by BJ Hoff
She hoped Mr. Whittaker would be glad to see her. No doubt he, like others, would be uncomfortable around her for a while. No one seemed to know quite what to say to Alice about her…situation. She thought she understood, but she also knew that she desperately needed at least a few people—besides her parents—to treat her with a modicum of normality. She rather thought she could depend on Evan and Nora Whittaker to do just that.
Inside, she found the spacious old house uncommonly quiet. She was early. Mr. Whittaker was probably still in the classroom with the children. Knowing Mrs. Whittaker’s habit of resting after the noonday meal, she decided not to risk disturbing her.
The library door was ajar. Alice started to enter, then stopped at the sight of the girl on the window seat. Framed in the room’s dim light, she appeared a slender, delicate silhouette, not quite real.
As she stood watching, Alice saw the girl’s thin shoulders heave and shudder. The sobs ripping from her sounded as if they were being torn from the heart of a despairing child.
Alice realized that it was Quinn O’Shea, the young Irish immigrant girl the Whittakers had employed as housekeeper. Nora Whittaker made no secret of the fact that they had come to depend heavily on the girl, and in the process had grown quite fond of her as well.
Alice hesitated, uncertain whether she should leave the girl alone or approach and try to help. She was hardly equipped to relieve another’s distress, not with her own grief still so raw.
But the girl was so young, and in such obvious despair, that her mother’s heart succumbed. She took a tentative step inside the room, then another, before clearing her throat to make her presence known.
As he waited in the Black Maria for Mike and Morgan Fitzgerald, Denny Price dug the letter he had been carrying for days now out of his pocket and unfolded it. He could not say how many times he had read the letter, but with each reading the same sick ache settled over him.
He read it again now, and once more felt his stomach knot. The letter from Ireland, a response to his own, had finally arrived nearly two weeks past. Since then his days and nights seemed to have grown longer and darker. Most nights he managed little more than two or three hours’ sleep, sometimes not that much. Even during the day, as he carried out the routine of his job, he was continually mindful of the folded pages in his pocket.
His sleeplessness and restlessness were borne of common causes: a pall of sadness concerning the contents of the letter, and the sting of guilt for probing into matters that were none of his business. In truth, he had no right to the information he now possessed. More to the point, the act of obtaining that information could be construed as nothing short of meddling.
It made little difference that his actions had been motivated by a desire to help. Now that he finally had his answer, he could see how it might easily bring humiliation and distress to the very one he sought to help. He had overstepped his place, exploited his position as a police officer.
Yet despite the disturbing awareness that his actions might be questionable—or even worse, deceitful—he felt a certain grim sense of satisfaction that he had followed his instincts. At least now he knew the truth.
All that was left to him was to figure exactly how he should go about making proper use of that truth. Or if he should act upon it at all.
The girl looked up with startled eyes, jerking to her feet.
“Quinn? I’m sorry…I don’t mean to intrude. But…can I help?”
The girl shook her head. Although she stood facing Alice, she did not look at her, instead, fixed her eyes on the doorway.
Alice felt an inexplicable urgency to detain the girl, to keep her from fleeing the room—as Quinn obviously wanted to do. On impulse, she turned to close the door behind her before walking the rest of the way into the library.
The youthful face was ravaged by the evidence of weeping, the sharp cheekbones tracked with tears, the unusual gold-flecked eyes red and swollen. The girl stood, a paper in one hand, her other hand clenched to a fist at her side, as if to steel herself from an invasion. But Alice did not miss the fact that she hadn’t quite managed to check the tears.
Her first thought was that the girl had gotten herself “in trouble,” a common predicament among many of the city’s young immigrant girls. But somehow she didn’t think that was the case with Quinn O’Shea. Indeed, Nora Whittaker had once remarked that the girl actually seemed to shun contact with young men.
