by Cathy Gohlke
Perhaps it was a mistake, an automatic action on God’s part—that answerin’ of a prayer in a way I’d never imagined. He may never do it again, may be on His guard not to help me in future, but He stood with me last night. And that gave Maureen pause, courage, and the daring to hope—a little.
Clasping the edges of a woolen blanket thrown over her shoulders for lack of a cloak, Maureen stomped through the ice and slushy streets. She pulled open the employee entrance door and marched up the stairs. She folded her blanket and placed it on the cloakroom shelf as if she’d done it every day of her working life. She combed her hair into place, smoothed her skirt and waist, and walked, head high and fingers trembling, to her post.
“You’ve more nerve than sense to show up here today!” a girl who stood at the counter next to Maureen’s whispered. “I thought sure Mr. Kreegle was going to fire you!”
Maureen smiled thinly and set to polishing her counter. The bell rang, the doors were unlocked, and Darcy’s was opened for business.
Mrs. Gordon’s pale face as she made her rounds told Maureen that she knew at least some version of what had transpired last night.
But Maureen banked on the hope that Mr. Kreegle would not want anyone to learn that he’d been pummeled by a woman. She hoped that his shame would stand between her and the upper management of the store. What could he say? What dared he say?
Two hours after the store opened, Mrs. Gordon appeared before her. “Miss O’Reilly,” she began, standing in front of her counter.
“Yes, Mrs. Gordon?” Maureen straightened and looked her in the eye, no longer frightened by the woman who’d shown herself weak and intimidated before Mr. Kreegle, ready to abandon Maureen because she’d been told to remove herself from a room.
“Due to the uncertain nature of your indiscretion, management has decided to give you another chance.”
Maureen squared her shoulders. “I’ve done nothin’ wrong. I did not take that necklace.”
Mrs. Gordon blinked in the face of Maureen’s stare, focusing beyond her shoulder, but did not respond to her declaration. “I’m to tell you that you have been demoted to the stockroom and placed on probation for the next two weeks. If in that time you perform satisfactorily with no further complaints against you, you will be allowed to remain a part of Darcy’s staff—in the stockroom, of course, and at that rate of pay. You will receive no pay for this week’s work. If, however—”
“That isn’t fair.” Maureen felt new rage flow through her veins at the injustice, at the fear of no pay, and in the newfound strangeness of standing up for herself.
“Fair? Is theft fair, Miss O’Reilly?” Mrs. Gordon’s voice rose enough to attract unwanted attention from the counter clerks nearby. She lowered it. “Mr. Kreegle said that if you and your sister would like alternative employment, you may have it, as long as you’re willing to relocate across state lines. In that case you—”
“No.” Maureen knew her voice faltered. “No!” came louder.
Heads turned their way.
Mrs. Gordon visibly composed herself. “You are most fortunate you have not been dismissed. I don’t know why formal charges have not been filed against you.”
Maureen leaned closer. “Yes, Mrs. Gordon, you do. You know precisely why.”
Mrs. Gordon’s face faded to white. “Mr. Kreegle has asked me to make certain you know that he has learned through one of our most reputable clients that you misrepresented your connections, your references.” Her color lifted. “He suspects that further inquiry will lead to more damaging revelations—none of which will stand you in good stead in a court of law or with immigration.” She paused. “Get your things and leave this counter at once. Take the stairs to the basement. You will be shown what to do.”
Maureen stood, rooted, unbelieving.
“Do as you’re told, Miss O’Reilly . . . unless, of course, you prefer to resign now.” Mrs. Gordon lifted her brows and waited. “It’s up to you, isn’t it?”
But Maureen could not resign, not without another job and not without a letter of reference, a thing she knew was hopeless to ask for.
“Mary—” Mrs. Gordon turned to the clerk at the next counter—“attend to this station until a replacement can be found.” And then she walked away.
Maureen stood but a moment, dumbfounded, then headed for the stairs, conscious of the stares of the surrounding clerks. But the moment she glanced in their direction, each head turned away.
