only I’d had breakfast!
“Listen, I don’t know what you’re up to with that Wakefield sto
ry, and I don’t really care. But you can’t show up in the same skirt and waist every day, and you must polish your boots.” She eyed Maureen critically. “You’d do better with proper shoes. This is a ladies’ store, after all.”
Maureen bit her lip.
“They’ll fire you first thing if you don’t measure up.” Alice stood back. “Is this the best you’ve got? Have you no money to buy something new?”
Maureen was too tired and hungry to think of a lie, so she tried confession. “I’ve no idea how to count the money here—I mean, what’s reasonable and what’s dear. I’m sure I haven’t enough to buy the clothes Darcy’s sells. I looked at some of the prices yesterday.” She bit her lip and smoothed the sleeves of her waist. “These are the only American-lookin’ things I have.”
Alice frowned.
“I just arrived; I’ve had no time to shop.” Maureen could see that Alice didn’t believe her. “Please, please don’t ask me more. I’ll figure somethin’ out.”
Alice blinked and turned her back on Maureen. She dusted the counter but didn’t say a word. Maureen watched from the corner of her eye as Alice diligently fanned pairs of navy silk gloves around feathered felt hats on a low table between the counters. She stood back critically, then tucked white lace handkerchiefs between the sets in a striking display.
“Nicely done,” the supervisor commented as she strode through the store with her checklist. “Very nicely done, Alice.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Gordon. I’m glad you’re pleased.”
Mrs. Gordon tipped her head in acknowledgment and smiled.
“I was wondering, Mrs. Gordon, if you’d mind if Maureen—the new girl—and I took our lunch break together today. Mary could cover our counter along with hers, and I could show Maureen a place or two to buy a bite to eat.”
Mrs. Gordon frowned. “Well, that is irregular . . .” She glanced at Maureen, who tried to look hopeful and professional at once. Mrs. Gordon leaned closer to Alice and whispered, loud enough for Maureen to hear, “Perhaps you can see that she finds another waist—or an iron, at any rate.”
Maureen felt her face flame and turned away, polishing the counter with a fury.
“Thank you, ma’am. We’ll be prompt.”
“See that you are.”
When Mrs. Gordon had gone, Maureen felt Alice close behind.
“I’m sorry if that hurt, but it’s best we go at noon. The stores will be closed by the time Darcy’s closes.”
“I don’t have much money,” Maureen confided miserably.
“As long as you have a little. That’s all you’ll need. I know a place,” Alice whispered. “Now, smile, for pity’s sake. You’ll scare the customers.”
The morning wore long. But at noon, Alice was better than her word.
The girls raced down a side street. Less than three blocks from Darcy’s Department Store, they stepped through the door of a dimly lit secondhand shop.
Alice expertly pulled embroidered and finely laced white and cream and navy shirtwaists and neatly tailored skirts from the racks, holding them critically at arm’s length for inspection. “This was last season’s design, but it will do. Stay away from those ridiculous puffed sleeves. They’re years old and will never do for a salesgirl. You want something smart and attractive, but you must never outshine the customers.”
Most were gently worn, but even those with well-placed stains or an awkward hole held promise for Alice’s critical eye and Maureen’s practiced needle.
They were in and out of the store in seventeen minutes. Maureen’s arms were loaded with brown paper packages, including a pair of leather shoes that fit.
“Three dollars!” Alice crowed. “It’s a steal! You’d pay thirty-five for all of that—easily—at Darcy’s!”
Maureen clapped a hand on her hat to keep it from flying and ran to keep up with Alice. “How can I thank you, Alice? It’s more than I ever imagined.”
“Just do your job.” Alice stopped so abruptly that Maureen ran into her. “Do your job and stay—stay at the store.” She gripped Maureen’s arm so tightly she winced.
“Yes, yes, of course I’ll stay.” Maureen could not understand the look of distress Alice gave her. But the cloud fled as quickly as it had come.
“Yes, well—never mind.” She checked the watch pinned to her jacket. “Oh! We’ve got seven minutes. Come on!”
It was just enough time to grab a frankfurter slathered in mustard and a mug of hot coffee from a street vendor. “American delicacies.” Alice laughed.
Maureen laughed, too, glad to run, to eat and sip hot coffee in the wintry sunshine, glad to feel the flush of roses in her cheeks, and glad to have made a friend.
