A Passion Most Pure (Daughters of Boston, Book 1)

by Julie Lessman

  "It's not just real in my mind. God is real, whether you believe it or not."

  "Yeah? Well, you can't prove it by me."

  "Collin, please ... don't do this! You can't possibly know how sorry I am."

  "Yes I can, Faith." He started to leave.

  "Collin .. .

  He stopped, hand splayed against the door.

  "I am sorry, so sorry. And for what it's worth, I'll never stop praying for you."

  He turned, all anger siphoning out. "Yeah, you do that." He took a deep breath and forced a faint smile. "Well, then, I guess that's that. Chapter closed. Man goes to war, exfiancee waits for him, and sister moves on with her life. Here's to a happy ending."

  Tears streaked her cheeks. "I hope so, Collin," she whispered. "I'm staking everything on it. Somewhere in Mrs. Gerson's Bible it says, 'All things work together for good to those who love God.' I'd like to think that's assurance of a happy ending."

  As he stared at her now, he almost envied what she had. Almost. He hung his head, then glanced up, his lips curved in a tired smile. "Well, one thing's for sure-I'm glad I'm leaving on good terms. If I'm going to be target practice for some Germans, I'd much rather have you praying for me than against me."

  "Count on it," she said, wiping the wetness from her face. "And, Collin, I wish the best for you. I really do."

  He studied her, completely certain she meant it. "Thanks, Little Bit." Without another word, he turned and left, causing the door to creak to an eerie stillness.

  For Marcy and everyone in the O'Connor household, June 15 was a day of mourning. Collin McGuire was shipping out, and with him went the hopes and prayers of the family who claimed him as their own. The last month had been difficult for everyone concerned. Like clockwork, Charity would lunge into a crying jag following each of Collin's visits while Marcy tried to comfort her until it passed. Faith, although not as depressed as prior to her talk with Collin, wandered about in a mild malaise, which wasn't suspect at all as it merely matched the mood of the rest of the family.

  Marcy knew Patrick felt as if he were sending a son off to war. And, indeed, the fear remained that soon they might be doing that as well. Just twenty-four hours prior, President Wilson had declared in his Flag Day Address that the initial American Expeditionary Force, of which Collin was a part, would soon be followed by more soldiers as quickly as possible. Marcy was sick with worry about Collin and fraught with dread for her own son. Her only consolation at this difficult time was that at least her husband would be spared from the greedy arm of the Selective Service. Never had she appreciated Patrick passing the draft age of thirty more than she did now. An appreciation that, she soon discovered, was destined to be short-lived despite her prayers. Shortly after the first troops arrived in France on June 26, General Pershing called for a U.S. army of three million men. Marcy could see in her husband's face what he refused to mention. The night he finally uttered it followed on the heels of the worst day of her life.

  Her grandmother was dying and Sean had been drafted. Marcy had never known such fear and pain. Although she had never been a woman who stormed and raged, that seemed to be changing as she progressed in years. Suddenly she felt no compunction whatsoever at giving full vent to her anger. She lay on their bed, indifferent to the shards of broken glass strewn across her bedroom floor from the hand mirror she hurled at the wall. Her mother's letter was soggy and smeared from Marcy's hours of weeping. Mima's heart had weakened, Bridget had written, after becoming severely taxed by a serious bout with the flu. The doctor suggested that funeral arrangements be made as quickly as possible. As if that dagger had not been enough to gouge a gaping wound, a draft notice for Sean had arrived the very same day, inflicting the final death blow to Marcy's sanity and peace. She shivered uncontrollably despite the summer day, her pillow cold and sodden with tears as she awaited the sound of her husband's footfall.

  Sean had met him at the door, and without a word handed him the notice he received in the mail. It was the ashen look on his son's face and not the notice itself that alerted Patrick that their worst fears had come true. He crushed his son in his arms before Sean could see the tears in his own eyes. His voice was thick when he finally spoke. "When?" he asked.

  "August," Sean replied.

  "Does your mother know?" Patrick's eyes searched the house for his wife.

  Sean nodded. "She's been upstairs all afternoon, crying her eyes out. She was the one who opened it ... right after she opened Grandmother's letter that Mima is dying."

