Dawn of the Golden Promise (53 page)

Inside the library, she went to the tall window behind Mr. Whittaker's desk. The light filtering into the room was dim, all but blocked by the enormous old oak tree right outside the window. She held the envelope to the light, staring at the name for a moment, swallowing down a stream of emotions that ranged from anticipation to dread.

A part of her had hoped that no more letters would come. She knew she had to put a stop to Daniel's dreaming. There could never be anything between them, even if she had felt something more than friendship for the lad—which she did not. Besides, his sort deserved as good as himself; a pure girl, unsullied and unused—not one jaded and left hard by life's cruel twists and abuses.

Yet there was another part, a hidden part which she had tried to ignore, but could not quite silence—a part of her that cried out to the soul behind the pen from which the shy and gentle love poetry continued to flow. That timorous, yet somehow hopeful, shadow-part of Quinn was loathe to relinquish the sweet, if transitory, touch of healing the poetry had brought her.

Finally, with trembling hands, she opened the envelope. She ignored the painful tightness in her chest as she withdrew the single page and brought it close enough to her face that she could read the words.

As she had expected, it was another poem, this one slightly different. More intense, hinting of a growing impatience, it was neither demanding nor angry, but lacked the gentleness of those that had gone before.

She read the last few lines, then read them over again, her eyes straining in the pale light…

“I have no fabric wove with golden threads,
No silk upon which starlight gleams,
No velvet trimmed with satin ribbons—
Woman, will you wear my dreams?”

A sob caught in Quinn's throat, and her eyes misted. For a moment she could not read the note's closing. When she did, the thin page shook in her hand:

If you have a heart at all, please meet me at half-past seven tonight at the band pavilion in Schedlen Park. We must talk. Or, at the least, I must speak what I can no longer hide.

A draft seeped through the window casing, and the paper in Quinn's hand fluttered slightly. Yet cool as it was in the shadowed room, perspiration traced her hairline and moved down the back of her neck. With a heavy sigh, she sank down onto the window seat and sat staring outside, to the park just a ways up the street, on the other side.

She sat there for a long time, the note dangling from her fingers, her heart aching, tears collecting in her eyes. Never before had she admitted to herself that, had she known the shame and guilt that would hound her every day since her last encounter with Millen Jupe, she would simply have allowed him to beat her to death without raising a hand to stop him.

Her life since that night had not been worth the price she had paid. And if she told Daniel Kavanagh the truth—and she would, if it took the truth in all its ugliness to discourage him—her life thereafter would be worth even less.

It would be her first time to attend a rehearsal since Patrick's death, and Alice Walsh felt a certain edge of nervousness as she walked up the steps to Whittaker House. She had talked with Evan Whittaker and his wife twice after the hearing, but she had seen none of the boys in the choir for several weeks. Still, if she were ever to reclaim any semblance of a normal life, she had to make a start—and very soon. Waiting would only make everything more difficult.

For her own sake and that of her children, she had to face reality, a reality affirmed by the court hearing: Patrick's death had been ruled as an accidental shooting. Alice's part in the incident, according to the court's decision, had been a natural act of self-defense, as well as an attempt to save the life of Ruth Marriott—who in fact had died instantly from the fall down the stairway, although Alice could not have known this for certain at the time. She had been summarily pronounced innocent of any wrongdoing.

Innocent of any wrongdoing.
What was she guilty of, then? Blind faith? Misplaced trust? An obsessive love for a man who had never deserved it, never returned it?

Perhaps she was guilty of all that, but she was also, she reminded herself firmly,
forgiven.
At least by her God.

Still, she struggled with remorse, with grief over the loss of her dreams and the loss of her husband. Even if he had pretended to be something he was not, Patrick had still been her husband, the one she had vowed to love and honor until death.

And now death had parted them—death by her own hand. The court had ruled her innocent. God had forgiven her. But it would take longer to forgive herself.

At the top of the steps she stopped to catch her breath. She tired easily these days, more than likely from the weeks of lost sleep and no appetite. For the first time since she could remember, she was losing weight, would actually have to have her wardrobe altered in the near future if she continued at this rate. There had been a time when that necessity would have brought her a great deal of pleasure; now it served only to remind her of the pain.

Her eyes stung from unshed tears as she entered the cool, dim hallway of Whittaker House. She knew the anguish of the past would be with her for a long, long time to come—perhaps forever. But she also knew it did not have to dominate her life, not unless she allowed it to control her.

