by Cathy Gohlke
His stomach rumbled appreciatively at the smell of the meal Mrs. MacLaren was preparing below stairs. He took the steps down to the dining room two at a time.
“You’ll kill yourself trippin’ up and down those stairs one of these days, Mr. Keeton!” the plump landlady admonished, but with all the fondness of a doting aunt.
“The fragrance of your kitchen draws every bit of sense from my brain, Mrs. MacLaren! I can’t help myself or stay me soul!”
“Oh, you’re a silver-tongued devil, you are.” She dimpled. “One for the ladies, no doubt.” She set a bowl of steaming corned beef and cabbage on each end of the table, with a bowl of potatoes and a loaf of brown bread between.
“Only for you, my gracious lady.” Joshua bowed respectfully before taking his seat but knew his mouth turned up at its corners.
Mrs. MacLaren tucked her head to one side. “If I’m your one and only, then who’s this Verna Keithly, I’d like to know?” She pulled an envelope from her apron pocket and waved it, teasing, in the air. “A lass from County Meath pinin’ her heart out for the rovin’ likes of you?”
Why would Verna Keithly write to me? Joshua’s smile turned down. Maureen. What’s happened to Maureen?
His heart stopped. He’d prayed for her every day since last he’d seen her, since last she’d spurned him. He’d even mapped a route to the Wakefields’ address—the one Verna Keithly had given him when she’d asked him to escort her nieces to America. But wounded pride had kept him at least two blocks in every direction from Morningside.
No matter. It wasn’t easy to forget a woman who’d set his pulse to racing—a woman whose heart he’d set out to win since she was a girl and he a lad hired to cart wood for the Orthbridge estate. He’d dared hope his dream might come true when Mrs. Keithly charged him with care for Maureen and Katie Rose. But Maureen had made her feelings clear.
Willing his hand and mouth steady, he took the half-crumpled letter from Mrs. MacLaren and nonchalantly stuffed it into his pocket. He’d wait, he decided, and read it after dinner, away from inquisitive eyes.
But the moment the prayer had been offered, Joshua mumbled his excuses and took the stairs back to his room, three at a time.
Closing the door, he ripped the letter’s seal. A second envelope, addressed to Maureen, tumbled out. He read the first one twice, his brow furrowing deeper each time.
He pulled long fingers of worry and frustration through his hair. “Whatever have you done now, Maureen O’Reilly? Whatever have you done?”
Joshua stuffed the letters into his pocket. Pushing his arms through his coat sleeves, he pulled his cap over his head, wound his muffler round his throat, and hefted his bicycle, bumping it out the door and down the stairs into the street.
The snow came harder, but he brushed the sting of sleet away, gritting his teeth. “If they’ve hurt you, I’ll—I swear, I’ll—” But he didn’t finish the thought, for it shook him to his core.
That afternoon, Maureen continued to freshen the Darcy’s displays, no matter that she could hardly wait for the Saturday bell to signal her shift was done. It seemed that hats and other goods flew from the shelves and hourly needed to be replaced. New Yorkers are absolutely besotted with Christmas! She’d seen more women buy hats and dresses that flattered neither face nor figure than she cared to remember. Maureen shook her head and smiled at the predictable unpredictability of her customers.
“Well, well . . . I thought you’d forgotten all about your old friend from Ellis Island, but I see you’re busy makin’ your way in the world, pretty Maureen O’Reilly from County Meath.” Jaime Flynn stood close behind, eye to eye with Maureen as she turned from her work.
She started, dropping a box of handkerchiefs. “Mr. Flynn.”
“A fine memory.” He smiled. “Here, let me help you.” He reached for the box, pressing close against her.
“No need, I’ve got them.” She stepped back quickly, an image flashing through her brain of Jaime Flynn entering the elevator, fondling a young immigrant girl no older than Katie Rose. Disgust and shivers shot up her spine.
“I trust my employment recommendation stood you in good stead.” He moved closer, intimating a private conversation.
Maureen swallowed and held the box between them, stalling for time to think. “Yes, sir. . . . I thank you for givin’ me the address of the store.”
