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

by Julie Lessman

"She said, 'Tell him to go to the devil.'"

  He groaned and closed his eyes. She hated him! How could it be that one awful moment in time could shatter his life so completely? He buried his face in his hands. When he finally spoke, his tone was bitter. "Well, she got her wish because that's where I've been the last twentyfour hours-sheer hell."

  "She's on her way to talk to you now," Marcy said.

  Mitch sat up in his chair. "What?"

  "She left, not twenty minutes ago, to come in and give Michael her notice. She told me she would talk to you then."

  A sick feeling cowered in his stomach. "Why would she do that?" he asked. "She called yesterday and gave Michael her notice."

  "Oh, please, no. . ." Marcy whispered.

  The air rushed from his lungs in a groan. "Check her room, her clothes ..." His voice was a pained rasp.

  Marcy must have dropped the phone and rushed to Faith's room. When she picked it up again, she was crying. "She's gone, everything's gone, except the Bible Mrs. Gerson gave her! Her Bible! Oh, Mitch, she cherished that gift beyond measure. That tells me something's desperately wrong. The Faith I know would never do this. You've got to find her. Please, go to the shipyard and find her. Please, Mitch, don't let her go!"

  He was breathing hard now. No, the Faith they both knew-or thought they knew-would never do this. But the Faith who'd been betrayed to the depth of her soul would, and the degree to which he must have wounded her cut him to the core.

  "I'm leaving right now, Mrs. O'Connor." He hung up the phone, his heart hammering in his chest. He felt like a madman tearing out of the building. His hands shook as he stooped to rotate the crank of his car. What would I do without her? He got in and clutched the steering wheel, then hung his head and closed his eyes. "Oh, God," he prayed, "I need you. I need your strength and your wisdom. You brought her to me-please don't take her away."

  A sense of peace settled as he shifted into gear. He sucked in a deep breath. That was the legacy she left him. She could leave and take his joy and his light, but she could never take the peace of God she had led him to. As he pulled out into the stream of traffic, the realization dawned like the pale light of a new day, and he gratefully allowed it to drive the fear from his soul.

  No one ever told her anger kept you strong while you flouted God's will, then left you alone to cower in the face of fear when it was through with you. That was a lesson she would have to learn on her own as she shivered in the bleak bowels of a cold, gray freighter.

  Faith stared at the restless waves, never seeing them for the restlessness thrashing in her mind. It had been almost a week since she had forged ahead with her plan, fueled and strengthened by the hurt and hate crowding her soul. And then the ship had set sail, and with it, any assurance she was doing the right thing. There wasn't a moment she didn't regret the lies and deceptions, the hate and the bitterness. Guilt and pain battered her brain like the threatening whitecaps that slammed daily against the hull of the ship. She was sickened, over her family and what she had done to them. All except Charity and Mitch. No, that anger still kindled white-hot. It made her glad she left Ireland, if only for them.

  She thought about God, and guilt slithered in her gut. She knew enough of God to know she was cornered. There was no happiness apart from him. But she wasn't ready to make her peace. Not yet. The hurt was too deep, too raw. In time, she would, she knew. But for now, she would revel in the bitterness that swelled within, much like the swirling, savage waves of the sea.

  She found herself thinking a great deal about Collin. There was little else to do as she kept to herself, seldom speaking to anyone on the ship. Periodically, she regretted her decision to leave her Bible behind. As angry as she was at God right now, the words from Mrs. Gerson's Bible had always had such a soothing effect on her. Like it or not, she missed her daily devotion more than she cared to admit. She refused to think about Mitch; it was still too painful. And so she focused on Collin-on where he might be, and if he ever thought of her.

  She closed her eyes and visualized the last time he kissed her. Warmth immediately flooded her body. She had never allowed herself to think of those moments before, not only because of the torment over someone she could never have, but also because she believed it was wrong. Her faithfulness to God had been intensely devoted, even to the point of keeping her mind pure, and she had been completely diligent. Until now. Now, the anger searing within told her she didn't care. She would think what she liked, allowing her mind to dwell on the way he had kissed her and held her. The memory thrilled, shooting heat through her like electricity. Her feelings for him had never diminished, she realized, not in all the months she cared for Mitch. The thought no longer frightened her.

