Band of Sisters (18 page)

Sunday dinner at Meitland House was traditionally an elaborate affair. Olivia expected nothing less from her sister. Dorothy’s pleasure in welcoming and entertaining guests with her finest linens, crystal, and silver, and in sharing the bountiful gifts of her fine cook, was a thing of beauty.

Curtis raised his glass to his hostess. “A lady in her home.” The others joined him, and Dorothy blushed prettily.

Drake raised his glass a second time, to Curtis, and winked. “May you be so lucky.”

“That is not likely.” Curtis’s forced smile stole the moment.

Olivia felt her spine straighten of its own accord and was as quickly annoyed with herself that she’d responded at all.

But Dorothy diverted the topic by drawing attention to Reverend Peterson’s morning sermon as the salad plates were removed in preparation for the next course.

“What was that about some book the ladies are touting?” Drake speared a slice of roast duck.

“
In His Steps
—I know the book,” Curtis offered.

“Do you, Mr. Morrow?” Olivia asked.

“Curtis.” He smiled. “Yes, I’ve read it.”

“And what did you think of it?” Dorothy kept the conversation going.

Curtis placed his fork beside his plate. “One of the most challenging books I’ve encountered. Not for its literary merit, but for its personal and spiritual challenge. The idea of asking before every endeavor, ‘What would Jesus do in this situation?’ sounds trite.” He hesitated. “It’s anything but. It challenges every ounce of my moral fiber.”

“I agree.” Olivia sat straighter, astonished that anything of substance came from a colleague of her brother-in-law. “It makes me stop and ask if my preconceived notions and opinions are truth or prejudice.”

“And then what do you do about that?” Curtis asked. “How do you proceed if you find that your thinking is ‘weighed in the balances and found wanting’?” His eyes met Olivia’s, but when he turned, she was certain they probed Drake’s.

“Sounds deep for Sunday entertainment,” Drake responded, visibly shifting in his seat.

“It’s not intended as entertainment,” Olivia pursued. “We’re serious. I’m serious.”

“Ah!” Drake laughed, raising his knife to point toward Olivia. “I should have known it was you who put the good reverend up to challenging the congregation!”

“I’ve taken the challenge too,” Dorothy said quietly.

Drake stopped laughing. He set down his knife, and though his mouth registered good humor, his eyes spoke sternly. “And what, exactly, does this mean?”

Dorothy’s chin rose, but when her eyes connected with her husband’s, they seemed to falter. Olivia was about to come to her sister’s rescue when Curtis stepped in.

“I think that has to be different for each individual, doesn’t it? In the book, Sheldon makes clear that no person can interpret the direction Jesus would take in the life of another—they can do that only for themselves, as the Spirit leads them.” Curtis picked up his glass. “The wonder is how those purposes seem to overlap, to create greater impetus for a common cause.”

“But is it a wonder?” Olivia warmed to the subject for the second time that week. “Shouldn’t it be just that way—if the Spirit is truly leading? Shouldn’t it happen that the Spirit would direct multiple lives to accomplish a common goal? Like the work of the revival meetings and the settlement house activities in the book?”

“Providence,” Dorothy spoke, and a light shone in her eyes.

“You’re talking about a novel!” Drake interrupted, laughing.

“But a novel that reveals truth in a way that is easily understood!” Olivia felt her heart awaken, shaking off a long winter.

“That’s the scribbler in her, Curtis. She fancies herself a writer,” Drake mocked.

“That’s right.” A light of memory sprang to Curtis’s eyes. “Dorothy mentioned that before.”

Olivia was caught off guard. “My love of writing has nothing to do with this.”

“Why not?” Curtis asked. “Why would God gift you with a love of something—and an ability, I have no doubt—unless He intended for you to use it?”

Olivia felt heat rise to her face. “I don’t know that I have ability. And I don’t know what to write, what would be of use.”

Curtis smiled. “Isn’t that the point?”

“The point?”

“The point of the challenge,” Dorothy injected. “What would Jesus do with this gift of writing, this God-given love of writing? What would He write?”

Curtis nodded. “In this place, in this time—just as Sheldon did in his.”

