A Passion Most Pure

by Julie Lessman

  “It’s a real shame you don’t bother to dress that nicely for the good Lord.”

  Collin spun around, his heart pounding. He forced a smile to his lips. “Mother! I thought you might be in bed with one of your headaches. I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t.” Katherine McGuire stood in the doorway of her bedroom with arms folded across her chest, a faded blue dressing gown wrapped tightly around her regal frame. Her lips pressed into a thin line, as if a smile would violate the cool anger emanating from her steel-gray eyes.

  When his mother did smile at him, an uncommon thing in itself, one could see why his father had fallen hopelessly in love with her. At forty-one, she was still a striking woman. Rich, dark hair with a hint of gray only served to heighten the impact of the penetrating eyes now focused on him. Before she had married his father, she had been a belle of society. The air of refinement bred in her was evident as she stood straight and tall. She lifted her chin to assess him through disapproving eyes.

  “She’s too good for the likes of you, you know.”

  He stared back at her, a tic jerking in his cheek. He clamped his jaw to bite back the bitter retort that weighted his tongue. No, he would not allow her to win. Ever. He tossed his coat on the hook by the door and turned, a stiff smile on his face. “She doesn’t care, Mother. She’s in love.”

  “Her father will. It’s not likely he’ll want a pauper courting his daughter.”

  Collin shook his head and laughed, but the sound was hollow to his ears. He avoided her eyes and headed to his room at the back of the flat. “I won’t be a pauper forever,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ve got plans.”

  “So did your father. And you saw where they took him.”

  Collin stopped, his back rigid and his eyes stinging with pent-up fury. He clenched and unclenched his fists. How had a man as good and kind as my father allowed her to control him? His mouth hardened. It didn’t matter. She would never control him. Not in his emotions, nor in his life. He exhaled slowly, continuing down the shadowy hall. “Have a good day, Mother,” he said. And closing his bedroom door behind him, he shut her out with a quiet click of the lock.

  “But, Mother, it’s not fair! Why can’t Faith do it?” Charity demanded, wielding a stalk of celery in one hand and a paring knife in the other.

  Marcy O’Connor didn’t have to look up from the cake she was frosting to know she had a fight on her hands. Usually she enjoyed this time of day, when the coolness of evening settled in and her children huddled in the warmth of the kitchen near the wood-burning stove. Tonight, five-year-old Katie sat Indian-style, force-feeding her bear from an imaginary teacup while her brother, Steven, a mature eight years old, practiced writing vocabulary words on a slate. On the rug in front of the fire sprawled eleven-year-old Elizabeth, a faraway look in her eyes as she lost herself in a favorite book. Marcy sighed. Soon, her husband and oldest son, Sean, would be home from work, and her family would be complete. She set the finished cake aside and reached for the warm milk and yeast, then poured it into a bowl of flour and began rolling up the sleeves of her blouse.

  “I don’t understand why Faith can’t do it. She doesn’t have anything else to do.” Charity turned back to the sink to assault the celery with the knife.

  “But, Mother,” Faith said, “you know I’m reading to Mrs. Gerson this evening or I’d be happy to stay with the children.” Her tone sounded cautious as she appeared to devote full attention to chopping carrots for the stew. In unison, both girls looked up at their mother.

  Marcy couldn’t remember when she had felt so tired. Her eyes burned with fatigue as she kneaded the dough for the bread she was preparing. With the back of her hand, she pushed at a stray wisp of hair from the chignon twisted at the nape of her neck, feeling every bit of her thirty-eight years. She eyed her daughters with a tenuous smile, her mind flitting to a time when she’d been as young. A girl with golden hair and summer-blue eyes who’d won the heart of Patrick Brendan O’Connor and become his “Irish rose.” Marcy sighed. Well, tonight the “rose” was pale, wilted, and definitely not up to a thorny confrontation between her two daughters.

  She paused, her hands crusted with dough. “Tell me, Charity, why is it so important you’re free on this Saturday night, in particular?” Marcy didn’t miss the slight blush that crept into Charity’s cheeks, nor the look on Faith’s face as she stopped to watch her sister’s response, cutlery poised midair.

  “Well, there’s a dance social at St. Agatha’s. I was hoping to go, that’s all.”