Today was intended as her first step in putting the pain of yesterday behind her. Her mother had reminded her just yesterday, not for the first time, that Alice could either drown in her misery or gain healing in ministry.

Dear Mama! Alice had once resented her mother's stoicism, her insistence on good deeds as the cure for all malaise. She still didn't entirely agree with Ula Braun's regimented, Teutonic approach to life in general. But she
would
concede that, for the present at least, there was considerable wisdom in her mother's advice to keep busy, preferably by doing for others. After praying for the strength and the fortitude to do just that, Alice had made the decision to attend rehearsal today.

She hoped Mr. Whittaker would be glad to see her. No doubt he, like others, would be uncomfortable around her for a while. No one seemed to know quite what to say to Alice about her…
situation.
She thought she understood, but she also knew that she desperately needed at least a few people—besides her parents—to treat her with a modicum of normality. She rather thought she could depend on Evan and Nora Whittaker to do just that.

Inside, she found the spacious old house uncommonly quiet. She was early. Mr. Whittaker was probably still in the classroom with the children. Knowing Mrs. Whittaker's habit of resting after the noonday meal, she decided not to risk disturbing her.

The library door was ajar. Alice started to enter, then stopped at the sight of the girl on the window seat. Framed in the room's dim light, she appeared a slender, delicate silhouette, not quite real.

As she stood watching, Alice saw the girl's thin shoulders heave and shudder. The sobs ripping from her sounded as if they were being torn from the heart of a despairing child.

Alice realized that it was Quinn O'Shea, the young Irish immigrant girl the Whittakers had employed as housekeeper. Nora Whittaker made no secret of the fact that they had come to depend heavily on the girl, and in the process had grown quite fond of her as well.

Alice hesitated, uncertain whether she should leave the girl alone or approach and try to help. She was hardly equipped to relieve another's distress, not with her own grief still so raw.

But the girl was so young, and in such obvious despair, that her mother's heart succumbed. She took a tentative step inside the room, then another, before clearing her throat to make her presence known.

As he waited in the Black Maria for Mike and Morgan Fitzgerald, Denny Price dug the letter he had been carrying for days now out of his pocket and unfolded it. He could not say how many times he had read the letter, but with each reading the same sick ache settled over him.

He read it again now, and once more felt his stomach knot. The letter from Ireland, a response to his own, had finally arrived nearly two weeks past. Since then his days and nights seemed to have grown longer and darker. Most nights he managed little more than two or three hours' sleep, sometimes not that much. Even during the day, as he carried out the routine of his job, he was continually mindful of the folded pages in his pocket.

His sleeplessness and restlessness were borne of common causes: a pall of sadness concerning the contents of the letter, and the sting of guilt for probing into matters that were none of his business. In truth, he had no right to the information he now possessed. More to the point, the act of obtaining that information could be construed as nothing short of meddling.

It made little difference that his actions had been motivated by a desire to help. Now that he finally had his answer, he could see how it might easily bring humiliation and distress to the very one he sought to help. He had overstepped his place, exploited his position as a police officer.

Yet despite the disturbing awareness that his actions might be questionable—or even worse, deceitful—he felt a certain grim sense of satisfaction that he had followed his instincts. At least now he knew the truth.

All that was left to him was to figure exactly how he should go about making proper use of that truth. Or if he should act upon it at all.

The girl looked up with startled eyes, jerking to her feet.

“Quinn? I'm sorry…I don't mean to intrude. But…can I help?”

The girl shook her head. Although she stood facing Alice, she did not look at her, instead, fixed her eyes on the doorway.

Alice felt an inexplicable urgency to detain the girl, to keep her from fleeing the room—as Quinn obviously wanted to do. On impulse, she turned to close the door behind her before walking the rest of the way into the library.

The youthful face was ravaged by the evidence of weeping, the sharp cheekbones tracked with tears, the unusual gold-flecked eyes red and swollen. The girl stood, a paper in one hand, her other hand clenched to a fist at her side, as if to steel herself from an invasion. But Alice did not miss the fact that she hadn't quite managed to check the tears.

Her first thought was that the girl had gotten herself “in trouble,” a common predicament among many of the city's young immigrant girls. But somehow she didn't think that was the case with Quinn O'Shea. Indeed, Nora Whittaker had once remarked that the girl actually seemed to shun contact with young men.