Band of Sisters (11 page)

May 21, 1863

Lillian’s letter came today, begging me again to watch out for her Morgan, telling me that she’s asked the same of him—to treat me like the brother she hopes I’ll be to him one day. I wish to God the man had been assigned to another regiment. It puts me in a tight situation. I received a letter from Father last week, saying that Mother is beside herself with Lillian’s decline in health, exacerbated, they’re certain, by her pining for O’Reilly. Father suggested, in thinly veiled jest, that I put the man in the line of fire—let Lillian mourn her fallen hero and be done.

July 1, 1863

I am ashamed to write this. For obedience to Father, who’d written again, and love of Lillian—misguided though it was—I nearly sent O’Reilly to the front lines yesterday in a plan that would have put David’s conspired murder of Uriah to shame. But for the onslaught of paperwork suddenly demanded of me, I might have done.

This morning, just after dawn, the Confederates surprised us, first with snipers, then rousing us with their bloodcurdling Rebel yell. Before we could muster troops, they were upon us. An explosion near my tent knocked me senseless. I was just gaining my feet when O’Reilly plowed into me, covering my body with his, taking a minié ball in the leg and a grazing in his chest, both surely meant for me. Even now, he lies in the surgeon’s tent. I’ve pleaded for the saving of his leg, but it will be a feeble leg at best. God forgive me!

July 9, 1863

A week has passed since O’Reilly’s surgery. He’s barely conscious, in and out, and weak—not a good sign. He’s lost much blood, and the infection has spread. The doctor does not believe he’ll rally.

I’ve misjudged the man. We’ve spoken twice during his conscious hours, and his only thought, his every hope, is for Lillian’s good. If Morgan lives, I pledge upon my life that this man is my brother. I will do all in my power to persuade Father to give him Lillian’s hand.

Olivia skipped ahead, and her heart broke as she knew it would. Aunt Lillian died in a sanatorium, alone—apart from her family—a year before the war’s end.

Morgan O’Reilly survived but never again saw the dying woman he loved. Even after saving their son, Morgan was treated worse than an enemy by Douglas and Lillian’s parents and blamed for Lillian’s death. Because she’d loved him? Because he was poor? Because he was Irish? In a family of abolitionists—a family determined to fight for human rights and freedom?

Olivia closed the journal and returned it to the bookshelf. It was a side of her father and family she’d never known, and she didn’t know how to bear its weight.

She barely remembered her grandparents. They’d lived north of the city, and her father had not fostered a close relationship between them. Perhaps this was why. She shook her head.
It’s too harsh, that Aunt Lillian was denied the only love offered her.

But Olivia knew such contrariness was not only possible, it was accepted business every day in New York City. Prejudice and class systems had not died with the war.

The downstairs clock struck eight. Olivia had barely time to dress for church. But she couldn’t push the story from her mind.
What became of Morgan O’Reilly, and how does Miss O’Reilly fit into the puzzle?

Olivia wanted only to return to her father’s study and journals, so she was more than vexed to learn that Dorothy and Drake had invited Curtis Morrow to join them in their family pew, then to spend Sunday dinner and half the afternoon with them.

“How could you invite him again, after that scene at Morningside?” Olivia hissed from the side of her mouth, eyes on the pulpit ahead.

“Why are you so rude?” Dorothy returned beneath her breath. “We’re only entertaining him.”

“With no ulterior motive?” Olivia folded her hands in her lap but would have liked to cross her arms.

“Yes, of course there’s a motive. Drake and I both hope you’ll fall madly in love with him, and then we can stop this charade!” Dorothy pretended to pout. “You can’t imagine how tedious it is, inviting every eligible bachelor in New York to dinner. If you’d simply pick one, we could all get on with things.”

Olivia’s mouth formed a grim line.

Dorothy smiled. “Stop being such a fussbudget.” She pinched her sister as the congregation rose for its call to worship. “What better things do you have to do?”

But Olivia could not tell her sister that she’d begun the diaries. Even she felt she was treading on forbidden territory. Still, her heart told her their father would approve. She couldn’t help thinking there was something that he’d want her to do. But she didn’t know what. Not yet.

For the happiness and laughter the two women shared, for the delights of stories and kitchen, of hearth and home, Monday came too quickly.

Maureen tugged her lawn shirtwaist, with the smallest of stains upon its embroidered cuff, beneath her navy woolen skirt. She buttoned the matching jacket—secondhand but new to her, altered by Mrs. Melkford’s pinning and her own needle to fit her figure perfectly.

Mrs. Melkford stepped back and clasped her hands with all the pride of a loving mother. Maureen pinned the neat hat she’d fashioned from bits and pieces in the bags of cast-off clothing over her curling, upswept hair. When she gazed in the looking glass, she felt for the first time as she imagined a princess might feel, going out into the world, blessed by mother and priest. But when she took up her purse, the hold and hiding place of her forged letter, she felt as though something foreign and dirty mucked her boots and soiled her jacket. She looked twice in the glass to make certain nothing showed across her cheek.

Could she have stayed and worked with Mrs. Melkford in her kitchen forever, Maureen would have been more than content. But she could not ask.
Everythin’ for Katie Rose and myself depends on this job. I’ve spun too many lies for the sake of securin’ stability and a home for us; I daren’t go back now.

“Everything will go well, my dear; you’ll see. You look the perfect American.” Mrs. Melkford brushed a stray thread from Maureen’s sleeve and shook her head. “Oh, my. It does not do to get so attached to you girls. You come and go, and we old ladies never see you again.”

Maureen caught Mrs. Melkford in a quick embrace before hefting her carpetbag. “I could never forget you nor your kindness. I’ll come to you again and again once I’m settled. I promise.”