  Patrick's heart squeezed in pain for his wife. Lord, help me to help her, please.

  And so he found her, lying prostrate on their bed, her form lifeless and still except for an occasional whimper, painful residue left from hours of weeping. The room seemed dark, even though the late-afternoon sun streamed in, and Patrick felt sick as he crossed the room to lie beside her. The minute he did, she clutched him tightly, her sobs beginning in force. He held her close, and her head quivered as he stroked her hair. He stared blankly at the ceiling.

  "Why, Patrick? First Collin, now Mima and Sean ... Why would God do this to us?" She could barely voice the words for the tears.

  His own vision blurred with emotion. "I don't know, Marcy. All I know is we have to trust him. We have nothing else ..." He held her tighter, his voice steeled with purpose. "We don't need anything else."

  She didn't answer.

  "He didn't promise we would be free from trial, Marcy. He told us we would have tribulation, but to be of good cheer for he has overcome it. We have tribulation, my love, but he will see us through. We must trust him."

  His words seemed to calm her, and he felt her relax in his arms. Reaching up, she put her hands on either side of his face, her eyes red and swollen as she stared at him. "Patrick, I don't know what I would do without you. You're my strength."

  He felt his jaw twitch. "No, Marcy, I'm not your strength-he is."

  She shot up and clenched his arm. "No! You are-you know that! You're everything to me, Patrick. I would die without you. . ."

  "No, you won't!" The look on her face chilled him. He hadn't meant to say it like that, to imply she would ever have to, but it had rolled off his tongue before he could stop it, and the damage was there on her face.

  Her knuckles strained white as she grabbed his shirt. "What are you saying, Patrick? Tell me this sick feeling inside my stomach is wrong. Tell me I have nothing to worry about, that you'll be by my side every day of this despicable war. Tell me, Patrick!" Her voice reached a level of hysteria as she searched his eyes for assurance he couldn't give.

  He pressed her to him, holding her so tightly she couldn't move. "I can't tell you that, Marcy. I wish I could, but I can't, darlin'. I didn't want to worry you. But Marcy, the chance remains I may have to go."

  She jerked away, her eyes crazed. "No! You're too old! Tell me, Patrick, you're too old!"

  "Marcy, they're desperate for soldiers, so desperate they've extended the draft to forty-five. Marcy, if they call me, I have to go."

  She screamed as she lunged, her fists striking his chest with a fury he'd seldom seen in this woman he loved. He grabbed her hands and pinned her flat on the bed, his breathing labored from the effort. She was like a mad woman, thrashing beneath his grip, and he found himself crying out to God to impart peace to her soul. Seconds lapsed into minutes before stillness came. When it did, she was limp in his arms, emotionally ravaged by the fear that possessed her. She was spent, and so was he. All that was left was a numbness buzzing in his brain as they lay side by side in a room filled with darkness, despite the sunlight of a summer day. They lay like that for hours, it seemed, while Faith, Sean, and Charity tended to the others downstairs.

  When Marcy finally spoke, her voice was more like the woman he knew, despite a nasal tone from hours of crying. "Pray with me, Patrick. Pray I can do this. Pray God will heal Mima ... and that he'll keep you safe, along with Collin and Sean."

  And so he had, invoking the name of the God they
served. His voice was calmer as he finished, and he pulled her close. "You can do this, Marcy. He's your strength, not me. He promised we could do all things through Christ who strengthens us, even this. If I go, and we still don't know if I'll be called, you won't be alone. He said he would never leave us nor forsake us. We've lived our whole lives believing that. Now we'll learn how very true it is."

  He lifted his head from the pillow to peer into her face. "Are you hungry?"

  She shook her head against his chest before looking up, a faint smile creasing her lips. "No, but I bet you are, aren't you?"

  "Not that holding you in my arms isn't sustenance enough, mind you," he began, a note of levity in his tone, "but it would seem if you don't want to lose me, you'd feed me before I fade away into nothingness on this bed."

  "Worried about your stomach at a time like this, are you?"

  "Worried I'll not have the strength for you at a time like this, my love."

