A Passion Most Pure (Daughters of Boston, Book 1)

by Julie Lessman

  "I can't see ... I can't see! Mama, lift me up!"

  Marcy boosted Katie in her arms and pointed toward the southern outskirts of the city. "Your grandmother lives over there, in a little cottage on Ambrose Lane." She turned to look at Faith, her eyes as excited as Katie's at Christmas. "Faith, do you have the brooch with you?"

  Faith nodded and reached into her purse to produce the treasured keepsake her mother had given her on the first day at the Herald. Marcy lifted it to show Katie. "Look, little chicken, this is our new home. This is where your grandmother lives and your great-grandmother. So, what do you think?"

  Katie frowned as she fingered the brooch, then grinned. "It's awfully small, Mama ... are you sure we'll all fit?"

  Her mother laughed out loud, and hope surged in Faith at the glorious sound. It had been too long since she'd heard the ring of her mother's laughter. Ireland would be good for her, as she hoped it would be for them all.

  "No, silly, this is just a tiny picture of what the house looks like. Actually, it's quite a good size, I believe. I think we'll be most comfortable there." She turned to Charity. "It's in walking distance of several charming shops, Charity, and Father thought you might enjoy working in one. You're so bright and lovely to look at, you'd be a natural, I think."

  Charity smiled and nodded, fairly glowing with the praise of her mother.

  "Beth and Steven, you'll be attending St. Patrick's School, also within walking distance. Your grandmother went there, and I would have too, had we stayed in Ireland."

  "Where will I go to school, Mama?" Katie asked.

  "Next year, little one. This year you'll stay home to help us care for Mima."

  "Mother, do you have any idea where the Irish Times is located?" Faith squinted hard at the city skyline, her heart fluttering at the prospect of a new job in a strange city.

  "I think your father told me it was on Lower Abbey Street, in the business district. It's not within walking distance, I know, but it shouldn't be too far. Even so, public transportation is available, I believe." She glanced quickly at her daughter. "Are you nervous?"

  Faith shivered as she nodded, and her mother squeezed her arm. "There's nothing to worry about, Faith-God's in control. That's what I have to remind myself every day, and you do too. He'll be right there with you, every step of the way. Aren't we the lucky ones, though, to know him like we do?" Her eyes were suddenly misty.

  "We are, Mother. How do people do it without him?" Faith whispered. Sadness settled in at the thought of Collin. Shaking the feeling off, she smiled into her mother's eyes. "We're going to be fine, you know."

  Her mother brushed a stray tear aside and nodded. "I know," she whispered, turning to gaze at the city. "Fine enough, at least, until the war is over. And then, when I finally have my husband by my side, and my son and prospective son-in-law home safe and sound, well, now, that will certainly be the true definition of 'fine.'"

  When the door swung open and she looked into the face of her mother for the first time in nine years, Marcy knew it would be a moment etched in her memory forever. A moment of destiny, she thought, as she ushered her family onto the street where she had lived as a little girl.

  Ambrose Lane was as charming as it sounded-a quiet street shaded by massive oaks arched over a narrow lane of cottage homes, each more inviting than the next. There was a distinctive scent in the air, a heady fragrance that Marcy identified as viburnum. The sweet smell of it would, from that moment on, forever remind them of Ireland. They stood, the six of them, on a somewhat rickety porch. It was thick with coats of white paint long since given way to the peeling and cracking so inevitable on the Irish seaboard. The large wooden door had not fared much better, speckled as it was with bits of the original white peeking through the most recent coat of green, which looked anything but recent.

  Marcy knocked on the door timidly, holding her breath until it opened. When it did, she exhaled with a faint cry of joy as she beheld the face of her mother.

  Bridget Murphy was still a handsome woman, by anyone's definition. She was slight of stature and strong of character, like her daughter. She looked at them now through the same clear blue eyes that seemed youthful despite an abundance of delicate lines and creases. At first sight of her family, her hand flew to her mouth, and the blue eyes pooled with tears as she echoed the faint cry of her daughter.

  Marcy dropped her bags at her side and flew into her mother's arms. The two cried and laughed at the same time while the rest of the O'Connors grinned and looked on.