“It was a minor victory—at least as far as Maureen is concerned,” Olivia explained to Dorothy over tea, attempting to divert her sister’s attention and soothe her apparently jangled nerves with the news that the O’Reilly sisters had joined her in the family pew on Sunday. “Wait until you meet the younger Miss O’Reilly. Katie Rose is very thirteen!”
Dorothy appeared neither interested nor well but declined an explanation.
Olivia tried again. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve sent round an invitation to the O’Reillys to join our Ladies’ Circle next Saturday.”
At last she had her sister’s attention. “Do you think that’s wise?”
“I don’t know if Katie Rose can convince Maureen to come, but I hope so.” Olivia smiled. “They’ll certainly liven up our group.”
“Just the type to send Julia Gresham into a spin. You should have asked the other ladies first. You should have asked me first. You don’t know what sort those O’Reilly women might be.”
Oliva sobered. “They’re just the sort of women we’re anxious to help make a strong start in this country. And if you’re concerned about entertaining two more women on Saturday, you know I’ll help you—or we can have it at Morningside. I don’t mind.”
Dorothy looked away. “It’s just as well,” she sighed.
Her despondency felt contagious to Olivia. “What is it, Dottie? What’s wrong? You’re as off your kilter as ever I’ve seen you.” She was surprised when something liquid trickled down her sister’s cheek. “Now, enough of this. What’s wrong?”
“It’s just as well that you take up with them because you’ll be needing company other than mine.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
Dorothy paled. “I can’t bear to tell you. I can’t bear not to tell you—I need to talk to someone.”
“Dottie? Not another miscar—”
“No.”
“Then what’s Drake done?”
Dorothy covered her mouth with her hands. “I don’t know. I don’t know what he’s done or who he’s with or where he goes for his ‘business.’”
“Is that unusual?”
“He’s made it the norm. He’s either down in those infernal tenements he sells near the Battery or hobnobbing with clients in Midtown or out of town—out of the state—doing who knows what with whom.” Dorothy lifted her cup from its saucer, then immediately returned it. She sat back, pulling her hankie from her pocket and an earring from its folds. “This was found in Drake’s trouser cuff when he returned from his business trip.”
“It’s not yours?”
Dorothy shook her head. “George found it when he was brushing Drake’s suit. He naturally assumed it was mine and gave it to me after breakfast.” She knotted her fingers. “You should have seen Drake’s face. He was livid.”
“But did he explain?”
“No. How could he?” Dorothy raised her chin as if facing a firing squad. “He shifted the attention with his fury at my implication that it was anything but a complete accident. As if I should believe a cheap earring jumped from a stranger’s ear as he walked down the street.” And then the fire left her eyes. “I don’t trust him, Livvie.”
Olivia reached for her sister’s hands.
“I don’t trust him and I don’t believe him.” Dorothy began to cry.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Olivia didn’t know what to do or say. She’d had reasons of her own not to trust men, but Dorothy had been besotted with Drake from the beginning, absolutely sure of his love a
nd devotion. Olivia had been too young to know better when they married, but she’d grown certain at least of Drake’s love and devotion to Dorothy’s money, though she’d never implied such a thing to her sister. And she’d never believed he’d betray her. “Do you suspect someone?”
Dorothy pulled her hands away. “You mean do I suspect his truancy is due to one woman rather than the smorgasbord offered through a brothel?”
“Dorothy! Surely you don’t think Dra—”
“He’s given me syphilis.” Dorothy spoke quietly.
“What?” Olivia felt the room spin.
“Do you know what syphilis is, Livvie?”
“I don’t—yes—it’s a venereal disease.” Olivia stumbled over the unfamiliar words. “But what does it mean?”
Dorothy stood and crossed the room to the window. “It means that the disease will rear its ugly head off and on throughout the rest of my life—that it may, and likely will in the end, take my mind and my life. It means that if I should be lucky enough to conceive a child through my adulterous husband, our child could be born deaf or blind or crippled or without a coherent thought in his head. Or he might not be born at all but be pulled dead from my body.”
