Band of Sisters

by Cathy Gohlke

  Mrs. Melkford doubted, after the way Maureen had taken off that morning, that she’d be seeing either girl for some time—certainly not until next Saturday afternoon. She prayed she was doing the right thing, and that if she wasn’t, the Lord would overrule her naiveté and fight for Maureen. “Darcy’s Department Store,” she whispered. “She works at Darcy’s Department Store, here in Manhattan.”

  Maureen remained stoic, though Katie Rose badgered and berated her stupidity all of Christmas Day and each day after.

  “Joshua Keeton won’t hurt us, Maureen. He’s been nothin’ but kindness!” And she’d begun to tick off the ways he’d helped: the trip to Dublin, how he’d meant to watch over them on the ship, if only she’d not been so rude. “We’d never be in this mess if you’d trusted Joshua and let him list his name as comin’ with us on the ship’s manifest. But no, you with your high-and-mighty ideas and letter from a dead man, you had to—”

  “Shut up!” Maureen had shouted when she could take no more. “You’ve no idea what you’re talkin’ about. We cannot have any connection to Ireland; do you not know that?”

  “You mean you cannot! You’re afraid of what he knows about you, aren’t you? Afraid he’ll tell what you did with Julius Orthbridge.” Katie Rose had sneered at her, and that, of all things, had taken Maureen aback, made her sick to her stomach. “Well, I’m not afraid. In fact, I fancy havin’ a friend from home.” She lifted her chin. “I’d be proud to walk out with Joshua Keeton.”

  “He’s a grown man!”

  “And I’m a grown woman,” Katie Rose asserted, though her color rose. “It seems a fine arrangement.”

  “You’re a child!” Maureen had spouted, regretting the words before they’d escaped her lips.

  Katie Rose’s blush had turned to fury. “A child? A child? You think you’re so grand and desirable, men would fall all over themselves for you, Maureen O’Reilly! Well, we’ll see about that, won’t we?”

  And she’d left for work, slamming the door behind her, not waiting for Maureen to walk with her.

  All that Thursday morning, behind the counter at Darcy’s, Maureen castigated herself for the way she’d handled the situation with Katie Rose. I remember what it is to be thirteen—nearly fourteen. How I was dyin’ to be thought grown-up and beautiful. I suppose her scars make her more sensitive; why did I not take all of that into account? But Maureen also knew she’d never displayed the temper Katie Rose had; she’d not been in a position to. Perhaps that’s my satisfaction—or should be—that Katie Rose has the freedom to shout and rage. She believes she’s safe, that I’ll take her temper and still love and care for her. Maureen sighed and polished the counter.

  At lunch she looked for Eliza Farnham, Alice’s friend, but didn’t see her, hadn’t seen her all week. She sat beside Eliza’s counter mate, asking if she’d seen or heard from her. But the girl’s eyes widened; she glanced at the lunchroom monitor, scooped up her half-eaten sandwich, and without so much as stuffing it back in its bag, walked quickly from the room.

  If Maureen didn’t know better, she’d think she had the plague or that chicken pox had broken across her face. Not one of the girls seemed to want to sit beside or talk with her, not even the normal chatter about sore feet and backs.

  Maureen finished her bread and cheese and washed it down with tea, though that did little to dislodge the lump in her throat. She stepped back to her counter a few minutes early.

  She glanced around the floor as the girls returned from the first lunch shift. There were fewer girls on the floor than usual, though that might be because fewer were needed after the season’s push. Still, Maureen realized that some faces were new to her and that, besides Eliza, two more girls she’d known as regulars were not there. Could they all have taken holiday or come down with something?

  Maureen did not want to draw attention to herself in any way, did not think she had, and yet she realized that Mrs. Gordon and Mr. Kreegle conferred twice through the afternoon by the elevator and kept a close eye on her. She checked her hem, the buttons of her waist, and smoothed her hair to make certain no tendrils had escaped. Everything seemed in order; she could not imagine the reason for their keen interest, but the knowing made her uncomfortable.

