A Passion Most Pure (5 page)

Charity pursed her lips into a tight line. And when Faith finally came home, Father had treated her like some priceless treasure, hovering over her, laughing with her, calling her "his girl" when he thought Charity couldn't hear. But she had.

Yes, if she were Faith, she could probably finagle her father into anything. But then again, if she were Faith, she would have never caught the eye of Collin McGuire. And that was a trade-off that carried too high a price. Charity tossed the dish towel over the chair and took a deep breath. "Into the lions' den," she muttered, completely certain it was well worth the fight.

The scene was too cozy to disrupt. Her mother rocked Katie by the fire while Elizabeth and Steven lay on the floor, tending to their studies. Faith huddled in a blanket on the love seat, engrossed in her writing while Patrick and Sean debated good-naturedly over chess. But disrupted it must be, Charity concluded when her father glanced up from his game. Despite the blazing fire, she felt a sudden chill in the room. Her mother rose with Katie asleep in her arms.

Sean jumped up and reached for his sister. "Mother, I'll carry her for you. She's getting way too big."

Marcy's smile was weary. "Thank you, Sean. She's already had her bath. Just put her in bed. Goodness, where did the evening go? Beth, Steven, it's time to head up. Faith, Charity, I'll kiss you good night upstairs." Marcy bent over her husband and kissed his cheek. "Good night, my love."

"I won't be long, my dear." Patrick reached for his pipe.

Charity could feel the uneasiness in the room as everyone cleared out. She sat ramrod straight in the chair, waiting for her father to begin.

Patrick stood, walked to the hearth, and leaned to light his pipe. The sweet smell of tobacco filled the room. Puffs of smoke swirled above his head. He turned to Faith.

"Faith, you're the oldest girl in this family, so you have to set an example. I'm asking you from my heart to work on your relationship with your sister. We are family, and a family loves each other. There will be no cutting words spoken here. You'll both get enough of that in the world. This is our home, our haven-treat it as such and treat each other as the precious gift you are. You're sisters. Few bonds are stronger than that. Do you understand?"

Faith nodded.

"Good, then come kiss your tired old father good night so I can have a word in private with Charity." Patrick embraced his eldest daughter and kissed her lightly on top of the head. "Good night, Faith," he whispered. "I love my girl."

"Good night, Daddy," she answered softly. "Sleep well." Faith glanced at Charity and gave her a nervous smile.

Charity nodded stiffly. She watched her father take a deep breath before he turned his full attention to her.

"Charity, your mother and I love you very much ..."

Here it comes. She fixed her gaze on a spot in the carpet, the one where she'd spilled hot chocolate at the age of six.

"And it's because we love you that we are so strict regarding, well, certain things."

"You mean certain people, don't you, Father?" Charity never looked up, continuing to trace the chocolate stain in her mind.

She heard her father shuffle and glanced up to see him puffing on his pipe as if he wished he could lose himself in its smoke.

"Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I do. Look now, Charity, apparently your mother and I did not make ourselves clear when we tried to dissuade you from your interest in this McGuire boy. But, darlin', I want there to be no mistaking what I'm putting before you now. You're to have no association whatsoever with that boy. He's a wild one, Charity, the kind better suited to taking up with the women at Brannigan's Pub, not a sixteen-year-old girl from a family where morality and honesty are expected."

She stared straight ahead, her face serene like the stone bust that graced her mother's mantel. Cool and unaffected-except for a single tear trailing down her cheek.

Her father laid his pipe aside and moved to where she sat in the chair. He stooped to his knees, a pained expression on his face. He clutched her hand. "Charity, I love you more than I can say. I was Collin's age once. For pity's sake, I was Collin once. I know what goes through his head when he sees a pretty girl. I know how strong the desires can be for a boy like that, a boy who can turn the head of every lass in Boston Town. He's trouble, trust me on this. Promise you will heed my words and honor me. If you defy me, I'll be forced to take strong measures. I don't want to do that, darlin', but I've got to be sure you understand the severity of the situation."

