Sons of an Ancient Glory (31 page)

The innocent and the beautiful
Have no enemy but time.…

W.B. Y
EATS
(1865-1939)

L
ate in the afternoon, long after Sara had gone, Nora awoke with a start. She was dismayed to realize she had actually fallen into a sound sleep while nursing the baby. Sweet angel that he was, Teddy dozed contentedly at her breast, but the idea that she could drift off so easily with him in her arms—and while sitting upright in a chair—disturbed her.

Carefully, so as not to wake the baby, she fastened her bodice and got to her feet. The room tilted, and she had to wait an instant for her head to clear before taking the baby down the hall to his crib.

Teddy barely stirred as she tucked him in. For a moment, Nora bent over the crib, gazing down at him. The delicate perfection of her infant son never ceased to fascinate her. She delighted in his round little face, rosy-cheeked and smooth, the tiny hands that reached for her so quickly, the light down of hair that framed his features.

Straightening, she glanced across the room. The high double bed suddenly looked all too inviting, and she longed to lie down, just for a bit. But there were the dishes to do, and didies to fold, supper to start—

Time. There was never enough of it these days. It seemed that even the smallest task required great effort, wearing her down long before she could finish all that needed doing.

Without warning, the weariness that often came over her of late now enfolded her like a shroud. Lightheaded, she felt her heart give a sickening lurch, then begin to hammer against her chest.

Forgetting the work that awaited her, she crossed the room and sank down onto the bed. She had time, she told herself. She would have a short nap before Evan came home. That was all she needed…just a short nap.

She lay back, feeling as if she were sinking to the bottom of the mattress, her ears roaring as if the very sea raced through her head. Only in the vaguest sense was she aware of a familiar, dull pain spreading across her rib cage. Soon she drifted off into the peaceful darkness of sleep.

Sara stood, pretending to listen to the exchange between Ethelda Crane and some of the other women in the group. In actuality, she was trying to sort out her feelings about the Shelter's administrator.

Because she rarely took an instant dislike to anyone, she tried to convince herself that
dislike
might be too strong a word. All the same, she had to acknowledge that her response to Miss Crane was extremely negative—and puzzling.

The woman seemed to be everything she had been touted to be: virtuous, courteous, pious—above reproach. As for the Shelter itself, Sara thought it might serve as a model of efficiency for other similar endeavors throughout the city. Impeccably clean and almost severe in its order, the building and entire operation—at least what she had seen of it so far—would appear to be under the supervision of a highly competent manager. The few residents they had encountered—young women, mostly—had looked healthy and decently groomed, although Sara found their uniform brown dress demeaning. The aromas from the kitchen were inviting, and the tables in the dining hall were set with good quality, if institutional, dinnerware.

In spite of the overall appearance of a well-oiled operation, however, Sara could not shake the feeling that something wasn't quite right. It was a bit like passing one's fingers over an expertly crafted painting while sensing all the while that just beneath the surface lay an entirely different picture.

More unsettling still was the fact that Ethelda Crane gave her exactly the same feeling.

As she watched the tall, sharp-featured administrator field questions from the women's group, it occurred to Sara that their guided tour had seemed rather too brisk thus far, perhaps too tightly structured. Some rooms—indeed, entire areas of the building—had been ignored without any explanation. It was clear from the exterior that there were three levels, yet Miss Crane had made no mention of the third floor. Instead, she had brought their excursion to a halt after showing them the second-story dormitories, leading them back downstairs to entertain their questions.

Sara waited until Miss Crane replied to Helen Preston's query about food and medical supplies before venturing a question of her own. “What about the third floor?” she asked, stepping forward a little. “Is that dormitory space as well?”

Ethelda Crane turned to her. Sara noticed that, although the woman did not meet her eyes when she answered, the deferential manner she had adopted throughout the tour never slipped. “No, the third floor is reserved as a work area for some of the residents, and for extra storage as we may happen to need it.”

“Oh, what sort of work is that? I thought most of the residents were employed outside the Shelter.”

Sara was genuinely curious; she hadn't meant to press. But the look of annoyance that passed over Ethelda Crane's features plainly said that she found the question inappropriate.

“Those who aren't able to work outside the Shelter do sewing and other piecework upstairs.” Her tone clearly communicated dismissal. The subject was closed.

But Sara wasn't to be dismissed so easily. “I'm not sure I understand. What prevents them from working elsewhere?”

Miss Crane seemed to be maintaining her patience at great effort. Sara merely waited, holding the woman's gaze.

“A number of the…unfortunates are in the family way, and we do not encourage them to flaunt their condition in public.” Tight-lipped, the administrator went on. “Then, too, a great many of them are Irish, and therefore are considered undesirable in the workplace. They encounter great difficulty in finding outside employment.”

“Yes, so I've been told,” Sara said evenly.

Helen Preston, standing nearby, cleared her throat. Two of the other women in the group darted uncomfortable looks in Sara's direction.

“I'm sure you've seen the signs posted throughout the city,” continued Ethelda Crane. “None of the respectable businesses will hire the Irish, so we have to resort to whatever means we can to help them earn their keep.”

“Indeed,” Sara managed. “It must be very difficult for you.”