  "I love you, Patrick," she whispered. She leaned to kiss him gently on the lips.

  With an energy that belied the emptiness of his stomach, he pulled her to him, his lips pressed hard against hers with a passion that had little to do with desire. It had everything to do with his heartfelt gratitude for this woman who shared his life, and to the God who had led him to her. "Woman, I love you ... to the depths of my soul, I do."

  She laid her head on his chest, clinging as if it were the last time, while fresh tears spilled onto his shirt. It was a bittersweet moment and one neither wanted to lose. And so they lingered, content to lie a few moments more while the shadows of dusk slowly stole away the light of day.

  "I can't believe you're leaving! I'm going to miss you so much," Maisie cried.

  Crying was the last thing Faith wanted to do as they stood in the middle of the newsroom, wrapped in a tight hug. But there was little either could do as the tears streamed freely with no regard for their weak attempt at composure.

  "I can't believe your father is letting you go. It's just plain crazy, Faith, to even attempt ship travel right now. What about the German U-boat warfare? Isn't he afraid?"

  Faith pulled back and took a deep breath. "Yes, he's afraid, but he's more afraid that Mother will have a breakdown while he's gone. With Mima near death and Father drafted, Mother begged to go to Ireland. She simply wouldn't relent, and I think she just wore Father down. He contacted his cousin, Thomas, who owns a freighting company. Although all passenger-ship travel has been suspended, apparently freight shipping is going strong, especially in convoys. Thomas convinced Father that losses for ships sailing in convoys have fallen dramatically." Faith sucked in another heavy breath and lifted her chin. "So he agreed to take us. With God watching over us, we'll be fine."

  "But Ireland-it's so far! Why couldn't your grandmother live in Dubuque? At least then I could take a train."

  Faith laughed as she pushed the tears from her eyes. "Dubuque! You'd wish me destined to be a farmer's wife? Working the fields from sunup to sundown? Some friend."

  "Well, at least we'd still be friends ..."

  "Maisie, we'll always be friends. Distance is not going to change that. I'll write you every chance I get, I promise. Who else can I brag to when I start my new job at the Times?"

  "You realize, of course, you won't have me around when some little hussy gets her Irish up because your daddy got you the job?"

  Faith gave her a smirk. "I can handle myself. You forget I've spent the last year learning from the best. Besides, it won't be forever. As soon as the war is over, we're coming back. Father finally agreed that it would do Mother a world of good to be back in Ireland while he's gone. My grandmother could really use my mother's help, especially now. Somehow, in my heart, I feel that it's the best thing for her. It'll do her good to get away from Boston where everything reminds her of Father."

  "And you? I suppose getting away wouldn't hurt you either, would it?"

  Faith looked up and didn't answer, but they both knew she was right. Maisie tried to lighten the conversation. "Well, I'm sure I don't have to tell you who it is going to hurt. Have you said your good-byes yet?"

  Faith shook her head, suddenly very uneasy at the prospect of telling Danny good-bye. She had tried several times to end their relationship months prior, but he'd insisted on friendship, a friendship she feared still harbored deeper feelings on his part. "No, he didn't want to say good-bye at the paper. He's coming over this evening, although I have a lot of packing yet to do."

  "Are you going to miss him?" Maisie asked.

  Faith laughed. "Yes, of course I'll miss him. Not as much as I'll miss you, but close."

  Maisie seemed uneasy. "No, I mean really miss him, you know, pining-away missing?"

  Faith grinned, and Maisie's spray of freckles disappeared into a sea of pink. "You mean, do I love him, or are you asking if you can have him?"

  Maisie went scarlet. Faith laughed out loud and hugged her again. "Oh, Maisie, I'm gonna miss you something fierce! Who's gonna make me laugh like you? No, I've told you before-I don't love Danny, hard as I've tried. I've told him over and over again, even though he doesn't seem to want to hear it. And believe me, I have. It's much closer to friendship than love. Blame it on Collin McGuire, I suppose. But either way, dear friend, he's all yours. I know you want him. And I have a feeling with me out of the way. . ."

  "Stop it! You know he's crazy about you. He only sees me as a friend."