Still, there was always a possibility. Alice had seen young Daniel’s covert looks in the girl’s direction, and once Mr. Whittaker had mentioned in a wry aside that Sergeant Price seemed to call frequently since Quinn O’Shea came to work for them.
Somehow, though, she could not give much credence to the idea that either Daniel or Sergeant Price might have taken advantage. Neither had the manner of a man who would play loosely with a young girl’s affections. Alice was fairly certain that whatever distressed Quinn O’Shea had nothing to do with that kind of trouble.
“Are you sure I can’t help?” Alice offered again. “I’m a very…safe…person to confide in these days.”
Quinn O’Shea’s eyes narrowed as she looked at her, and Alice thought the girl’s defensive stance relaxed a little.
She couldn’t define what prompted her to go on, to speak so candidly with one so young, a virtual stranger. But the words seemed to flow with surprising ease once she began. “I expect I’ve been miserable so long myself that I can recognize unhappiness in another.”
She laid her music case on the desk, removing her gloves as if she meant to stay. “Of course, I was fortunate in having my mother to talk with. Mama has extraordinarily strong shoulders. I sometimes think she could carry the burdens of the entire universe, if need be.”
Alice raised her eyes to search the girl’s troubled face. “Most of us,” she added quietly, “are not possessed of such resilience.”
Something told her that this child—for Quinn O’Shea was surely little more than that—had never really known the comfort or the assurance of a mother with strong shoulders. Something in that furtive—or was it frightened—gaze hinted of rejection, if not outright abandonment.
At that instant, the pain in Alice reached out to the pain behind those wounded eyes, and she thought she felt the kindling of understanding. Suddenly, she ached to put her arms around the girl and simply hold her.
Instead, she walked to the small sofa in front of the fireplace, motioning for Quinn to join her. “I’m much too early for rehearsal. Can’t I convince you to come and talk with me while I wait, dear?” Her eyes went to the single sheet of paper that the girl continued to clutch in her hand. “Perhaps you might want to tell me what’s in that letter that has upset you so.”
38
Begin to Live
But tears, when turned inward,
are no longer cleansing.
And words, when not spoken,
get lost in the mind.
And feelings, when denied,
refuse to live.
ANONYMOUS
Quinn hesitated as Alice Walsh sat down on the sofa. For a moment she stood watching the woman suspiciously. The unexpected invitation confused her. She could not understand this quick friendliness from someone so much older than herself, someone who lived in a completely different world. Nor did she entirely trust it.
And yet at that moment she desperately needed someone to tell her what to do. She could not speak with the Whittakers about such ugliness, could not expose the horror and shame of her past to those two fine, decent people—people who had in good faith brought her into their home when she had nowhere else to go, given her employment and a decent wage, and treated her as kindly as if they had known her forever. She simply could not reveal her disgrace to them.
But something about Alice Walsh made her think that, if she were ever to tell anyone her secret, she just might be able to tell this woman. Perhaps it was because Mrs. Walsh had shot and killed her own husband in what could only be described as a t
errible scandal. This was a woman who knew about disgrace.
There had been a great deal of gossip after her husband’s death—not here at Whittaker House, of course, for the Whittakers did not gossip. But a number of shopkeepers along the street had wagged their tongues to anyone who would listen, and for days after the shooting Quinn had overheard all manner of exchange between the proprietors and their customers.
As rumor had it, Mrs. Walsh’s husband had been a bad sort entirely, as bent as a snail’s back. He murdered his mistress, and would have killed Mrs. Walsh as well—or so it was reported—had she not finished him first.
Quinn’s mind locked on that fact. Her throat tightened, and she tried to study Alice Walsh without actually staring. In spite of her wariness, she was drawn to the woman—drawn to her candor, her plain and unaffected mannerisms. She was especially intrigued by the fact that Mrs. Walsh had not only endured her husband’s betrayal, but also the notoriety his death had brought upon her.
