A Passion Most Pure (45 page)

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 worried 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.

Charity couldn't stand it another moment, this abyss her sister had flung them all into. The house was like a morgue since she'd left over a month ago, and there seemed to be little joy available anywhere. It was bad enough Mother walked around as if in a daze most hours of the day, but Mima was getting progressively worse too, and Charity had never seen Bridget so depleted of her usual mirth and good humor.

Standing in her room in front of the mirror, Charity posed and held up the new dress she had just purchased from the store where she worked. It had taken three weeks to save up for it, but it was worth it. The pale blue frock went especially well with her coloring, and she was quite pleased how it matched her eyes exactly. She studied her reflection with approval. The dark circles plaguing her eyes since reading Faith's letter were finally gone now, as was the state of shock that had put a pall on her cheeks when she realized what her sister intended to do. A sharp intake of breath had fused to her throat when she had first read the letter, for she hadn't believed Faith capable of writing such hateful things. Then the words finally sank in, and the fear that pasted in her mouth kept her in turmoil for weeks.

But, she was feeling some better now, and had every intention of feeling better yet. Disrobing before the mirror, she surveyed her body in her chemise. Her breasts, though lush and full, lifted high, causing her creamy skin to mound softly above the neckline. She angled to the side with her hands on her hips, admiring the dark slash of cleavage. Dipping her head into a seductive pose, she peered out beneath sooty lashes and wondered how long it would take Mitch to fall in love with her. She was certainly more of a woman than her sister, at least to the eyes of a man of the world like Mitch Dennehy. And Charity already knew how he felt about that.

She smiled. His kiss had been as wonderful as Collin's, she thought for the hundredth time, and he'd certainly been putty in her hands! That is, until Faith arrived. Charity frowned in the mirror, then took a deep breath. But Faith was gone now, and Mitch was heartbroken, no doubt-a condition she hoped would make him more than susceptible to her charms.

Charity glanced at the clock on the nightstand and knew she had to hurry. It was almost 6:00 p.m., and Mitch usually left the office by 7:00. Things were always quieter then, he had told her mother once, which allowed him to get more work done. Charity slipped the blue dress over her shoulders and brushed her pale gold hair until it shimmered. She applied a touch of rouge to her lips and dabbed a bit of the color to her cheeks, then pinched them before heading downstairs.

"Mother, I'm going out," she said, entering the kitchen.

Marcy glanced up from the stove. "Charity, dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes; aren't you going to eat?"

Charity smiled one of the few smiles anyone had seen on her face in a long while. "I'll get something out."

"But, where are you going?"

"To Myrna's, then maybe out for supper."

Marcy gave her a weary smile. "I'm so glad you're taking an interest in your appearance once again, Charity. You look very pretty tonight. Will you be late?" Marcy asked.

Charity flashed a smile. "I certainly hope so!" she said and grinned. She blew her mother a kiss and sailed out the door.

Mitch had taken to working later than usual these days. It helped to keep his mind busy, he noticed, and he took full advantage of the heavy load Michael doled out since Faith had left. He suspected Michael did it more out of concern than the pressing need to get the work done, but either way, Mitch was grateful. He liked pushing himself so hard that he would just fall into bed at night, too exhausted to realize how much he missed her.

He knew Michael was worried about him. For pity's sake, he was worried about himself and wondered when the sick feeling would finally go away. It had never taken this long to get over anyone. He frowned. But then, this wasn't just anyone. No, this was the woman who had captured his heart, the woman he had hoped to spend the rest of his life with. Mitch supposed the old timetables for getting on with one's life no longer applied.

He dropped his pencil on the desk, then leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, his fingers massaging the fatigue from his face. He hoped he was tired enough to sleep tonight. He hated that more than anything-lying awake on his bed, staring at the ceiling, realizing she would never be there beside him.

He heard a sound at the door and reached to grab the wastebasket. "You're here a little early tonight, aren't you, Clara?" he asked, pushing the basket out from his desk.

"Early? I thought I was late."

