by Cathy Gohlke
Olivia did not take the bait. “Do you know her first name? Or where she’s staying?”
“No. She showed up on our doorstep with a fraudulent letter and some cock-and-bull Civil War story about her father.”
“It was true, and it was my doorstep.”
“What’s true?” Dorothy asked.
Drake’s glare gave Olivia pause, but she continued. “Morgan O’Reilly saved Father’s life during the war, and Father pledged to do all he could for Morgan and his child.”
“The war? But that was so long ago!”
“It doesn’t change Father’s promise.” Olivia squeezed her sister’s hand across the table. “Or our obligation to carry forth his wishes.”
“This is ridiculous!” Drake fumed.
“How do you know, Livvie?” Dorothy asked. “How do you know Father promised? Did he tell you?”
Olivia hadn’t wanted to tell Dorothy that she’d broken their pact to leave the journals alone, but she could see no other way. She smoothed the linen napkin in her lap. “I read the story in Father’s journal.”
Dorothy merely blinked, but Olivia sensed her sister’s feelings of betrayal.
“I’m sorry; I should have told you. But I had to know. I had to know why she came, why she had a letter from Father.” She wanted so much for Dorothy to understand.
“The woman was a fraud. That letter was a fake!” Drake insisted.
“It was real,” Olivia countered, indignation rising. “I saw a scrap of Father’s handwriting—a bit you failed to burn. And that is what made me go looking.”
Drake glanced at Curtis with barely controlled fury. “My apologies. This is not a matter that should be aired in front of our guest.”
“What did the journals say Father intended?” Dorothy asked quietly, ignoring her husband.
“Dorothy!” Drake warned.
But Olivia ignored him too. “He intended to buy the property next to ours for Morgan’s family, to set him up in business, and his son, as well.” She paused, but when Drake seemed intent on interrupting, she rushed on. “I think he hoped Morgan’s son would be another heir for him, and Morgan’s children would be siblings of a sort for us.”
“There you have it—it was a woman who came to the door, certainly not a son.” Drake tossed his napkin to the table. “Mystery solved. Case closed.”
“You said you hope to find Miss O’Reilly?” Curtis surprised Olivia by taking up the thread.
“Yes, I do. I want to know if she’s truly related to Morgan O’Reilly and if there is some way I can help her.” She glanced at Drake. “It sounds as though she may be his daughter. She looked to be about my age.” Olivia sighed and bit her lower lip. “But I don’t know where or how to begin looking for her.”
Drake stood. “Well, then, that’s that, isn’t it? ‘Providence’ has spoken. Shall we retire to the drawing room?” He offered Dorothy his arm and escorted her from the room, signaling an end to the conversation.
“Olivia?”
Olivia turned toward Curtis as he slowly pushed his chair to the table, lagging behind Drake and Dorothy.
“I’d like to offer my services,” he said quietly, “to help you find her.”
Olivia glanced uneasily toward the door, but Drake had gone. “Thank you, Mr. Mor—Curtis. Thank you.” Her heart quickened. “I would be most grateful, but . . . I don’t understand why. It’s of no concern to you.”
“Because you wish it and because you’ll need help to find her.” He offered his arm. “Reason enough.”
But the set of his jaw told Olivia there was something more.
“You must be jokin’!” Katie Rose stood outside the Lower East Side bar, her arm wrapped round Maureen’s for support.
“No.” Maureen had dreaded this moment all the way from Mrs. Melkford’s kitchen. “I told you it’s all I can afford just now.” She pulled her sister toward the side door of the building. “It won’t be for long—just until we can manage somethin’ better.” Though I’ve no idea when that will be.
“We should try the Wakefields again. Surely they wouldn’t let us stay here if they knew. Surely they’d do somethin’!”
“You weren’t there; you don’t know. I told you—Colonel Wakefield’s dead and buried. They’ve no obligation to us—none to Father, even if he were alive.”
But Katie Rose stood rooted to the pavement. “I’ll not live in a pub!”
