by Cathy Gohlke
All my tho’ts and words and doings,
All my days and all my hours.”
Olivia warmed to her story. “Just as they finished singing, a man—a poor man who’d lost his job and family and was terribly ill—walked to the front of that wealthy, well-dressed congregation and asked what they meant by ‘imitation’ of Jesus.”
An intuitive flush of color ran across the cheeks of several women.
“The man said that it seemed to him, if all those singing were truly living ‘all for Jesus—every day and every hour,’ there would be much less suffering in the world.” Olivia glanced round the parlor. “He said that perhaps he didn’t understand what they meant by following Jesus. They attended a big church, lived in nice houses, and wore fine clothes. They had money for luxuries and vacations, while the people outside the churches were dying in tenements, out of work, never owning so much as a piano or a picture for their home, and living in misery, drunkenness, and sin. He thought he simply must not understand. And then he collapsed.”
“In His Steps,” Carolynn said in a voice so small that Olivia barely heard her. “I’d quite forgotten. My grandmother gave me the book when it came to print.”
Olivia smiled broadly. “Do you remember what happened next?”
Still seated, Carolynn clasped her hands. “Reverend Maxwell took the man to his home and cared for him. But the man died within the week.” She leaned forward slightly. “I remember that the man thanked him before he died and said he thought that the care the pastor had given him was something Jesus would have done. The following Sunday, after the sermon, Reverend Maxwell set a challenge before his congregation.”
Every eye was on Carolynn. She swallowed, twisting her handkerchief between her fingers. “He called to mind the words of the poor man from the week before and said he saw it as a sort of challenge for the church—a challenge to ask what it truly means to follow Christ.” She stopped, drew in a breath, and finally looked round the circle, meeting the eyes of the women, just as Olivia had. “I’ve never forgotten it. He asked for volunteers to pledge for one year to do nothing without first asking the question ‘What would Jesus do?’”
Dorothy sat straighter. “And then to follow Jesus, as best they could understand—do as best they could, no matter the result.”
“No matter the result,” Olivia repeated.
Julia whispered, “That’s bold.”
“Yes,” Olivia returned.
“It’s a fine story.” Agnes stood. “But if I understand your proposal, I don’t see how we can possibly carry out such a challenge as a group.” She raised her brows and shrugged her shoulders. “We’re clearly not all of the same mind as to what is the best cause to pursue, much less what Jesus might do.”
“But if we each ask what Jesus would do,” Carolynn persisted, “with all that He has given to equip us and with all that He lays on our hearts—if we each determine to carry that out, then perhaps those missions will intertwine and create something greater—something far beyond ourselves and our abilities, as they did in the book.”
Carolynn’s eyes flamed, and Olivia knew she understood completely, even as she wondered that the most naturally reticent in the group was the one in which the Spirit’s fire so smoldered.
“I suggest we all read the book in the coming two weeks,” Olivia urged, “and consider what it might mean for us. That’s all I’m asking now. Read the book, and let’s discuss it at our next meeting—before we choose our course of action for the year.”
“If that’s a motion, I second it.” Carolynn spoke quickly.
Agnes, clearly not pleased at the turn of events, snapped, “We have a motion on the floor. Those in favor—”
The vote carried, nine in favor and three opposed. The circle broke up abruptly as Agnes called for her fur and swept from the room.
Carolynn kissed Dorothy lightly on the cheek, then clasped Olivia’s hands and whispered, “We’ll be transformed.”
“Value,” Julia said, pulling on her gloves. “Jesus valued women and children in a way no one else of His time did. He was an absolute radical.”
“The Samaritan woman,” Miranda remembered aloud, pinning her hat in place. “I’ve always wondered why He went to her, validated her, when He could have gone to women in His own community who needed Him.”
“Maybe because she was not one of their own. A foreigner in need of belonging.” Julia grinned and tilted her head pointedly. “As foreign and needy as those new immigrants pouring through Ellis Island and the Battery. Think on that.” She arched her brows and swept out as regally as Agnes had done.