“I trust you gave your employers my name. You know we all work on commission, one way or another.”
Maureen dared not answer.
“I see.” His smile faded. “Did my little advance help you—and your sister? What was her name? Karen? Kate?”
“Yes, sir. It did, sir.” She stepped behind the counter and pushed sweating palms down her skirt, conscious that Alice, clerking at the far end of the counter, looked their way. “And I thank you for it. I’ll be able to pay you back soon, very soon. Things have just run a bit more dear than I’d imagined.”
He nodded, searched her face and figure, then spoke softly. “Cash is hard to come by, especially this time of year.” He tilted his head as if he’d just remembered something. “I’ll be needin’ my money back this week, you know, with perhaps a bit of interest for my trust and goodwill to you.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.” Though Maureen knew there was no way she could raise thirty dollars within the week, much less whatever “interest” he wanted to charge, even if she gave him her entire pay envelope.
He tapped the counter. “This isn’t the floor where I was expectin’ you’d be employed. There’s better jobs upstairs, higher pay. There’d be no lack of funds with a job like that. You could pay me back with some to spare. I can arrange it for you and your sister. It’s not too late.”
Maureen felt the heat race up her neck. “There’s no need, sir. I’ve always wanted to work in a shop. And I fancy hats. This is grand, just grand.”
He licked his lips. “As I said—”
“My good friends, Mrs. Melkford from the Missionary Aid Society and the Wakefields of Morningside—they’re all so very glad for me.”
“Good friends, are they?” Flynn frowned and narrowed his eyes as if considering whether to believe her.
“Yes, sir. They are indeed, sir. We’re livin’ with the Wakefields, you see, and . . . and we’re all off to church tomorrow.” Maureen’s heart raced, and she knew her face must flame scarlet, but she braved on, despite the suspicion and irritation that flashed in Jaime Flynn’s eyes. “Would you be interested in a hat for the missus?” She forced herself to smile. “We’ve a fine selection for the season.”
Willing her fingers to stop trembling, she turned to gather a striking burgundy hat, the nearest at hand, and a pair of complimenting silk gloves, as though he were an everyday customer. But when she turned again, he’d gone.
She heard the bell for the elevator ring and looked to see the door slide open. Jaime Flynn stepped through.
Maureen willed her heart to slow. But the moment she returned to her counter, Drake Meitland, with two other well-dressed gentlemen, walked through the revolving front door of the store. They looked neither right nor left as they headed directly for the elevator and could not, Maureen prayed, have seen her duck behind the counter.
Agnes Mein stood and called the Ladies’ Circle meeting to order. “Our first order of business is our only order of business.” She glanced round the room of fashionable ladies, longtime acquaintances, if not friends, gathered in Carolynn’s parlor. “We’ve each had two weeks to read Mr. Sheldon’s book and to consider, in the light of his challenge, our mission for the coming year.”
“Shall I read our original list of suggestions?” Carolynn asked.
“No,” Agnes answered quickly. “That won’t be necessary. I believe we all remember the list and have surely pondered—and prayed—over it.” She laid her papers aside. “I’d like to focus our discussion on our relationship to the poor, rather than on our duty to the poor, our specific mission.”
She saw Olivia sit straight
er. Carolynn leaned forward. Julia raised her brows.
“As you may have realized by Reverend Peterson’s sermon, I went to him after our last circle meeting.” Agnes drew herself up, determined to proceed though humility tasted foreign in her mouth. “What you won’t have realized is that I went to him with the express purpose of insisting that he call our circle into line. I was furious with the twisting-turning of events and introspection, and I simply wanted us to get on with it—to choose our mission and proceed ‘full steam ahead,’ if you will.” She paused and moistened her lips. “But my motive was wrong, and Reverend Peterson helped me see that.”
Agnes knew the women dared not breathe for wonder of what was coming.