“Stuff and nonsense. You’ll be too busy with your job and sister and the Wakefields—all as it should be. But I’ll see you next Saturday, and we’ll go together to see how your Katie Rose is doing. If they release her, well and good. If they don’t, perhaps they’ll let you see her. And I expect to see you in church on Sundays—you mind that.” She looped the button beneath the collar of Maureen’s coat. “Now be off with you, child.” Mrs. Melkford hugged her again quickly and closed the door.

Determined not to look back, Maureen drew a deep breath and covered the two blocks to the trolley stop. Reading Mrs. Melkford’s directions, she smiled. The dear lady had detailed everything—from the cost of the trolley ride right down to turning in the front door of Darcy’s Department Store.

Despite her nervousness and the regret that nipped her heels, Maureen loved the trolley ride—
a miracle in the midst of the street
—but her breath caught as she stepped from the car. Darcy’s sign stood out in great black letters against its storefront, which covered most of the bustling Manhattan block.
How many hundreds of things can one of these department stores possibly sell that they’re housed in a place so huge and grand?

The flush of confidence she’d felt upon leaving Mrs. Melkford fell away, and all the worries of looking old-fashioned, provincial, and fully Irish swam like minnows in her stomach. She shifted the carpetbag clasped between her palms, sure she looked thirteen and poor and shamed all at once. She wished mightily for the safety of Mrs. Melkford’s kitchen and nearly turned back.

But her feet carried her forward, and when she reached the plate-glass door and passed through, she caught sight of a tall, redheaded woman reflected in a large mirror on the far wall—someone dressed as neatly and fashionably as the women clerking behind the counters and wearing the hat she’d fashioned herself. Tentatively Maureen set her bag at her feet and touched the feather near her temple, just to be certain she was truly that woman.

“May I help you, madam?” a clerk in a slim skirt, white shirtwaist, and dark jacket asked, just as if Maureen were there to buy something, as if she could buy something.

But Maureen was dazzled by the sheer size of the store, by its counters of gloves and rows of hats and displays of ruby brooches and sparkling earrings and watches. Each way she looked, there was more to see and more of everything in the world than she had ever dreamed. Maureen clasped her throat and swayed slightly.

“Are you all right, madam?” The clerk reached her hand to steady Maureen.

“Yes, yes, thank you, miss. A bit warm, I am.” Her brogue came thicker than usual.

The clerk drew back and sniffed.

Maureen sensed the snub and straightened. “I’m here to apply for a shop position.”

The clerk smiled condescendingly. “I believe there are no sales positions available at this time.”

“I’ve been referred.” Maureen refused to act cowed, though she felt it entirely. “By the Wakefield family and Mrs. Melkford of the Missionary Aid Society.” She had no idea if those names would mean anything to the woman but thought they sounded imposing.

“The Wakefield family?” The woman blinked, looked momentarily uncertain, turned on her heel, and whispered to an older woman behind the nearest counter. Both women scrutinized Maureen from head to foot. Maureen stared boldly in return. Now was not the time to falter.

“You’d best come with me,” the second woman said, not pausing to see if Maureen would follow.

But Maureen, grabbing her bag, did follow, through a maze of counters, clear to the back of the store. They stopped before a wall, and Maureen wondered if the woman had lost her senses, until the wall opened, revealing a tiny room with a man inside.

“Fourth floor, Eddie.” The woman stepped inside the minuscule room, then said impatiently, “Are you coming?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Maureen stepped into the tiny room, feigning understanding.

The young man swung a lever; a caged door closed. He pushed a button, and the wall slid shut before her. Maureen gasped as immediately the tiny room jolted and jerked. She felt as if the floor might be falling beneath her feet. She grasped the wall, feeling the blood drain from her head and her stomach plummet to her toes.

The woman and the young man glanced her way, exchanged a quiet snicker between them, and turned their faces toward the gate. She saw the woman turn slightly, mouth “greenhorn” to the man called Eddie, and he grinned again.

Maureen clenched her jaw.

Suddenly the little room stopped, jerked, and jolted once more. Eddie pulled back the accordion gate, and the wall opened before them. “Fourth floor, ladies,” he announced.

The clerk walked out, her head high. When Maureen felt certain the tiny room would no longer move, she followed, straightening her skirt. The young man winked appreciatively, and Maureen felt the heat rise in her face.

“It’s an elevator, that’s all,” he whispered. “Nothing to worry.” And he winked a second time. Maureen fastened her eyes straight ahead and quickened her step.

The hallway opened into a series of rooms. As they passed open doors, Maureen glimpsed men and women bent over long ledgers with pens in hand, and others hunched or sitting straight before a half-dozen metal machines that shouted
clackety-clack
as their operators punched raised buttons. Farther down the hallway they passed a room of tailors, straight pins between their lips and cloth measures round their necks. She heard a more familiar hum from somewhere beyond, and though she couldn’t see them, she envisioned treadle sewing machine operators—something modern but familiar from her days at Orthbridge Hall.

At last they came to a closed door. The woman knocked and, not waiting for a reply, walked in, Maureen at her heels.

A graying and middle-aged man with a loosened tie hanging over a paunch stomach sat behind a desk, banging away on one of the
clackety-clack
machines Maureen had seen through open doors.

“Well?” He didn’t look up.

“Excuse me, Mr. Kreegle; this girl says she’s come with references.” The woman spoke loud enough to be heard.

The man barely glanced at Maureen, never breaking rhythm on the machine. “Send her to Bert.”

“Not those references, Mr. Kreegle.” The woman fidgeted. “The Wakefields sent her—and some missionary society woman.”

The clacking stopped. The man studied Maureen, his eyes lighting on her carpetbag.

Maureen felt the warmth shoot up her neck but lifted her chin and set her bag squarely at her feet, as if it was perfectly proper to apply for a shopgirl position with all her worldly goods in tow.