A Passion Most Pure

by Julie Lessman

  Patrick looked at the young man before him and tried very hard to dislike him. He was too good-looking for his own good, too confident and too cocky. But for all his air of superiority and all the problems he posed to Patrick’s peace of mind, Collin was not unlike a similarly cocky Irishman of twenty years past. Before he found the love of a good woman and before he relented to the hand of God in his life. Patrick sighed and put his hand on Collin’s shoulder. At his touch, Collin stiffened.

  “Nothing?” Patrick’s voice was strangely unaffected. “Well, make no mistake about it, Collin, I will fight you every step of the way on this. And I’m very sure you and Charity will do the same. However, my boy, I’m afraid you’re forgetting one very important thing.” Patrick slapped Collin on the shoulder, then buttoned his coat and headed toward the door.

  Curiosity apparently got the best of Collin McGuire as he grabbed Patrick by the arm. “And what might that be, Mr. O’Connor?”

  The faint smile on Patrick’s lips felt almost peaceful. “Never—and I repeat, never—underestimate the power of a father on his knees.” And with that he left, leaving Collin, despite the warmth of the pub, very much out in the cold.

  Patrick entered the dark foyer and glanced at the clock on the parlor mantel. His heart sank—1:07 a.m. The reality of what had taken place tonight settled over him like a shroud, blacker than the gloom of his house as he slowly made his way up the steps. At the top of the stairs, Blarney met him, his tail wagging to let him know someone was glad he was home, even if Marcy wouldn’t be. He scratched the dog under the neck for a moment, then glanced down the hall at the door of his room. Would Marcy be awake? He hoped not. He desperately needed some hours of sleep before facing her. But face her he would, come morning. The very thought caused his stomach, full of beer and bitter regret, to churn within. As if in a trance, he moved to the bathroom, where he quickly washed his face and brushed his teeth before continuing down the hall to their room.

  Carefully, Patrick turned the doorknob to his bedroom and cautiously pushed the door ajar. He peered into the dark and strained his eyes until he saw her small form in the bed. She was buried beneath the mound of covers that always occupied her side. Patrick stopped and listened. The faint rhythm of her breathing could be heard, the mountain of covers slowly rising and falling in harmony with the sound. He removed his shoes and trousers and then his rumpled shirt and tie. He reached for his pajamas from the hook on the wardrobe and put them on. He walked to the nightstand and poured water from the pitcher into a glass, then added a small amount of Marcy’s perfumed water. Swishing the concoction in his mouth, he glanced at the bed and swallowed hard. He prayed it would disguise the smell of beer on his breath. Silently, he crossed the room to his side of the bed, gently lifting the covers. Marcy never moved a muscle, except for the imperceptible motion of the covers as they rose and fell. Patrick eased his way into the bed, gradually stretching his legs to the bottom edge. With a silent sigh, he tentatively began to relax, the peace of sleep quickly pulling at the corners of his consciousness.

  Somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind, he heard something move. And then, before the escape of sweet sleep could steal him away, she pounced. Her eyes blazed and her fingernails slashed like a cat stabbing its prey. Bolting up in bed, Patrick fended her off as her hands flailed in the dark and she spat whispered screams. He grabbed her wrists and shoved her back on the bed, holding her down.

  “Marcy, listen to me, please …”

  She sniffed in the air. “Sweet saints, Patrick, you’ve been drinking! You reek of smoke and … is that perfume?” He had never seen her eyes so wild. “Let me go, Patrick, let me go!”

  Her voice was so shrill that Patrick glanced at the door in alarm. “Marcy, you’ll wake the children. Can’t we talk, please?”

  Marcy squeezed her eyes shut, as if to make him disappear. “I don’t care if I wake the children. Let them see what kind of father they have—a man who stays out all hours of the night doing the devil knows what! I can’t even stand to look at you.”

  “Marcy, please … I’m so sorry. I was wrong, so wrong. Please forgive me. I love you.” Patrick’s words were coming in short raspy sounds, fraught with repentance.

  Marcy’s eyelids flew open. “You love me? You have the nerve to say you love me, and this is how you show it? You go and get drunk and let women fall all over you? You know, it’s funny, Patrick, but that doesn’t exactly say love to me.”