  "Oh, Mother, I've missed you so much! I can't believe we're together again at last. Let me look at you." Marcy stepped back, her hands still clutching her mother's arms. She laughed from the sheer joy of touching her again.

  Bridget's trembling smile was wet with tears as she squeezed Marcy's hands. "Marcy, I'd forgotten how beautiful you are." Her smile faded into a look of concern. "Tell me, have you heard anything from Patrick or Sean?"

  Marcy shook her head. "I don't expect to for a while. Patrick only left a little over three weeks ago, and I'm sure he would have waited to write me here. I heard from Sean not long after he arrived in France back in August, but nothing since."

  Bridget hugged her daughter again. "Now, you have nothing to worry about, Marcy. Patrick and Sean will come home to you again, safe and none the worse for the wear, you'll see. God wouldn't dare allow otherwise with all the candles I've been lighting, now would he?"

  Marcy smiled, and Bridget turned to greet her grandchildren with a twinkle in her eyes. "Sure, it's expected for these grandchildren of mine to be so handsome, what with the comeliness of both you and Patrick, now isn't it so? Saints alive, Faith, I'd recognize that auburn hair anywhere! You're all grown up and quite the beauty. Why, you were just a shy little girl not ten years old when I saw you last." Bridget reached to stroke Faith's cheek, her eyes sobering. "My goodness, you were such a strong little thing, as I recall. First, losing your sister, then losing the use of your legs ... and never once did I hear you complain." Bridget sighed, shaking off her melancholy. "And look at you now! No braces in sight and as robust as you please. And, Marcy tells me you're to start a job at the Times?"

  Faith laughed and hugged her grandmother. "Yes, next week, as a matter of fact. Father arranged it with an old friend of his. We knew we would need income, and I love journalism. I've done a bit of feature writing at the Herald, but I'm hoping to have the opportunity to do a lot more here in Ireland."

  "A writer in the family! I'm so very proud of you, my dear."

  "I'm a writer too! I can write my alphabet all by myself, Grandma." Katie couldn't wait to be noticed.

  Marcy's mother bent to give her full attention. "Why, you must be Katie! Your mama has told me so much about you, and what a big girl you are. Do I get a hug, big girl?"

  Katie giggled and shot into Bridget's arms, prompting another stream of tears to streak her grandmother's face.

  "Grandma, don't cry! Aren't you glad we're here?"

  Bridget smiled at Katie, then glanced at Marcy. "Yes, dear, of course. It's just that I've waited so very long to hug you." She picked Katie up in her arms and turned to Charity. "This is Charity? Goodness, Marcy, beauty runs deep in your family. I'm afraid the young men around here will be love struck in no time."

  Charity grinned and hugged her grandmother. "Thank you, Grandmother. Actually, I'm almost engaged, but he's in France."

  Bridget touched Charity's cheek. "Yes, Collin, I know. Your mother wrote me. But, 'almost engaged' is not engaged, my dear. I don't want you pining away under my roof. You're young, and I want to see you meet friends here and have fun. Collin will still be there when the war is over, my dear."

  "Yes, ma'am," Charity said, hugging her grandmother once again.

  "And this must be Elizabeth, Marcy's bookworm, right?"

  A shy smile creased Beth's lips as she nodded.

  "Well, now, you and I will just have to talk literature, young lady. I've got a whole bookshelf of my favorites ju
st waiting inside, and I fully expect you to reciprocate in kind by sharing some of yours. Agreed?" Elizabeth actually laughed as Bridget kissed her on the cheek and gave her a gentle hug.

  "And last, but most certainly not least, is the man of the house-Steven. Well, young man, have you been taking good care of your mother and sisters?"

  Apparently delighted by the referral as "man of the house," Steven grinned and nodded enthusiastically. He stuck out his hand to shake hers. Bridget laughed and grabbed it, pulling him into a hug while she kissed the top of his head. "Nonsense, young man, we're family here. There will be no handshakes, only lots of hugs and kisses. Understood?"

  "Yes, ma'am," Steven said with a grin, then looked up earnestly. "Grandma? Right now, instead of hugs and kisses, do you think we could have something to eat?"