His grip tightened on her hand. He seemed to search her face for any clue of consent. "Promise me, Charity. Give me your word you will stay away from Collin McGuire."

Charity lifted her chin to smile into his anxious eyes. "I promise, Father." Her voice sounded smooth to her own ears, as if she were discussing the weather.

Patrick scooped her up in his big arms and squeezed her tightly. "That's my girl! Everything's going to be fine, you'll see. There'll be another beau who will turn your head soon enough, I can promise you that."

Her face felt like a mask as she stared over her father's shoulder and fixated on the stain on the floor. He had called her "his girl," but that was a lie. She had never been his girl. His girl was Faith.

Faith couldn't remember when she'd been this excited. She studied herself in the mirror. What kind of impression would she make? With an approving eye, she surveyed her hair, which was neatly swept into the latest style-a twisted knot at the back of her head. Her starched, choker-necked blouse was crisp and clean and quite professional, especially with her mother's velvet ribbon around the fluted collar. The perfect look, she hoped, for the newest member of the Boston Herald typing pool.

Never was a first impression more critical. There would be veiled looks of jealousy to contend with, airs of skepticism to deflect, and respect to be earned. She was, after all, the daughter of Patrick O'Connor, assistant editor of the Boston Herald. If she were going to succeed, she'd have to demonstrate talent and ability far beyond bloodline advantage.

She lifted her hand to the porcelain brooch pinned to the ribbon. Her mother had insisted she wear it. It had been passed down by Faith's great-grandmother, Mima, years ago in Ireland when her own daughter-Faith's grandmother, Bridget-had chosen to flee a homeland ravaged by the potato famine. Even now, when Marcy told the story, tears would well and her voice would waver. The famine had killed Faith's great-grandfather, as well as one in nine of his countrymen, devastating Ireland's economy. Her grandmother experienced the heartbreak of leaving her mother and homeland behind when her husband insisted they seek a life in America. And so they'd left, along with a million of their countryfolk, taking their meager belongings and their young daughter, Marceline, to the Promised Land across the sea.

When Bridget had kissed Mima good-bye, Mima had pressed the brooch into her daughter's hand and begged her to return someday. Hand painted with a picture of their cottage home, the brooch had been one of Faith's grandmother's most precious keepsakes. Years later, following the death of her husband and with Marcy grown and married, Bridget returned to her beloved Ireland and to Mima. The day she left, she squeezed the brooch into Marcy's hand as they parted on the pier, their eyes as misty as the thick fog that rolled over the restless sea.

Nine years had come and gone, and now Marcy had pinned the same brooch on Faith. "This is a big day for you. School is behind, and a new life lies ahead. Be patient, work hard, and someday, after you've proven yourself, you'll get the opportunity to write-I can feel it." Her mother stroked her face with a tenderness that made Faith feel safe inside. "This brooch is not meant to be a good-luck charm, understand, but I do want it to remind you that you're not alone. You are greatly loved-by God and by us. You will remember that, won't you, Faith?"

Faith nodded, and Marcy gave her a peck on the cheek. "Good girl! Now hurry downstairs. You don't want to keep Father waiting." She disappeared, leaving Faith standing before the mirror. Gently she touched the brooch one last time-this rite of passage from mother to daughter-and felt at peace. This precious heirloom seemed an unspoken prayer, sending her into a new world with the knowledge that there was a place to return to, a haven of warmth and solace, if needed. Faith took a deep breath and one final glance. There was little doubt that she would.

