by BJ Hoff
“Has Daniel ever shown interest in girls b-before?” he asked abruptly.
“Only poor Katie, God rest her soul.” Nora twisted to raise herself up on one elbow. “But that was only a childish affection. This is different, Evan.”
She was right. The boy’s awkward attempts to retain his composure in Quinn’s presence, his quick blush of pleasure when she happened to notice him, the way his gaze followed her every movement across the room—all the signs pointed to a boy’s first real passion of the heart.
Evan sighed. Because love had come late to him, he wasn’t altogether able to identify with Daniel’s youthful dilemma. But certainly he knew the anguish, the bewilderment, of those first painful steps toward love. His own had been agonizingly slow and brutally difficult.
Still, he was anxious to allay Nora’s concern about the boy. The last thing she needed in her fragile condition was additional worry. Daniel was, after all, on the threshold of manhood, and he had always been a sensible boy. A good boy.
“We m-must realize, dear, that although Quinn is an attractive young woman, she’s also exceedingly responsible. I can’t think she would lead D-Daniel on.”
He could see that she wasn’t convinced.
“It’s just that they’re so different,” Nora told him. “Quinn seems so much older than Daniel John, though there’s not quite a year between them.” She paused. “The girl seems so…hard, Evan. And Daniel John is such a gentle boy.”
Evan said nothing, his mind drifting. He, too, had noticed the marked difference between their young housekeeper and Nora’s amiable son. Though the two were close in years, they seemed ages apart in most other ways. Whereas Daniel was an idealist—thoughtful, noble-intentioned, and a bit of a dreamer—Evan suspected that Quinn O’Shea viewed life through the relentless eyes of a realist. His instincts told him that the girl had encountered too many of life’s harsh realities to be otherwise.
To be sure, she had shown no undue interest in Daniel. Evan thought he might know the reason. “If you’re aware of Daniel’s attraction to the girl,” he said, “then you m-must have noticed Sergeant Price’s interest in her as well,”
Nora looked at him. “Sergeant Price?”
Evan nodded. “Surely you d-don’t think he comes by as often as he does simply to check on B-Billy and the other boys?”
Nora sat up still more. Evan put out his hand to restrain her, but she shrugged it off.
“You think the sergeant is interested in Quinn?” Her entire expression brightened. “Truly, Evan?”
Evan smiled a little at the eagerness in her voice. “I shouldn’t be at all surprised. He d-does seem to go out of his way to visit us, now doesn’t he?”
Nora met his smile with one of her own. “Why, he does, now that you mention it,” she said thoughtfully. “And wouldn’t such a match make a great deal more sense? Though Quinn is a good many years younger than the sergeant.”
“As you said, the girl seems years older than she actually is.”
“And Sergeant Price is a fine looking man,” Nora said, almost to herself. “And a bit of a charmer as well, according to Sara. No doubt Quinn would find the sergeant much more interesting than a young boy like Daniel John.”
Evan could hear her trying to convince herself—and doing an admirable job of it at that. “Well, then, you see…you’ve nothing to fret about. Nothing at all.”
Nora still looked a bit uncertain. “I don’t want to see Daniel John hurt, though. Even if I don’t like his attraction to the girl, I’d hate to think she might actually scorn him.”
Evan shook his head. Nora’s reasoning—any woman’s reasoning, for that matter, when it came to love—was a formidable challenge.
Finally Nora sank back against the pillows with a sigh. “You do like Quinn, don’t you, Evan? I didn’t mean to imply that she’s anything but a decent girl, and her living right here in the house with us.”
“I like Quinn very m-much,” he said quickly. “And I’m sure she’s a fine girl. But…”
When he hesitated, Nora frowned at him. “But what?” she prompted.
“Well, she does have a certain reticence about her that sometimes puzzles me.”
The truth was, he sometimes thought the girl was downright strange. He had to admit that he, too, would much rather see her take up with Sergeant Price than with Daniel. He doubted there was much of anything the good sergeant could not handle—including the mysterious Quinn O’Shea.