  Bridget laughed and winked at Marcy. "Isn't that amazing, now? I just happen to have a kitchen full of good things to eat. Let's get you inside and settled in, then we'll have a bite. How would that be?"

  "Great!" Katie shrieked, tearing past her grandmother into the house with Steven in hot pursuit. The older girls picked up their bags and followed them in.

  "Faith, Charity, would you mind finding something for them to eat while I talk to your grandmother?" Marcy slipped her arm around her mother.

  "How are you holding up, my dear?" Bridget asked, the smile on her lips in stark contrast to the deep concern in her eyes.

  Marcy sighed, so very grateful to allow someone else to be the strong one for a change. "I have my moments, Mother, but God has seen me through, along with my children. I try not to think about it, about what could happen . . ." She stopped, tears welling against her will. "I hope and pray God keeps them safe. I ... I don't know what I would do, Mother, if anything happened. Sean ... Patrick ... they're my life."

  Bridget squeezed her hand. "I know, Marcy, I know. And God knows too-trust him."

  "Patrick's words exactly. And I'm trying, Mother, really I am. But it should be easier, now. Now that I'm here with you. How's Mima?"

  It appeared to be Bridget's turn to wrestle with her fears. "Not good, I'm afraid. The doctor says it's just a matter of time. Her heart ... well, it's quite weak and. . ." Bridget's voice wavered slightly as she continued. "I'm just trying to keep her comfortable as long as possible."

  Marcy put her hand on her mother's arm. "Oh, Mother, I had no idea her heart was that weak."

  Bridget nodded. "I know, dear; I didn't want you to know. I suppose I kept hoping it wasn't true myself, but that bout of the flu changed everything." She smiled a sad smile. "Who would have thought a war could be convenient? It brought you to me when I needed you most."

  Marcy hugged her mother. "And me to you."

  Arm in arm, the two made their way to the back of the cottage to Mima's room, but Marcy wasn't prepared for the change in her grandmother as she entered. It was the sunniest room in the house, cheerful and bright with a peaceful view of her mother's prized garden, but it was filled with the feel of death. Mima, not yet eighty, looked to be at least a hundred as she lay in the bed, a frail shell of her former self, her sunken eyes closed. Marcy's hand flew to her mouth.

  All at once, Mima's eyes opened, and a ghost of a smile flickered on her lips. "My Marceline ..." she whispered. "I've missed you."

  Marcy sat on the bed and stroked her grandmother's face with her fingers. "Oh, Mima, I've missed you too!" She laid her head on Mima's chest. "How are you?"

  The old woman smiled, then coughed before answering. Her eyes shone with a hint of a sparkle, the only sign of life in her otherwise ravaged body. "Better, I think, now that you're here. Where are those children of yours? I want to meet them."

  Marcy smiled and pushed tears off her cheeks. "Oh, you will, I assure you. They're in the kitchen getting a bite to eat, but you may ask Mother to ship us back once you meet them. My six-year-old, Katie, can be quite demanding, I'm afraid."

  "No more than the Marceline I knew at her age," Mima answered, patting Marcy's hand. "Go, get settled and have a bite to eat. I'll rest now. I can meet them when I awaken."

  Marcy leaned and kissed her on the cheek. Mima closed her eyes, and Marcy's heart ached as she sat and watched her for a moment. She stood and took a deep breath, glancing at Bridget, who stood at the door. "You know, Mother, today ... right now ... there's no place I'd rather be than here."

  Bridget lifted her apron to wipe the tears from her eyes. "I know, dear. And God knows. And that's why you're here, isn't it? Now, how about that bite to eat?"

  For Marcy, it was one of the most remarkable weeks of her life, and who would have believed it? Mima was dying, Patrick, Sean, and Collin were at war, yet here they were, encased in this cocoon of warmth and new discoverythe perfect antidote to the heaviness they'd been carrying all too long. It was like one endless celebration, a bit of revelry in an otherwise dreary reality, and there was no question in Marcy's mind she had made the right decision in badgering Patrick to send her here.