  "A friend whose shoulder he's sure to cry on, right? All you have to do is convert! Believe me, Maisie, my money's on that shoulder of yours."

  Maisie started to cry again. "I love you, you goose," she whispered, swiping at her eyes. She picked up her purse. "You better write, or so help me ..."

  "Oh, I'll write, you can count on that. Can't wait to tell you all about the tall, handsome stranger I meet in Dublin. And, I expect progress reports as well, young lady."

  "Done!" Maisie said as she blew her a kiss. "Till the war's over," she cried, escaping out the door as Faith spied a fresh wave of tears. She returned to the typing pool to collect her things. "Till the war's over," she whispered. "And may it end before our lives change forever."

  The summer had been little more than a blur, and now here they were on a freighter on the Atlantic Ocean, embarking on a new life in a distant land. It hardly seemed possible Sean had left in August with Patrick following in October, both stationed in remote places in the French countryside. Before his departure, Patrick handled the details, so reluctant was Marcy to even acknowledge his leaving. Now their home on Donovan Street was comfortably occupied by the new interim associate editor, who paid quite handsomely to rent a furnished house within the Southie neighborhood.

  It had been difficult for Faith to say good-bye to Mrs. Gerson, but the old woman had insisted she would only be "a prayer away." "God has something special for you in Ireland, Faith. Just delight in him while you're there, and he'll give you the desires of your heart. I can't wait to see what he does in your life, my dear. You must promise to write."

  And so she had, and to Danny as well, although she knew for his sake, her communications would be brief. He had taken the news of her departure hard. Faith was shocked at the degree of affection he had developed for her, even though they were just friends. She regretted now ever allowing him to kiss her in the beginning, for every kiss had apparently led him to believe she would eventually be his. It had certainly seemed, for a while at least, as if he would win her heart. But the futility of that became evident as the tension between Collin and her had escalated over the last few months. Soon, it became quite clear to Faith that her depth of feeling for Collin, no matter how unfortunate, only served to extinguish any romantic feeling she may have had for Danny. The reality all but crushed him at the time, but they had remained good friends. Faith was grateful Danny had also developed a close friendship with Maisie. He would need a good friend, and there was none better.

  She leaned against the railing of the freighter, the wind whipping her hair as she s
tared into the endless sea separating her from the life she had once known. On the day they had sailed, her mother worked at hiding her true feelings. But as she had ushered what was left of her family onto the boat, Faith suspected that underneath the forced smile and excited tone was an apprehension she seldom saw in her mother. Yet Faith knew even if Marcy herself did not feel strong, her faith in God was, which brought some semblance of comfort throughout the long journey to Ireland.

  The week aboard the freighter had been shrouded in dreariness, from the endless raging of the waves to the damp sea mist that hovered in the air like a harbinger of gloom-a gloom only deepened by an underlying dread. In addition to the very real threat of German U-boats, Faith couldn't help but think of the "unsinkable" luxury liner, Titanic, that had fatally plunged into these same icy depths five years earlier. The memory weighed heavily on Faith as the convoy of freighters plowed an endless surge of whitecaps. Over 1,500lives were entombed in the same gray, bleak waters now battering the hull of the ship, and Faith couldn't shake the uneasiness that hung heavily in the pungent sea air.

  The day they finally sighted Ireland, it was as if the gloom lifted, allowing shafts of sunlight to peek through like the fingers of God directing them home. Faith had never seen anything so beautiful as Ireland drenched in sunlight, a vibrant patchwork of blinding green hills and fields rolling across the landscape into the restless sea. In the midst of it all rose Dublin, a warm and welcoming port, which each of them hoped held the promise of better days.

  For the first time since her father had left, her mother's eyes shone with excitement as she gazed across the water at her homeland. Even Charity seemed enthralled with Ireland's beauty as the family stood side by side on the deck to catch a glimpse of their new home.

  "Mother, it's so beautiful, it almost doesn't seem real!" Charity exclaimed, her blue eyes wide as she clutched her mother's arm. Marcy smiled and took a deep breath, her hands positioned tightly on Katie's shoulders as the six-year-old attempted to better her view by hoisting up on the railing.