Releasing Nora’s hand, Evan leaned to brush a light kiss over her forehead, then straightened. “We must simply pray that when the time comes, Daniel will find someone who will m-make him as happy as you’ve made me.”
Her expression clouded. “Please, God, let her not be the burden I’ve been to you,” she said, her voice low.
Dismayed, Evan hurried to reassure her. Bringing his face close to hers, he cupped her chin in his hand. “Oh, my beloved, never…never… say such a thing again! Why, m-most men go to their graves without ever knowing even a taste of the joy you’ve given me! I could never want anything m-more than your love, Nora. If you believe nothing else I’ve ever said to you, believe that.”
She gave him a weak smile. “I don’t deserve you, Evan Whittaker. I don’t deserve you at all. But I thank God every day of my life for you, and that’s the truth.”
He touched a finger to her lips. “Then let us both thank Him for this day, beloved…and for every day He allows us to spend together. And then—you really m-must go to sleep.”
Still clinging to Evan’s hand, Nora fell asleep even before they finished praying together.
5
A Hardhearted Woman
Her hair was a waving bronze and her eyes
Deep wells that might cover a brooding soul;
And who, till he weighed it, could ever surmise
That her heart was a cinder instead of a coal?
JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY (1844–1890)
On Wednesday night Quinn settled herself at the kitchen table, book in hand. It was almost eight-thirty, and she was exhausted from yet another long day. All evening she had been looking forward to this time, when she could finally pamper herself by reading a book and indulging in her favorite snack of bread and cheese.
Tonight’s book was one of the newer additions to the library: a volume of essays by the contemporary Irish poet and storyteller, Morgan Fitzgerald.
Although she was intrigued by the idea that Mrs. Whittaker had been a childhood friend of the legendary Fitzgerald—in fact, the Whittakers still maintained a friendship with him by way of correspondence—Quinn didn’t idolize the rebel poet as many of her countrymen did. She didn’t share Fitzgerald’s devotion for the struggling, starving island of her birth, had never been able to see much of the ancient beauty and compelling secrets he attributed to it.
Certainly, she harbored no desire to return to the place. Not that she could return, even if she had a mind to—not, that is, unless she wanted to spend the rest of her life in gaol or end it with a noose about her neck.
There was no mercy in Ireland for an impoverished felon, man or woman. From the moment she boarded the ship to America, Quinn had determined to put all memory of her country behind her. Other than the aching reminders of her mother and her sister, Molly, she seldom allowed her thoughts to turn homeward…and never her heart.
Still, she was drawn by the power of Fitzgerald’s writing. In Ireland, they said the Fitzgerald could make the angels weep or lure the faeries out of their hidey-holes with the music of his words. Despite her resistance to his nationalism, she found herself quickly caught up in the man’s magic.
As eagerly as she savored the poet’s rich imagery, so did she also relish the calm of the house this time of night. There was little enough peace and quiet at Whittaker House throughout the day; wee Teddy and a swarm of noisy little boys made the stillness of nighttime even more welcome.
Unfortunately, she usually nodded off to sleep soon after sitting down, too weary to really enjoy the
time to herself. Tonight was no exception. She had put the book aside and was resting her head on top of her arms when a knock came at the back door.
She started awake, sitting bolt upright in the chair. She knew who it was even before she got up. Only one sturdy fist pounded with such uninhibited force at this time of night.
Yawning, she stumbled to the door, opening it with no real enthusiasm. “You’re a bit late,” she said dryly, taking in Sergeant Price’s broad, good-natured features.
He looked at her. “Late?”
“Aye. ’Tis Wednesday. On Wednesday, you usually arrive by seven-thirty.”
He grinned. “Ah. And can it be you were anxiously awaiting me, then?”
Quinn ignored the question, stepping aside as he walked in without being invited. The fact was, Sergeant Denny Price had an open invitation from the Whittakers to drop by at any time. It wasn’t her place to object, though at the moment she was tempted.
