A Passion Redeemed (10 page)

Charity slipped from beneath his arm and scurried around the register to box up his purchases. Mr. Hargrove planted one hand on the counter and tapped his derby with the other. "More than I need, Mrs. Shaw, thanks to the outstanding efforts of Miss O'Connor."

Mrs. Shaw beamed, revealing oversized teeth the shade of pale butterscotch. "Yes, Charity has been our top sales clerk for a while now. We're quite proud of her."

Mr. Hargrove displayed some teeth of his own. "I hope that pride is attached to a hefty raise, Mrs. Shaw, because this young woman certainly deserves it."

Pink splotches in her cheeks and a raspy titter quickly replaced the butterscotch smile. "Why, yes, yes, she certainly does, Mr. Hargrove." She shot a nervous look at Charity. "I need to run in back for a moment. Will you finish with Mr. Hargrove, please?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good, good." She spun around, her carrot-red topknot all afrizz as she bolted for the back room. One stubby arm flailed in the air. "Have a good day, Mr. Hargrove. Always a pleasure."

Charity giggled. "Goodness, I haven't seen her move that quickly since Emma let a street urchin use the privy. Would you like me to add a pound of your favorite pipe tobacco to the bill?"

He chuckled. "Yes, please. You always seem to know when I'm running low." He paused. "Speaking of Emma, how are things?"

Charity looked up. Her smile faded into a frown. "Not good, but she refuses to leave."

The soft gray of Mr. Hargrove's eyes darkened to pewter. "How can a woman stay with a monster who would scar her like that?"

Charity forced herself to concentrate on folding the charcoalcolored morning coat. She blinked several times to dispel a sting of wetness in her eyes, remembering the day she'd learned Emma's drunken husband had thrown hot grease in her face. "I don't know, sir. She claims she loves him. Swears he didn't mean it. That it was the bottle and not her Rory' who was to blame." She shivered.

Mr. Hargrove placed a gnarled hand on top of hers. "Emma told me what you did, my dear. How you saved her j ob, threatening to quit if she lost hers."

Charity whirled around to scoop tobacco into a bag, heat flooding her cheeks. The sweet, rich scent of maple rum drifted in the air. "Goodness, Emma and I are a team. I can't keep this shop running by myself, you know."

"You're a good friend, Charity O'Connor. Putting your job on the line to save hers." He released a quiet sigh. "What a tragedy. One so young and lovely ... now so disfigured. I pray God watches over her."

Charity tugged a string tightly around the bag of tobacco and plopped it on the counter, a stiff smile on her lips. "Well, I don't know about God, Mr. Hargrove, but I certainly know an angel who can watch over her."

He pursed his lips and arched his brows. "And who, pray tell, might that be?"

Charity glanced toward the back room before leaning over the counter with a conspiratorial smile. "Why, a silver tongued angel who holds our own Mrs. Shaw in the palm of his prosperous hand."

Mr. Hargrove grinned and pressed in. "And how may I be of assistance, young lady?"

Charity tallied his bill and presented it to him with a flourish. "I fear Mrs. Shaw finds Emma's scars offensive. I worry about when I leave." She handed him an ink pen with a smile. "But wouldn't it be lovely if Emma were top sales clerk once again? You know, as if she had an angel with pockets deeper than the depth of Mrs. Shaw's greed?"

Mr. Hargrove chuckled. He penned his name with a bold stroke. "Not even I aspire to that level of angelic host, my dear, not even I." He winked. "But we shall certainly try."

"Don't forget to put the new shipment out tonight before you leave." Mrs. Shaw turned at the door to adjust the felt hat on her head. The wilted spray of silk flowers adorning it looked as limp as she did.

"Yes, ma'am. Emma and I will see to it before we lock up. Now, get some rest, Mrs. Shaw. I hope you're not catching a cold."

As if on cue, Mrs. Shaw sneezed. The poppies on her hat flapped in the breeze. She nodded and hurried out, waving a hand in the air. "It's after six. Bolt the door behind me."

"Yes, ma'am."

