Band of Sisters

by Cathy Gohlke

  “In a bit of a jam, are you, dear?” a young uniformed man whispered to Maureen in an accent so familiar that her heart raced. It could be a voice from the next county back home. “There, there now. They’re a rough lot, right enough.” He stood, looked around as though he was keeping an eye on the orderliness of things, then whispered again, “I couldn’t help but overhear your troubles with your poor sister. A rotten piece of luck.”

  It was the first word of sympathy Maureen had heard since landing, and her lip quivered once, a thing she despised.

  “Well, then, perhaps I can help.”

  “I’d be grateful, sir.” Maureen could be polite. She would have been polite to the king of England if it would help Katie Rose.

  “Would you, then?” He pulled her papers from her hand and looked them over. “Would you be grateful, Maureen O’Reilly?” He lingered over her name and eyed her carefully, returning her papers.

  Maureen stepped back. “Is this a trick you’re about?”

  “No. Why, no, of course not!” He looked so offended that Maureen felt contrite.

  “Beggin’ your pardon. Everything’s so—I don’t know what to think.”

  “Or who to trust?” He nodded sympathetically.

  “Aye, or who to trust.” She sighed, glancing from side to side.

  “Well, I’ll tell you this: you can trust me. You’re an Irish lass, for all of that, and we’ve got to help our own, now, don’t we?” He pulled a small wad of bills from his vest pocket and passed them to Maureen as though he were shaking her hand.

  She pulled back, but he pressed her palm between his two and whispered into her ear, so close she smelled his onion and cheese breath upon her cheek. “Now, not to worry. They’ll ask if you have money and how much. They’ll be wantin’ you to have twenty-five American dollars to pass through so they know you’re not about to become a public charge. I’ve given you thirty.”

  Maureen stopped pulling. “Thirty dollars?”

  “Shh, then,” he whispered. “I’ve not enough to do for everyone. Just one here and there as I can help a fellow countryman—or woman.” He smiled.

  Maureen did not like his smile. “I don’t know what to say, sir.”

  “Say only that you’ll make a fine American and a good friend.” He squeezed her hand.

  Maureen tried to decipher his meaning and her instincts—so hard to do with the desperation racing through her veins.

  “You can give it back when you’re through the lines or pay me back as soon as you’re able. It’s always good to have friends from the old country. We help one another with jobs and such. And if it comes to needin’ someone to meet you or claim you’re a relative, just leave that to me.”

  “Maureen O’Reilly!” Her name was barked by an official at the desk.

  “Jaime Flynn—that’s my name. Don’t forget. I can send a friend round to meet you if they give you any trouble—someone to vouch for you. I’ll make sure he sees you safely into the city.” He winked—barely.

  “Maureen O’Reilly!” The call came again, and Maureen, not knowing what to do, pulled away and stumbled toward the desk.

  The man at the desk fired one question after another, checking her answers against the ship’s manifest, until Maureen’s head spun. When he asked how much money she possessed, she forgot about the gold coin sewn into her hem and dutifully opened her palm, displaying thirty American dollars folded into a slip of paper. From the corner of her eye, she saw Jaime Flynn raise his brow, smile again, and nod. Maureen felt a seasickness fill her belly.

  Miraculously, the official seemed ready to pass her down the line and through the doors to freedom. But at the last possible moment he said, “Oh—nearly missed this,” pausing his pencil over the printed form. “What is your final destination, and who is expecting you?”

  Maureen swallowed hard.

  “Do you have family here? Someone to vouch for you?”

  “I have a letter,” she stammered. The letter seemed completely foolish and impossible now.

  “Well?” he demanded.

  Maureen slowly handed him the letter and watched as he unfolded it, her heart pounding. In that moment two junior officials came to her interrogator with a question about another passenger; the man set the letter down and turned away. Maureen quickly stole the letter, licked her thumb, and worried the paper’s edge, half-smudging and half-fraying the date in the upper right-hand corner.

  Which was worse—to be sent back with an old and useless letter or to be sent back for deception? Please, she prayed, blind his eyes to what I’ve done.