Warming to her subject, Ethelda Crane continued. “Oh, well, one can hardly blame the merchants, can one? Not only are the Irish altogether ignorant, they're often diseased. And, of course, they can't be trusted. They've no morals at all.” She sighed. “I can't think why we allowed them entrance to the country in the first place, with their filth and disease and pagan ways. The city is infested with them already, and they're still coming.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Sara saw Helen Preston, always slightly flushed, turn positively crimson, her upper lip dotted with nervous perspiration.

Sara drew in a deep breath, one hand knotted at her waist, the other clenched at her side. “But how extraordinarily charitable of you,” she managed to grate out, “to take them in, feeling as you do.”

At that moment she saw Ethelda Crane's eyes cut upward, then flash with anger. Sara turned to follow the direction of the woman's gaze.

A young girl stood about halfway down the stairs. Her large, dark eyes were riveted on the Shelter's administrator in a look that seemed to reflect both apprehension and defiance.

Sara glanced from one to the other, and her instincts snapped to attention at the expression on Ethelda Crane's face. She was sure she saw a crack in the armor. At that moment there was no mistaking the blistering fury that contorted the woman's features.

Miss Crane's words cracked like a pistol shot. “What is it, Miss?”

Sara heard a world of contempt in her use of
Miss.
For an instant, the girl appeared uncertain, and Sara thought she might simply turn and run. But then her chin lifted, and she came the rest of the way down the stairs, stopping at the landing.

“I was feeling sick to my stomach, ma'am, and thought to go to the infirmary.”

The brogue was thick, the voice surprisingly firm. Sara studied the girl who had aroused such an unexpectedly strong reaction from Ethelda Crane. She decided she didn't look at all ill. The face was unusual: delicately molded, yet sharply defined, with a firm jaw that stopped just short of being square, and a light, tawny-shaded complexion, flawless except for a few freckles that danced over the nose. It wasn't quite a pretty face in the conventional sense, but held a singular attractiveness that was compelling in one so young,

And she
was
young, Sara was certain. In spite of the air of strength and the keen look of intelligence that burned out of those wonderful eyes, she doubted the girl could be more than sixteen or seventeen at the most.

Puzzled, Sara watched the girl scan the group of visitors as if she half-expected to find a familiar face.

“You are excused to the infirmary,” Ethelda Crane said. “But return to your work once you're feeling better.”

The girl gave a distracted nod, her gaze now darting from one face in the group to the other, as if she were still intent on finding someone she knew.

“I
said
, you are excused, Miss.” The administrator's tone would have frozen a hot coal.

Sara wondered at the look of disappointment that crossed the girl's features. For an instant their eyes met. Sara found herself smiling, feeling an inexplicable desire to make contact.

Something flickered in the other's eyes, and Sara acted on impulse. “Miss Crane? If this young lady wouldn't mind, I think we'd all be interested in hearing a firsthand account about the Shelter from one of its residents.”

The administrator turned toward her, slowly, and Sara felt the resentment in those depthless eyes like a blow. She actually took a step backward.

Recovering, Sara repeated her request, this time with more emphasis, adding, “Perhaps she has suggestions as to ways our women's group might be of more help to the Shelter's residents.”

Some of the other women murmured their agreement, and Sara turned her attention to the girl, who was now regarding her with obvious astonishment.

“Another time, perhaps,” said Miss Crane. The look she turned on Sara was smug. “As you heard, Miss O'Shea is feeling ill.”

“Just one or two questions,” Sara countered, turning to the girl. “If you're up to it, that is?”

The full mouth curved faintly in a somewhat wry expression, as if to concede that Sara had found her out, that she wasn't really ill at all.

“Aye, ma'am. Ask what you will.”

Sara moved a little closer. “What's your name, dear?”

“Quinn O'Shea, ma'am. Anna Quinn O'Shea, but I'm called Quinn.”

“What a lovely name. You're Irish, aren't you?”

The strong, firm jaw tightened even more. “I am.”

“So is my husband,” Sara said mildly, glancing only for a fraction of a second in Ethelda Crane's direction. She had the satisfaction of seeing the woman gape at her in amazement.

Quinn O'Shea eyed Sara with disbelief. “Your husband—is
Irish
, ma'am?”

Sara nodded, smiling. “My name is Mrs. Burke. How did you happen to come to the Shelter, Quinn?”

The girl regarded Sara as if to measure her sincerity, then darted a quick glance at Ethelda Crane. “Well, ma'am, what brought me here was that I had nowhere else to go. I was just off the boat, don't you see, and was looking for a position when these two no-account—”

“A police officer rescued Miss O'Shea from an attack in the Bowery,” interrupted Ethelda Crane. “He placed her in our care and asked us to look after her.”

Sensing the tension in the girl, Sara resumed her questioning even more gently. “How long have you been here, Quinn?”

“Nearly three months, ma'am.”

“So long?” Sara hesitated. “Are you employed somewhere nearby?”

The girl looked surprised. “Why…no, ma'am. I work right here, at the sewing.”

“She was ill when she arrived,” Ethelda Crane put in abruptly. “We feared she might be consumptive and thought it best to give her only light tasks on the premises for a time.”