  Suddenly, she stood straight at the railing as comprehension flooded her brain. I'll marry him, she decided, her heart throbbing within. She had never stopped loving him, after all, and if he still loved her, there would be nothing to stand in their way. God was no longer an issue. Fingers of fear suddenly snaked around her heart. Her body went slack as she exhaled in despair, her fantasy swirling away as the breath left her lungs.

  She clenched her fists, anger resurging at this God who had betrayed her, then boxed her in so completely she could never leave. Yes, her faith in God had suffered a severe blow, but the knowledge that she would return to it grated on her. God had a way of ruining you for the world, and something told her she would never be happy until she was right with him again. The same something told her she would never be happy with Collin unless he felt the same way.

  Faith sighed and pulled her shawl closer about her shoulders. She couldn't wait to be in Boston once again, to leave the painful past behind and go home. She thought of Mrs. Gerson, and a longing filled her soul. Faith knew she needed time to heal, and there was no better place to do so than in the presence of such a woman. Her broken heart was desperately sick. Hurt and bitterness had poisoned her, and she was confident Mrs. Gerson would know exactly what to do. She would, no doubt, call upon the Great Physician. And as angry as Faith was with the Good Doctor right now, she was more than well aware that when it came to her heart, his was a surgery that would leave no scars.

  Patrick shivered on the firestep of the trench he'd been living in for over a month now. Rain pelted his back before falling into the rancid hole below. He glanced down at LaRue asleep in the funk hole they had scraped out of the side of the trench, then returned his gaze to the black no-man's-land ahead, strewn with barbwire that provided little, if any, separation from the Germans.

  The German offensive had begun with a vengeance mid-July, and although it lasted only five days, the toll taken on the men defending the Marne River had been considerable indeed. Patrick took little comfort that the enemy had been driven back by early August. The price was high-dozens of his friends, hundreds from his own 30th Infantry Regiment and many thousands more from the 3rd Division, cut down as they defended the Marne River line in the effort to save Paris.

  He heard LaRue moan and jumped down to check on him. His boots landed on the rotted wooden planking of the duckboard that did almost nothing to separate the men from the sewage and rats. He felt the heat of LaRue's forehead as he touched it, and knew the dysentery was sucking the life out of him. Patrick made up his mind to get him back to the billet.

  He looked up at the soldier propped on the firestep next to his and wondered if he was asleep. He smiled. Only Kapowsky could sleep standing up in the muck of a trench hole. He looked up at the lanky farm boy from Kansas whom everyone said could sleep on a picket fence. He prodded his boot. "Kapowsky!"

  The farm boy roused, his eyelids heavy as he squinted down at Patrick.

  "LaRue is really sick. He's been moaning all night, and this rain can't be good for him. I'm taking him back to the billet. Will you be okay here?"

  Kapowsky nodded, returning his gaze ahead. He began dozing once again, surely dreaming of being astride his combine in a gleaming field of wheat.

  It had been fairly quiet most of t
he night, except for the occasional artillery shells that lit up the sky over miles of trenches. He was blessed, Patrick realized. Rumor had it that as many as one-third of the soldiers killed on the Western Front met their demise in these trenches from the same shells that had been falling around him for the last month. Never was he more grateful for his faith than now, while in the bowels of these polluted trenches where death was all too frequent a visitor.

  "LaRue!" he whispered, trying to stir his friend.

  LaRue moaned and clutched at his stomach.

  The stench of diarrhea filled Patrick's nostrils. "LaRue, I'm taking you back to the billet."

  LaRue's eyelids flittered. He nodded weakly before doubling over into a cramp.

  Patrick wondered how he would get him out of the trench, much less back to his bunk. He said a quick prayer and hoisted him up on the rear side of the firestep, where LaRue wavered precariously, weak as a kitten. With a moan, he fell back against Patrick, slamming him against the wall of the trench. Patrick cursed silently under his breath, a habit formed quickly in the company of men intimidated by war.