The door slammed with a jolt. Charity rushed to the window and peeked out. She scanned the street to make sure Mrs. Shaw was well on her way before she nodded to a little boy leaning against the lamppost. He turned and entered the store, the tinkle of the bell as merry as his gap-toothed grin.

"G'day, Miss Charity, I see the of queen has left her throne."

Charity's heart softened at the sight of her favorite street urchin. She doubted there was a poorer-or dirtier-boy in all of Dublin than Dooley O'Shea. Although he was ten years old, he was small for his age, with a generous spray of freckles beneath a layer of soot.

"Hello, Dooley, she has at that. So what wares have you brought me today?"

He heaved a dirty sack onto the counter with a grunt, giving Charity a whiff of something that made her want to wrinkle her nose. She fought the urge and folded her arms, her lips twitching with tease. "I hope it's not alive this time."

Dooley grinned. Greasy strands of hair fell over chocolate brown eyes as he dug into the sack. "No, ma'am, I left me pet lizard at home today. This here is a gift from me mum."

With an air of pride, he squared his shoulders and pulled out a knitted gray scarf-or maybe it was just dirty white-riddled with lumps of yarn, puckered and bunched. Charity picked it up and looped it around her neck. "Oh, Dooley, it's beautiful! But your mother shouldn't have done this. She has her hands full with the new baby."

Dooley lifted his chin and wiped his nose with his sleeve. "Mum says a lady like you needs a proper scarf to keep her warm on cold nights. She made it herself. Do you like it?"

Fighting the sting of tears in her eyes, Charity gave him a bright smile. "You tell your mother I absolutely adore it. How much does she want for it?"

The firm set of his jaw tugged at her heart. "No, ma'am, it's a gift, pure and true."

Charity leaned to peer into the bag. "Well, then, what do you have for sale today?"

He pulled a crudely wrapped block from the burlap sack. "Your favorite-raisin bread."

"Your mother is a wonder. Eight children and a newborn, and she still finds time to bake my favorite bread?" She flipped the loose end of the scarf over her shoulder and smiled. "Well, that settles it. Nothing less than a pound will do. Wait right here."

Emma was working on inventory when Charity slipped into the back room. She looked up as Charity pulled her purse from the cupboard. "So, what's on the menu this week?"

Charity grinned. "Raisin bread."

"God love her. I suppose with that many mouths to feed, the poor woman doesn't have time to learn how to bake properly. Did you even finish the last loaf you bought?"

Charity scrunched her nose. "Not after the first taste. I was afraid I'd chip my teeth."

A soft chuckle floated from Emma's lips. "Grab a few punts from my purse, then. I can't let you support them all by yourself, now can I? We'll split the loaf. Less chance of damaging your smile."

Charity shook her head. "No, ma'am. Your money is your sole support. Mine just provides a portion of our larder. Besides, he brought the loaf for me, not you."

Twirling the loose end of the scarf in the air, Charity sashayed through the curtain divider with a flourish, money in hand. On a whim, she sauntered over to a children's display and selected a warm infant bunting before returning to the counter. "All right, young man, tell your mother that if a lady needs to stay warm, a newborn babe does as well." Charity reached for a piece of paper to wrap the bunting in.

Dooley's eyes grew as big as saucers. "No, miss, me mum told me I wasn't to bring anything home but the price for the bread."

Charity arched a brow and put the package in a bag. "Are you arguing with me, Dooley O'Shea?"

A lump bobbed in his throat. "Oh, no, miss, it's just we have no money for-"

Charity propped her hands on the counter. "Are you saying that I can't give a gift to your new baby sister?"

He swallowed. "No, ma'am, if that's what you want. It's just that-"

Charity reached over and plucked a peppermint stick from a glass jar. She held it out. "It's a gift, Dooley, like the beautiful scarf your momma gave me and like this peppermint stick I'm giving you. Take it home and tell your mother no more gifts,' understood?"

Dooley stared at the candy. She started to push it into his grimy hand and hesitated. With a wink, she reached beneath the counter for a clean piece of paper to wrap it in. She handed it to him along with the bunting bag. "Here, take this home to your mother. The money for the bread is inside, all right?" She glanced out the window. "You better hurry, now, it's getting late."