  Joshua Keeton stepped from the immigration center into the late-November sunshine. Getting through Ellis Island had been quicker and easier than he’d dared hope. Good health, a strong back, quick answers, and the requisite finances had stood him in good stead.

  He stepped onto the ferry just before it pulled from the dock. He looked about but saw no sign of Maureen or Katie Rose among the passengers. Disappointed and a little unsettled, he found a seat, reminding himself that Maureen had made it clear she wanted nothing to do with him. He pulled from his pocket the rough map a fellow traveler had drawn for him, highlighting places he might find a room for the night. Long after he’d digested its information, he continued to stare at it while he prayed.

  Thank You, Lord, for this new beginning in this new land. Guide my footsteps, keep my path straight, and make me a blessing to those I meet.

  Joshua nodded to the Green Lady as the ferry passed her in the harbor. Give Maureen and her sister the fresh start this good land offers and the liberty they’ve never known. I’d hoped to be of service to her in makin’ that fresh start, thought that was what You had in mind when Mrs. Keithly asked me to watch over them. I’d hoped . . . But he didn’t finish. He looked away, shrugging the disappointment aside. He was used to forging a different path from those around him, both in his thinking and praying and in his doing. Still, he knew some honest confession was in order. She’ll not be needin’ me when she has the Wakefields and all their wealth at her beck and call. And maybe that’s as it should be, but I’m disappointed, Lord; I won’t say I’m not.

  Just before the ferry docked against the pier of New York’s Battery, he squared his shoulders and hefted his bag. I ask that You keep her in Your care, Lord. And if she needs me, let me know.

  When the interrogator returned his attention to Maureen, he took up the letter, squinting as he read. “This letter is written on your behalf?” The official looked skeptical. “It mentions a son.”

  Before Maureen could answer, a short and thickly set middle-aged woman with gold wire-rimmed glasses and slate-gray hair fluffed into a soft bun interrupted. “Excuse me, Mr. Crenshaw. Nurse Harrigan asked me to see to this young lady.”

  “Mrs. Melkford.” The official tipped his hat.

  She smiled. “I see that cold has gone by the way, thanks be to God.”

  “As has your chicken soup. Does the trick every time.”

  “You let me know whenever you feel a sniffle coming on and need another dose of good medicine, and I’ll cook you up another pot.”

  “In that case, I’m thinking I might be sick straight through the winter!” he teased.

  “Then I’ll see you with a crock next trip.” She patted his hand. “Now, about this young woman. The Missionary Aid Society and I will vouch for her. We’ll make sure she reaches her destination or finds a job, whichever we can accomplish first.”

  “That would be fine, but she’s put forth a letter.” He turned aside so Maureen wouldn’t hear him, but she heard just the same. “She may be trying to pull a fast one—pinched some other fellow’s letter.”

  “No, no, Mr. Crenshaw, it’s her letter—a long story, no doubt. It will all work out in the end. You have my word for it—mine and Nurse Harrigan’s.”

  “Well . . .” He hesitated, scratching behind his ear.

  She smiled winsomely and laid a hand on his arm.

  He shook his head, stamped the pa
per, and handed it to Mrs. Melkford. “With friends like the two of you, the woman’s standing on gold.” He looked hard at Maureen. “Don’t make me live to regret this.”

  “No, sir. I won’t, sir.” Maureen wasn’t certain what had just transpired, but she lifted her bag and dutifully followed the woman with her letter and papers, down the stairs and through a set of doors into another sea of humanity.

  “Stay close beside me, dear,” Mrs. Melkford ordered as she wove through piles of luggage, squirming children, and tableaux of joy and misery. “This is the waiting area for immigrants to meet their families and sponsors. And that—” she pointed across the room—“is known as the kissing post.”

  As if to demonstrate her meaning, a middle-aged man, dark, wiry, and heavily mustached, dashed through a gate at the end of the room, wove through a small crowd of bystanders, and whooshed into the air a woman at least his age. He twirled her twice around and kissed her lips and eyes and cheeks until Maureen thought he might eat her alive. Two children hung on to his coattails for dear life, and when he was finished kissing their mother, he tossed them high by turn. Maureen didn’t need to know their names or jabbering, lilting language to envy their reunion.