  It was nearly half past four when Mrs. Gordon—“Old Blood and Thunder,” as Alice had called her—stopped by Maureen’s counter. “Everything is in order, Miss O’Reilly?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Gordon,” Maureen answered respectfully. “Excuse me, ma’am . . . but I’ve a question, if you please.”

  “Yes?” Mrs. Gordon’s nose seemed to rise.

  “I was wonderin’ if Eliza Farnham is ill? I’ve missed her this week.”

  Mrs. Gordon tilted her head. “You take an unhealthy interest in your coworkers, Miss O’Reilly. I’m sure you realize that for some of our young ladies, this position is a stepping-stone in their working careers.”

  Maureen blinked. “I know Eliza is content here.” And she could not resist adding, “As was Alice. Have they found employment elsewhere?”

  “What is your keen interest in these ladies?”

  “I—I’d simply like to stay in communication with them,” she said but thought, I’d be ever so relieved for them, just to know they’re all right.

  Mrs. Gordon stepped closer and spoke softly but with a severity that Maureen had not felt directed toward her before. “I’ve told you once that what the other girls choose to do is none of your affair.”

  Maureen swallowed.

  Mrs. Gordon turned to go, stopped, and faced Maureen directly. “Precisely what did Alice say to you before her departure?”

  Maureen felt her stomach drop.

  “Or Eliza? Do you think we do not notice?” Mrs. Gordon’s voice lowered yet again and she stepped closer. “You may have the advantage of wealthy friends, Miss O’Reilly . . .” She paused. “Or you may not, but I would advise you to put your house in order.”

  “Put your house in order! What a clever expression for a counter clerk’s display!” An impeccably dressed Olivia Wakefield interrupted with gritted-teeth cheerfulness, standing just at Mrs. Gordon’s elbow. “How do you do, Miss—?”

  “Mrs. Gordon.” The woman looked mortified.

  “Mrs. Gordon, employee of Darcy’s Department Store? I’m Olivia Wakefield and so glad to meet you.” Olivia tapped the floor supervisor on the arm and whispered loud enough for the stage, “You’re so lucky to have Maureen working at Darcy’s. I’ve told her a dozen times she needn’t work at all, but she’s quite the progressive, independent woman.”

  Mrs. Gordon drew back, pasting her smile into place. “Miss O’Reilly is most fortunate to have such friends.”

  And then it seemed to Maureen that Olivia dropped her pretenses. “On the contrary, it is my family and I who are most fortunate to have Maureen’s friendship and good company.”

  Mrs. Gordon’s eyes registered uncertainty. Maureen saw her glance toward the elevator, then reply, “Please excuse me, Miss Wakefield. I must return to my work.”

  “Of course.” Olivia touched the other woman’s arm again and whispered, “Simply know that my friends and I will shop here often, as long as Maureen can attend us.”

  Mrs. Gordon nodded sharply. Maureen would not have been surprised to see her run as she made headlong for the elevator.

  When she was gone, the two women left standing stared at one another.

  “Thank you,” Maureen whispered.

  “It looked like a tight spot,” Olivia returned. “I owe you this and so much more.” She placed her hand on Maureen’s arm, but Maureen dropped her arm to her side, not knowing how to respond.

  “You’ve certainly no reason to trust me, not after the way you were treated in my house. But I beg you to forgive me and allow me to do better.”

  Maureen shook her head. “Why would you? Your husband said—”

  “My husband? No, oh no! Mr. Meitland is my brother-in-law and the executor of my father’s estate; he thought he was protecti
ng me—”

  “Your brother-in-law?” Maureen could barely take that in. “And protectin’ you? From me?” She found that incredulous.

  “I’m ashamed, Miss O’Reilly, and I don’t really know what to say. But he behaved shamefully, and I was wrong to allow him to send you away.” Olivia laid her purse on the counter and took Maureen’s hands. “I know what your father did for mine, and I know what my father promised. I’ll keep that promise.”

  Maureen could not stop the beating of her heart or the onslaught of memory.

  “Come home with me—you and your sister, please. Let’s begin again.”