  "LaRue, you've got to try! You can do it," Patrick said, his voice fierce as he leaned to pick him up in his arms. LaRue began to cry, and Patrick's jaw hardened. The tears of men had become all too common a sight in the trenches.

  Clutching Patrick's arm, LaRue spoke with labored breath. "I won't make it, Patrick, I'm dying." He wheezed and doubled over again.

  Patrick stared at LaRue's white face and felt him shivering in his arms. "No, you're not! You're going to make it."

  LaRue's lips twitched. "Do something for me?" he whispered. He tugged at a chain on his neck that held a tiny silver cross hopelessly entangled with his dog tags.

  "LaRue, what are you doing-don't!"

  "Please ... see that Evelyn gets this," he whispered. LaRue yanked at the cross with more strength than Patrick would have believed possible.

  "Wait, LaRue, I'll get it." Patrick lifted the cross from his friend's neck. Clenching LaRue at the waist, he hauled him to his feet. He yelled for Kapowsky's help. The two managed to heave LaRue over the back of the trench. Patrick slapped Kapowsky on the back. "Thanks, Farm Boy. I won't be long."

  Kapowsky nodded and returned to his post.

  Patrick climbed up the back wall of the trench, where LaRue lay prostrate, and pulled him to his feet. With a heavy grunt, he hiked him over his shoulder. LaRue is going to make it, he thought to himself, if I have to die trying. Taking his next step, he saw the ground illuminate before him. Patrick felt something crease his head. He dropped to the rain-soaked ground, spilling them both into a sea of mud. He tried to get up, but a jolt of electricity scorched through him. His vision began to blur. He touched his hand to his head and felt a hole in his skull and the taste of blood warm in his mouth.

  "Lord, help me. . ." he prayed. He could feel his energy ebbing away, and his hand strained for LaRue's. Another shaft of light lit up the night sky. It was brighter than anything he'd ever seen. He smiled into its luminance with an amazing peace. "I'm ready, Lord," Patrick whispered with unspeakable joy, as a blinding burst of light took his breath away.

  Marcy sat up in the dark, her breathing shallow. Beads of perspiration dampened her forehead. She reached out to touch Katie, who was curled up in a ball, wedged between Bridget and her. They both shivered. Another nightmare, if not Katie's, then her own. Marcy squeezed her eyes shut to fight the tears, then placed her head on the pillow once again.

  She lay there, ramrod straight, her body exhausted and her mind racing with anxious thoughts indifferent to her weariness. She wanted to spoon with Katie, but there was no room in the tiny bed. It was just as well. If she did, the longing for Patrick would be too great, the memories too painful. It would only remind her that almost a year had passed since he'd last lain beside her, gently spooning her while the warmth of his breath touched the back of her neck.

  She got little sleep these days. Patrick was stationed on the Marne, where the German offensive was taking place in that battle-weary section of France. Marcy couldn't seem to shake this lingering uneasiness in her mind. It had begun the day Faith had left and grown steadily worse, finally invading her dreams on a regular basis. Even Katie, so happy in Ireland, had taken to more frequent bouts with nightmares, scurrying into Marcy's bed for comfort in the middle of the night.

  Marcy gave up the quest for sleep and rose in the dark, padding quietly to where her housecoat lay on the chair. Wrapping it tightly around her, she headed downstairs to the kitchen, where she could read and pray and perhaps calm the frantic beating of her heart.

  She wondered how Faith was doing in Boston, and the thought produced a twinge of hurt. She hadn't believed her daughter would leave. Never had one of her children spoken to her in such a manner that they weren't met with the wrath of her Irish temper. Yet she had remained almost silent throughout those last moments with Faith. Perhaps it was shock, Marcy reasoned. If it had been Charity, her eyes would have been flashing and the punishment swift. But Marcy had little experience with disciplining Faith. She seldom had to, so anxious had this daughter been to please her mother, so diligent to please her God.

