Dawn of the Golden Promise (8 page)

She had never been important to him in the first place, merely an enjoyable diversion when he was in Chicago on business. The entire affair wouldn't have rated a second thought, had it not been for this latest ploy. She was actually threatening to come to New York!

Not that he really believed she would. She was far too timid; he couldn't imagine her finding the nerve to travel such a long distance alone. She had no self-assurance, no experience in getting along on her own. No, she wouldn't try anything so daring.

But what if she
did
? What if Alice should learn of the affair?

Worse, yet, what if Alice's
father
should find out?

In spite of the dim coolness of the office, Patrick's skin felt hot and moist. With his shirt sleeve, he wiped a band of perspiration from his forehead.

Jacob Braun would never forgive such a flagrant indiscretion on his son-in-law's part. He would see it as a mortal sin, a deliberate humiliation of his daughter—his adored, pampered, overprotected,
only
daughter.

Even though Alice's father had relinquished most of his involvement in the hotel business to his son-in-law long ago, Patrick knew that Jacob Braun could still hurt him. For one thing, Braun had a big mouth, and he wouldn't hesitate to shoot it off to anyone who would listen. He might not be able to wreak a great deal of financial damage on Patrick, but he was well-positioned enough to put serious strain on his political ambitions. He might even pull the plug on Alice's generous allowance, not to mention her inheritance.

Abruptly, Patrick turned back to the desk and took up his pen. He would get a message off to Ruth Marriott yet today, a message she couldn't possibly misunderstand. He'd have one of his men deliver it. He would send money. A creditable amount of money. He hated giving her a dime, but perhaps that was the safest way, after all. Money would always buy silence.

Taut with anger and more apprehension than he cared to admit, he scrawled a hasty note, renewing his warning that he would accept no responsibility for the child. In language she could not possibly misinterpret, he let her know that he regarded what they had had together as no more than a casual affair.

The night she hit him with the news about the baby, he had insinuated he didn't necessarily believe he was the child's father. Now, in even stronger language, he reminded her of the same doubts, scratching his signature with almost vicious finality.

Opening the safe behind his desk, he withdrew a stack of bills. He counted out five hundred dollars, hesitated, then added five hundred more.

When Quinn O'Shea came looking for him later that afternoon, Evan was in the backyard, giving Teddy a horsey-back ride. The other boys were playing tag.

“Mr. Whittaker, could you please come to the front door, sir?”

Evan straightened, and Teddy increased his stranglehold about his neck. “Easy, son,” he choked out. “N-not so tight.”

He smiled at the young Irish girl. “What is it, Quinn?”

She hesitated. “There's a boy out front who insists on speaking with you, sir. Would you like me to take Teddy upstairs?”

Evan moved so she could free the toddler's grasp on him. “Why d-don't you just watch him and the other b-boys until I come back, if you don't mind.”

On his way into the house, Evan reflected on their good fortune in finding Quinn O'Shea. She had been a godsend to them all. Not only was she an extraordinarily efficient housekeeper—the girl was a marvelous cook and household manager—but she was also quite good with the children. Best of all, she had somehow moved smoothly and unobtrusively into their family life, taking on more and more responsibilities, but in a quiet, unassuming manner that left Nora's dignity and sense of self-worth intact.

No longer did Nora look upon Quinn as an intrusion, Evan thought. Nor did she appear to be quite as frustrated by her own frailty these days. Again, he suspected that Quinn's tactful way of leaving the small, less wearying household tasks to Nora while she went about the more arduous jobs was at least partly responsible for Nora's acceptance.

Nora liked the girl, that much was obvious, and Quinn had taken to Nora with surprising warmth. Even though she maintained a certain aloofness with others, including Evan, the girl seemed to shed much of her reserve around Nora.

The front door was ajar, and Evan stepped into the open doorway. On the porch stood a small boy in a tattered shirt and raggedy short pants. A bundle tied to the end of a stick swung from one thin shoulder.

Evan cleared his throat, and the boy turned around, revealing caramel-colored skin stretched tightly over a small oval face. Two of the darkest eyes Evan had ever seen peered up at him. The boy looked as if he had not eaten a solid meal for weeks.

“You wanted to see m-me, young man?” Evan said.

The boy nodded. “Name's Oscar,” he said without preamble. “Are you Mistah Whittaker?”

Evan guessed the slow drawl to be that of the deep South. The boy would appear to be a mulatto. He was a little fellow, no more than five or six years surely. And none too clean. “I am Mr. Whittaker, that's correct.”

“You take little nigra boys here?”

Surprised, Evan hesitated. “Well, son…”

“I ain't
all
nigra, you understand,” the child said. “My daddy was a white man.”

“Yes…well, ah, where are your parents…Oscar?”

Evan noted the sharp, thin shoulders, the even sharper elbows. Not a spare pinch of flesh on him anywhere, poor lad.