“We don’t live in the pub.” Maureen dropped her arm. “I’ll not stand in the street and argue like fishwives. I’m done in. Come up when you’re ready; we’re the third floor, second flat on the left.” She stomped through the door and up the stairs, knowing she was behaving poorly. But more than that, she burned with humiliation before her sister’s righteous glare. What have I done? What have I brought us to?
Maureen had barely unlocked the door before she heard her sister’s footsteps on the stairs. She sighed in relief and lit the lamp. She placed the Bible Mrs. Melkford had gifted her upon the table, running her finger over its leather cover as if touching it could recapture the peace of that lady’s presence. We need peace.
“I thought all of America had electricity now.” Katie Rose stood in the doorway.
Maureen pulled the pin from her hat and hung her cloak on a hook by the door. “Apparently not.”
Katie Rose lifted her chin and turned away. Maureen bit her lip, regretting her sharp answer.
“Mr. Crudgers said he’d deliver a bedstead, but I don’t believe him.” Maureen spoke to Katie Rose’s back. “We’ll share the pallet.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Crudgers, the landlord. He tends the bar—the tavern, downstairs.” Maureen pulled an apron round her waist and bent to start the fire in the stove. “There’s a toilet down the hall. We can boil water if you’d like a wash. We’ve our own indoor pump in the kitchen.” Maureen looked at her sister, hopeful. “That’s more than we had at home.”
“Not more than you had in the grand house,” Katie Rose retorted. “Not more than they had at Ellis Island or even at that missionary woman’s flat. We’d be better off livin’ with her!”
Maureen slammed the skillet to the stove. “Well, we don’t, do we? We live here. And you’re a fine one to appreciate her now that you’ve not got what you want!”
“Not got what I want?” Katie Rose fumed. “Look at you, Maureen O’Reilly! You, in your fine American shirtwaist and suit! You, with your pert hat and stylish button boots! You’ve certainly got what you want!”
Maureen felt her blood rise. “I’ve to dress the best I can if I’m to keep my job in the department store. As it is, I’m not so stylish as the other girls. And for your information, miss, I’ve reworked every stitch I’m wearin’. I’ve even reworked a dress for you, for school.”
“I told you, I’m not goin’ to school!”
“Yes, you are.”
“I’ll not go about like . . . like this. Not until the scars have gone. Do you understand me? I’ll not go!” Katie Rose crossed her arms.
If Maureen had not been so vexed, she would have laughed at her nearly grown sister planted in the center of the room with the face and stance of a pouting toddler. For the sake of sanity and civility, she dared not and couldn’t muster the energy to scold. So she ignored her and dropped a dollop of lard in the skillet to sizzle. She chopped the onions and potatoes she’d hoarded for their first meal, tossed them in to fry, and set the kettle to boil for tea. If there was one thing Maureen knew, it was that the aroma of frying onions and the warmth of a kitchen signaled home—a sense of home that she hoped would bring peace. She must trust that Katie Rose would yield, and upon her yielding, they could work together.
By the time Maureen had laid the table and poured the tea, Katie Rose had uncrossed her arms and moved to the window to peer into the street. It was Sunday night, but the tavern below was already doing a lively business, and a Tin Pan piano player kept the beat livelier still.
“It’s different than the pub in
the village,” Katie Rose spoke meekly.
“’Tis,” Maureen acknowledged. “We’ll not be wantin’ to walk about the hallway more than we need to by night.” She motioned her sister to the table. “Nor to be seen through the window.”
“Why?”
Maureen sighed. She hated that she even knew the answer. “The men in the streets look up, and if they see a face or figure they fancy, they tell the tavern keeper.”
“That doesn’t mean anythin’.”
“It means they think you’re advertisin’ yourself—sellin’ yourself—and they expect to get what they want. If you don’t give it freely, they’ll come bangin’ on the door to take it. Now come away from the window.”
They ate in grim silence. Katie Rose had not removed her cloak, and Maureen did not push her.
“It will warm up before long, at least a bit. The stove helps some.”
Katie Rose did not respond.
“Would you like to see the dress I’ve reworked for you?”
“I’m not goin’ to school.”
“Would you like to see the dress?” Maureen persisted.