Dooley nodded and clutched the bag in one hand and the peppermint stick in the other. His grin was ear to ear. "Thank you, Miss Charity. Me mum's right. You are an angel from above."

"There are some who would argue that point, Dooley," she said with a chuckle. She walked him to the door. "See you next week."

"Yes, ma'am. Good night."

Charity closed the door softly and flipped the bolt. Humming to herself, she strolled back to the register to record the cost of the bunting and peppermint stick on her personal charge. She glanced at the dirty burlap on the counter and sighed. She didn't have high hopes for the raisin bread, but she'd take it home nonetheless. The neighbor's dog seemed genuinely fond of it.

With an armload of merchandise in hand, Emma sailed through the curtain. She stopped in her tracks and lifted her chin, squinting at Charity for several seconds. "What's that on your back?"

Charity glanced over her shoulder in alarm. "My back? What do you mean?"

Emma plopped the clothing on a table. She began to fold a pair of knickers while she shot her a silly grin. "Our Dooley may be right. I think you're sprouting wings."

"Very funny. It's just too bad other men in my life don't share his opinion."

Emma chuckled. -1 suppose you mean Mitch Dennehy. He might, you know, if you didn't give him such a devil of a time."

Charity grunted, then looked up from the register. "By the way, Mr. Hargrove was in yesterday. He asked about you."

A smile lit Emma's face as she folded a child's pinafore. The pretty tilt of the left corner of her lips contrasted sharply with the mottled scar on the right. "How is the old gentleman?"

Charity chuckled and dipped a pen into the inkwell to record the day's totals. "As spry as ever. I'll tell you what, if he were a few decades younger, I'd set my cap for him."

It was Emma's turn to giggle. The melodious sound floated through the empty boutique, as warm and welcoming as the tinkling bell over Mrs. Shaw's door.

"If he were a few decades younger, he'd still be married to his dear, sweet wife, God rest her soul. Mrs. Shaw said she was a lovely woman." Emma folded another pinafore and stacked it neatly on the pile before her. "And quite loose with the gentleman's money, I understand."

Charity laughed. "Which is why Mrs. Shaw thought she was lovely, no doubt." She slammed the register drawer shut. "All done. Are you about ready to go?"

A faint shadow flickered across Emma's features. Fear prickled in Charity's stomach as she joined her in arranging the merchandise. She reached for a pair of rumpled knickers and began folding. "Is Rory in one of his moods?" she asked quietly.

Emma nodded. A smocked dress trembled in her hands.

Charity's fear fused into anger. She wadded the knickers into a ball without realizing it. "Then come home with me. He'll be too drunk to miss you."

With shaking fingers, Emma folded the dress, carefully smoothing out the wrinkles. "No, but thank you for the offer. I need to go home."

A grandfather clock at the back of the shop chimed the half hour. Charity glanced up-six thirty. Maybe, just maybe, if she kept Emma long enough, Rory would be passed out already, blessedly harmless after a day at the bar. She bit her lip and circled the table, trailing her hand across several stacks of cashmere sweaters. "Well, the truth is, I was hoping we could talk."

Emma looked up, her one shapely brow puckered in concern. The other, half seared from scalding grease, raised only slightly, lifting a welt along with it. "What about?"

"What do you think?" Charity asked, glancing up beneath a sweep of lashes that perfectly framed the mischief in her eyes.

Her friend shook her head and laughed. "Mmmm, now what might that be?" She peaked her good brow. "Perhaps more diabolical plans to win the heart of an editor at the Times?"

Charity grabbed Emma's hand and pulled her toward the back room, giggling like a schoolgirl. "Why, of course. Am I obsessed by anything else?"

Emma curled an arm around Charity's waist. "Yes, as a matter of fact. You are relentless in your quest to knock me out of top sales clerk each month."

"I'm sorry, but you know how competitive I am." Charity bit her lip and gave her friend a squeeze. "Besides, you were the reigning queen for years before I came."

"But not since, your majesty." Emma smiled. "Not to worry. Your arrival brought me the dearest friend I've ever known."