Olivia did not realize that she’d stood or that she openly gaped in horror.
Dorothy faced her again. “It means that good people, if they ever learn of it, will have nothing to do with me. They will look on me as a pariah, a prostitute, a leper. Those same good people will refuse to conduct business with Drake. He’ll be finished—we’ll be finished.”
Olivia could not stop the pounding of her heart, the thrum in her ears. The idea was incomprehensible. Good, loving, pure Dorothy. Why, Lord? Why? “But surely there are treatments!” She reached for her sister. “Tell me there are treatments!”
The look in Dorothy’s eyes did nothing to dispel her fears. “Mercury—that’s what Dr. Blakely recommends, for Drake and myself.”
“But isn’t mercury—?”
“Poisonous in its own right?” Dorothy almost laughed. “Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters!” Olivia sputtered. “There must be something else. There must be other doctors, Dottie. Dr. Blakely is as old as Father was!”
“And just as wise. Father trusted him completely.” Dorothy covered her face with her hands. “I was so embarrassed—so stunned and ashamed when he examined me. Oh, Livvie, I dared hope I was pregnant! I couldn’t think what else it could be.”
“Dr. Blakely will be discreet. You know that.” Olivia thought it stupid to care about such things at such a time, but she knew it was crucial.
“And that’s why I couldn’t bear to go to anyone else. No one else can know.”
“But what did Drake say? How long has he—? For surely he will seek the best, the newest treatment for you both!”
“He doesn’t know I’ve spoken to the doctor. He doesn’t know I have it. I’ve no idea if he knows he has it.”
“But he must know. How could he not? Why haven’t you told—?”
“I’d intended to confront him this morning. But when George presented me with the earring . . . it changed everything. I’d hoped the disease was at least from an old liaison. Now I don’t know—new or old and new . . . daily? I don’t know, and I don’t know what I want.” She hugged her arms to herself. “Except I don’t want him near me or touching me.” She looked up. “How can I believe anything he says?”
“You must allow me to do some research. There are new medical studies going on all the time—especially in Europe. I can—”
“No!” Dorothy’s eyes flashed. “Don’t be ridiculous! Where would you ask such questions? It’s unthinkable!”
“It’s unthinkable to do nothing!” Olivia retorted. “I did research for Father frequently on the most delicate of issues. Nothing is more important than your good health. Father would tell you—”
“Father is dead, Olivia! He can’t tell me anything! He can’t help me any more than the money he left behind, and neither can you!”
Dorothy’s venom pulled the wind from Olivia, forcing her back into her chair.
Dorothy closed her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I shouted.” She turned again toward the window, her back to Olivia, and heaved a great sigh.
“Dorothy, I—”
“I think you should go now, Livvie. I’m tired.”
Olivia stood. “But—”
“Please. Please, go.”
Olivia knew from her sister’s posture that all discussion was at an end—at least for today. She looked helplessly around the room, desperate for some response, some thread of hope in the nightmare. But there was none to be found. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
Dorothy did not reply.
Olivia crossed the room and embraced her sister, but Dorothy stiffened, shrugging her away.
Undaunted, Olivia kissed her cheek, squeezed her arms, and stepped into the hallway. She closed the door behind her—how loud and lonely that sounds—then rang for George, who helped her into her heavy cloak and called for her car to be brought round.
Olivia waited patiently by the front door, mentally ticking through her list of medical resources and imagining all the ways she could reduce her brother-in-law to ashes.
Katie Rose found the note the moment she returned from the Triangle Waist Factory. “It’s like bein’ invited to a ball!” She waved the invitation beneath Maureen’s nose the second her sister stepped through the door.
“‘Our next meeting of the Ladies’ Circle will be held Saturday, at four o’clock, Mrs. Dorothy Meitland’s home in Salley Square, Manhattan,’” Katie Rose read aloud, barely lower than a squeal, and fairly dancing across the room. “I’ll be a bit late, of course, but as soon as I collect my pay, I’ll take the trolley directly there!” She tapped her upper lip. “You take the trolley from Darcy’s, and we’ll meet on the corner of the block before Salley Square; we absolutely can’t be later than we must. And, oh, I must tell Emma that I can’t go to the nickelodeon with her on Saturday. Do you think they run the movin’ pictures on Sundays?”
