Charity lifted her chin to smile into his anxious eyes. “I promise, Father.” Her voice sounded smooth to her own ears, as if she were discussing the weather.
Patrick scooped her up in his big arms and squeezed her tightly. “That’s my girl! Everything’s going to be fine, you’ll see. There’ll be another beau who will turn your head soon enough, I can promise you that.”
Her face felt like a mask as she stared over her father’s shoulder and fixated on the stain on the floor. He had called her “his girl,” but that was a lie. She had never been his girl. His girl was Faith.
3
Faith couldn’t remember when she’d been this excited. She studied herself in the mirror. What kind of impression would she make? With an approving eye, she surveyed her hair, which was neatly swept into the latest style—a twisted knot at the back of her head. Her starched, choker-necked blouse was crisp and clean and quite professional, especially with her mother’s velvet ribbon around the fluted collar. The perfect look, she hoped, for the newest member of the Boston Herald typing pool.
Never was a first impression more critical. There would be veiled looks of jealousy to contend with, airs of skepticism to deflect, and respect to be earned. She was, after all, the daughter of Patrick O’Connor, assistant editor of the Boston Herald. If she were going to succeed, she’d have to demonstrate talent and ability far beyond bloodline advantage.
She lifted her hand to the porcelain brooch pinned to the ribbon. Her mother had insisted she wear it. It had been passed down by Faith’s great-grandmother, Mima, years ago in Ireland when her own daughter—Faith’s grandmother, Bridget—had chosen to flee a homeland ravaged by the potato famine. Even now, when Marcy told the story, tears would well and her voice would waver. The famine had killed Faith’s great-grandfather, as well as one in nine of his countrymen, devastating Ireland’s economy. Her grandmother experienced the heartbreak of leaving her mother and homeland behind when her husband insisted they seek a life in America. And so they’d left, along with a million of their countryfolk, taking their meager belongings and their young daughter, Marceline, to the Promised Land across the sea.
When Bridget had kissed Mima good-bye, Mima had pressed the brooch into her daughter’s hand and begged her to return someday. Hand painted with a picture of their cottage home, the brooch had been one of Faith’s grandmother’s most precious keepsakes. Years later, following the death of her husband and with Marcy grown and married, Bridget returned to her beloved Ireland and to Mima. The day she left, she squeezed the brooch into Marcy’s hand as they parted on the pier, their eyes as misty as the thick fog that rolled over the restless sea.
Nine years had come and gone, and now Marcy had pinned the same brooch on Faith. “This is a big day for you. School is behind, and a new life lies ahead. Be patient, work hard, and someday, after you’ve proven yourself, you’ll get the opportunity to write—I can feel it.” Her mother stroked her face with a tenderness that made Faith feel safe inside. “This brooch is not meant to be a good-luck charm, understand, but I do want it to remind you that you’re not alone. You are greatly loved—by God and by us. You will remember that, won’t you, Faith?”
Faith nodded, and Marcy gave her a peck on the cheek. “Good girl! Now hurry downstairs. You don’t want to keep Father waiting.” She disappeared, leaving Faith standing before the mirror. Gently she touched the brooch one last time—this rite of passage from mother to daughter—and felt at peace. This precious heirloom seemed an unspoken prayer, sending her into a new world with the knowledge that there was a place to return to, a haven of warmth and solace, if needed. Faith took a deep breath and one final glance. There was little doubt that she would.
Never had Faith seen anything throb with such restless energy as the newsroom of the Boston Herald. She stood on its threshold in awe, hand splayed on her chest and mouth gaping. The electricity of the room, with its sea of desks shrouded in a haze of smoke, sent waves of excitement coursing through her. Reporters and copywriters crowded the room, barking orders, screaming into telephones, and pounding typewriter keys with the same ferocity as they puffed on stubs of cigarettes and cigars. Amid the smoky maze, copyboys and typing-pool girls scurried, pencils behind ears and papers in hand, seeking to placate the edgy tempers of those provoked by the demons of deadline. To Faith, the very hum of the place was melodic: typewriter keys clicking and telephones ringing in exhilarating harmony with hushed tones and booming voices. Desk drawers slamming, doors flying open—it was a hive of people pulsating with life, and now she, too, was part of its wonderful frenzy.