He stopped in the middle of the kitchen. “And how are you keeping, Quinn O’Shea?”
The man had been in the States long enough by half to rid himself of his thick Donegal speech. Instead, to Quinn’s irritation, he seemed to cherish the brogue as if it were some sort of treasure.
“I’m very well, thank you.” She deliberately made the effort to suppress her own Irish tongue. “And you, Sergeant?”
His grin was infectious, and in spite of her impatience with him, Quinn could not totally check an answering smile.
“Well, now, and wasn’t I thinking that it’s a splendid night for a stroll?” he said cheerfully. “Perhaps you’d join me?”
Although she would rather have remained in the quiet kitchen with her book, Quinn gave in. He was The Law, after all, and in especially good standing with her employers; they did seem to dote on the man. It might not do to slight him too frequently.
Besides, when he wasn’t baiting her or flaunting his Irishness, the sergeant made surprisingly good company. He might be a bit rough, and he seemed altogether uninterested in bettering himself, but something about the thickset policeman made it difficult to actively dislike him.
For one thing, despite his being The Law and bold as a tinker, Quinn felt uncommonly at ease in his presence. He was almost always good-humored and seldom failed to make her laugh—a habit to which she wasn’t ordinarily given. Quinn had not found very much in life all that amusing.
She hoped the man had no thought of anything more than a casual acquaintanceship. He had helped her out of a tight place on two occasions now, and for that, Quinn felt a certain amount of gratitude toward him. But that was all. Nothing more.
The last thing she wanted was a man’s attention—especially a policeman’s attention, and especially a policeman like Sergeant Price.
He was everything she did not admire in a man. He was gruff, uneducated, probably penniless—just another thick-necked, hardheaded Irishman. If the time ever came—and she couldn’t conceive that it ever would—when she found herself able to tolerate a touch from a man, it most assuredly would not come from a rough Irish policeman. Instead, he would be sensitive, well-educated, ambitious, and considerate. A gentleman. In other words, a man who was everything Sergeant Price was not.
By the time they started back to the house, it was dark, and few people were about. Those who remained outside either sat talking on the front stoops of their houses or went about the evening business of pulling down blinds and locking up their stores.
Denny realized with some frustration that, as always, he and Quinn had exchanged no conversation of any real depth—only the usual superficial blather about the weather and the newest activities taking place at Whittaker House.
He had never had much trouble with the lasses—until this one. He had always had a pretty girl to take on a ferryboat ride or a picnic in the park, always a willing partner for the Saturday night socials at the hall.
Although Denny didn’t exactly fancy himself a ladies’ man, neither was he entirely unaware that he held a certain appeal for women—both young ones and not-so-young ones.
He had never thought much about this appeal one way or the other. He knew only that he enjoyed the company of women, and most seemed not to mind his. A lass did not have to be especially fair to attract Denny’s interest, but he did like a girl with some spirit to her.
This Quinn O’Shea, now, she had more than her share of spirit. So far as her looks went, she was attractive enough, but not a beauty who would turn heads in a crowd—a bit too thin, a mere whippet of a lass, in truth. And those odd catlike eyes of hers could make a man downright uncomfortable. She had a way of peering at him as if he were a gulpin and nothing better.
But on those rare occasions when he managed to coax a genuine smile from her, Denny found himself delighted, and every time she laughed aloud, he felt an unaccountable rush of warmth rise up in his heart. He had sensed right from the beginning that Quinn O’Shea was not the sort who laughed easily or foolishly.
Sometimes he chastised himself for trailing after her so. She had a way of making him feel dull-witted and even clumsier than he actually was. No doubt she thought him a blockhead who could neither read nor write; but when he tried to think of a way to let her know he was no imbecile, he couldn’t seem to get past that steely look of hers. And despite his strong discomfort in her presence, more often than not the very next evening would find him back on Elizabeth Street, heading for Whittaker House once again.