Quinn had always thought Alice Walsh a rather sad lady. Even when she smiled, her eyes still held a hint of sorrow. Perhaps that was why Quinn usually felt more comfortable with her than with others of a similar station. Today, however, she felt something else: an odd kind of kinship, a bond which for all she knew might prove offensive to the older woman, but one that seemed real enough to Quinn.
Slowly, with hesitant steps, she went to sit down beside Alice Walsh on the sofa. The woman smiled, as if pleased to have her company.
Quinn moistened her lips, unsure of herself. She looked at the older woman for another moment, then impulsively extended the note in her hand. “I keep getting these,” she said bluntly. “I don’t quite know what to do about them.”
Alice Walsh took the paper, her eyes studying Quinn for a moment more before scanning the words on the page. When she was finished, she looked up. “You’ve had others?”
Quinn nodded, biting her lip. “A number of them,” she said, knotting her hands in her lap.
“Have you any idea who’s sending them?”
Quinn hesitated, then nodded again. “I’m sure it’s Daniel Kavanagh.”
Mrs. Walsh looked at her, lifting a hand to touch the broach at her throat. “I see. Well…obviously the boy is taken with you. His writing is quite lovely, really. But how do you feel about him—or perhaps I shouldn’t ask?”
“No, it’s all right,” Quinn said, not meeting her eyes. “Daniel is a grand boy, and he has been very kind to me. He’s helped me with my grammar and taught me a great deal about America.” She clenched her hands even tighter. “But I don’t have the sort of feelings for him that he seems to hold for me.”
“Oh, dear,” said Alice Walsh softly. “Then I suppose you must tell him so. Are you going to meet him this evening, as he asks?”
Quinn didn’t answer right away. She stared into the fireplace, her heart as cold as the empty grate. She wondered if she was being foolish entirely, to spurn a fine lad like Daniel, who seemed destined to be an extraordinary man. Most girls of her station would be wild for such an opportunity. But the fact that he was such a good person was the very reason she must not deceive him. He did not deserve shabby treatment. He merited a girl who would appreciate his worth…and one who deserved his affection.
“I expect I will meet him,” she said at last. “I suppose I must. He’s been sending the letters, the poems, for weeks now. I can’t just let it go on, can I? I can’t allow him to believe I share his feelings. It seems the only thing to do is face him with the truth.”
“That will be very difficult for you,” Mrs. Walsh said gently. “Especially with the two of you living under the same roof. Do you think you can make him understand?”
“I must!” Quinn insisted. “He cannot hold any false hopes about me. There can be nothing between us, and I must make him understand so.”
Alice Walsh frowned slightly, regarding Quinn with a peculiar look. “Are you all that certain, dear? I’m sure Daniel would be patient, willing to wait—”
“No!” Quinn leaped to her feet, her breath coming rapidly in uneven shudders, “I’m not fit for him, don’t you see? I’m not fit for him or any other man!”
Mrs. Walsh looked startled, then reached to take Quinn’s hand. “Oh, my dear, whatever do you mean? You’re a wonderful girl, Quinn. Why, the Whittakers can’t say enough good things about you! I’m sure they’d be pleased to know you and Daniel cared for each other.”
Quinn yanked her hand away. She saw the look of bewilderment on Mrs. Walsh’s face, and knew she had made a mistake, thinking she could confide in a woman like this. What would a lady like Alice Walsh know of the sort of life she had lived? No decent woman knew of such things; no decent woman would even believe that men like Millen Jupe existed, much less fathom what his sort was capable of!
Yet the look on the older woman’s face was not one of shock or repulsion, but simply that of compassion, of genuine kindness. It was the kindness that was Quinn’s undoing.
When the girl yanked her hand away as if she’d been burned, Alice also flinched, appalled that she had somehow caused her distress.
Quinn stood, hunched, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as if to keep from flying apart. She was obviously distraught, her mouth trembling, her eyes frenzied.
“The Whittakers don’t know me!” she suddenly burst out, her voice an angry hiss. “They would despise me if they knew the truth, would set me out at once! And sure, they would let me nowhere near their precious son!”