“He told me to go home and read Mr. Sheldon’s book and expect miracles.” She clasped her hands. “I confess to you now that I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to consider miracles, much less another way of thinking. I cherish the old ways of doing, the old ways of thinking.” She lifted her chin and smiled—a little. “And I like being in charge.”
Agnes saw Julia bite her lip to keep from smiling in return.
“Yes, well, that may not be new information for some of you, but it was for me.” Agnes paused, determined to repossess her temper though not quite certain how to proceed.
“What changed your mind, Agnes?” Olivia asked.
Agnes sat down and drew in her breath. “I realized, as I read, that I’ve been thinking of the poor we serve as those who need our grace, our cast-off clothing, our noblesse oblige. I’ve thought that we, who are privileged to possess much of this world’s goods and fortune, are obliged to help those less fortunate. Although, I did quantify that obligation, and I know now that I extended grace, grudgingly in some cases, especially where I believed those in need brought dire circumstances upon themselves through wantonness or lethargy or frivolity, or where I saw little effort to improve themselves. . . . But more than that . . .” She looked down at her hands and her voice fell. “I realize that I gave from a sense of superiority, as if I could give because I had received more grace than they.” She looked up. “No, that is not true. I believed I deserved more grace, and therefore I had been blessed materially. Before reading Mr. Sheldon’s book, I never realized that . . .” She spread her hands helplessly.
“That ‘there, but for the grace of God, go I,’” Carolynn finished.
“Yes,” Agnes whispered.
A long moment passed.
“You’re not alone,” Julia took up the thread.
Agnes looked up, surprised that Julia, of all the women present, might come to her aid.
“I considered all my bluss and thunder about the desperate needs of women and children to be my cause, my personal crusade.” Julia straightened her spine, and Agnes knew she was ready to march once more into the fray. “I realized this week that my insistence was more about me—Julia Gresham, the wealthy young crusader who openly disdained her family’s wealth and despised convention—than about those I helped. But it’s not about me; it’s not even about fighting low wages or prostitution or poverty—not entirely, anyway.” She shrugged, clearly trying to find the words. “It’s about . . .”
“Embracing one another as sisters—as brothers and sisters,” Dorothy finished.
“Yes,” Agnes said, and Julia nodded.
“The story Jesus told of the Good Samaritan kept coming to mind as I read.” Miranda spoke for the first time. “It wouldn’t let me go. I think because it is the same thing—it wasn’t really about who the Samaritan was or who he helped or even how he helped, but the fact that he cared for the man. He touched him, picked him up, no matter the ideas of uncleanness or whether the man deserved help or was beyond help. He treated him like . . .”
“Like a brother and not a stranger,” Isabella said.
“A band of brothers,” Dorothy whispered.
“What did you say?” Olivia clasped her sister’s hand.
Dorothy flushed. “It’s something Father used to say, when he was reminiscing about the men in his unit, from the war. He said they were like a family, as close as any blood tie—what Shakespeare called a ‘band of brothers.’ One would do whatever he could to protect and care for the man beside him, even to the laying down of his life.”
“As Morgan O’Reilly did for him,” Olivia said aloud, though it seemed to Agnes that she was talking more to herself.
“Who? Olivia?” Agnes asked.
“What? Oh, nothing. I’m sorry.”
“A band of sisters,” Carolynn said. “We are or must become for one another a band of sisters in this determination to walk as Jesus walked, to live as Jesus lived.”
“Yes,” Agnes said, glad for the women she loved more than she’d realized. “That’s it. We must embrace our suffering sisters.”
“To form a greater, stronger band with them on the inside, not outside,” Julia affirmed, tapping her knee.
“Yes. Yes!” Agnes almost laughed with joy, knowing that the next miracle she experienced might well be she and Julia Gresham marching arm in arm into the fray.
“Well, now . . .” Alice tickled the back of Maureen’s neck as they stood in Saturday’s line to collect their pay envelopes for the week. “And who was your dashing Irishman? I’m sure I’ve seen him hanging round Darcy’s before. Do tell all!”
But Maureen had no intention of “telling all,” not to Alice or to anyone else. “He’s not ‘my Irishman,’ and I’ve nothin’ to do with him!”