  Mima had taken to the children instantly, and they to her. Especially Katie, who was mesmerized by this tiny woman who seemed more like an oversized doll than a great-grandmother. She would lie beside Mima for hours, brushing her hair or pretending to read a book, plying her with questions that never failed to make Mima smile. It almost seemed that the gloom of death so prevalent upon their arrival had somehow dissipated, replaced instead by the warm sound of laughter spilling into the room along with the sunshine. Could it be, Marcy wondered, that Mima looked better? Her previously sallow complexion was now more aglow, her former listlessness now sparked with new energy.

  The evenings were filled with the delights of Bridget's cooking and Mima's spellbinding stories and childhood games, which Marcy now passed on to her own children. Even Blarney, after confinement on the ship, seemed happy with his new lot in life as the shadow of Marcy's mother, who shamelessly plied him with bits of soda bread dredged in bacon drippings.

  Of course, the highlight was a letter from Collin. After months of training on the front lines, he'd earned a short leave to one of the small towns in southern France, where he managed to run into Sean. Both were doing well, according to Collin, who carefully chose to avoid any specific talk of war. Instead, he rambled on about Sean or the beauty of the French countryside, teasing that apparently Sean was better at soldiering than at chess, for he seemed none the worse for the wear. He talked of friends he'd made, and one in particular, he wanted Faith to know, was a devout Christian who carried his Bible with him into the trenches. Collin liked manning his post with Brady, he said, because he was sure it gave him a bit of insurance.

  His letter was addressed to them all, and after a few paragraphs of general conversation, he included separate sections devoted to each, ending with several pages for Charity. After reading most of the letter aloud to the family, Charity excused herself and hurried to her room, where she pored over her pages until she had them memorized.

  Even though it was early November, Ireland's mild temperatures lured the children outdoors for games of Red Rover and Snatch the Bacon while Marcy worked and chatted with Bridget in the garden. Beth, who was working her way through her grandmother's book collection, was delighted to discover a bookworm named Patricia who lived several houses down. They would debate plots of their favorite novels for hours, either lazing under the massive oak in Bridget's front yard or gliding on rope swings down at Patricia's house.

  Even Charity had ventured out to explore the shops Patrick had told her about. It was no surprise to any of them-least of all Bridget, who forged a particularly close bond with Charity in one short week-that she came bounding home with news of her employment. She was to begin work on Monday, the same day as Faith, at a darling boutique that would also allow discounted purchases for herself and her family. Marcy had never seen Charity so excited, except, of course, where Collin was concerned, and her heart was grateful that things seemed to be working out so well.

  Thank you, Lord, for your hand in our lives, she th
ought, and wished Patrick could be here to see it. But God's hand was, she had no doubt, upon her husband's life as well, and she longed for the day they would finally share all the wonderful things God had done. But for now, there was certainly no question about it. For each of them, it had been a most remarkable week.

  "Why do I have to take her? Why can't Brune?"

  Michael Reardon had never seen Mitch Dennehy quite this agitated. He wondered if he was once again disengaging himself from some lovesick girl who actually believed she could encroach upon his bachelorhood. Michael stared at his best department editor and smiled patiently. "Come on, Mitch, simmer down. It's not a big deal. Just give her what nobody else wants to do, and you'll be thanking me in the morning."

  Mitch leaned his hands on Michael's desk and glared at his editor through blue eyes that seemed a bit bloodshot-or maybe he was just seeing red-and Michael could tell he wasn't buying it.

  "The devil I will! Let Brune thank you in the morning. I don't have time to break in some kid still wet behind the ears. How do you know she can even write?"

  Michael breathed in deeply and then sighed, too tired to take anyone on this morning, much less incur the wrath of his most bullheaded employee. There was clearly nothing to do but pull rank. He stood up from his desk, which was piled high with stacks of press sheets, ringed coffee cups, and dirty ashtrays, and glared right back into the face of the Time's second most stubborn journalist. "You don't have a choice, Mitch. She's yours, not Brune's, and I'll be dashed if I'm going to stand here and argue with you about it. I've read a few things she's written, and they're not bad-"

  "Not bad? Well, now that's just great! A glowing endorsement if I ever heard one."