  “I’m not drunk. I’ve had a few beers, yes, but I did nothing wrong,” Patrick lied, and Marcy seemed to sense it the instant the words were out of his mouth. All at once, as if the wind had been sucked from her, she went limp, a look of pain on her face as tears welled in her eyes.

  “You’re lying. You … did something tonight, didn’t you?” Her voice was barely a whisper. She searched his face as if looking for something, anything to tell her it wasn’t true. Patrick lowered his eyes. Marcy wrenched from his grasp and huddled to the other side of the bed. She jumped up, her hair tumbling about her nightgown like a banshee. Patrick’s heart felt like a boulder in his chest. He got up from the bed and walked toward her.

  Marcy stepped back, her hand in front of her. “No! Don’t touch me. I never dreamed you would do … anything …” She seemed at a loss for words.

  He stood there, staring with sorrowful eyes. For a moment, she seemed to sway, appearing about to faint. In slow motion, she moved toward the bed and sat down, as if in a trance. Tears streamed freely down her face. Without uttering a word, Patrick quietly sat beside her, attempting to encircle her with his arms. At his touch, she began to pummel him with her fists, a broken wail heaving from her chest. All at once, she collapsed, and her sobs retched against him. Patrick held her tightly. The sweet scent of lilac soap filled his nostrils, causing his heart to ache for her. He longed to tell her she was everything to him, that no other woman could even come close. That he would be nothing without her by his side, loving him, supporting him. And, yes, despite his many frailties, helping him to be the man God intended him to be. But for the moment, in his abject failure, he remained silent, clutching her until the last whimper subsided.

  When they did, he lifted her chin to stare into her swollen eyes. “Marcy, look at me, please. Nothing happened. Yes, it’s true I had too much brew. And yes, I did dance with a woman.” He swallowed hard. “But it meant nothing, Marcy. Nothing. I turned her away. But I was wrong to go there, wrong to leave you. So wrong. Please forgive me. I was angry. And then the drink, it … it took hold.” He shivered involuntarily, clearing his throat in embarrassment. He grabbed her by the shoulders. “Marcy, you have to believe me. Now more than ever, I realize how much you mean to me. How much I need you.” A lump formed in his throat, forcing his voice to crack.

  She remained limp in his arms, and so he caressed her face with his lips. He whispered his sorrow, telling her he loved her, cherished her, needed her. His lips brushed against hers, and he could feel the fire of his passion burn deep inside. With renewed fervor, he kissed her again. He felt her relent with a startling hunger of her own. Sweeping her up in his arms, he laid her gently on the bed, his lips never wavering from the sweetness of her mouth. In one beat of his heart, he was overcome with love for her. An intense rush of emotion flooded his soul for this woman who possessed his heart so completely. He stroked her face, her neck, her arms with such impassioned tenderness that a soft moan escaped her lips.

  “Marcy, I love you,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper, “more than life itself.”

  She met his mouth violently with her own, and he knew in that one action, she forgave, allowing the intensity of their love to carry them away.

  Marcy was tired but content as she moved about the kitchen preparing breakfast for her family. For a brief moment she paused and stood in the middle of the room with a stack of plates in her arms, thinking about what transpired just a short time ago. How could it be, she wondered, that only hours ago her heart had been so incredibly heavy, si
ck with pain, broken? And then, in a blink of an eye—or a kiss—suddenly the same heart felt so incredibly light, so free and so alive.

  Marcy set the plates on the table and slowly distributed them, each to its proper place. She already knew the answer. She had done what she’d been taught to do. To do what was, after all the tears and heartbreak, the only thing she could do. She gave it to God—her anger, her hurt, her marriage. After hours of weeping, she had taken her heavy heart and placed it in the hands of her loving God, and finally she was able to drift off to sleep. And as the soft light of day had gently spilled into the room, her heart remained in his loving grasp, peaceful and whole as she’d lain in the arms of the man she loved.

  The memory brought a rush of warmth to her heart and heat to her cheeks. Marcy closed her eyes. They had made love and then talked until the first glimmers of dawn crept across their sill, bathing the room with its pale light. It had been a time of healing … of rediscovery … of prayer. And when it was over, they made love again. To Marcy, it had been a completely cathartic experience, a sacred renewal of vows. She had not believed she could love Patrick O’Connor any more than she already did, but she had been wrong.