He simply could not seem to stay away from the girl. He was running out of excuses for calling so often, and he knew that soon he would have to confront her with his reasons for coming by—or else appear even more of a great fool than she already thought him.
But now here they were again, with her about to go inside, and as always they had discussed nothing of any consequence.
At the bottom of the steps, they stopped, and Denny found himself fumbling like a great glunter for something to say. “And how is Mrs. Whittaker getting on these days? I thought she was looking a bit brighter last week when I dropped by.”
Quinn nodded. “She seems to be improving some. But she’s still poorly. Too weak by far.”
Denny nodded. “I’d hate to see anything happen to her. She’s a fine lady.”
She arched an eyebrow. “A lady, is it? I don’t know as I’ve ever heard one of our own called a ‘lady.’”
Denny studied her. “Well, now, it seems to me that being a lady has little to do with where you come from. Any fool can see that Mrs. Whittaker is indeed a lady.”
“She is that,” Quinn agreed. “But I doubt there are many who would acknowledge it, her being Irish.”
Denny noted the tightness about her mouth and eyes, the edge to her voice. “You don’t much take to being Irish, do you, lass?”
Her eyes went cold, but she merely shrugged off his question. “’Tis what I am.”
“Aye,” he said softly. “’Tis. And I for one do find it an acceptable thing to be.”
“That’s for you,” she shot back. “There are some who might say there are better things.”
Seeing the shutters draw down over her eyes, Denny moved to change tacks. He was reluctant to let her go after so brief an hour with her. “Have you heard from your little sister recently? Molly, is it?”
Her face softened almost instantly. “Aye. She writes often. I taught her to read and write before I left, you see.”
Denny smiled at her. “And did she ever receive the letters you had to write the second time—the ones you lost in the river at Tompkinsville?”
She nodded. “She says she has them all, and will keep them. She even used some of my own words from the letters when she wrote back. Molly was always a clever girl.”
“You’re still planning to bring her across, I expect.”
Her chin went up. “I am. I will.”
Denny liked watching her when she talked of her young sister. It was the same as when he observed her with the wee orphan boys of Whittaker House: her features would brighte
n, and the wall of self-protection she seemed to live her life behind would slip, at least a little. At those moments, like now, she looked young and small and hopeful—almost happy.
She was good with those homeless little boys. They tagged along after her like shadows trailing the sun, and she seemed to have infinite patience with every wee one of them. There was no mistaking the look of affection in her eyes when she was bandaging a knee or wiping a nose.
Unwilling to part with her just yet, Denny kept up his attempts at conversation. “What of your mother, then? I expect she will be making the crossing with your little sister?”
As if snuffed out by a sudden gust of wind, the light in Quinn’s eyes suddenly died. “No,” was all she said, averting her gaze. “She wouldn’t leave Athlone.”
Denny frowned. “Not even for her daughters?”
“Not for this daughter anyhow.” Abruptly, she turned away from him. “I must be going in now.”
Impulsively, Denny caught her arm. “Stay a minute, won’t you?”
She yanked her arm away as if a serpent had fallen upon it.
Taken aback—and sensing that she was about to bolt—Denny blurted out the first thing that came into his mind. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you, if I might.”
Still shrinking back from him, she stared at Denny in a way that made him feel like a crude, clumsy bully-boy.
Was she really that revolted by him?
This was a new experience for Denny. Not that he hadn’t been rejected once or twice by a woman, but so far as he could remember, none had ever looked at him with such disgust. For an instant he almost thought it might be fear in her eyes.
This unexpected response from her shook his confidence entirely. He groped for words. “The thing is…you may have been wondering about my coming by so uncommonly often…”
Seeing no sign of encouragement from her, merely the same steady look, a look bordering on hostility, Denny faltered. His mouth dry, he deliberately avoided meeting her eyes as he hurried on. “In case you haven’t realized, I…ah…I enjoy your company very much, lass.”