Maureen shook her head and turned away without answering, but Katie Rose did not care. “This is the beginnin’; you’ll see.”
“The beginnin’?” Maureen pulled the pin from her hat and hung it on the peg beside her cloak.
“Of our entrance into polite society, of course!” She stopped and admonished, “Really, Maureen, you must attend to that rip in your sleeve. You’ll need to wear your best shirtwaist. I’ll wash all our things this evenin’ so they can dry overnight, then iron tomorrow as soon as I get home from work.”
Maureen sighed.
“I know it’s days away, but we’ll want to be ready and no surprises. Everything must be in good order before the end of the week!”
“Don’t bother,” Maureen said wearily.
But Katie Rose laughed. “Of course I’ll bother! We might not own the best—not like Miss Olivia—but we can turn ourselves out pretty well, at least the best we’re able.” She placed her hands on her hips and eyed her sister critically. “Now, change out of that skirt and let me have your waist. I’ll put everything to soak before tea.”
“I’m not goin’, and neither are you.” Maureen said the words, though Katie Rose was certain she’d not heard correctly.
“Of course you’re goin’. We’re both goin’.” Katie Rose spoke with authority, but the first twinge of doubt scraped across her nerves. “It’s the perfect opportunity.”
“An opportunity we’ll miss, then.”
Katie Rose set the envelope down. “I’ll not.”
Maureen bit her lip, a sure sign to Katie Rose that her sister was struggling with words. But she determined to beat her to the punch.
“I don’t know why you’re intent on insultin’ the Wakefields, or Joshua, for that matter. They’ve been nothin’ but kindness—”
“Kindness!”
“That bad beginning with Mr. Meitland was an unfortunate misunderstandin’. Mis
s Olivia explained it perfectly, and it was nothin’ to do with her, anyway.” Katie Rose dug both fists into her hips. “She’s done all she could to find us, to make amends. It’s no good bearin’ a grudge, Maureen. You’d best stop poutin’ and mopin’ about before you ruin things for the both of us.”
“You don’t know the Meitlands.” Maureen drew out each word.
“No, I don’t, nor do you. But I shall meet Mrs. Meitland on Saturday.” Katie Rose drew her words equally long. “It’s not right to judge Olivia’s sister by the rudeness of her husband.” She took up the teakettle and half giggled. “And if he’s a problem, I’ve a feelin’ Miss Olivia can well take care of him.”
“You don’t understand anythin’.”
Katie Rose slammed the kettle onto the stove. “Then perhaps you’d best explain it to me. Because what I do understand is that I’ve been workin’ like a scullery woman and cook after spendin’ my long day at the Triangle, and you waltz in here like the queen bee with nothin’ but frowns and grimaces for everythin’ that’s good or hopeful in our lives.” Katie Rose felt her blood rising and only wished she dared fling harsher words at her sister.
Silence stretched between them as Maureen stood in the middle of the floor, her eyes closed, as though praying. Finally she said, “We cannot go to the Meitlands because we cannot, dare not, trust them. Mr. Meitland is . . . he’s not a gentleman; he’s a dangerous man.”
“Not a gentleman? And dangerous? Says who?” Katie Rose demanded.
“Says I!” Maureen’s voice rose and her eyes popped open. “And I don’t say it lightly, but that’s all you need to know!”
“That’s not good enough. If you’ve somethin’ sure to say, you’d best say it. Gone are the days when I follow you around like a whelp pup, Maureen O’Reilly. You’ve proven you’re not thinkin’ straight. You imagine fairies and leprechauns where there are none. Look how you took on last week at Mrs. Melkford’s and your rudeness in the church.” Katie Rose threw coal onto the fire. “You’ve left me little to trust.”