Stunned by her outburst, dismayed at the girl’s unmistakable despair, Alice could not think what to do. Again she tried to protest, but Quinn silenced her into utter amazement with what came next.
“I’m nothing but a strumpet!” she spat out. “A strumpet and a murderer!”
Alice watched with horror as the girl’s normal reserve shattered in front of her eyes. It seemed that an enormous wave of anguish and self-hatred and rage had suddenly risen from some secret place deep within her, exploding in that one tortured, heartrending outburst.
She stood and moved to comfort the girl, but Quinn shook her off almost violently, shrinking from her.
“Oh, Quinn…child…I only want to help…”
As if her words had been the final blow of an entire onslaught, Quinn suddenly crumpled in front of Alice, staggering beneath the burden she had carried for who knew how long. With a shudder, she began to weep—the resigned, hopeless weeping of utter despair.
Alice went to her, and this time the girl allowed herself to be led back to the sofa. “Shh, dear. Whatever it is, you must not bear it alone any longer. Tell me, child. Just…tell me.”
Her words seemed to open the floodgate to the girl’s soul. Great sobs came ripping up from her throat, as if escaping from the deepest chambers of her being. For several moments she wept, while Alice held her, soothing her, consoling her as she would have her own daughter, her Isabel. Whatever had happened to this child, Alice thought it surely must have had its breeding place in hell.
The weeping finally subsided, but the girl still trembled as slowly, haltingly, she began to speak.
“I have never told a soul,” she said, her voice little more than a rough-edged whisper. “None but my mother. But Mum, she didn’t believe me…at least she claimed not to. She said I was selfish and wanton. And then she sent me away.”
Alice swallowed, her own eyes filling with tears as she steeled herself for whatever might come next.
Quinn had gone to work for Millen Jupe for one reason, and one reason only: to save her mother, her younger sister, Molly, and herself from the graveyard.
Situations in service were all too rare throughout the county. But situations like the one into which Millen Jupe eventually drew Quinn were shamefully common, especially during the Hunger.
The landlord or his agent, whichever happened to be in residence, would send for one of the village girls, offering what seemed—at least to a starving family—like an extravagant wage for the position of housekeeper
and cook.
More often than not, it was the young, comely girl who received such a summons. Refusal meant almost certain eviction of the entire family. With hundreds throughout the county falling over dead from the harsh winter winds and the famine, a bid from the Big House was often seen as salvation itself.
When the message first came for her, Quinn resisted, indeed refused to go. Later she begged her mother not to make her go. Although the agent, Millen Jupe, was neither old nor unattractive, he was known throughout the county for his vicious temper and debauchery. At the time, Quinn was but fifteen years of age, and the thought of living in the same house with the agent terrified her.
It was her mother who finally convinced Quinn there was nothing for it but to comply. And so finally, she had gone—for the sake of her little sister, whom she loved more than everything, and for her mother, whom she also loved, though her affection had never been returned.
For nearly two years she lived in the Big House, serving as housekeeper and cook—and, later, as the agent’s mistress, and the object of his abuse.
“It wasn’t all that bad, at first,” she told Alice, her voice leaden. “In the beginning, he treated me decent enough. He paid me a fair wage, allowed me time off to visit my mother and Molly on Sundays, and later even taught me to read a bit—permitted me the use of his library as well.”
The man had actually been kind to her at first, almost as if he valued Quinn as a companion. When he turned ugly, it seemed to happen all at once, without warning. He brought her to his bed and raped her repeatedly, then shamed her until she started to believe his accusations—that she had taunted him, enticed him to do the things he did to her.
“I tried to run away many a time, but when he brought me back the beatings were worse than ever. He grew uglier as I grew bolder. And he threatened to have the roof knocked down over my mother’s head if I didn’t cease the running. Between his threats and his savagery, I finally gave up and stayed with him.”