  Marcy resumed kneading the dough with considerably more vigor than before. “And with whom will you be going, may I ask?”

  “Well … there’s a group of us, you see …”

  “Mmm. And would a certain Collin McGuire be among them?” Marcy’s fingers were flying.

  Charity’s blush was full hue, blotching her face with a lovely shade of rose. “Well, yes … I think so …”

  A thin cloud of flour escaped into the air as Marcy slapped the dough from her hands. “Charity, we’ve been over this before. Neither your father nor I are comfortable with you seeing that McGuire boy. He’s too old.”

  “But he’s only three years older than Faith,” Charity pleaded.

  “Yes, and that’s too old for you. And too old for your sister when it comes to the likes of him. Absolutely not. Your father will never allow it.”

  “But why, Mother? Mrs. McGuire is a good woman—”

  “Yes, she’s a good woman, who, I’m afraid, has let her son get the best of her. Ever since his father died, that boy has been nothing but trouble. He’s fast, Charity, out for himself and willing to hurt anyone in the bargain. You can’t possibly see or understand that now because you’re only sixteen. But mark my words, your father and I are saving you a lot of heartbreak.”

  Marcy dabbed her forehead with the side of her sleeve while Faith scooped up carrots and plopped them into the boiling cauldron of stew. The kitchen was heating up, both from the fire of the stove and Charity’s seething glare.

  “It’s because of Faith, isn’t it?” Charity demanded, slamming her fist on the table.

  Marcy whirled around. “Charity Katherine O’Connor!”

  “It’s true! You don’t want me entertaining beaus because poor little Faith sits home like a bump on a log and couldn’t get a suitor if she advertised in the Boston Herald!”

  Faith’s mouth gaped open. Her knuckles clenched white on a carrot, which she stabbed in the air. “I could have more beaus too, if I flirted like one of the cheap girls at Brannigan’s!”

  “Faith Mary O’Connor!” Marcy exclaimed, her fingers twitching in the dough. The kitchen was deathly quiet except for the rolling boil of the stew. Katie began to whine, and Elizabeth bundled her in her arms, calming her with a gentle shush.

  Charity leaned forward. Her lips curled in contempt. “You couldn’t get beaus if you lined ’em up and paid ’em!”

  “At least I wouldn’t pay them with favors on the side porch …”

  Marcy flinched as if she’d been slapped. “What?” she breathed. She turned toward Faith, whose hand flew to her mouth in a gasp. Charity’s face was as white as the flour on Marcy’s hands. “With whom?” Marcy whispered.

  “Collin McGuire,” Faith said, her voice barely audible.

  It may as well have been an explosion. Marcy gasped. “Is this true, Charity? Look at me! Is this true?”

  Charity’s watery gaze met her mother’s, and she nodded, tears trickling her cheeks.

  Marcy barely moved a muscle. “Faith, take the children upstairs.”

  Faith was silent as she picked Katie up to carry her from the room. Elizabeth followed with Steven behind. Charity was sobbing. Without a word, Marcy walked to the sink to wash the dough from her hands, then returned to her daughter’s side, wrapping her arms around her. At her touch, Charity crumpled into her embrace like a wounded child. Marcy stroked her hair, waiting for the sobs to subside. When they
did, she lifted Charity’s quivering chin and looked in the eyes of the daughter-child who so wanted to be a woman.

  “Charity, I love you. And that love charges me with responsibility for your well-being and happiness. I know you can’t understand this now, nor do you want to, but you must trust us. Collin McGuire is not the boy for you. He’s trouble, Charity. Behind that rakish smile and Irish charm is a young man whose only thought is for himself. I’ve seen you smile and flirt with a number of young lads, and I suppose with most young men, that’s innocent enough. But not with him. It’s stoking a fire that could burn you. Now tell me what happened on the porch.”

  Charity sniffed, wiped her nose with her sleeve, and straightened her shoulders. “He … he wants me to go to the social, and he … Mother, it was only a kiss!”

  “Yes, and I’m only your mother. I love you very much, but you’ll not be going to the social this Saturday nor anywhere else for the next month. You will come straight home after school each day and complete your studies. And you will have the chore of doing the supper dishes for four weeks.” Marcy’s tone softened. “But only because I love you.”

