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

by Julie Lessman

  "She's got a strong feel for special interest, Mitch. That's your department, and I want you to use her-case closed." Michael sat down and shuffled through the papers on his desk, hoping it was a clear dismissal to the man who stood glowering before him. He didn't hold out much hope.

  "Okay, Michael, you win. I'll take her, but I'll warn you right now I'm not about to pussyfoot around some little princess who thinks she can waltz into our newsroom just because she happens to be a daughter of a friend of yours. I'm gonna work her hard, so hard she'll be crying to her daddy about how awful it is. And you, my friend, won't be able to yank her by the hair fast enough to fling her in the direction of Brune, guaranteed!"

  Michael waited until Mitch stormed away before opening his drawer to reach for the aspirin. It wasn't particularly unusual for Mitch to give him a headache, but this one had the feel of a real doozy. He was glad he had a weekend to recover before the real migraine hit on Monday. Michael grabbed a cup of cold coffee, slammed the aspirin in his mouth, and took a swig. He hoped Patrick O'Connor's daughter was one-tenth the journalist her father was, or he would have to buy stock in aspirin. As it was, with Mitch around, he bought 'em by the gross just to get through a day. Maybe, he thought, the headache will be so bad I'll have to stay home. He smiled. Mitch Dennehy was one lucky character. Because if he wasn't the best journalist on the Times, he would have been history-and Michael Reardon headache-free-a very long time ago.

  It seemed such an awful contradiction to Patrick-the ethereal beauty of the French countryside defiled by miles of makeshift trenches that snaked along the Marne River, uprooting its simple splendor. And yet Patrick feared the day coming when the contradiction would be greater still. For the moment, the trenches were used to provide soldiers with rigorous training for trench warfare that was sure to come. But he knew the day loomed when the exercises would not simply be for training but for the liberation of Europe, and the bullets and blood spent would be more than real.

  He was, of course, grateful the commander of the American Expeditionary Force, General "Black Jack" Pershing, seemed bent on maintaining the integrity of the AEF until he deemed the soldiers fit for combat. After four short weeks, Patrick was already in better shape than he'd been in his life, gladly welcoming all training and conditioning the army chose to expend prior to his marching into battle in the spring.

  Patrick was anxious to write Marcy. There'd been precious little time to do so upon his arrival, and he wanted to take full advantage now that his commander had afforded them the opportunity of a twenty-four-hour leave. He was quick to head to the billet, the farmland buildings that housed the soldiers, eager to stretch out in his bunk, even if it was only hay, to compose the letter he knew she would be waiting for.

  "Hey, O'Connor, a group of us are heading to the big city for some fun. Why don't you join us?" LaRue, one of his bunk mates, was in great spirits as he poked his head in the barracks.

  Patrick grinned. "Not tonight, I'm afraid. I've got to write a long-overdue letter to the love of my life. I don't think she'd take too kindly to my seeing the sights of Paris, at least not the sights you plan on seeing."

  LaRue laughed. "Neither would my missus, but she's not around, now is she? Come on, Patrick, you can write that letter anytime."

  Patrick hesitated, then thought better of it. He'd heard stories about Paris, and all he wanted right now were moments alone to dream of Marcy and tell her how much he missed her.

  "Maybe another time, LaRue. Right now, I'm too lonely for my wife."

  LaRue shook his head. "I guarantee you, Patrick, this would be the cure for that, but don't say I didn't tell ya."

  Patrick waved him off and closed his eyes to think of Marcy, an aching loneliness suddenly overwhelming him. He thought about the last night they'd spent together, and he felt passion enflame as he lay in the dirty confines of the billet.

  "Oh, God, please give me the strength I need for this place, and give Marcy the strength she needs too." He reached for pen and paper and settled in to write his family, assuring them the only malady befallen him was the excruciating pain he experienced at missing them all. And aside from that, all was well on the Marne.

  It was certainly a comedy of errors-Charity and Faith scrambling to get ready while their mother looked on, beaming with excitement while she helped Beth and Steven prepare for their first day of school. Faith stood, her stomach rolling as she banged on the door of the water closet currently occupied by Charity. A sour taste rose in her throat. She snatched the towel slung over her shoulder and pressed it to her mouth. After a moment, her throat cleared, and she took a deep breath. "For pity's sake, Charity, I don't feel well, and I'm going to be late. Open the door!"