Olivia felt such a rising in her chest, she thought she might be lifted from her seat.

“I’d be glad to take a look at your writing, if you’d permit me,” Curtis offered.

Olivia sat back, certain she did not wish to share her private thoughts on paper with Curtis or with anyone else—not yet.

“Curtis is in publishing,” Dorothy reminded her sister, leaning toward her to add, “Right here in New York now. His advice could be most valuable.”

“When you’re ready, the offer stands.” Curtis smiled.

Olivia nodded, uncertain what to say.

“So if you’re not penning the great American novel,” Drake took up, “what’s the mysterious project you and your ladies have decided to tackle this year?”

“We don’t know just yet,” Dorothy answered. “We’re all reading Mr. Sheldon’s book and praying about the challenge. We’ll discuss our mission at our next meeting.”

“You’re looking at this as a group decision?” Curtis asked, his brow furrowed.

Olivia swallowed. “We’ll certainly ask what Jesus would have us do as a group, but first, we ask that question individually.”

“So you are thinking about writing the great American novel after all,” Drake teased.

“No,” Olivia answered evenly. “I’m thinking of looking for the O’Reilly woman who came to my home on Thanksgiving.”

Drake stopped chewing. “I took care of the matter.”

“I wish you hadn’t.”

Drake turned his head. “I have every intention of protecting both you and
my wife
.”

Olivia did not take the bait. “Do you know her first name? Or where she’s staying?”

“No. She showed up on our doorstep with a fraudulent letter and some cock-and-bull Civil War story about her father.”

“It was true, and it was my doorstep.”

“What’s true?” Dorothy asked.

Drake’s glare gave Olivia pause, but she continued. “Morgan O’Reilly saved Father’s life during the war, and Father pledged to do all he could for Morgan and his child.”

“The war? But that was so long ago!”

“It doesn’t change Father’s promise.” Olivia squeezed her sister’s hand across the table. “Or our obligation to carry forth his wishes.”

“This is ridiculous!” Drake fumed.

“How do you know, Livvie?” Dorothy asked. “How do you know Father promised? Did he tell you?”

Olivia hadn’t wanted to tell Dorothy that she’d broken their pact to leave the journals alone, but she could see no other way. She smoothed the linen napkin in her lap. “I read the story in Father’s journal.”

Dorothy merely blinked, but Olivia sensed her sister’s feelings of betrayal.

“I’m sorry; I should have told you. But I had to know. I had to know why she came, why she had a letter from Father.” She wanted so much for Dorothy to understand.

“The woman was a fraud. That letter was a fake!” Drake insisted.

“It was real,” Olivia countered, indignation rising. “I saw a scrap of Father’s handwriting—a bit you failed to burn. And that is what made me go looking.”

Drake glanced at Curtis with barely controlled fury. “My apologies. This is not a matter that should be aired in front of our guest.”

“What did the journals say Father intended?” Dorothy asked quietly, ignoring her husband.

“Dorothy!” Drake warned.

But Olivia ignored him too. “He intended to buy the property next to ours for Morgan’s family, to set him up in business, and his son, as well.” She paused, but when Drake seemed intent on interrupting, she rushed on. “I think he hoped Morgan’s son would be another heir for him, and Morgan’s children would be siblings of a sort for us.”

“There you have it—it was a woman who came to the door, certainly not a son.” Drake tossed his napkin to the table. “Mystery solved. Case closed.”

“You said you hope to find Miss O’Reilly?” Curtis surprised Olivia by taking up the thread.

“Yes, I do. I want to know if she’s truly related to Morgan O’Reilly and if there is some way I can help her.” She glanced at Drake. “It sounds as though she may be his daughter. She looked to be about my age.” Olivia sighed and bit her lower lip. “But I don’t know where or how to begin looking for her.”

Drake stood. “Well, then, that’s that, isn’t it? ‘Providence’ has spoken. Shall we retire to the drawing room?” He offered Dorothy his arm and escorted her from the room, signaling an end to the conversation.

“Olivia?”

Olivia turned toward Curtis as he slowly pushed his chair to the table, lagging behind Drake and Dorothy.