The department store doors locked and the bell rang at last. Maureen accepted and counted the wonder of her pay. Breathless, she pushed it deep inside her purse. She made certain she descended the stairs in the midst of the other girls, her face intent on the floor, then raced to the trolley stop.
At last she paid her coin and took a seat, grateful to be off her feet. Had there been enough time, she would have walked to save the fare. But she’d be lucky to reach Mrs. Melkford at the Battery’s pier in time for the last ferry to Ellis Island.
She ran the last three blocks, rejoicing at the sight of the small but sturdy Mrs. Melkford scanning the distance with her hand to her eyes. She laughed to see her friend enthusiastically waving two tickets, motioning her to run faster. Maureen sprinted onto the dock just as the dockhands stooped to raise the gangway.
“I’m coming! I’m coming!” she cried, unmindful of the petticoat that flew behind her.
The dockhands, their eyes alight at the windswept Maureen, stood aside as she caught up with her feisty older friend, rooted to the center of the gangway. The dockhands tipped their hats and grinned as Maureen linked arms with Mrs. Melkford, and the two ladies, mismatched in height and age, waltzed on board as though the ferry had waited just for them.
“Catch your breath, dear,” Mrs. Melkford counseled, then smiled and squeezed Maureen’s hand. “It’s good to see you!”
Maureen laughed. “And you!” It was the happiest she’d felt all week, snuggled on the cold ferry seat next to the motherly lady.
“Tell me about your week and about your new position and all about life at the Wakefields’.”
Maureen’s happiness burst. How can I spin a tale to this good woman?
“What is it, dear?” Mrs. Melkford frowned. “Don’t tell me they’re not treating you well. How could they not? Is it the store? The family?”
Maureen did her best to compose her face. “It’s all lovely. My job is all that I’d ever hoped it would be! Today I collected my first pay envelope, and I’ve made a new friend—Alice. We share the hat counter, and she’s helped me with my American wardrobe and learnin’ what she calls ‘the ropes’—that’s everythin’ about clerkin’ that I need to know.”
Mrs. Melkford pressed Maureen’s arm. “You’re rather thinner than when you left my kitchen.”
Maureen mustered a laugh. “It’s just that I’m a bit out of breath from runnin’. It’s been less than a week . . . but perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I need some fattenin’ up with your good cookin’! I rather fancy a cup of tea and one of your puddin’s!”
That brought a smile to Mrs. Melkford’s face. “I was hoping you’d say that. When we return, you—and your sister, if she’s released and able—must stay to supper. We can always telephone the Wakefields to send a car.”
“Oh no!” Maureen stumbled over her words.
Mrs. Melkford raised a questioning brow. “You don’t need to get back right away, do you? Oh, I suppose they will want to welcome and entertain your sister.”
“No—I mean I would never ask them to send a car.”
“But, my dear, your sister won’t be well enough to walk or be out in the night air.”
Maureen didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t tell her that she was not taking her sister to the Wakefield mansion, but to the Lower East Side, to what Maureen had learned was the least desirable part of New York.
; “No, you’re right. She mustn’t be out in the night air.” Maureen looked out over the water. “I was just wonderin’ . . .”
“Yes?”
“I was just wonderin’ what you’d think of us stoppin’ for the night with you?” Maureen knew it was a bold question, a bold presumption.
“Why, I would love that!” Mrs. Melkford’s eyes shone. “But won’t the Wakefields be expecting you?”
“No—not tonight,” Maureen stammered. She clasped Mrs. Melkford’s hands between her own. “You’ve been so good to me. I know it’s a great deal to ask, but I’d love for Katie Rose to know the warmth of your kitchen—just for tonight—as you’ve shown it to me. Tomorrow we’ll be on our way, but . . .”
Mrs. Melkford glowed as if someone had handed her the moon. “And so you shall. As long as you’re sure we’ll not worry the Wake—”
“We won’t,” Maureen assured her.
“Well, then, that’s settled.” Mrs. Melkford sat back, satisfied. “You girls will stay the night and go to church with me tomorrow. Afterward, we’ll have a fine dinner, and I’ll send you on your way, so you’ll get home well before dark. You’ll need a good rest for your work on Monday.”