  Charity’s eyes glinted as she spun on her heel and headed for the door. “I could certainly do with a little less love, Mother,” she hissed.

  Marcy couldn’t help but smile to herself. She had been sixteen once.

  The door flew open, and a blast of cool air surged in. Faith braced herself. Charity stood wild-eyed, hands fisted at her sides. “I hate you!” she screamed. She slammed the door hard and leaned against it, her chest heaving from the effort. “I will never forgive you for what you did. You are a wicked, evil person, and I hope you die an old maid!” She lunged and knocked Faith flat on the bed, yanking a fistful of hair.

  “Ow!” Faith hollered. Pain unleashed her fury. She kneed Charity in the stomach and rolled her over, pinning her to the bed. “Stop it, Charity—I mean it! I never meant to tell Mother anything, and you know it. But you were so mean and hateful, it just popped out.” Her breath came in ragged gasps. “Look, I don’t want to fight with you.”

  Charity scowled. “Fine way to prove it. I still don’t know if I’m going to forgive you. You’ve gone and ruined everything with Collin. It’s going to be twice as difficult to see him now.” She tugged her arms free and pushed Faith away.

  In slow motion, Faith sat up on the bed, incredulous her sister would even entertain the thought of defying their mother. “But you’re not supposed to. Not now, not ever—that’s the whole point Mother’s been making. Don’t you understand that?”

  “Yes, I understand that,” Charity mimicked. “My head knows it, but I’m afraid my heart’s having a bit of a problem.” She stood up from the bed and smiled. “But then you wouldn’t understand, would you, Faith? I love him. It’s as simple as that. Mother may forbid me from seeing him, but she can’t forbid me from loving him.” Charity posed in the mirror, then hugged herself and whirled around, her golden hair spinning about her like a fallen halo.

  “You can’t love him! You don’t even know him!”

  “Oh yes I do,” Charity breathed, “and he’s wonderful!” She gave Faith a sly smile. “You know the studying I’ve been doing at the library? Well, I’ve been studying, all right—my favorite subject in the whole world.”

  Faith’s facial muscles slacked into shock, prompting a peal of laughter from her sister. Charity plopped on the bed and grabbed her hand. “Oh, Faith, he’s amazing! He’s funny and bright, and all I know is I’m happier than I’ve ever been.”

  Faith snatched her hand away. “You didn’t look so happy on the porch this afternoon.”

  A flicker of annoyance flashed on Charity’s face and then disappeared into a sheepish grin. “Yes, I know, he can be maddening at times. It’s part of his charm, I suppose. But I can handle him.” Charity stood and reached for the hairbrush. She began stroking her hair in a trancelike motion.

  “You didn’t appear to be the one doing the handling …”

  The brushing stopped. Charity turned around slowly, all smiles gone. “I know what I’m doing, and I’ll thank you to stay out of it.” She tossed the brush on the bed and turned to leave, but not before bestowing one final smile. “I trust you, Faith. We’re sisters.” One perfectly manicured brow jutted up slightly. “And sisters love each other, right?”

  Faith gritted her teeth. The Bible she read to Mrs. Gerson every Saturday night claimed “love never fails.” She certainly hoped not.

  2

  Patrick O’Connor knew he could count on two things when he arrived home from work each evening. Without exception, the warmth and hum of activity in the kitchen would escalate to a near-frenzy of children’s greetings and giggles. This was accompanied by the excessive barking and tail wagging of the family’s golden retriever, Blarney, who insisted on being the focal point of his master’s attention. But before coat and hat were carelessly flung on the cast-iron rack and children petted and hugged, Patrick would seek out his own focal point—the soft and smiling face of his “Irish rose.” To him, Marcy O’Connor was the woman who made life worthwhile, and whose startling blue eyes still had the power to make his heart race.

  From the moment he first laid eyes on her, Patrick knew he’d never wanted anything more. But she hadn’t come easily, not like the endless parade of females who had jockeyed for a position on the arm of the Southie’s leading Lothario. No, it had been a fight, a struggle that forced him to woo and win her like he’d never done before. He’d been annoyed at first, confident that she, like all the others, would eventually fall under his spell. But it almost appeared as if she didn’t notice him at all. And for Patrick Brendan O’Connor, the annoyance hardened into sheer determination to conquer this soft-spoken beauty who seemed to prefer an evening with a well-worn book to him.