“I’d like to offer my services,” he said quietly, “to help you find her.”

Olivia glanced uneasily toward the door, but Drake had gone. “Thank you, Mr. Mor—Curtis. Thank you.” Her heart quickened. “I would be most grateful, but . . . I don’t understand why. It’s of no concern to you.”

“Because you wish it and because you’ll need help to find her.” He offered his arm. “Reason enough.”

But the set of his jaw told Olivia there was something more.

“You must be jokin’!” Katie Rose stood outside the Lower East Side bar, her arm wrapped round Maureen’s for support.

“No.” Maureen had dreaded this moment all the way from Mrs. Melkford’s kitchen. “I told you it’s all I can afford just now.” She pulled her sister toward the side door of the building. “It won’t be for long—just until we can manage somethin’ better.”
Though I’ve no idea when that will be.

“We should try the Wakefields again. Surely they wouldn’t let us stay here if they knew. Surely they’d do somethin’!”

“You weren’t there; you don’t know. I told you—Colonel Wakefield’s dead and buried. They’ve no obligation to us—none to Father, even if he were alive.”

But Katie Rose stood rooted to the pavement. “I’ll not live in a pub!”

“We don’t live in the pub.” Maureen dropped her arm. “
I’ll
not stand in the street and argue like fishwives. I’m done in. Come up when you’re ready; we’re the third floor, second flat on the left.” She stomped through the door and up the stairs, knowing she was behaving poorly. But more than that, she burned with humiliation before her sister’s righteous glare.
What have I done? What have I brought us to?

Maureen had barely unlocked the door before she heard her sister’s footsteps on the stairs. She sighed in relief and lit the lamp. She placed the Bible Mrs. Melkford had gifted her upon the table, running her finger over its leather cover as if touching it could recapture the peace of that lady’s presence.
We need peace.

“I thought all of America had electricity now.” Katie Rose stood in the doorway.

Maureen pulled the pin from her hat and hung her cloak on a hook by the door. “Apparently not.”

Katie Rose lifted her chin and turned away. Maureen bit her lip, regretting her sharp answer.

“Mr. Crudgers said he’d deliver a bedstead, but I don’t believe him.” Maureen spoke to Katie Rose’s back. “We’ll share the pallet.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Crudgers, the landlord. He tends the bar—the tavern, downstairs.” Maureen pulled an apron round her waist and bent to start the fire in the stove. “There’s a toilet down the hall. We can boil water if you’d like a wash. We’ve our own indoor pump in the kitchen.” Maureen looked at her sister, hopeful. “That’s more than we had at home.”

“Not more than you had in the grand house,” Katie Rose retorted. “Not more than they had at Ellis Island or even at that missionary woman’s flat. We’d be better off livin’ with her!”

Maureen slammed the skillet to the stove. “Well, we don’t, do we? We live here. And you’re a fine one to appreciate her now that you’ve not got what you want!”

“Not got what I want?” Katie Rose fumed. “Look at you, Maureen O’Reilly! You, in your fine American shirtwaist and suit! You, with your pert hat and stylish button boots! You’ve certainly got what
you
want!”

Maureen felt her blood rise. “I’ve to dress the best I can if I’m to keep my job in the department store. As it is, I’m not so stylish as the other girls. And for your information, miss, I’ve reworked every stitch I’m wearin’. I’ve even reworked a dress for you, for school.”

“I told you, I’m not goin’ to school!”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’ll not go about like . . . like this. Not until the scars have gone. Do you understand me? I’ll not go!” Katie Rose crossed her arms.

If Maureen had not been so vexed, she would have laughed at her nearly grown sister planted in the center of the room with the face and stance of a pouting toddler. For the sake of sanity and civility, she dared not and couldn’t muster the energy to scold. So she ignored her and dropped a dollop of lard in the skillet to sizzle. She chopped the onions and potatoes she’d hoarded for their first meal, tossed them in to fry, and set the kettle to boil for tea. If there was one thing Maureen knew, it was that the aroma of frying onions and the warmth of a kitchen signaled home—a sense of home that she hoped would bring peace. She must trust that Katie Rose would yield, and upon her yielding, they could work together.