Maureen sighed, relieved beyond words.
“Have you inquired about schooling for your sister?”
“Not yet; I’m not certain she’ll be up to it straight away.”
“Mmm, perhaps not. Best to have a full recovery first—perhaps another week. But from what Nurse Harrigan said last week, I’d expect her to be well on that road.” Mrs. Melkford tucked her purse beneath her hands, clearly pleased. “At any rate, I’ll keep you for the night.”
The ferry docked before they finished making plans. Mrs. Melkford ushered Maureen through waiting stations and past officials that had loomed as land mines before her less than two weeks ago. When they reached the contagious disease ward, Maureen was told to wait in the hallway while Mrs. Melkford inquired.
Doctors and nurses, orderlies and staff members in white coats and uniforms paraded in and out of heavy doors on the side and end of the hallway. Only once did Maureen glimpse a patient on a gurney, and that from a distance.
The minutes of the hall clock ticked off, one by one. A half hour passed. Forty-five minutes. Maureen began to wonder what she would do if Katie Rose needed more care, if the chicken pox left her with some disability. She remembered a boy at home whose joints had swelled so that he went lame after the chicken pox and a girl who, it was whispered, had gone nearly mad before she died. Maureen tugged anxiously at her waist cuff. Stop. Stop! she scolded herself. Don’t be borrowin’ trouble that’s not your due. One blessed thing at a time!
And then the door swung open, and Katie Rose, dressed in a navy American walking skirt and ivory waist, walked through, a bit tentatively, on the arm of Mrs. Melkford. When she caught sight of Maureen, a smile spread across her pale face, illuminating the scars of her illness.
Maureen jumped to her feet and, with a heart too full to speak, swooped her sister into a great hug. But Katie Rose was truly skin and bone, and Maureen stepped back quickly, lest she break her.
“There, now,” Mrs. Melkford cooed. “She’s all right, just in need of a bit of mothering.” But she looked over Katie Rose’s head and slightly shook her head at Maureen.
“They said the scars might not fade,” Katie Rose whispered. “They said—”
Maureen couldn’t understand any more, for the tears that laced her sister’s words.
“For now, we’re going home and have a good meal and a good rest,” Mrs. Melkford asserted. “Everything will look brighter tomorrow.”
Katie Rose, still fighting tears, bit her lip until it drew blood, and Maureen, not knowing what to say to comfort her, simply offered her handkerchief and wrapped her arm around her younger sister. The three walked to the dock and straight onto the ferry, taking a place by the stove. Katie Rose laid her head on Maureen’s shoulder and, apparently weary from the short journey, fell asleep.
It gave Maureen an opportunity to scrutinize Katie Rose unobserved. The scars were dark, in various stages of healing, but white spots, like pocks, stood out on her face. She’d not seen this stage of the chicken pox in exactly this way and wondered what it meant. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t matter. They would get past it. And yet Maureen knew how Katie Rose valued her beauty. As would any woman, Maureen thought, especially one so young.
She held her sister closer and kissed the top of her head, her gaze filtering through the faces crowding the rails. It was the last ferry of the day, and the day shift was traveling home. Maureen blinked at a familiar form across the wide deck. There stood Jaime Flynn, his back to her, but his accent carried on the breeze. He seemed to be introducing a lovely young girl at his side to a well-dressed gentleman standing before them.
Maureen pulled her hat lower and shielded her face with one hand but turned her ear to catch whatever of the conversation she could.
“My cousin, just over from Manchester,” he said.
The Irish don’t usually have cousins from Manchester!
“I’m sure we could arrange an outing, Mr. Whitson,” Flynn nearly fawned, though the girl glanced—uncertainly and miserably, Maureen thought—between the men.
Maureen turned toward the water so that none of her face could be seen and cradled her sister protectively. Still, her heart beat quickly and her throat tightened. She pushed a stray hair from the young forehead and thanked God for her sister’s face, just as it was. Don’t fret, Katie Rose, whatever may be. Scars are not the worst that could come. They may be a savin’ grace.