Timid, she followed behind Patrick as he wove his way through the swarming throng, dispensing greetings as he went.
“So that’s your eldest girl, is it now, Patrick? She’s a pretty young thing.” A tiny man with a voice too booming for his size grinned at Faith, causing those within hearing distance to turn and gawk. Patrick beamed.
“She is at that, Duffy, my man, but she’s a hard worker too, the likes of which we could use around here.”
Hand on her shoulder, Patrick steered Faith to the back of the room where a bubbled glass door sheltered the calm of the typing pool from the chaotic pace of the smoggy newsroom. Halting, he kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Now you go on in and introduce yourself to Hattie. She runs the pool, and she’ll get you started.”
Faith chewed on her lip.
Patrick patted her arm. “You’ll be fine, darlin’. Hattie is a kind woman. You’ll like her. But I think it’s best you go in alone, since you’re my daughter. There’s no need to rub that in anyone’s face, now is there?” Patrick smiled, his eyes soft with understanding. “Go on, now, you’ll be fine. Sure, you’ll be running the place in no time.”
Faith reached for the knob.
“Oh, and, darlin’ …”
She turned and looked into her father’s eyes.
“I love my girl,” he whispered.
Faith lifted her chin and nodded, stepping through the doorway. On the other side she encountered a more peaceful existence, devoid of smoke as well as excitement, crammed wall to window with several rows of tiny typing tables. Each was occupied by a stone-faced girl with fingers flying over typewriter keys and attention focused on a steno pad before her. The white paint on the walls had long since yellowed to sallow. Veins of occasional cracks fanned between jaundiced editions of the Boston Herald, haphazardly hung. In contrast to the near-pandemonium of the newsroom, the drone of this room was deafening in its monotony. Nothing but the click-click-clicking of typewriters. And the silence of boredom. Faith swallowed her disappointment.
Miss Hattie Hayword, matriarch of the pool, sat at a decidedly more important desk at the front of the room. Her salt-and-pepper hair wound into a tight bun perched on the back of her head like an oversized donut. She was far too large for the delicate chair in which she sat, causing it to groan and squeak at her slightest movement. Absorbed in the galley sheets before her, she didn’t notice that anyone had entered the room. Faith inched her way to Hattie’s desk.
“Excuse me, Miss Hayword, I’m so sorry to interrupt …” Faith tried to calm her voice, hoping it sounded steadier than she felt. “I’m Faith O’Connor … and … I believe I’m scheduled to begin work in the typing pool today.”
Hattie looked up, her broad face breaking into a warm smile. She extended a chubby arm, shaking Faith’s hand with such enthusiasm that the heavy fold of her forearm swung back and forth. “Yes, you are, Miss O’Connor, and I’m quite pleased to have you. Your father is a fine man and a mainstay here at the Herald, I can tell you that. He tells me you like to write.”
The knot in her stomach unraveled. “Yes, yes, I do, Miss Hayword. Someday … well, I hope to become a copywriter here at the Herald. But that’s down the road, of course. For now, I’m committed to proving myself as a typist.”
“And so you shall, young lady, so you shall.” With considerable effort and strain on herself and the chair, Hattie rose and toddled arou
nd her desk. She grabbed Faith’s arm to usher her to the front of the room. “Come now, we must introduce you.”
Faith’s chest tightened. “Uh, Miss Hayword … if you don’t mind, I would prefer you didn’t introduce me as Patrick O’Connor’s daughter.”
Hattie seemed puzzled. “But, my dear, all the girls will know eventually. You can’t keep something like that quiet, you know.”
“I know. I just don’t want special attention because of it. I’d much rather, well, earn the respect on my own, if you understand my meaning.”
“I do, and I applaud you for it, my dear. Come, I will introduce you to the girl who will assist in your training. She’s one of our most experienced typists.”
Hattie maneuvered Faith to the back of the room like a tugboat pushing a barge, creating a ripple effect of curious eyes. She halted in front of a pleasant-looking girl with a persistent spray of freckles and a wild mane of tawny curls restrained by a black barrette. The girl smiled, and the freckles made way for dimples.