  Maureen felt as much as saw the eyes of the other clerks upon them, until the front revolving doors began their turn, and three well-dressed gentlemen walked through the main aisle of the store and toward the back elevator, reminding her of Drake Meitland and his visit to the fourth floor. Recognition of any kind was not helpful.

  Maureen pulled back her hands. “I don’t know what you’re about, Miss Wakefield, but—”

  “Olivia, please, and I only want to help,” Olivia stammered. “Mrs. Melkford said—”

  “Mrs. Melkford?” Maureen gasped. “What has she to do with you?”

  Now Olivia colored. “We found her through the records at Ellis Island, that she had helped you and Katie Rose, had vouched for you. And Joshua Keeton told us—”

  “Joshua Keeton?” Maureen felt as though someone had punched her in the stomach. I can well imagine what it is that Joshua Keeton’s told you!

  “Yes, he came to my home looking for you.” She pulled an envelope from her purse and held it out to Maureen. “He brought you this.”

  But Maureen didn’t take it. She’d as soon pluck hot coals.

  Olivia looked confused and set the letter on the counter, pushing it gently toward Maureen. “I suppose all this is rather sudden,” she said at last. “I don’t blame you that you don’t trust me.”

  Trust you? You’ve tracked me down and surely convinced my one friend in New York that I’m a liar! And how can you speak so daringly toward Mrs. Gordon? Do you and Drake Meitland run Darcy’s Department Store that everyone kowtows to you so? What becomes of the women and girls you befriend? Maureen narrowed her eyes, trying to focus, to register Olivia Wakefield in the foreground of her brain and Drake Meitland in the background. Are they connected by more than marriage? Do they work together, or are they completely ignorant of one another’s intentions?

  She stepped back and spoke softly. “I thank you for standin’ up for me with Mrs. Gordon, but I don’t think I want to know you, Miss Wakefield.” She hesitated. “And I’ll thank you not to come again.”

  She turned her back on Olivia Wakefield and drew in a ragged breath.

  “I hope you’ll reconsider, Miss O’Reilly. I’d very much like to know you.”

  Maureen waited a long minute until Olivia’s footsteps faded but turned in time to see her exit through the revolving door. On the counter lay the letter. Maureen thought she might toss it into the trash, but with nearly every eye in the open room upon her, she swept it beneath the counter and into her bag. She could dispose of it later.

  The finishing bell rang at six. Maureen’s head was pounding and she could think only of the long walk home in the cold and dark. She had no fear that anyone would bother her now, not with the Wakefield stamp of approval resting on her forehead. She’d seen the fear and humiliation in Old Blood and Thunder’s eyes.

  In the cloakroom she avoided the chatter around her. She grabbed her cloak and hat and hurried from the store.

  Maureen had walked ten blocks through ice and snow when she realized she’d left her purse, with the letter, in the store. She groaned aloud. If anyone opens it, even to see whose it is, and reads Joshua’s letter . . . No tellin’ what he said, what he wrote! I can’t believe I walked out without it!

  She stood a full five minutes, arguing with herself. The store is surely locked by now. Perhaps no one will find it before mornin’. Perhaps they’ve already found it. And if they read it, they’ll know I’m not the respectable clerk I maintain. Oh! She groaned again. That will mean deportation! And Katie Rose left here alone.

  All the way back to the store, she rehearsed her plea for the night watchman. But to her surprise, the employee door was not locked; a stone had been placed between the door and its jamb. Thank You, God, she found herself praying, then caught herself, wondering at her audacity.

  Quietly she climbed the dark back stairs, keeping to the balls of her frozen feet. She slipped into the employee cloakroom and pulled the light cord with numb fingers, but her purse was not on the shelf where she thought she’d left it. Downstairs, behind my counter? Could I have been so stupid?

  She knew it was no small thing to creep through the darkened store at night. But she dared not use a light. If the night watchman found her, she’d have no adequate explanation. They’d not consider her poor purse worth breaking into the store to retrieve. And who would believe the door was left ajar?

  But the fear of Mrs. Gordon or anyone finding and reading Joshua’s letter propelled her feet forward. Curse that man!

