Band of Sisters (23 page)

“No!” Maureen was but an echo of Katie Rose. “Please, let’s sit in our regular seats in the balcony.”

“We’ll see the candlelight better from there,” Katie Rose added.

Maureen squeezed her hand in gratitude, and Katie Rose, clearly surprised by the sign of affection, squeezed back. They dared not risk running into the Wakefields with Mrs. Melkford; she would expect an introduction, only to let all the cats out of the bag. And regardless of her ruse, Maureen had no desire to cross paths with Drake Meitland. She didn’t know if he or the men who’d followed Flynn to the fourth floor that day were connected to the strange happenings and services of Darcy’s or not, but she knew from her meeting with him at Thanksgiving that he was a cruel sort, and she’d no desire to draw his attention to her sister or herself.

“Yes, that’s true. The candlelight service will be wonderful from the balcony.” Mrs. Melkford smiled. “But let’s sit near the front if there’s a seat. We’ll see all the more!” If Maureen didn’t know better, she would have suspected ten years had fallen from that dear lady’s grayed head as she climbed the winding stairs.

“I’m delighted you girls are staying the night! We’ll have a late night tea, and after a good sleep we’ll have a sumptuous breakfast. I’ve found the most delicious Christmas bread. . . .”

As Mrs. Melkford prattled happily on, Maureen sank into the balcony’s front pew beside her friend and let out the breath she’d been holding. She would have preferred her normal seat, a nearly sequestered spot and sanctuary all her own where, unobserved, she could hum along with the hymns, even if she didn’t know the words. She could listen to the readings, drink in the stories and Psalms, and hear, for the first time, the life and words of Jesus in a language she could understand.

From the last pew in the balcony, no one saw if her mouth dropped in astonishment at the reverend’s declarations that God hates cruelty and selfishness, that He expects His children to serve and love one another as if they were loving or serving Him. No one saw if her lip trembled at declarations of Christ’s all-pursuing love, His ready forgiveness. She still didn’t think it was meant for her, though there was no denying its comforting fascination.

But sitting in the front of the balcony for one service, Maureen decided, was little enough to gift her friend this Christmastide.

The evening’s music began. The resounding pipes of the organ swept the worries of Maureen’s life gently, temporarily, to one side. Despite her fear for Alice, the chorus of Handel’s
Messiah
transported Maureen to a realm she’d never visited, as the choir’s triumphant voices proclaimed, “King of kings! and Lord of lords! And He shall reign forever and ever. . . .”

Maureen listened as Reverend Peterson read from Luke 2 of the birth of the baby Jesus. She slipped into the picture, envisioning herself as a shepherdess, asleep on the barely moonlit hillsides of Bethlehem, awakened in the night by an explosion in the sky, an angel heralding, “Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.”

What would it be to “fear not”? Did the angel know what he was sayin’? Did he have any idea what “fear not” could mean to poor people who ate and slept and woke to nothin’ but fear—fear of poverty, fear of homelessness, fear of bein’ sent back to Ireland, fear of men who forced their will?

“Tidings of great joy . . . to all people”—me, too? What would it mean to belong to someone who brings peace and only goodwill? Peace? Oh, God, how can I find peace and safety?

“Oh!” Katie Rose gasped when the lights were lowered and the flame of one small candle was passed from one person to another and another and another, until all the church glowed in the bath of flames raised high. And then the organ began the low, sweet strains of “Silent Night.”

At last, a hymn Maureen had known as a child. From deep within her, the memory of words and music grew, rising, swelling.

Maureen closed her eyes and sang with the congregation to the rafters, every note proceeding from her heart as a longing, every word a praise for this merciful God the reverend had preached of—this merciful, loving, pursuing God she’d never known, yet yearned to know.

“‘Sleep in heavenly peace . . .’”
How I need peace!

When she opened her eyes, the heads of parishioners nearby had turned, smiling appreciatively. Maureen felt a deep blush rise from her toes, up her legs and torso, through her neck and to her hairline. She lowered her eyes from the men and women standing near her, down into the sanctuary, directly into the astonished upturned face, dark-blue eyes, and wide smile of Joshua Keeton.

Joshua Keeton, who stood beside an openmouthed Olivia Wakefield.

“For safety’s sake, please snuff your candles before leaving the pews” was the last thing Maureen heard from the pulpit. While the flames were extinguished, and before the lights were raised, she grabbed her purse and cloak in one hand and Katie Rose with the other and made for the winding stairs. Stumbling once, she sped through the vestibule and out the heavy church door, into the dark, scarcely mindful that they’d deserted Mrs. Melkford without a word.

What is he doin’ here? With Olivia Wakefield? What has he told her about me, and why would he do such a thing?

Maureen groaned to think of the tangled web she’d so quickly woven.
It will all come out eventually—secrets always do! Maureen O’Reilly, what a fool! What an absolute fool!

Mrs. Melkford walked alone to church Christmas morning, her steps a little tentative and without the buoyancy of the night before.

I don’t know what got into Maureen, Lord. First she’s standing in church singing like the archangel, and next thing I know she’s a whirling dervish, and Katie Rose with her.
She shook her head.
I know You’re pursuing that girl. And it’s plain she wants to come to You with all her heart. Why she doesn’t relent, I just don’t know. But something happened last night. Something happened. I simply don’t know what.

Mrs. Melkford nodded absently to the man who tipped his checkered flat cap to her just outside the church door.