Mitch looked up at Charity, and his mouth slacked open. Despite the element of surprise obviously playing to her advantage, he sensed fluster beneath the composure that masked her face. Even so, she draped herself regally against the door. He watched as she stepped into his office, striding as if she had just walked off the pages of a magazine. Her skin glowed, her eyes were luminous, and her body swayed in a haze of pale blue the exact shade of her eyes.

Mitch scowled. "I thought you were the cleaning lady. What the devil are you doing here?" He swore under his breath, then clamped his lips together. "Sorry. Tough habit to break."

Charity smiled. "Don't break it for me."

Mitch angled back in his chair and assessed her through hooded eyes. The blush on her cheeks deepened.

"So ... why are you here?" he asked again, although he already knew the answer from the way she looked.

She smiled. "Look, Mitch, it's been a month since ... well, since ... look, I know you're hurting and ... well, we're both hurting ..."

It was the first time he ever heard her stammer, and it seemed to unnerve her completely.

"I mean, I just thought..." Her blue eyes pleaded. "Well, I just know I could use someone to talk to, and I thought that maybe ... maybe you could too."

He studied her, never moving a muscle until he spoke. When he did, his voice was steeped with sarcasm. "That's what got us into trouble the last time."

"I know," she said, rubbing her arms with restless hands as she stared hard at the floor. "But I just thought you might, that's all. And I thought that maybe ... well, maybe we could get a bite to eat."

He didn't say anything, and he could tell she was horribly uncomfortable, a condition he guessed was totally unfamiliar to her. He was tempted to finish her off.

As if reading his thoughts, her chin shot up, and arrogance peaked in her brow. "If you're not interested, Mitch, that's fine," she said coolly. "I just thought since we've so much in common..."

His laugh was harsh. "And what would that be?" he asked, pressing his hand to his eyes.

She paused before she spoke. "Well ... we've both been wounded by my sister ..."

His smile faded as he looked away. He closed his eyes to rub the back of his neck and then opened them once again, releasing a weary breath. "Sure, why not?" He heard her exhale slowly as he stood to put on his coat. "What are you hungry for?" he asked, immediately regretting the question.

A dangerous smile quirked at the corners of her full lips. This had the feel of trouble, he thought, but he shook it off. Hang it all, he could use a little trouble after all he'd been through. He rounded the desk and walked to the door.

"Whatever you like," she said, her silky voice suspended in the air. Her head tilted to the side while her full lips eased into a smile. He supposed she was making an offer he couldn't refuse. Too bad. There was a time he would've jumped at a chance like this. But that was before. Now he found himself saddled with a conscience and a boatload of heartache to boot. And between the two, he saw little chance for a meeting of the minds-or bodies-whatever the case may be.

Faith didn't have any idea why she'd been so frightened standing before Mrs. Gerson's door, suitcase in hand. But she'd been trembling, nonetheless, the day she arrived in Boston a month ago. Perhaps she worried what the old woman would think of her, a young woman once devoted to God, now so lukewarm and carrying far more baggage than a simple valise.

The door had opened, and Faith suddenly realized she needn't have worried. The joy in the old woman's face was unmistakable, as was the warmth in her voice as she welcomed her, a glimmer of tears in her vacant eyes. Faith's own eyes smarted with wetness as she picked up her valise. "Mrs. Gerson, would it be possible-"

"Of course, my dear!" Mrs. Gerson said, interrupting her before she could finish. "I'm thrilled to have you. I've been looking forward to it since I received your mother's telegram."

A stab of shame shot straight to Faith's heart at the mention of her mother. She was grateful Mrs. Gerson couldn't see the guilt on her face. "I'm glad Mother notified you. How is she?"

"Regretfully, I don't know, but I planned on sending a telegram the moment you arrived, safe and sound. Come now, let's get you settled in, and then we'll have tea."

The evening passed pleasantly enough with a lovely dinner and welcome conversation. Mrs. Gerson detailed all the news of the neighborhood and especially reports on Maisie and Briana. "I know I promised Maisie I would advise her of your arrival," Mrs. Gerson said with a twinkle in her eye, "but I'll call tomorrow. Tonight, I want you all to myself."