“Maisie, this is Faith O’Connor, our newest member of the typing pool. Faith, this is Maisie Tanner. She’ll get you set up. These are Underwood machines. I understand you were trained on Royals in school, is that right, dear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, they’re basically the same with a few minor differences, but Maisie can run you through all of that. This section of the pool is responsible for typing and proofing all copy from the obituaries to weather. The other section handles art through music—it’s alphabetically divided, of course. A few copywriters prefer to type their own copy, but most will give you sheets and sheets of chicken scratch, which you will become quite adept at deciphering.” Hattie’s puffy hands fluttered in the air while her twinkling eyes rolled in Maisie’s direction. “When you can’t make heads or tails of it, you’ll find Maisie’s help invaluable. She’s a wonder at reading their minds.”
Maisie nodded and smiled, wisps of stray curls bobbing in agreement.
“You’re assigned to the day shift, 9:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. Maisie will show you where to clock in. Lunch is at noon; you get thirty minutes. I have a few papers for you to sign before you leave today, but that about covers what you need to get started. I’ll leave you with Maisie. Good luck, young lady.” Hattie waddled to her desk, where the squeaking commenced once again.
Faith stooped to store her purse on the small ledge beneath her typing table, her stomach a jumble while Maisie rattled on. All at once, Maisie patted her arm. “First-day jitters—everybody gets ’em. You’re gonna be fine.”
Faith’s smile was weak. “Do you really think so?” she asked, poising her fingers over the keys of her very own Underwood.
Maisie grinned. “Sure, once you get that shaking under control. Yeah, you’re gonna be fine.”
Faith sighed. Oh, how she had missed this—the heady warmth of the early autumn sun on her face, the crisp, earthy scent of fall in the air, the riotous blaze of color. It was hard to believe only two weeks had passed since she’d been here last, her favorite spot in O’Reilly Park. Only two weeks since she had begun her job at the Herald—two weeks that had changed her life so completely.
She lazed on the blanket like a contented cat, prayer book, journal, and pen by her side. Closing her eyes, she tilted her face toward the warmth of the sun. Oh, there were so few days like this left! The mournful echo of a loon filled the autumn air, its melancholy song bittersweet to her ears. It was a new season, and in some small way, she mourned the passing of the old—the summer, her school years, her adolescent daydreams.
But the new was certainly not without promise. Turning to lie on her back, she thought about her first weeks at the Herald. True, it had not been as exciting as she had hoped—passion was hard to come by when typing obituaries and weather eight hours a day. But it was, in a way, rewarding.
It was strange. Only two weeks had passed, and yet she felt so different, older, more alive. In a mere eight days—on September 30—she would be nineteen, but it was more than that. A feeling of importance, of contribution. She was, after all, part of the inner workings of one of the finest newspapers in the country. A minute role, to be sure, but a cog nonetheless in the wheel of a great machine. One that kept its fingers on the pulse of one of the grandest cities on the Eastern Seaboard.
Faith breathed in deeply, the expanse of air filling her chest with a sense of pride. Despite the monotony of her job, she rather enjoyed it. Well, perhaps not the job as much as riding the trolley to work with Father each morning. She loved listening to tales of his early days or colorful commentary on co-workers. She’d always been close to her father, but within the last two weeks, she sensed something new in their relationship. Over and above their love as father and daughter, they now had a common bond, a kinship that had nothing to do with blood. They were newspeople who loved the smell of ink and the demand of a deadline.
Then there was Maisie. Never had Faith met anyone who made her laugh more. Throughout high school, Faith had developed several friendships, but none even came close to what she and Maisie had shared in two short weeks. They had connected immediately, babbling on about the latest fashions, and Mary Pickford’s hairstyles, and their dreams for the future. At the most inopportune times, Maisie’s droll sense of humor would make Faith giggle out loud, catching the disapproving eye of Miss Hayword, who would tap a chubby finger against her lips in a scolding fashion.
Faith smiled. Everything was perfect. Or almost perfect. She rolled on her side and felt her smile stiffen.