  "It's my first day on the job, and I don't want to rush it." Charity's voice was curt.

  Faith's "Irish" flared. "It's mine too, and if you don't hurry, I won't have a first day on the job. Mother!"

  Marcy came bounding down the hall, a serene smile on her face. Patting Faith's arm, she tapped on the watercloset door, her knock considerably more gentle than her daughter's had been. With a pleasant voice, almost singsong in tone, she addressed the daughter in possession of the bathroom. "Good morning, Charity, open the door, please. Faith needs to use the privy too. You'll just have to share the bath this morning and work out your morning routine later."

  The door swung wide, and Charity stepped out with a smug smile on her face, looking perfectly wonderful. "I'm ready, Mother," she announced, giving Faith a pointed look.

  "You look lovely, Charity. Faith, it's all yours," her mother said with a smile.

  Faith desperately wished she had some of the calm her mother seemed to exude this morning. She could certainly do with a bit of it, she thought as she looked in the mirror, aghast at the dark circles beneath her eyes. Never-since her affliction with polio as a child-had she been so scared. Not even her first day at the Herald came close to producing the nausea and fear now churning in her stomach. Starting in the typing pool at the Herald with her father close by for moral support was one thing. Taking a position as a junior copywriter on a strange paper in a strange city was completely and totally unnerving. Faith hoped and prayed she could get through the day without throwing up.

  The stress she was feeling must have been written on her face as she entered the kitchen, because her mother shushed Charity as she started to comment. Taking her arm, she ushered Faith to a chair. "Here, sit down and eat your breakfast. I'll get you some coffee."

  Faith perched on the edge of the seat, face ashen despite a healthy application of rouge.

  "A little scared, are you now?" Charity asked with a smile.

  Her mother shot Charity a look of warning and set the cup of coffee before Faith. "The first day is always the hardest, but God will see you through. Trust me, you'll be fine. More than fine, you'll be wonderful."

  Faith took a deep breath, easing some of the tightness she felt in her chest. She nodded. "I know, Mother. Will you pray for me, please?"

  Marcy reached for both daughters' hands and closed her eyes. "Lord, be with my girls today as they begin their new jobs. Don't let them feel alone. Be with them and guide them and give them your favor. Amen." Marcy's eyes popped open, her smile positively radiant. "You have absolutely nothing to worry about. God is going to bless you both. I can feel it!"

  Thirty minutes later, Faith would have given anything to "feel it" as she stood on Lower Abbey Street staring up at the Irish Times. Unfortunately, the only thing she could feel was pure indigestion. She swallowed hard and unbuttoned her pleated woolen coat to better adjust her new green hobble skirt. She tried to tug it down; she was selfconscious over the new stylish length that fell to midcalf, exposing flesh-tone silk stockings. Her fingers trembled as she tucked her starched V-necked blouse in a bit tighter before nervously patting her loose chignon. Taking a deep breath, she forged through the front doors, praying the awful taste in her throat was only heartburn and not an indication she was about to be sick.


  Her smile at the receptionist was shaky, at best. "I'm here to see Mr. Michael Reardon, please," she managed with no more damage than a slight blush to her cheeks. The woman smiled coolly and pointed her to the newsroom through a set of double doors. Once inside, Faith felt somewhat better as she encountered the familiar buzz of a newsroom. It was certainly not as hectic as the Herald, to be sure, but bustling nonetheless, alive with the frenzy of publishing the most important paper in Ireland. Faith stood there, entranced by it all, her nervous fear giving way to an edgy excitement at the prospect of what this building might hold for her.

  "Hello! You must be Patrick's girl. Welcome, young lady."

  She turned to look into the kindly face of Michael Reardon. Any trepidation she may have felt was ousted by the welcoming smile spreading across his broad face. He was older than her father, she guessed, by as much as twenty years, but his eyes had a youthful sparkle when he smiled, which immediately put her at ease. He was heavyset but somewhat small of stature, and Faith had the distinct feeling he garnered as much respect from his colleagues as a man ten feet tall. She liked him immediately.

  "Yes, hello, Mr. Reardon. Thank you so much for allowing me to work here. I promise I will do my best not to disappoint you."

  "I have no doubt whatsoever, young lady, that you will prove your father proud. Shall we step into my office and chat?" He held the door as he beamed at her, his pin-striped vest straining at the buttons.