When all the circle women had gone and the parlor maid had finished clearing the tables, Olivia sat with Dorothy before the drawing room fire, nursing a fresh cup of tea.
“And what brought that on?” Dorothy asked, staring into the fire.
Olivia took her sister’s measure and decided against telling her about the journals just yet. “The O’Reilly woman.”
Dorothy’s shoulders fell in a long breath. “I thought so. I’ve been thinking of her—and that day, too. Drake is determined to protect our inheritance—that’s all.” She blushed and looked away. “Sometimes I think he’s rather overzealous.”
Olivia agreed but would not wound her sister with the words she felt sure Drake deserved. “He takes too much on himself, especially in houses that are not his own.”
Dorothy’s color deepened. “He’s my husband, Livvie.” She picked at the upholstery on the arm of her chair, and the silence stretched between them. Olivia nearly spoke, but Dorothy lifted her eyes. “Do you think she might have had a legitimate claim?”
“Yes, I fear she may.”
“But how can—?”
Before Dorothy could ask more, Olivia continued. “At any rate, her letter is gone, and Miss O’Reilly has disappeared.” She set her cup in its saucer and massaged the back of her neck, wishing to alleviate the tension growing there. “And yes, if you’re wondering, she is my parallel to the poor man in Sheldon’s story. Only I didn’t care for her as the Reverend Maxwell did for that man.” She stared at Dorothy, feeling the miserable weight of her mission. “We, who were raised by a man who asked every day, ‘What would Jesus do?’ and who had apparently promised her or her family something, allowed her to be thrown into the cold.” Olivia wrapped her arms round her shoulders, suddenly feeling the chill. “Did you see the emptiness in her eyes?”
“I can’t stop thinking of it.”
Olivia shook her head, frustrated that she could not turn back time to that Thanksgiving Day and rewrite the moment.
“Did you hear what Julia said about poor immigrant women?” Dorothy glanced at her sister, then quickly back to the fire.
“She’s right, you know. I’ve thought of that a hundred times since Thanksgiving. What did we—what did I—send her to? Did she have anywhere else to go?” Olivia dropped her hands to her lap.
“Do you think she really could have known Father—I mean, how is that
possible? What could he have promised her?”
“I have every reason to think I should have cared for her—every reason to regret that I didn’t stand up to Drake on her behalf. And I’m thinking that it doesn’t—it shouldn’t—matter if Father promised anything or not.” Olivia stood and picked up her hat and cloak. “We must find her, Dorothy, and we must find her soon.”
“You can’t expect me to go to church—or school—or anywhere in public like this!” Katie Rose exploded at Sunday morning breakfast, the first spark of life Maureen had seen her sister exhibit.
“But, my dear, the Wakefields will be there. They could give you a ride home in their touring car,” Mrs. Melkford insisted.
Maureen nearly choked on her tea. She’d not even thought of the Wakefields attending the same church as Mrs. Melkford. There were half a dozen churches in between Mrs. Melkford’s and Morningside. “I didn’t know you knew the Wakefields.”
“I refuse to meet them for the first time in public like this!” Katie Rose fumed.
“I don’t know them,” Mrs. Melkford, her eyes confused by Katie Rose’s outburst, answered Maureen. “It’s a large church; I hardly know anyone yet. I just started attending there last month—it’s so much closer to my apartment than St. John’s, where my Henry and I used to worship—but I’ve heard the name. I didn’t realize the father had passed until you told me. But surely they’d come for you girls; you’re living with them.”
“I won’t go!” Katie Rose insisted.
“I don’t think Katie Rose is ready to go out, Mrs. Melkford.” Maureen pleaded her sister’s case but knew she did it selfishly.
“I’m sorry, my dear,” Mrs. Melkford said. “I know you’ve only just arrived and that you’ve been through a great deal. But Nurse Harrigan said that you’re really quite well.”
Katie Rose frowned, her lower lip protruding.
Mrs. Melkford smiled and patted Katie Rose’s hand across the table. “You’re tired, and here I am, eager to show you off.”
“Show me off?” Katie Rose, her face splotched and red with astonishment and barely faded blisters, gasped.