Except for Briana. The image of the typing pool’s resident bully invaded her thoughts. A hardened beauty from the wrong side of town, Briana reveled in picking on Faith. The moment she’d learned Faith was Patrick’s daughter, she and her sidekicks had taken every opportunity to bombard her with insult and innuendo.
Faith sighed, remembering the knock-down fight that had finally resulted after a week on the job. The memory of Briana sprawled in a sea of trash flashed before her, and Faith couldn’t help the smile that twitched on her lips. For a solid week she had taken the bullying, biting her tongue so many times her teeth ached. She’d even managed to hog-tie Maisie when Briana’s words had been particularly nasty. And then it happened—Briana breached the bounds of Faith’s temper, striking at the soft underbelly of all that Faith held dear: her father.
With frightening speed, Faith had rammed the palm of her hand against Briana’s chest, felling her like a tall, leggy oak. Briana toppled against a row of overflowing trash cans lining the dock wall, her face frozen in shock. She attempted to rise, smelling faintly of sardines.
Mortified, Faith reached to help her up.
“Don’t you touch me! You better believe Miss Hayword is going to hear about this. Let’s see what your precious daddy thinks of his little girl bullying her fellow workers.”
Briana’s cronies brushed bits of trash off her clothes as she stood to her feet. “Get out of my way,” she rasped, pushing past Faith while her entourage trailed behind.
Faith had been aghast, but the moment she spied Maisie’s red face, the two of them had howled until they cried. In the end, she had received a gentle reprimand from Miss Hayword, who never even mentioned it to her father. Apparently she didn’t like Briana either.
Feeling a wee bit guilty, Faith squeezed her eyes shut. “Okay, okay, bless her, Lord,” she muttered through clenched teeth. She shifted to lie flat on her back, then stretched lazily to soak in the surprising warmth of the late-September sun. With eyes closed, she kicked off her shoes and hiked her green muslin skirt above her knees. She shimmied out of her navy stockings to bare her legs. Thrusting her crisp, white shirtsleeves up, she clasped her hands over her head and breathed in deeply. Oh, how she cherished moments like this! To lie here in her own personal haven, hedged by massive forsythia bushes that spilled over a peaceful pond. It was the perfect place for reflection.
Through her eyelids, she could feel rather than see the flickering sun as it danced and
shimmered between the fluttering leaves of the massive oak overhead. Intermittently its warmth was stolen for a moment, as it was now, by a stray cloud in an otherwise perfect sky. Somewhere high in the canopy of boughs, a mockingbird chattered, luring a smile to Faith’s lips as she rested, content in her wait for the warmth to return.
“You know, there’s a good chance you could burn those beautiful legs.”
Heaven help her, she was paralyzed, unable to move anything but her eyelids. They flew open in utter horror, and she blinked, sunlight blinding her eyes to a shadowy figure standing over her.
Collin McGuire.
He assessed her bare legs with a grin, which promptly produced an onslaught of heat in her cheeks. “I’d be careful, you know. Looks like your face is pretty red too.”
Faith yanked her skirt down and shielded her eyes from the sun as she looked up at him. Please don’t let him see me shaking. With a sweaty palm, she clutched at her dress.
He sat down on the blanket beside her, his long legs stretched out next to her own. He leaned back, tugged at a piece of grass, and put the stem in his mouth. He chewed it slowly, deliberately.
Her breath hitched in her throat. “What are you doing?” she stuttered, inching to the far edge of the blanket.
Collin turned to face her, his gray eyes nonchalant. “Sittin’.” He looked away and tilted his face to the sun as if being there were the most natural thing in the world.
Warmth washed over her. Her pulse raced chaotically. “I don’t understand. Did you follow me?”
“Uh-huh.”
“But why?”
He sat up straight and shifted to face her. The blade of grass continued to rotate in his lips. He plucked it from his mouth. “Honestly? I came here to vent. I was pretty mad that you made it difficult for me to see your sister. I’m quite fond of her, you know, and hope to see more of her. Why’d you tell your parents you saw us on the porch?”
A Passion Most Pure (The Daughters of Boston Book #1): A Novel Page 4