Alice poked Maureen in the ribs. “Don’t look behind you now, but there’s Officer Flannery. This is his beat, and he’s the heartthrob of every girl at Darcy’s.”
Maureen couldn’t imagine what a “heartthrob” might look like.
“Good day to you, ladies.” The Irish officer tipped his hat and winked.
Alice’s color rose three shades, Maureen was certain, and she nearly curtsied. “Good afternoon, Officer Flannery.”
“A fine day to be out and taking the air as ladies of leisure.” He smiled, eyeing Maureen from head to toe and back again.
Alice laughed. “Only when we’re protected by New York’s finest!”
“Always glad to be of service, ladies. Good day to you, then.” He tipped his hat again before strolling down the avenue.
“I do believe you’re smitten!” Maureen vowed.
Alice stuck her nose in the air but laughed. “As is every girl on Flannery’s beat!” And then she became earnest. “But if ever you need a friend, if ever you need help, Flannery’s your man. You can lay money on it.”
Maureen looked after the policeman, hoping she’d never have need of him but glad to know the stalwart officer was there, a man to trust.
The girls skidded behind their counter half a minute before the floor supervisor walked by, her brows raised at the giggling young women.
November’s bleak, rain-wet skies drifted toward December’s clouds, pregnant with snow. Olivia turned the gas heater higher and neared the close of another decade in her father’s journals.
She’d come to think of her father as a young man—not really as her father at all. She’d read early of his humbling change of heart toward Morgan O’Reilly. Olivia shivered at the depth of his anger toward his parents in those years, in what he’d perceived as heartless treatment of their only daughter. She felt keenly his loss of his sister in the years that followed and his disappointment that O’Reilly, despairing, had returned to Ireland shortly after the death of President Lincoln. Grief upon grief.
Her father’s own despair only seemed to lighten when he met Maud Markham. Olivia felt for the first time that she was intruding where she had no right, a trespasser of the worst sort. But she didn’t stop reading. She’d never known what it was to love or be loved by a man in the way her father wrote of his attraction and devotion to her mother or her responses to him.
Olivia had grimaced with his first mention of love. Her only experience with men she considered nothing short of disaster. At barely eighteen, a man ten years her senior had swept her off her feet. She’d loved him with all her young heart, though she realized now there was no similarity to the love her father wrote of having for her mother.
You were so gentle with me, Father, even though you didn’t approve. Do I have Aunt Lillian and Morgan O’Reilly to thank for that?
Olivia could still hear her father’s words. “I promise to reserve judgment if the courtship lasts a year.”
It hadn’t, and only in hindsight did she understand her father’s great patience; within the year she’d understood his wisdom. The suitor had proven himself a cad, intent on her money and careless of her heart to a point very near scandal.
It had been a long time since she’d thought of herself as lovelorn. Olivia shook her head and returned to the journal.
But when he wrote of the death of Morgan’s family and dream, Douglas Wakefield’s tears had smeared the ink on the page. Olivia’s joined them.
A year later a son, Peter, was born to Maud and Douglas but died within the day. Olivia never knew her parents had had a son. How Father must have grieved! But he gave the grief to God, as he prayed through his pen, and in four more years looked forward to the birth of another child, though with trepidation. Dorothy was born.
When Olivia finally came to another mention of Morgan O’Reilly, it was short. The man had married again, years later, and his new wife had given birth. The little family determined to sail for America.
Her father was glad—his pen showed it.
I heard from Morgan this morning. He and his wife and son will be here by spring, thank God. I posted funds to him this noon and can only hope he’s as glad to come as I am to have him. I’ll see my attorney this evening to set up a trust for young William, the equal of the son that could have—should have—been Lillian’s.
I must have Waverly inquire of the owners next door. If they can be persuaded to sell, we could adjoin our properties as well as our businesses. I could have the house readied by the time they arrive.
Thank You, Father in heaven, for this opportunity to redeem some part of my past. I vow to forge the family we should have been.
Olivia rubbed the throbbing in her temples. Father intended to make William O’Reilly, for all practical purposes, our neighbor and one of his heirs—as real a brother to Dorothy and me as we could ever know. And I’ve allowed the woman O’Reilly to be thrown from my door!
She closed the journal and groaned, “Father, if only we’d known.”
The horror of what she’d done, or allowed to be done, haunted Olivia through the night. Dawn had not come when she gave up tossing and turning and rose, tied her dressing gown round her waist, and crept back to her father’s study. She adjusted the globe of the electric lamp and opened the journal again.
