She sat up and stared wide-eyed at the girl in the mirror, suddenly feeling much lighter. She took a deep breath and released it again, a look of amazement on her face. How could it be that within several shallow breaths, her whole world could shift so dramatically? Only seconds ago, she was sick with self-pity and weighted with jealousy. Now, the girl in the mirror blinked back, peace flooding her soul. His peace.
She closed her eyes and lifted her chin to the ceiling. "Okay, God, it's me and you. We're going to slay this dragon of jealousy if it takes sewing my mouth shut to do it! I'm counting on you to keep me steady and strong no matter how long it takes." Her lips quirked into a crooked smile. "And Lord, don't fail me, please-we both know I can't sew to save my soul."
"Marcy, darlin', I've been dreaming of your Irish stew the whole day long. It's a birthday feast fit for a king, I can tell you that. So, how is my family today?" Patrick doled out stew and smiles around the festive table set with Marcy's china and Irish lace tablecloth reserved for special occasions. He surveyed his wife and children, and a profound sense of gratitude swelled in his chest. His gaze flitted to Faith and Charity. Both looked rather sullen. And well they should. His smile tightened on his lips.
"I learned to spell cat today, Daddy. Do you want to hear? Cat, c-a-t, cat. What do you think of that?" Katie was quite pleased with herself. Her blue eyes sparkled as she pursed her rosebud mouth into a satisfied smile.
"Well, I think you may be ready for school before too long. What a bright young thing you are, Katie girl! And how is your bear today?"
"He has a cold, and I'm afraid he's quite a bother when he's sick."
Patrick laughed as he chomped on a piece of bread. "Ah, but I'm quite sure he'll recover nicely with such a wonderful mama taking care of him." He took a gulp of his coffee before turning his attention to his youngest son. "And how are your vocabulary words coming along, Steven? Ready for that spelling bee next week?"
"That's all he does is write his words, Daddy. He won't even play with me." Katie's sigh was as long as her face as she poked at the food on her plate.
Patrick eyed his daughter with a degree of tolerance. "Now, Katie, Steven's a big boy who goes to school. He has to work hard if he wants to be the best he can be. Soon you'll be in school, and you'll have to work hard too."
"But I work hard now," she reasoned. "I take care of my bear all day long."
Patrick's brow arched slightly. "I suggest you work hard on that stew, young lady, while I have a conversation with your brother." He turned back to his son. "How have you been doing in the trial bees, Steven?"
Steven's blue eyes lit with excitement. He was slight for his eight years, with a generous spray of freckles that imparted an elfin quality to his delicate face. "I've won every one, Father, and Mrs. Broyles says I'm the best speller in three years! I do hope you'll be able to come to the spelling bee next Thursday after school."
"Steven, your father will be working," Marcy reminded him gently.
Patrick saw disappointment in his son's eyes.
"How about I come in Father's place?" Sean asked, eyeing his younger brother.
Patrick glanced at his eldest. At the age of twenty, Sean was a stabilizing force among the O'Connor siblings. Tall and lean of stature with a shock of blond hair neatly combed back, Sean possessed Marcy's blue eyes, infused with the playful twinkle of his own.
"Thanks, Sean, but I have every intention of being there." Patrick reached to tousle Steven's red hair until it stood up on his head.
Marcy started to object, but Patrick gave her a look of warning. "I'll simply tell Ben I have a personal matter of great importance to attend to-case closed." Patrick pushed his empty plate away and stretched comfortably back in the chair.
Marcy stood up from the table with a noticeable sigh and headed to the kitchen. "Charity, I need your help with dessert, please. Faith, your night to clear the table, I believe?"
Charity jumped up in a rush, bumping her elbow into her sister's arm as Faith guzzled the last of her milk. Faith groaned when a spray of milk sloshed up her nose.
"Oops, sorry," Charity muttered.
"Sorry, my eye, you did it on pur-" Faith stopped midsentence, her gaze meeting her father's. She clamped her lips shut while milk dribbled from her chin. She swiped it with the sleeve of her blouse and rose from the table. In stoic silence, she collected dirty dishes and piled them high until Patrick could no longer see the scowl on her face.
He shook his head and turned his attention to Elizabeth, his shy daughter with the violet eyes that often held a faraway look. An avid student of literature, Beth reminded him of how Marcy might have been as a child. For that reason, among others, he fostered a great affection for this soft-spoken daughter of his. Leaning across the table, he stroked her cheek with his hand and was rewarded with a gentle smile.
"And where have you been today, Beth, in your great world of literature?"