  Marcy bent over to add more peat to the fading fire. She worked until the warmth of its flames was steady and strong, filling the cozy kitchen with its welcome heat. She walked to the sink, filled the pot with water, and set it on the stove to boil for tea, then pulled a chair next to the fire. She grabbed the rosary off the mantel and held it in her lap, caressing the wooden beads as her thoughts drifted.

  She knew Faith had arrived safely, for Mrs. Gerson had been kind enough to send a telegram telling her so. The day Faith left over a month ago, Marcy sent a telegram of her own, alerting Mrs. Gerson as to Faith's return and Marcy's deep concern for her emotional and spiritual well-being. Her message had been brief and void of details, but Marcy knew Christa would read between the lines. She would know exactly what to do with this wayward daughter of hers. The knowledge of this was one of the few comforts Marcy enjoyed.

  Her daughter's departure in late August had changed everything. Marcy would never again remember the waning days of summer with fondness. Katie cried for days, on and off, almost retreating back into toddlerhood, so demanding was she of Marcy's attention. Steven seemed oblivious, as most young boys would be, but Marcy noticed that he, like the rest of them, was far more somber these days. Beth found solace in her world of books, and Charity seemed in a stupor, merely going through the motions of existence, so stunned was she at the viciousness of Faith's retaliation.

  And Mitch. Marcy's fingers stilled on a wooden bead as she remembered how his voice had quavered when he had called hours later. He had checked the manifests of all freighters sailed, and although Faith's name had not been among them, she was gone nonetheless. Marcy had shivered at the news. Faith had probably given a false name, she realized, just another lie in her daughter's painful quest to flee. Mitch begged Marcy's absolution, telling her how sorry he was for the pain he caused, and his voice had broken several times during the discourse.

  "Mrs. O'Connor," he said, his voice rough with emotion, "I hope you can forgive me for what I've done. There's no way I can make it up to you, I realize, but I want you to know I'm praying for all of you, especially Faith. I want you to understand if you need anything-moral support, money, help in any way-I would be crushed if you didn't call on me."

  "Thank you, Mitch," she whispered, her voice as shaky as his. "I will, if I need to." He had not come around since, but she knew he wrestled with grief of his own and needed time to heal.

  Marcy sighed. They all needed time to heal, she thought, rising at the wailing whistle of the teakettle. She poured herself a cup and absently bobbed the tea leaves up and down until the brew was dark and rich. Its fragrant steam drifted in the cool air. As she strained the leaves from the cup, she felt her uneasiness return, swirling through her like the cream in her tea. She hadn't heard from Patrick or Sean in over two months, and it worri
ed her terribly, especially knowing both were in the heat of battle. She had, thank God, heard from Collin, in a letter from a Paris hospital informing them a piece of shrapnel had torn through his chest. Thankfully it was only a peripheral wound, though it had come within inches of taking his life. He would be good as new once it healed, he boasted, and hoped he would have the opportunity to return to the front before the fighting was done. Either Faith had thought better of her threats to write Collin about Charity or he had not yet received her letter, for he made no mention of it. It only spoke of his gratitude that his life had been spared by the hand of God.

  Marcy sat down and held the steaming cup with both hands, allowing its heat to seep into her fingers. Its warmth did nothing, however, for the cold fingers of fear that clutched at her heart, and she wished she could rid herself of this strange sense of foreboding. Was it over Mima, she wondered? Her grandmother had taken a turn for the worse shortly after Faith had left. Although Marcy knew her grandmother's health had been steadily declining for a long time and had little to do with Faith's departure, the eerie coincidence bothered her all the same.

  Marcy thought about the turn of events over the last year and wondered when she might ever again feel the joy for life she had once known. But as bad as things were, she knew in her heart they could be worse, and a shiver skipped down her spine as the uneasiness grew. She wouldn't think about that, she decided. She would, like Patrick had said so many times before, pray about it instead.

  Carefully, she laid her cup at her feet and grasped the rosary in her hands. Prayer was what sustained her in her moments of need, always routing the grip of fear from her heart. God was her calm in the midst of this storm, this Prince of Peace, promising to keep her in perfect peace until the end. Closing her eyes, Marcy met with him there and let the warmth of his presence, like the warmth of the fire, chase the chill from her soul.