  An odd mix of anticipation and affection bubbled in her chest. "I'd like that, sir," she breathed, and sank into a chair as he closed the door behind.

  Michael Reardon lounged in the chair, idly tapping a pencil against his lips. He observed her striking auburn hair pulled back into a neat chignon and her glowing enthusiasm, and immediately a sense of dread invaded his soul. She seemed so young, so fresh, so innocent-inevitably the type Mitch found himself attracted to before discarding as easily as yesterday's news. Perhaps Mitch had been right. Perhaps she should have been assigned to Brune. Michael thought about Patrick and wondered what he would want him to do. He blinked, suddenly aware Faith had stopped speaking.

  Her brows crimped in concern. "Are you all right, Mr. Reardon?"

  "Oh, I'm sorry, Faith. I'm afraid I wandered off, thinking about your father. He was a great friend of mine at the Herald, you know, and I was quite distraught to learn he went to fight in this nasty war. Have you heard from him yet?"

  "No, sir, not yet. It's only been a month since he left, so we didn't expect to for a while."

  "Yes, of course. Now, dear, what were you saying?" Michael gave her his undivided attention for a brief moment before his mind strayed once again. His arm swung to scratch the back of his balding head with a pencil. Patrick had written that she had just turned twenty, but she had this air of wide-eyed innocence that made her appear more like sixteen. Michael could tell she was going to bring out the father in him, especially where Mitch was concerned. The thought produced an immediate pain in his head.

  "I'm very excited to have the opportunity to work here, Mr. Reardon. I'll do anything, anything at all. No job is beneath me, sir. I'm just so grateful for the chance to write. I'll do my very best, I can promise you that."

  Michael stood and smiled as he extended his hand to help her up. "I don't have any doubt, my dear. Come, follow me." He steered her toward a group of colleagues gathered at the back of the newsroom. "You're just in time for your department meeting. I'll introduce you to the people you'll be working with."

  "Good morning, Michael. You running the meeting this morning?"

  Michael cocked his brow as he eyed Jamie, the man who addressed him. "What do you mean? Where's Mitch?"

  "You tell me, Boss," Jamie said, his gaze traveling past Michael to Faith. Michael snorted. He pushed past Jamie, who leaned against the door, observing through hornrimmed glasses.

  Heat crept up the back of Michael's neck as he peered into Mitch's empty office. He turned to the group with a low growl. "Okay, everybody-inside. Does anybody know where His Highness is this morning? Bridie? Jamie? Kathleen?"

  Michael surveyed the group, all of whom shrugged their shoulders and averted their gaze on anything other than his face. Hands on his hips, Michael zeroed in on Kathleen, whose gaze was, for the moment, completely captivated by a crumpled piece of paper on the floor.

  "Kathleen?"

  Her eyes flicked up, as if startled, and a soft blush oozed up her cheeks that came close to matching the rose-colored blouse she wore. "Honestly, Michael, I don't know where he is. Haven't seen him," she uttered softly, her gaze returning to the fascinating trash on the floor.

  "Not since last night, anyway," someone muttered.

  Michael shot a searing glance at Bridie, whose remark sent another shot of color into Kathleen's cheeks.

  Bridie's hazel eyes flashed before they congealed to ocher-green. She smoothed a trembling hand against silver hair haphazardly flung into a makeshift topknot. "What? It's true now, isn't it? Everyone knows she was with Mitch last night at Brody's. He's probably just hung over, that's all."

  Fatigue seeped into Michael's bones as he stared, first at Bridie, then at Kathleen, who still avoided his gaze. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with the palm of his hand and sighed. He could feel a headache coming on. "Kathleen, darlin', can you at least tell me if he's planning on gracing us with his presence today?"

  "I think so," she whispered.

  Bridie rolled her eyes.

  "Okay, then, let's get this meeting over with so we can all go back to work." Michael pushed his way into Mitch's office and plopped into his chair. A high-pitched squeal sounded as he sloped back and propped his short legs on Mitch's desk, ignoring the galley sheets strewn across it. The rest of the crew filed in and dispersed around the small office, the ladies occupying the few chairs in the room while the men lumbered to the perimeter.