  She’d just opened the cloakroom door to venture out when she heard a scuffling. Maureen froze, though she told herself it was rats. Very big rats. She shivered. The scuffling came again, this time accompanied by what sounded like a sob, nearby. She closed the door again softly and pressed her ear against it. The sobbing came louder, followed by a loud crashing sound, then stopped abruptly.

  Maureen knew they were sounds that didn’t belong in the department store. But she also knew that whatever it was, it was not her business, could not be her business unless she wanted to be discovered and dragged from her hiding place. She pressed a hand to her throat.

  But what if someone needs help? I can’t just walk out.

  Voices, all of them familiar, argued in her head. She crept out into the center of the hallway and listened. But nothing more came.

  It had to be my imagination—this big, empty building at night. She shook her shoulders as if to rid herself of a bad dream and headed for the stairs.

  Making her way down the pitch-black stairs was not hard; she braced herself against the wall. But the main floor was a maze of counters and displays. It would be so easy to bump a hat stand or design pyramid and send everything clattering to the floor! Maureen took baby steps, still on the balls of her feet. She guided her steps by holding fast to counter edges until she grasped familiar dress gloves, the rounded shapes of hat crowns, and finally her counter with the fanned display of handkerchiefs.

  At last! She stooped behind the counter, ran her hands along the shelf beneath, and found her purse. She opened the clasp, reached in, and recognized the shape and feel of the letter. Still here! Thank You! Thank You!

  She’d risen and stepped from behind her counter into the center aisle when she heard a scream, followed by sobs and pleas.

  “No! Stop! Don’t—please don’t!”

  Maureen froze. Eliza? She couldn’t tell from which direction the cry had come, except that it was above her. She stepped further into the empty, darkened store. The whimpering continued, muffled, but just the same.

  The bell on the elevator dinged. Maureen’s heart stopped. As the elevator door slid open, Maureen ducked behind her counter, knocking hats to the floor with her purse.

  “Who’s there?” It was Jaime Flynn’s voice, plain as plain to Maureen’s ears.

  But the whimpering was louder, the cries of protest more intense. “Please! I won’t tell; I’ll never say a word. Please let me go!”

  “Shut up!” And the sound of a slap so sharp it rattled Maureen’s teeth.

  The whimpering stopped abruptly. A light played crazily over the store floor, coming to rest on the tumbled display of hats very near Maureen’s foot. She drew in her arms and legs, folding them beneath her, and crouched behind the counter, holding her breath, willing her teeth not to chatter.

  “Somebody’s here. Somebody’s here, I
tell you!” Jaime Flynn’s voice barked again, and the light danced over the floor a second time.

  “You’d best hope not.” The second voice—deep, impatient, and cultured—sounded vaguely familiar. “He won’t tolerate any more of your messes; do you understand?”

  “Yes—yes, sir.” Jaime Flynn’s humble reply startled Maureen.

  “Help me get this one to the truck. Then you go back for the other. We’ve got to get them out of the city tonight. Stupid of you to bring them here!”

  There was no mistaking that superior tone. Images of an arrogant Drake Meitland, his cruel burning of her letter and his coarse jerking of her arm, ripped through Maureen’s brain. Afraid to move, afraid to breathe, she tucked herself as small as possible and waited until the elevator dinged and the torchlight disappeared. Certain she would stumble into another display, Maureen caught her skirt between her teeth and crawled toward the exit. She’d almost reached the stairwell when the elevator bell sounded again and the door slid open. In the pale light of the lamp she caught sight of a grim-faced Jaime Flynn, a long burlap bag hefted over his shoulder. Two smart kid boots dangled from its open end.

  The policeman—the Irish policeman walkin’ the block! He was the only help Maureen could imagine, the only possible salvation for Alice and Eliza.

  The moment the delivery door closed and the lock clicked into place behind Jaime Flynn, Maureen had raced out the side employee entrance. Now she slipped round the corner, ran through the dark, skirting the pools of light from the electric streetlamps, searching for the foot policeman on patrol. Where are you, Flannery? You’re everywhere when I don’t need you, but now . . . when I do! Tears of terror and frustration coursed down her face.