She climbed the steps to her seat in the balcony. The empty places beside her were easily filled that morning by strangers. Mrs. Melkford smiled, doing her best to show herself friendly.
But they’re not my girls, Lord. Here, they’re missing this lovely service, and I don’t understand why. I can’t imagine Maureen’s stomach was really so poorly she had to run home first thing this morning. That girl’s got an iron constitution.
She sighed.
I shouldn’t get so bound up in the lives of these young women. It’s not like they’re my daughters.
Mrs. Melkford sniffed, pulling her handkerchief to her nose.
It’s just that they seem so, Lord.

Mrs. Melkford looked down into the sanctuary and noticed that the Wakefield family pew was more full than usual. A young man had been added to the group, this one tall and broad of shoulders, a thick crop of curly black hair above his collar. Perhaps a relative? But he looked strong, like an outdoors laborer. And handsome, she noticed, when he turned and swept his eyes across the balcony as if searching for someone. She wondered if Maureen knew him. If he attended church with the Wakefields, she must surely have met him.

It occurred to her to ask the Wakefields if Maureen made it home all right, if there was anything she might do to help.

She shook her head.
Mind your own business, Florence Melkford. For whatever reason, Maureen has not introduced you to her benefactors. This is not your affair . . . unless Maureen’s in trouble.
And then she knew she’d move heaven and earth to make things right.

No matter that the sun was shining, Mrs. Melkford felt the cold right through to her bones as she walked home.

In her kitchen she drew water and set the kettle to boil. She’d just filled the basin to wash the morning’s dishes when she glanced through her window and found the man from church, the one who’d tipped his cap to her outside, standing across the street, leaning against the lamppost, and staring directly at her.

Startled, she clasped a soapy hand to her chest and stepped back. Though she knew it might seem rude and though it was broad daylight, Mrs. Melkford quickly drew the curtain closed.

It was nearly five o’clock on Wednesday afternoon, and Mrs. Melkford had just set her kettle to boil for tea when three distinct knocks came at her door.

“Yes?” Since the Christmas Day surprise outside her window, she’d been cautious, a little frightened, and reluctant to open wide her door. But something about the young woman looked vaguely familiar.

“Mrs. Melkford?” the pretty, well-heeled woman with dark upswept hair and brown eyes asked hopefully, or so Mrs. Melkford thought.

“Yes,” she replied hesitantly, trying to place the face.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Melkford. I’m Olivia Wakefield, and I’d like to ask—”

“Miss Wakefield!” Mrs. Melkford pushed wide the door. “Come in, come in! Oh, my, is Maureen worse? I told her she shouldn’t walk home feeling so poorly. I knew you’d send a car. I’ve wondered about her all week.” Mrs. Melkford pulled Olivia through the door, barely noticing the two men standing on the stoop behind her.

“Maureen O’Reilly?” Olivia repeated. “With me?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Mrs. Melkford couldn’t understand the woman’s expression. “She is with you, isn’t she? The girls made it home all right?”

“The girls?” Olivia’s confusion confused Mrs. Melkford. “Please, Mrs. Melkford, allow me to explain and to introduce my friends, Curtis Morrow and Joshua Keeton.”

“Mrs. Melkford, it’s pleased I am to make your acquaintance.” The moment Joshua Keeton, the black-haired, blue-eyed man from the Wakefields’ pew at church, opened his mouth and swept his cap from his head, Mrs. Melkford knew he hailed from the same Irish county as Maureen and Katie Rose.

“We’ve been looking for Miss O’Reilly for the last few weeks,” Olivia explained.

Mrs. Melkford felt her head spin and her heart race. “But she’s living with you—she and Katie Rose.”

“Katie Rose?”

“Her sister.” Mrs. Melkford stopped, momentarily annoyed that the woman repeated everything she said, then alarmed that she might as well have been speaking a different language for all Olivia Wakefield seemed to comprehend her words.

“May we sit down?”

Mrs. Melkford felt the blood drain from her limbs.
Something’s not right, Lord!

“Please, may we get you a glass of water or a cup of tea?”

Mrs. Melkford shook her head, intent on entertaining her guests properly. She moved to the kitchen but hesitated when her head began to spin again and sat down heavily at the table. “The tea is above the stove,” she said weakly, fearing the worst.
But what would that be, Lord? Oh, take care of them, please!

Joshua worked his way through the kitchen as if he’d been born to it, warming a brown Betty, measuring the tinned tea, pouring the boiling water, stirring the leaves, setting it to steep, and wrapping the pot in a tea towel. Watching him calmed her heart.
If a person can still make tea, still behave so normally, it must not be so very bad.

But it was incomprehensible. By the time Olivia Wakefield explained that her brother-in-law had turned Maureen away Thanksgiving Day in a terrible mistake and that Olivia wanted only to find her and help, that Olivia and Curtis had tracked Maureen to this address through a private investigator’s search of Ellis Island’s records, Florence Melkford was drained, right down to her toes.

“Does your private investigator wear a checkered cap?”

“No,” Curtis spoke up, “a brown derby, I believe. Why?”

Mrs. Melkford placed her hand over her heart. “Never mind.”

“Until Mr. Keeton came to my door with a letter for Miss O’Reilly, I didn’t even know Maureen’s first name or that she’d come to New York with her sister. That information helped Mr. Morrow’s man locate the proper O’Reilly.”

Mrs. Melkford was still trying to take it in.
Maureen lied to me and from the start, but why? Why would she keep up such a pretense? Where on earth is she living, and how has she managed all this time? However did she obtain her position at Darcy’s Department Store without the Wakefields—and with no references?