All shyness vanished as Beth shared the adventures of Miss Jane Eyre. Patrick listened attentively while Katie sat with hands folded on the table and eyes rolling upward.
"All she does is read, read, read!" Katie complained. "When I grow up, I won't just read about things, I'll do them!"
"Don't be precocious, Katie," Patrick reprimanded.
"I already am, Daddy, there's nothing I can do about it." Katie's tone was matter-of-fact.
Patrick bit back a smile before turning to his eldest son. "Tell me, Sean, how is business down at Kelley's?"
A conversation ensued about the nuts and bolts of the hardware store where Sean worked. Suddenly the lights dimmed, and Marcy reappeared carrying a cake aglow with candles. Faith and Charity followed, plates and utensils in hand.
"Happy birthday, Father!" the family chimed in unison as Patrick made great show of extinguishing the candles that lit up the room.
"Did you make a wish, Daddy?" Katie demanded. "'Cause you have to make a wish."
"Yes, Katie, I did indeed. But it's hard to believe any wish I could make would be better than this-breaking bread with the woman I love"-Patrick winked at Marcy"surrounded by the children born of that love."
"Daddy," Katie said with no small exasperation, "it's cake, not bread, and why on earth would you want to break it? Mama and I worked very hard to make it."
Laughter filled the room, and Katie was clearly annoyed. "What? What'd I say?"
"Katie, love, it's from sheer delight of your adorable ways that we laugh, I can assure you. Now get over here, little girl, and give your daddy a birthday kiss." Patrick held out his arms. In a squeal, Katie was wrapped inside them, giggling and laughing with the others.
"Mother, you've outdone yourself-this cake's delicious!" Faith said after taking a bite. She licked icing from her finger. "If only I could bake like you."
"Goodness knows you'll need something to catch a husband," Charity muttered.
Patrick looked up from his dessert. The smile faded on his face.
"You're just jealous 'cause I can eat whatever I want," Faith whispered back.
"Eat as much as you like. Maybe it'll find its way into a figure-"
Patrick slapped his napkin on the table. "What the devil is going on over there? Faith, Charity, I'll have none of your squabbling on my birthday, do you understand?"
"Sorry, Father," Faith said.
"Sorry, Father," Charity echoed. "But she started it."
"I did not!"
"Enough! I'll see you both in the parlor after your chores. Go on now, get busy."
Charity rose and bolted for the kitchen while Faith began clearing the dessert plates from the table. She brushed past Patrick, gently touching his shoulder. "Sorry, Daddy," she mouthed, reverting to her childhood name for him.
Patrick grabbed her in a sideways hug. "I love my girl."
"I love you too, Daddy," she whispered back.
Patrick pushed his chair back from the table. "Katie Rose, where's that picture you promised me?" he bellowed.
His inquiry sent the five-year-old scurry
ing into the parlor in search of her present.
"Sean, are you up for a game of chess tonight? I'm feeling a bit like an old man. I sure could use a victory."
Sean rose to the bait with a lopsided grin. "I'll tell you what, I'll let you win as a birthday present. How's that?"
"I said old, my boy, not dead!" Patrick said. He laughed as he made his way to the parlor with the younger children close behind.
For the first time in her life, Charity took her time doing the dishes. There was no need to hurry through this, the most hated of household chores. She had no visits to the library planned, no clandestine meetings with a forbidden beau to rush off to. Not tonight. No, tonight-despite the fact it was her father's birthday and a most joyous occasion-would not be a good night for Charity Katherine O'Connor.
Charity had no doubt her mother had already shared with her father the news of the kiss. Everyone in the house had heard his shouted profanity, a completely infrequent occurrence, which only further underscored the true seriousness of his anger. Over a kiss!
Charity closed her eyes to recapture the sweetness of the memory. Oh, but what a kiss! The soft touch of Collin's lips caressing her neck had sent shivers down her back. Was there any man on the face of the earth so handsome and wonderful as Collin McGuire? Charity doubted it. She sighed and opened her eyes to a sink full of dirty dishes.
She washed and dried them slowly, wondering what she could possibly say or do to convince her father that Collin McGuire wasn't the rogue they both knew he was.
If I were Faith, she thought to herself coldly, I could get Father to do whatever I wanted. Charity blew a strand of hair from her eyes and tackled the dirty stew pot. She scrubbed ferociously, wondering for the thousandth time why things had turned out as they had. Why had God allowed polio to take the life of her older sister, Hope-Faith's twinand then cripple Faith too? Charity felt sorry for Faith, to be sure. Losing her best friend and twin at the age of nine was certainly awful, and then to be forced to live in a strange hospital for over a year. But it wasn't like Faith hadn't been loved through it all. Why, Father and Mother had traipsed to the hospital every chance they'd gotten, focusing only on her.