“My mammy's dead,” the boy replied matter-of-factly. “My daddy went away on a sailing ship. He didn't like us, I s'pose.” He paused, then gestured to the bundle on the stick. “I brung my stuff.”

Evan darted a look at the bundle.

“Can I stay?” the boy asked, his dark eyes fixed on Evan's.

Evan expelled a long breath. “D-don't you have anyone to take you in, son? Family? Friends?”

The boy shook his head. “Nope. I been living at the old Brewery building, down at the Five Points, since Mammy died. When I heard about your house for homeless boys, I decided to look you up.”

Evan shuddered at the mention of the old Brewery. The place was a veritable pit of squalor and immorality. A den for thieves and drunkards, even murderers.

“If I allow you to stay here, you would have to work, Oscar.”

The boy nodded. “Oh, I wasn't lookin' to stay for free, Mistah Whittaker. I'm six. I can work for my keep. I'll work hard.”

Evan suppressed a smile. “Indeed, you will,” he said gravely. “Our b-boys here work
very
hard. And we study, too. You would b-be responsible for certain chores, and for your studies. There is no thievery, no cursing, and no fighting at Whittaker House. And n-no gambling,” he added, knowing the vice to be a favorite among the city's street children.

Oscar's chin fell just a fraction, but his reply was quick in coming. “That's okay, I s'pect.” He paused. “But do you reckon I could have me some supper before I go to work, Mistah Whittaker? I'm awful hungry.”

Evan stroked his beard for a moment. “Very well, Oscar. Come along with me,” he said, motioning toward the big dining hall off to the right. “All our b-boys at Whittaker House take their meals together.”

4

I whispered, “I am too young.”
And then, “I am old enough”;
Wherefore I threw a penny
To find out if I might love.

W. B. YEATS (1865–1939)

T
he library was Quinn O'Shea's favorite part of Whittaker House. The friendly oak-paneled room had become a kind of retreat to her—even more than her own bedroom, which in itself was a cozy place with ruffled white curtains, a small fireplace, and a window seat.

During the first days of helping the family move into their quarters, there had been no time for exploring the rambling old house. Quinn had worked herself nearly to exhaustion each day. All the rooms, from the attic to basement, had to be thoroughly aired and cleaned; boxes unpacked; the pantry stocked—all this in addition to looking after Mrs. Whittaker and wee Teddy.

The young girl, Johanna, helped whenever she was about, and the girl doted on Teddy. But she was often away at the Academy, an unusual school where they educated deaf children and taught them to speak.

Quinn thought it remarkable entirely that a child like Johanna could learn to use her voice—and without hearing a word she said. Nothing short of a miracle, and that was the truth.

But wasn't her own presence here at Whittaker House also something of a miracle? She truly enjoyed being with the Whittakers—they were fine people who treated her almost like family.

And the library—why, the library itself was a dream come true. To be given free access to such a treasure trove had at first seemed beyond belief. It had taken repeated assurances from Mr. Whittaker before Quinn finally felt at liberty to enter the room whenever she liked. Her first task had been to clean the premises thoroughly. While Daniel Kavanagh and Mr. Whittaker sorted and organized, she had dusted and scrubbed, polished and painted, until the room actually seemed to take on a luster from her efforts.

Then, invited to choose any book on the shelves for her own reading pleasure, she had fallen onto the entire collection with an almost ravenous hunger. From the moment she had first learned to read, Quinn had loved books: the heft of them, the fine smell of the leather, the sound of their pages rustling ever so quietly as she turned each one with reverent care.

Now as she stood in the middle of the room, she closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the experience of being utterly surrounded by books. More books, she was sure, than she could read in a lifetime.

The shelves were filled with a variety of volumes, many donated by Mr. Lewis Farmington from his private library, others collected from all over the state by ladies from various church societies. Mr. Whittaker said the library would be one of the most important features of the children's home. It was his intention that every child who took up shelter at Whittaker House eventually learn to read.

“There is a kind of freedom in these books,” he had remarked to Quinn and Daniel during one of their organizing sessions. The three of them had spent the entire afternoon dusting books, then filling the shelves. As they worked, Mr. Whittaker had talked, explaining in his quiet, halting speech his personal conviction that the underprivileged children in their midst could eventually free themselves from poverty—by learning to read.

“For many, these books m-may represent their only opportunity for a better life.”

He had smiled then, a fleeting, shy smile, as if embarrassed by his brief speech, but Quinn had taken his meaning right away. Somewhere in the rows and rows of books upon these shelves might well lie the key to
her
future. A
promising
future, not the squalid existence of just another starving Irish peasant. Something even beyond the respectable position in service she had found with the Whittakers, though sure, her present employment was far better than anything she had known before.

No, she was determined that her future would hold more. She would make a good life for herself, on her own efforts—a life that would include more than mere existence, more than a full stomach and an aching back at the end of the day. More than a sin-stained conscience. A life in which she would never again be forced to do anything for the sole purpose of survival.