Katie Rose didn’t answer but pushed the last of her potato to the edge of her plate and back again—once, twice, three times.
Maureen knew she was afraid to give an inch and decided at last that another week at home might not matter so very much, not if it meant they could forge some sort of truce. “I suppose you could do with another week to regain your strength.”
Katie Rose looked up.
“But you’ll be terribly alone. I leave at dawn for the store and am not home again until seven. From now till Christmas I’ll be called upon to stay longer; I’ve no idea how late.”
“I don’t mind bein’ alone—not now.” Katie Rose looked about the small room.
“You can’t go walkin’ about and gettin’ lost, and you can’t be downstairs in the tavern. Do you promise?”
Kaite Rose nodded quickly. A minute passed. “It’s just . . . I didn’t think it would be like this.”
“No—” Maureen reached for her sister’s hand—“nor did I. We’ll make the best of it, the best we can. And as soon as we can save some money, we’ll move. We’ll move to a place with our own tub and a real bed.”
“And hot water in the pipes. And no tavern.” Katie Rose did not pull her hand away.
“And no tavern!” Maureen smiled.
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“Then I’ll do our housekeepin’ and food shoppin’. I’ll do the washin’ and mendin’ and prepare our tea.”
“For this week.”
“Until my scars are healed.”
“We don’t know how long that will—”
“And then I’ll find a position, like you.”
Maureen winced at the strength of Katie Rose’s grip upon her fingers.
“I’m not goin’ to school. I’d have only this year before I’m too old, anyway. I know enough of readin’ and writin’ and cipherin’. It’s plain as plain we can’t manage on your wages. I might not be able to work in a shop, but I heard at the hospital that there are sewin’ factories all over New York. You know I’m good with my needle, and I’m dyin’ to learn the new machines.”
“But—”
“There’re no buts.” Katie Rose pushed Maureen’s hand away. “You’re not Mam, and unless you’re ready for us to go beggin’ at the Wakefields’ door, we’re both needed.”
Maureen was taken aback by the obstinacy of the sister she’d supposed meek and mild, the sister who’d had so little to say until stepping onto American shores. She stood, too weary to argue, and placed their crockery in the dry sink. She changed into her nightdress, pulled pins from her hair, and brushed long tresses until they shone in the lamplight. Something about the rhythmic brushing of her hair had always given Maureen a sense of peace and balance. She braided it into one long coil and swept it over her shoulder.
Everything her sister said was true. There was no way she could pay the rent, buy their food, recoup the money she owed Jaime Flynn, pay Katie Rose’s hospital fees, and save enough for them to move on her wages alone. As long as Jaime Flynn doesn’t know where I am, we have time. But she closed her eyes, knowing it was a matter of weeks—perhaps days—until he did find her, until he saw her in the store he seemed to frequent too often.
Well, I’ll not force Katie Rose back to school. I can’t start our lives together with a daily struggle—I’ve not the energy or leisure. And I do understand what it is to face a new world at less than your best. What we’ll do if her scars don’t fade, I’ve no idea.
She’d heard from Alice and Mrs. Melkford both that night schools held classes in many parts of Manhattan, some especially for immigrants. Perhaps I can convince Katie Rose to take evenin’ classes together once we’re better situated, once our lives settle into a daily pattern. We lost so many years in Ireland. It will be good to spend time together, to get to know each other and learn new things together. We’re all the family either of us has. And after all, it’s a new land, a new life for us both. There’s no sense tryin’ to hold on to the old ways. They didn’t serve us well.
She waited until Katie Rose had readied herself for bed. Before turning down the lamp, Maureen pulled her last three dollars from her purse and passed one to Katie Rose. “There’s a grocer on the corner. He gets fresh bread and milk each mornin’ and produce on Thursdays. Make this last, and mind he doesn’t cheat you.”
Two weeks passed. Maureen felt that she and Katie Rose were settling into something of a pattern. She’d worked late every night, restocking shelves and helping to arrange new displays, trying to keep pace with the Christmas rush. By the time she returned home, it was pitch-black, but the bar downstairs shone bright lights into the street, peddling a noisy trade.