“That’s not the way it looked to me,” Alice chided. “He seemed to think you’re something to him.”
Maureen glanced over her shoulder, desperately wishing the line would move more quickly, anxious to get out of the store before the elevator door opened and Jaime Flynn or Drake Meitland reappeared. What goes up must surely come down!
“Maureen—” Alice leaned nearer and spoke quietly—“you look absolutely petrified. What is it?”
But Maureen only shook her head. Do they know each other? That man, Meitland, won’t even remember me, surely. Will he? What if Jaime Flynn asks him if I’m really livin’ at Morningside? Oh, by the saints, what have I done?
“Has that man frightened you? What did he say?”
Maureen could not bear to admit she’d taken money from a strange man or lied about her whereabouts or references or any of it. And do they even care upstairs? I do my work; isn’t that all that matters? Is this my wicked imagination? She shook her head again. She couldn’t tell Alice. But there was something Alice might know, and if it could be innocently explained, it might calm Maureen’s fears about a good many things. She turned and whispered, “What happens on the fourth floor?”
The light and blood drained from Alice’s face as she leaned away from Maureen. “Did he tell you to go upstairs?”
“Not exactly, but . . .” Maureen knew this was neither the time nor place to confide her fears, and the look of horror—or was it anger?—on Alice’s face told her that she’d already said too much. “I have to go.” She looked back to the line ahead. “Oh, why won’t they hurry?”
Three more minutes passed as the line moved slowly forward. The girls were only steps away from Mrs. Gordon and the pay envelopes.
“It’s the ‘floor of promotion,’ they call it,” Alice whispered behind her. “Some of the girls go for a time—always the prettiest ones. They don’t say why, but they come back with more money and nicer clothes; that’s what I know. I’ve never been asked,” Alice huffed. “Suppose they think I’m not pretty enough with my crooked nose. Not that I’d want to go, anyway.”
Maureen inched her way forward.
“See the girl just ahead, with the red beret? She’s been upstairs, and I saw her once in Manhattan and dressed to the nines, with one of the gentlemen who comes in here every Friday night—like clockwork, he’s so regular.”
Maureen swallowed.
“Some go to talk to Mr. Kreegle in personnel, and then they’re gone—fired, I guess, or sent to work somewhere else. I’m not sayin
g there’s anything going on that shouldn’t, but—”
If Alice finished her confidence, Maureen didn’t hear her. For in that moment, as she accepted her pay envelope from Mrs. Gordon, the elevator door slid open.
Maureen did not stop to see if Jaime Flynn or Drake Meitland stepped onto the store floor. She raced down the stairs and through the employee exit door into the shower of snow. She did not stop running, did not respond to Officer Flannery’s wink or tipping of his hat, and never waited for the automobiles and horse carts to slow, but dashed across streets, weaving through the traffic—human, horse, and machine.
She’d never have considered paying for a trolley when she could easily walk the long blocks home, but she couldn’t risk being followed, could not risk anyone knowing where she and Katie Rose lived. She hopped aboard the first trolley she came to as it pulled from the curb. Her imagination of Jaime Flynn or someone like him finding Katie Rose at home alone while Maureen labored behind the counter of Darcy’s Department Store made her head spin and her stomach lurch.
The trolley car took her directly away from her route home. When she thought she’d put sufficient distance between herself and the store, she hopped off and trekked a meandering path through deepening snow back to her flat, knowing she was probably behaving foolishly, risking her health and taking precautions that were not warranted. But each time the image of Jaime Flynn’s lustful smile or Drake Meitland’s fury and power rose before her, so did the memory of the hands and smell and temper of Julius Orthbridge.
She dared not voice her fear to anyone, least of all to Katie Rose. She simply knew she must repay Jaime Flynn, and quickly. If I can do that, I’ll owe him nothin’. I’ll be in no way beholden to him. He can’t touch us if we’re makin’ our own way—not here and not through his connections at Ellis Island. It will be no one’s business who we know or where we live. Oh, please, God, let that be true!