  “It’s not always so happy.” Mrs. Melkford tipped her head toward a tearful young woman just meeting her husband. By the empty baby blanket the young woman held, the child’s tiny portmanteau with no child at her feet, and by her fearful looks and gesturing toward the doors through which Maureen and Mrs. Melkford had just passed, it was clear that something had gone terribly wrong.

  “No.” Maureen spoke to Mrs. Melkford for the first time. “’Tisn’t always happy.” She thought again of Katie Rose. “You’ve seen my sister and Nurse Harrigan, then? Can I see her? Will they let her come with us?”

  Mrs. Melkford shook her head. “Goodness, no. Nurse Harrigan said your sister has the chicken pox! She’s been quarantined. They won’t release her until she’s well. But if all goes as expected, she should be up and right as rain in a week or two at most.” Mrs. Melkford nodded to this official and that, showed them her own papers as well as Maureen’s, and waltzed the two of them through the doors into the biting wind and November dusk. “Come along,” she chirped, half-running. “We’ll want to catch that ferry!”

  Maureen grabbed her arm and dragged her to a stop. “But I cannot leave this island without Katie Rose!”

  “Oh, child! Have they explained nothing to you?” Mrs. Melkford wrenched her arm away.

  But Maureen wasn’t a child; she was a grown woman, and she was sick to death of Americans stomping on her life. I never should have let them take Katie Rose! I’m her sister—she needs me. She dug in her heels as the final whistle blew for the ferry.

  Mrs. Melkford, stronger than she looked, jerked Maureen’s bag from her grasp and headed down the planked dock. “It’s up to you now!” she called back to Maureen. “If you want to stay in America, if you hope to see your sister again, you’ll come with me!”

  Maureen did not want to follow, but she didn’t want to be left behind. Mrs. Melkford, whoever she was, had her bag, her letter—her only feeble claim to being allowed in America. Just as the dockhand was pulling up the gangway, Maureen dashed aboard, nearly knocking him over.

  He swore in words familiar to Maureen, but she didn’t stop. She’d heard them all in the Englishman’s house and out the back door of her uncle’s pub in the village. Even so, she felt the heat bathe her neck as she searched for Mrs. Melkford among the groups of passengers. A handkerchief and sheaf of papers waved through the air near the back of the ferry. Maureen followed their signal, hoping that Mrs. Melkford would be attached.

  “I’ve saved you a seat, Maureen O’Reilly.” Mrs. Melkford patted the bench beside her.

  Maureen plopped close, too weary and exasperated to more than follow orders. “What did you mean, it’s all up to me? What can I do to get Katie Rose out of there? When can I see her again?”

  “I’ll check on her next week when I come across. As soon as they’re willing for her to have visitors, I’ll let you know and will make sure you see her. But you’d best hope they keep her a time.”

  “And why should I be hopin’ that?”

  “Because you’ve got to make certain you’re settled and employed, with a place to live, that you can take care of her—or that someone can. I can help you with that—the Society and me, that is.”

  “We’ve an invitation,” Maureen said weakly.

  “Yes.” Mrs. Melkford raised her brows. “Nurse Harrigan told me about your ‘invitation.’”

  Maureen straightened, indignant. “It’s perfectly real. My father saved Colonel Wakefield’s life once. Colonel Wakefield is an officer and an honorable man—Da always said. He pledged to help Da, to help his child. He’ll not let us down.”

  Mrs. Melkford turned her face toward Maureen and her back on the gentleman seated the other side of her. “Be that as it may, Nurse Harrigan said the letter is nearly thirty years old. Do you even know if Colonel Wakefield still lives in New York? If he’s still alive?”

  Maureen looked away.

  “Well—” Mrs. Melkford sat back—“tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day. If your Colonel Wakefield still resides at the address on his letter, he’ll surely be celebrating the feast at home with his family. We won’t ring or send word; we’ll just go along and see what we can learn.” She shook out the letter and read. “Hmm. Morningside . . . this address is in Gramercy Park—much closer to my home in Greenwich Village than to the Aid Society. Perhaps I’d best take you home with me, just for the holiday. We’ll be a mite cramped, but you could sleep on the settee in my parlor. I wonder if this could be—” Mrs. Melkford’s brow creased and she bit her lip. “Oh, dear—my neighbor’s grandniece. I promised her I’d come round early and help with her turkey. She’s just married, and it’s her first time cooking it on her own. Her mother’s away, and my neighbor simply can’t see well enough anymore.”