Charity pursed her lips into a tight line. And when Faith finally came home, Father had treated her like some priceless treasure, hovering over her, laughing with her, calling her "his girl" when he thought Charity couldn't hear. But she had.
Yes, if she were Faith, she could probably finagle her father into anything. But then again, if she were Faith, she would have never caught the eye of Collin McGuire. And that was a trade-off that carried too high a price. Charity tossed the dish towel over the chair and took a deep breath. "Into the lions' den," she muttered, completely certain it was well worth the fight.
The scene was too cozy to disrupt. Her mother rocked Katie by the fire while Elizabeth and Steven lay on the floor, tending to their studies. Faith huddled in a blanket on the love seat, engrossed in her writing while Patrick and Sean debated good-naturedly over chess. But disrupted it must be, Charity concluded when her father glanced up from his game. Despite the blazing fire, she felt a sudden chill in the room. Her mother rose with Katie asleep in her arms.
Sean jumped up and reached for his sister. "Mother, I'll carry her for you. She's getting way too big."
Marcy's smile was weary. "Thank you, Sean. She's already had her bath. Just put her in bed. Goodness, where did the evening go? Beth, Steven, it's time to head up. Faith, Charity, I'll kiss you good night upstairs." Marcy bent over her husband and kissed his cheek. "Good night, my love."
"I won't be long, my dear." Patrick reached for his pipe.
Charity could feel the uneasiness in the room as everyone cleared out. She sat ramrod straight in the chair, waiting for her father to begin.
Patrick stood, walked to the hearth, and leaned to light his pipe. The sweet smell of tobacco filled the room. Puffs of smoke swirled above his head. He turned to Faith.
"Faith, you're the oldest girl in this family, so you have to set an example. I'm asking you from my heart to work on your relationship with your sister. We are family, and a family loves each other. There will be no cutting words spoken here. You'll both get enough of that in the world. This is our home, our haven-treat it as such and treat each other as the precious gift you are. You're sisters. Few bonds are stronger than that. Do you understand?"
Faith nodded.
"Good, then come kiss your tired old father good night so I can have a word in private with Charity." Patrick embraced his eldest daughter and kissed her lightly on top of the head. "Good night, Faith," he whispered. "I love my girl."
"Good night, Daddy," she answered softly. "Sleep well." Faith glanced at Charity and gave her a nervous smile.
Charity nodded stiffly. She watched her father take a deep breath before he turned his full attention to her.
"Charity, your mother and I love you very much ..."
Here it comes. She fixed her gaze on a spot in the carpet, the one where she'd spilled hot chocolate at the age of six.
"And it's because we love you that we are so strict regarding, well, certain things."
"You mean certain people, don't you, Father?" Charity never looked up, continuing to trace the chocolate stain in her mind.
She heard her father shuffle and glanced up to see him puffing on his pipe as if he wished he could lose himself in its smoke.
"Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I do. Look now, Charity, apparently your mother and I did not make ourselves clear when we tried to dissuade you from your interest in this McGuire boy. But, darlin', I want there to be no mistaking what I'm putting before you now. You're to have no association whatsoever with that boy. He's a wild one, Charity, the kind better suited to taking up with the women at Brannigan's Pub, not a sixteen-year-old girl from a family where morality and honesty are expected."
She stared straight ahead, her face serene like the stone bust that graced her mother's mantel. Cool and unaffected-except for a single tear trailing down her cheek.
Her father laid his pipe aside and moved to where she sat in the chair. He stooped to his knees, a pained expression on his face. He clutched her hand. "Charity, I love you more than I can say. I was Collin's age once. For pity's sake, I was Collin once. I know what goes through his head when he sees a pretty girl. I know how strong the desires can be for a boy like that, a boy who can turn the head of every lass in Boston Town. He's trouble, trust me on this. Promise you will heed my words and honor me. If you defy me, I'll be forced to take strong measures. I don't want to do that, darlin', but I've got to be sure you understand the severity of the situation."
His grip tightened on her hand. He seemed to search her face for any clue of consent. "Promise me, Charity. Give me your word you will stay away from Collin McGuire."
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.
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 d
aughter 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.
A Passion Most Pure (Daughters of Boston, Book 1) Page 3