  Theirs had always been a marriage of love and tender passion, but over the years, her true appreciation had diminished somewhat. She realized now she had taken it all for granted—taken him for granted. Her heart skipped a beat as she thought of him—his slow, easy smile and rugged good looks. And it stopped altogether at the idea of another woman holding him in her arms, kissing his lips. The very notion sent a jolt of fear and pain ricocheting through her. When had she lost sight of it all, even for a moment?

  Lost in her reverie, Marcy failed to see Patrick enter the kitchen. She jumped as he embraced her from behind, wrapping his strong arms around her waist and burrowing his lips in her hair. She put a hand to her stomach, hoping to quell the hot flood of passion he stirred, while her cheeks reheated with embarrassment. Saints alive, woman, she thought to herself, wasn’t last night enough? She took a deep breath. “Patrick! The children will walk in any moment.”

  Patrick’s hands slowly brushed up the side of her waist, past her breasts, to her throat where his fingers began to trace, feathering her skin along the neckline of her blouse. “You weren’t worried about the children last night …”

  Marcy slipped from his grasp and turned to face him. Her heart melted at the smile on his lips and the sparkle in his eyes. She steadied herself. “Last night I was angry …”

  Patrick’s eyes never left hers as he took a step forward. “And now?”

  Lord, the man is attractive! When did I lose sight of that? “Now, I’m so much in love with my husband I can’t seem to get breakfast on the table.”

  In one quick reach, she was back in his arms, his lips on hers and the fervor of the night rekindled. Never had Marcy wanted to return to their bed more, to take their fill of love until they exhausted their passion. Oh, how she wanted to allow the children to fend for themselves! But she was a mother as well as a wife and needed to feed her children far more than her passion. Breathless, she pulled away.

  “Good morning, Mother, Father. What a beautiful day! Did you sleep well?” Charity seemed oblivious to the blush Marcy felt on her face. Her daughter took her place at the table, humming softly under her breath.

  The kitchen door was still swinging behind her as Patrick cleared his throat and sat down, a twinkle in his eye. “Good morning, Charity. Yes, we did sleep well, as a matter of fact. Best ever, wouldn’t you say, Marcy?”

  Marcy turned her back to retrieve the bacon and eggs keeping warm in the oven. “Yes, one of the best nights I’ve had in years.” She smiled warmly at her daughter, careful to avoid Patrick’s eyes lest they prompt another telltale blush. “You’re certainly in a wonderful mood this morning,” Marcy observed as she brought the utensils to the table.

  Charity bounded up and took them from her. “Oh, I am! You can’t imagine how caged I felt staying home for so long. I hate to say it, but I think the restraint did me good. I wanted out so badly, even the library was a thrill.”

  Marcy pushed the kitchen door ajar and called the others to breakfast. Within minutes, a stampede of hungry O’Connors descended on the kitchen while Marcy poured steaming cups of coffee for Patrick and herself.

  “Mama, Faith won’t let me wear my red dress to church this morning.” Katie’s mood was clearly not as jubilant as Charity’s.

  Marcy smiled patiently at her youngest daughter. “Katie, you wore the red dress last Sunday; your blue dress looks lovely, dear.”

  “But I like the red dress, and what’s more, God likes it better too!” Katie was quite adamant, arms crossed and tone unyielding.

  “Katie, stop complaining and sit down.” Patrick’s tone was as obstinate as Katie’s. “Your mother’s fixed a wonderful breakfast, and I’d just as soon avoid indigestion before tasting it.”

  “What’s inde-jest-shun?” Katie wanted to know.

  Patrick gave her the eye. “An upset stomach … not unlike,” he continued, “an upset bottom after a spanking.”

  Katie got the gist and scrambled up into her chair, a truly angelic look on her face.

  “Mama, I forgot to tell you Sister Cecilia says we need to bring money for the pagan babies,” Steven said, grabbing his milk.