  Maureen could not imagine a new bride not knowing how to roast a fowl but knew it wouldn’t do to say such a thing. “I can find my way.”

  Mrs. Melkford looked doubtful, then brightened. “I suppose that’s so. If you can find your way across a vast ocean, you can manage a couple dozen New York City blocks. We’re laid out on a grid, so it’s simple enough.” She smiled, then patted Maureen’s hand sympathetically. “I’ll draw a map. But we must consider the very real possibility that things will not turn out as you anticipate.”

  Maureen couldn’t think about that now. She knew she should be grateful for help, and at least Mrs. Melkford seemed an upstanding sort of lady. “Thank you for helpin’ me, mum.”

  Mrs. Melkford half smiled. “You’ll need a job before you can afford a place to live.” She lowered her voice. “Nurse Harrigan said you came with no money.”

  “I have money! Katie Rose and I each have a twenty-dollar gold piece Colonel Wakefield sent our da.” She felt along the front of her hemline and, finding it, whispered, “They’re sewn into our hems. He sent us more, but I needed it for the fare and food and—everythin’.”

  Mrs. Melkford looked at her steadily. “You sewed a twenty-dollar gold piece into your sister’s hem?”

  Maureen nodded.

  Mrs. Melkford sighed. “Well, it’s not enough. Even so, you might as well say good-bye to that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’ll wash her clothes in the hospital, my dear.” She studied Maureen, hesitated, and looked away again. “I’m sorry to say that not everyone is honorable—even in America.”

  Maureen groaned inwardly, knowing precisely what she meant; it was one more strike in a miserable day.

  She slumped back, thrusting frozen hands into her pockets. And she felt the dollars—thirty American paper dollars—she’d completely forgotten. Surprised, she started to show them to Mrs. Melkford, about to explain about Jaime Flynn and his offer. But something about the memory made her uncomfortable; something about it felt dishonorable in its o
wn right, and she hesitated.

  When she looked up, she saw Jaime Flynn watching her from the next aisle of the ferry. He winked, tipped his hat, and turned away.

  Olivia’s October birthday ball had been grueling enough. But Thanksgiving marked the first major family holiday without her father and the foretaste of a long winter.

  Dorothy and Drake had offered to celebrate the feast at their home, but Olivia insisted that they sit down at the Wakefield family table. She could not imagine spending their father’s favorite holiday elsewhere—and Olivia knew that if Dorothy and Drake hosted the day, they would parade yet another entourage of would-be suitors before her. She craved a quiet time with those who’d known and loved her father well.

  But when they waltzed through the front door, late by nearly an hour, Dorothy and Drake were not alone.

  “Olivia, dear.” Dorothy pressed her sister’s arm in greeting. “I meant to tell you that we’ve compelled Mr. Morrow to join us for the day.”

  Olivia could not muster a smile.

  Dorothy pulled her aside as the men handed coats and hats to the parlor maid. “He’s a business associate of Drake’s—all alone today—horrendous! I knew you wouldn’t mind.” She whispered, “I sent word to Cook. We all know how she hates surprises!”

  “You didn’t send word to me!” Olivia hissed.

  But Dorothy shot her sister a warning glare as Drake introduced Mr. Curtis Morrow.

  “We’re so glad you are able to join us, Mr. Morrow,” Olivia lied.

  “It’s most kind of you to invite me, Miss Wakefield. I feel I may be intruding on a family holiday.” He bowed slightly. “Please allow me to express my belated condolences on the death of your father. I understand your loss was great.”

  “Yes, it was. It is,” Olivia returned, trying to keep the irritation from her voice, wishing Dorothy would take up the conversation. “Did you know my father, Mr. Morrow?”

  “I’m sorry to say I never had the pleasure.”