Never had Faith seen anything throb with such restless energy as the newsroom of the Boston Herald. She stood on its threshold in awe, hand splayed on her chest and mouth gaping. The electricity of the room, with its sea of desks shrouded in a haze of smoke, sent waves of excitement coursing through her. Reporters and copywriters crowded the room, barking orders, screaming into telephones, and pounding typewriter keys with the same ferocity as they puffed on stubs of cigarettes and cigars. Amid the smoky maze, copyboys and typing-pool girls scurried, pencils behind ears and papers in hand, seeking to placate the edgy tempers of those provoked by the demons of deadline. To Faith, the very hum of the place was melodic: typewriter keys clicking and telephones ringing in exhilarating harmony with hushed tones and booming voices. Desk drawers slamming, doors flying open-it was a hive of people pulsating with life, and now she, too, was part of its wonderful frenzy.

Timid, she followed behind Patrick as he wove his way through the swarming throng, dispensing greetings as he went.

"So that's your eldest girl, is it now, Patrick? She's a pretty young thing." A tiny man with a voice too booming for his size grinned at Faith, causing those within hearing distance to turn and gawk. Patrick beamed.

"She is at that, Duffy, my man, but she's a hard worker too, the likes of which we could use around here."

Hand on her shoulder, Patrick steered Faith to the back of the room where a bubbled glass door sheltered the calm of the typing pool from the chaotic pace of the smoggy newsroom. Halting, he kissed her lightly on the forehead. "Now you go on in and introduce yourself to Hattie. She runs the pool, and she'll get you started."

Faith chewed on her lip.

Patrick patted her arm. "You'll be fine, darlin'. Hattie is a kind woman. You'll like her. But I think it's best you go in alone, since you're my daughter. There's no need to rub that in anyone's face, now is there?" Patrick smiled, his eyes soft with understanding. "Go on, now, you'll be fine. Sure, you'll be running the place in no time."

Faith reached for the knob.

"Oh, and, darlin' .. .

She turned and looked into her father's eyes.

"I love my girl," he whispered.

Faith lifted her chin and nodded, stepping through the doorway. On the other side she encountered a more peaceful existence, devoid of smoke as well as excitement, crammed wall to window with several rows of tiny typing tables. Each was occupied by a stone-faced girl with fingers flying over typewriter keys and attention focused on a steno pad before her. The white paint on the walls had long since yellowed to sallow. Veins of occasional cracks fanned between jaundiced editions of the Boston Herald, haphazardly hung. In contrast to the near-pandemonium of the newsroom, the drone of this room was deafening in its monotony. Nothing but the click-click-clicking of typewriters. And the silence of boredom. Faith swallowed her disappointment.

Miss Hattie Hayword, matriarch of the pool, sat at a decidedly more important desk at the front of the room. Her salt-and-pepper hair wound into a tight bun perched on the back of her head like an oversized donut. She was far too large for the delicate chair in which she sat, causing it to groan and squeak at her slightest movement. Absorbed in the galley sheets before her, she didn't notice that anyone had entered the room. Faith inched her way to Hattie's desk.

"Excuse me, Miss Hayword, I'm so sorry to interrupt..." Faith tried to calm her voice, hoping it sounded steadier than she felt. "I'm Faith O'Connor ... and ... I believe I'm scheduled to begin work in the typing pool today."

Hattie looked up, her broad face breaking into a warm smile. She extended a chubby arm, shaking Faith's hand with such enthusiasm that the heavy fold of her forearm swung back and forth. "Yes, you are, Miss O'Connor, and I'm quite pleased to have you. Your father is a fine man and a mainstay here at the Herald, I can tell you that. He tells me you like to write."

The knot in her stomach unraveled. "Yes, yes, I do, Miss Hayword. Someday ... well, I hope to become a copywriter here at the Herald. But that's down the road, of course. For now, I'm committed to proving myself as a typist."

"And so you shall, young lady, so you shall." With considerable effort and strain on herself and the chair, Hattie rose and toddled around her desk. She grabbed Faith's arm to usher her to the front of the room. "Come now, we must introduce you."

Faith's chest tightened. "Uh, Miss Hayword ... if you don't mind, I would prefer you didn't introduce me as Patrick O'Connor's daughter."

Hattie seemed puzzled. "But, my dear, all the girls will know eventually. You can't keep something like that quiet, you know."