  She stared at him now from across the crowded kitchen. Exhaustion in her blue eyes belied the soft smile on her lips while Katie tugged insistently at his trousers. “Daddy, Daddy, happy birthday! I drew a picture for you.”

  Patrick hoisted his youngest daughter to his shoulders, his eyes never straying from Marcy’s. “Is that so? Well, now, it better be good, missy!”

  “Children, it’s time to wash up for dinner.” Marcy placed two freshly baked loaves of bread on the table. The heavenly smell rumbled his stomach.

  “But, Mama, Daddy’s giving me a piggyback ride,” Katie insisted.

  Patrick deposited her firmly on her feet and gave her a playful swat. “I suggest you mind your mother, young lady, if you know what’s best.”

  Katie screeched and darted from the room, little-girl giggles ringing through the house.

  “Marcy?” Within three great strides, he had her in his arms. A heavy sigh escaped her lips when she leaned her cheek against the nubby weave of his vest. His grip tightened protectively.

  “It’s not anything horrible, not really, I suppose,” she was quick to reassure him. “It’s just that Charity has been seeing that McGuire boy despite our warnings, and, well, apparently Faith saw them kissing on the porch—”

  “They were what?” Patrick’s hands fell from her shoulders. His jaw hardened, and he pulled back, staring at his wife in disbelief.

  “Well, yes, Charity admitted they’d been kissing and—”

  “Kissing! And what’s next, I ask you, with the likes of him? That girl needs to suffer some severe repercussions!” He began to pace.

  Marcy reached for his arm. “Patrick, my love, I think we have to remain calm in our dealings with Charity. After all, we are the adults, and she’s just a child—”

  “Saints almighty, Marcy, she’s a child with the look of a woman, and I can tell you sure as I’m standing here what that young bloke sees in her.” He swore out loud as he kneaded the back of his neck, then stopped when he saw the shock on her face.

  The soft blue of Marcy’s eyes turned flinty. “Patrick O’Connor, there is no call for profanity, and I am just as well aware of what that boy may be thinking as you. But
severe discipline taken against a lovesick girl will accomplish nothing more than ushering her into harm’s way. She’s much too old for the strap, and this is far too delicate a matter.”

  He stormed to the cupboard and pulled out a glass, slamming the cabinet closed. After filling it with water, he drained it in one long gulp. He plunked the glass on the counter and turned to face her.

  “Marcy, I just don’t think that—” He stopped when he saw the firm lift of her chin, then released a heavy sigh and scrubbed the back of his neck. He took a deep breath and exhaled to force the frustration from his lungs. Walking to where she stood, he drew her close and cleared his throat. “You’re right. We have to be calm but firm in our insistence that she stay away from him.” He lifted her chin to gaze in her eyes. “I’ll talk to her privately after dinner, when my belly is full and I’m not so prone to growl. You’ll see, I’ll handle it calmly and rationally.” He cupped her face with his hand. An impish smile tugged at his lips. “And if that doesn’t work, sure as St. Patrick is Irish, I’ll just lock her in her room.”

  Marcy blinked, then smiled and shook her head. He folded her in his arms. Burrowing his face in her hair, he laughed—a rich, throaty sound that echoed through the still of the house.

  Faith nipped at the nail on her pinky and paced the room. Why did it always have to be this way with her sister? Surely with her strong faith in God, she could overcome this urge to … what? Disengage a fistful of golden curls from her sister’s head? Apply a bit of blackening around those luminous blue eyes?

  She groaned and dropped on the bed. She supposed it wasn’t Charity’s fault she’d been born to turn heads at such an alarming rate. But this jealousy was not an easy thing to conquer. Even so, she believed she’d been making progress. Praying for God to bless Charity, just as Mrs. Gerson had taught her from Matthew 5:44. Pray for those who persecute you. And she’d done it—over and over again.

  She vaulted from the bed to study herself in the glass that hung on the wardrobe. Resting her hands on her hips, she tilted her face as if she were one of the ravishing models peering from the pages of Harper’s Bazaar. I’m not completely unattractive, she thought as she piled her auburn hair on top of her head. She struck a dramatic pose. True, some might call her pretty, one or two might consider her beautiful, but few would ever admit she was as striking as her sister.