  "The first order of business this morning is to introduce our newest staff member, Faith O'Connor. Faith comes to us from the Boston Herald, where she was a copywriter, and a mighty good one," Michael said, stretching the truth a wee bit. He nodded at Faith, which prompted a blush to burnish her cheeks when all eyes focused on her.

  "She and her family are staying in Dublin with her grandmother while her father and brother are fighting in France. I don't know how long Faith will be with us; that depends on the war, I suppose. But we can certainly use some stretching in the special-interest department, what with the gloom of war on everybody's mind. And that's where we intend to use her. Any questions?"

  "Special interest-that's my territory, Michael. Just exactly what is she going to be writing?" Bridie bristled.

  "Now, don't go getting uppity on me, Bridie. You're my feature writer, and nothing's going to change that. All I'm asking is you show Faith the ropes and give her anything you don't want to do. She's willing to start anywhere."

  "Yeah, well the loo could certainly use a good scrubbing," Bridie mumbled. Several of the men snickered.

  Faith's cheeks continued to flame as she stared at the floor.

  Michael's demand for respect was about to be engaged as he swung his legs off the desk and leaned forward in the chair, eyes locked on Bridie's face with deadly precision. "You presently work on one of the finest newspapers in the world, Mrs. O'Halloran, and it would behoove you to act like it. You're not slumming at Brody's, and I'm not an editor who takes kindly to petty jealousies. Do I make myself clear?"

  It was quite obvious to everyone in the room that he did. Bridie nodded.

  "Good. Now, let's move on with the introductions. Faith, this is the motley crew you'll be forced to work with. They may seem rough around the edges, and trust me, they are, but I think you'll soon discover why we keep them around. In this room are some of the finest journalists in Ireland, and I have no doubt whatsoever that you'll learn from each and every one of them." Michael turned and pointed to an elderly man leaning against a cabinet. "That's Aiden McCrae, our hard news and financial genius. Keeps us on top
as one of the finest financial papers in the world."

  Aiden nodded, and Faith smiled. Michael continued the introductions, wagging his hand next at Jamie, who was in charge of editorials and book reviews and one of the few in the room whose face reflected a genuine welcome. Several of the men grunted as they were introduced. Faith nodded politely at each while Michael went down the line, pointing out the names, talents, and sometimes humorous flaws of the ten employees in the room.

  Michael introduced her to Jack and felt a quickening in his gut when Faith nodded abruptly. He noted that she quickly dropped her gaze to the floor. The young pressman lounged against the door frame, lips curled as he assessed Faith through hooded eyes. Michael cleared his throat and waved his hand at the women who sat on either side of her. "Kathleen is the proofreader for Mitch's department, and then, of course, you already know Bridie, our 'senior' feature writer."

  Kathleen managed a shy smile as she coiled a thick strand of chestnut hair around her finger. Bridie merely grunted in the grand fashion of most of the men in the room.

  "And that's everybody, except, of course, the man they all answer to ... that is, when he's here." Michael had a habit of rubbing his head every time he spoke of Mitch, as he did now. "Mitch Dennehy is department editor for news, editorials, and features, and regrettably, one of the best in the business, or I would have fired his sorry-" Michael blinked, a colorful word stuck in his throat. "Well, let's just say he wouldn't be punching a clock at the Times." He slanted back in the chair with a loud screech, hands behind his head, and surveyed the room. His feet were back on the desk. "So, Aiden, on the McGettigan scandal-any new leads?"

  Aiden proceeded to update them on the financial woes of one of Ireland's most prolific companies when the door flew open, causing a breeze-and according to rumor, a dangerously attractive man-to blow into the office. Michael frowned as all conversation and action came to a halt, not an uncommon thing when Mitch Dennehy entered a room. Michael's eyes flitted toward Faith, then back to Mitch. He squinted, attempting to see what others saw when confronted with Mitch for the very first time. He was tall and muscular, an obvious fact despite the stylish single-breasted sack suit he wore over a starched white shirt. He appeared to border on burly, rather like an overgrown man in a child's playhouse, and his black necktie was loosened as if it were the end of a day rather than the beginning. He carried himself with such an air of authority that people were prone to step back and let him pass, like the parting of the Red Sea. Michael's nerves itched as he glanced at Faith. She, too, was staring along with the rest at this charismatic man whom Bridie had once proclaimed "far too masculine a creature to have eyes so amazingly blue."