  Marcy nodded as she spooned eggs on his plate. “Sean, will you be a dear and reach behind you for the toast? It’s right on the counter. Does everyone have what they need? Are we ready to say grace?” Marcy sat down, took a deep breath, and smiled at Patrick.

  He smiled back and bowed his head in prayer. “Lord, we thank you for this bountiful breakfast and for the beginning of another wonderful week in our lives. Our gratitude knows no bounds for the blessings”—Patrick glanced up at Marcy and grinned—“and the mercy you’ve so lavishly bestowed. Amen.”

  After the prayer, Patrick began loading his plate with bacon. “So, Faith … how was the library?”

  Charity choked on a piece of toast, and Marcy patted her back while she coughed for several seconds. “Charity, are you all right?”

  She nodded, her face flushed. “Yes, Mother, I’m fine. Just went down the wrong pipe.”

  Faith’s eyes narrowed as she looked at her sister, but Charity avoided her gaze altogether. Patrick munched on his bacon, apparently still awaiting an answer. Faith sighed and frowned at her plate. “It was fine, I suppose. I mean, I love being with Maisie because she’s so much fun, but I guess I just wasn’t in the best of moods.”

  “You seemed fine when you left. What happened?” Patrick asked.

  Charity chewed her bacon slowly.

  “Oh, nothing, really. It’s just Maisie and I spent so much time talking, I felt badly she didn’t get much research in. Seemed like a wasted evening for her, that’s all.”

  “Cultivating a friendship is never a wasted evening, darlin’,” Patrick said, reaching for more toast. “Besides, young girls are entitled to a little fun on a Saturday night. How about you, Charity—did you get much research done?”

  The tone of his voice caused Marcy to look up. He was studying Charity closely, as was Faith. Charity appeared cool and unruffled as she responded to her father, her smile stage-perfect.

  “Yes, I did. I’m nearly done with my paper, as a matter of fact,” she said. “Thank you for letting me go, Father. I feel worlds better today. Is anybody going to eat that last piece of toast?”

  Marcy put a piece of bacon into her mouth and chewed, looking across the table at her husband. A frown furrowed her brow as she detected a slight scowl on his lips. His pensive gaze flitted from Faith’s deadpan expression to Charity’s smiling face, then back once again. Marcy stopped chewing. Faith seemed fidgety, pushing at the untouched food on her plate, and her face was flushed. “Faith, are you feeling all right?” Marcy asked.

  Faith dropped her fork on her plate with a clatter. Blushing, she suddenly shot up from the table and glanced at her father before attempting
a feeble smile in Marcy’s direction. “No … no, Mother, I’m not. May I be excused? I think I’ll go and lie down before we leave for church, if you don’t mind.”

  “Let me feel your head.” Marcy put her palm on Faith’s forehead for a moment, then gently stroked her daughter’s cheek. “You feel okay, but you really do look flushed. Go and lie down, and I’ll be up shortly. If you’re not feeling better, I think you need to stay home.”

  Faith nodded and fled from the kitchen. Marcy looked up to see Patrick’s gaze follow her out the door. His eyes seemed distant.

  “Patrick, are you feeling all right?” There was the slightest hint of alarm in her voice.

  Patrick looked up and smiled. “I’m fine, Marcy. How could I not be?”

  The look of tenderness was back. Marcy returned his smile. Indeed, she thought to herself, how could either of them not be?

  6

  Her father was quieter than usual this morning. Faith stole a glimpse at him out of the corner of her eye. It was Monday, of course, she reasoned to herself, always a difficult day to get moving again. But still, he was definitely more pensive as he sat, arms folded, beside her on the trolley that bumped along Portland Street en route to the Herald.

  “Father, are you all right?”

  A shadow of a smile flickered on his lips as he glanced at her with a tender look. “Yes, darlin’, I’m fine. Just a few things on my mind, that’s all.”

  “Are you worried about the election … and the war in Europe?”

  Patrick sighed and grabbed the pole when the streetcar lurched to a stop. His brow wrinkled slightly. “Yes, of course I am. I’m fairly confident President Wilson will win reelection, but I can’t help but be concerned about our involvement overseas.”

  Faith’s stomach tightened, both from the jostling of the trolley and her father’s words. “You don’t think we’ll go to war, do you, Father?”