Still, Maureen was relieved at how Katie Rose had taken over the cooking and shopping, even the housekeeping, with a vengeance. She’d even grown determined to “decorate” their flat for Christmas—a thing they’d never imagined back in the village. Maureen tried to nurture her sister’s enthusiasm, but her own longtime association with Christmas was confined to the landlord’s house, a memory that led from an ostentatious display of wealth, lavish gifts and banquets, scented candlelight, and yule logs to the abuse of wine and ale, and finally to nights of debauchery and misery that followed.
Maureen shook her head, pushing back the unpleasant and too-familiar trail of memory. She’d determined not to live in the regrets of the past but to make the most of their new lives. Some days that was harder to do than others, but she’d discovered an investment she could make in those lives today, when she heard one of Darcy’s clerks talking during lunch about a Christmas tree market near the Battery.
“Oh, you’ll love it!” Eliza had exclaimed. “It has every kind of tree imaginable! Evergreens, freshly cut and shipped from the Adirondacks, all in a giant lot; it’s like walking through a forest!” She’d lowered her voice. “And even if you’re not wanting a tree, there are branches free for the taking.”
Maureen didn’t know that New Yorkers gave away anything for free.
“Sometimes they have to cut the bottoms off the trunk, you see, so the tree fits a customer’s foyer or parlor or drawing room—wherever they want to place it. All those branches are thrown in a heap. My neighbor goes round and collects what he can, fashions wreaths, then sells them on the street corner.”
“People pay money for branches wound round into wreaths?”
Eliza had nodded enthusiastically. “New Yorkers own more money than sense!”
The girls had laughed conspiratorially, but that night, Maureen and Katie Rose fell asleep talking of the fresh scent of pine and spruce, the aroma of sticky cedar.
“It will be just the thing to fill our flat with fragrance—and pale the reek of the privy!” Katie Rose clapped. “Say we’ll go!”
It was the first excitement Katie Rose had expressed for anything out of doors. Maureen sighed to th
ink how her sister’s hatred of her slowly fading scars had kept her from exploring the possibilities of New York and from applying for employment. Perhaps this will encourage her.
They were inching along, a bit hungry, and shivering from lack of food and heat by night. But we’re managin’. Still, a trip to the tree market will make a fine outin’; it will cost us nothin’ but shoe leather. And we’ll hope there’re branches to be had.
She hadn’t told Katie Rose, but there were wonderful Christmas displays in the store windows of Manhattan’s shopping district, some backlit by electric lights in the evenings. Maureen smiled to anticipate her sister’s delight of standing in a dark world, suddenly surprised by Mr. Edison’s lights along the streets, as she had been that dark Thanksgiving night.
Perhaps in another month or two, if nothin’ unforeseen happens, and if Katie Rose gets the job she hopes, we’ll be able to move to a flat in a respectable boardinghouse. Perhaps there’ll be a light outside our window in a better street! Maureen breathed deeply to think of the peace a move might bring—no more bawdy drunkards below, perhaps a hot bath on occasion, and the friendship of other young women. And best of all, no reminders of her past.
Despite the cold and lightly falling snow, Joshua Keeton wiped the sweat from his brow. He still wasn’t used to dodging automobiles, whose drivers swore they owned the slippery roadways, or weaving his bicycle in and out of throngs of New Yorkers at breakneck speed. Horses, country lanes, and wide-open spaces were more to his liking.
But he was grateful for the work—any work that kept a roof over his head, food in his belly, and padded his pockets with a bit laid by for a rainy day, precious little though it was. Still, he’d no intention of making deliveries for department stores forever.
I’ll find somethin’ more by and by. At least I’ve learned the highways and byways and all the back alleys of the streets of New York. That’s bound to come in handy.
He hefted his bicycle and carried it up the outer back stairs of the boardinghouse, then straight to his room. He wasn’t about to leave it against the building for the next petty thief; he’d suffered at the hands of a few in New York. He slapped his cap against his knee to shake off the late afternoon dampness and hung his coat on the peg.
