Dawn of the Golden Promise (54 page)

Still, there was always a possibility. Alice had seen young Daniel's covert looks in the girl's direction, and once Mr. Whittaker had mentioned in a wry aside that Sergeant Price seemed to call frequently since Quinn O'Shea came to work for them.

Somehow, though, she could not give much credence to the idea that either Daniel or Sergeant Price might have taken advantage. Neither had the manner of a man who would play loosely with a young girl's affections. Alice was fairly certain that whatever distressed Quinn O'Shea had nothing to do with that kind of trouble.

“Are you sure I can't help?” Alice offered again. “I'm a very…safe…person to confide in these days.”

Quinn O'Shea's eyes narrowed as she looked at her, and Alice thought the girl's defensive stance relaxed a little.

She couldn't define what prompted her to go on, to speak so candidly with one so young, a virtual stranger. But the words seemed to flow with surprising ease once she began. “I expect I've been miserable so long myself that I can recognize unhappiness in another.”

She laid her music case on the desk, removing her gloves as if she meant to stay. “Of course, I was fortunate in having my mother to talk with. Mama has extraordinarily strong shoulders. I sometimes think she could carry the burdens of the entire universe, if need be.”

Alice raised her eyes to search the girl's troubled face. “Most of us,” she added quietly, “are not possessed of such resilience.”

Something told her that this child—for Quinn O'Shea was surely little more than that—had never really known the comfort or the assurance of a mother with strong shoulders. Something in that furtive—or was it frightened—gaze hinted of rejection, if not outright abandonment.

At that instant, the pain in Alice reached out to the pain behind those wounded eyes, and she thought she felt the kindling of understanding. Suddenly, she ached to put her arms around the girl and simply hold her.

Instead, she walked to the small sofa in front of the fireplace, motioning for Quinn to join her. “I'm much too early for rehearsal. Can't I convince you to come and talk with me while I wait, dear?” Her eyes went to the single sheet of paper that the girl continued to clutch in her hand. “Perhaps you might want to tell me what's in that letter that has upset you so.”

38

But tears, when turned inward,
are no longer cleansing.
And words, when not spoken,
get lost in the mind.
And feelings, when denied,
refuse to live.

ANONYMOUS

Q
uinn hesitated as Alice Walsh sat down on the sofa. For a moment she stood watching the woman suspiciously. The unexpected invitation confused her. She could not understand this quick friendliness from someone so much older than herself, someone who lived in a completely different world. Nor did she entirely trust it.

And yet at that moment she desperately needed someone to tell her what to do. She could not speak with the Whittakers about such ugliness, could not expose the horror and shame of her past to those two fine, decent people—people who had in good faith brought her into their home when she had nowhere else to go, given her employment and a decent wage, and treated her as kindly as if they had known her forever. She simply could not reveal her disgrace to them.

But something about Alice Walsh made her think that, if she were ever to tell
anyone
her secret, she just might be able to tell this woman. Perhaps it was because Mrs. Walsh had shot and killed her own husband in what could only be described as a terrible scandal. This was a woman who knew about disgrace.

There had been a great deal of gossip after her husband's death—not here at Whittaker House, of course, for the Whittakers did not gossip. But a number of shopkeepers along the street had wagged their tongues to anyone who would listen, and for days after the shooting Quinn had overheard all manner of exchange between the proprietors and their customers.

As rumor had it, Mrs. Walsh's husband had been a bad sort entirely, as bent as a snail's back. He murdered his mistress, and would have killed Mrs. Walsh as well—or so it was reported—had she not finished him first.

Quinn's mind locked on that fact. Her throat tightened, and she tried to study Alice Walsh without actually staring. In spite of her wariness, she was drawn to the woman—drawn to her candor, her plain and unaffected mannerisms. She was especially intrigued by the fact that Mrs. Walsh had not only endured her husband's betrayal, but also the notoriety his death had brought upon her.

Quinn had always thought Alice Walsh a rather sad lady. Even when she smiled, her eyes still held a hint of sorrow. Perhaps that was why Quinn usually felt more comfortable with her than with others of a similar station. Today, however, she felt something else: an odd kind of
kinship
, a bond which for all she knew might prove offensive to the older woman, but one that seemed real enough to Quinn.

Slowly, with hesitant steps, she went to sit down beside Alice Walsh on the sofa. The woman smiled, as if pleased to have her company.

Quinn moistened her lips, unsure of herself. She looked at the older woman for another moment, then impulsively extended the note in her hand. “I keep getting these,” she said bluntly. “I don't quite know what to do about them.”

Alice Walsh took the paper, her eyes studying Quinn for a moment more before scanning the words on the page. When she was finished, she looked up. “You've had others?”

Quinn nodded, biting her lip. “A number of them,” she said, knotting her hands in her lap.

“Have you any idea who's sending them?”

Quinn hesitated, then nodded again. “I'm sure it's Daniel Kavanagh.”

Mrs. Walsh looked at her, lifting a hand to touch the broach at her throat. “I see. Well…obviously the boy is taken with you. His writing is quite lovely, really. But how do you feel about him—or perhaps I shouldn't ask?”

“No, it's all right,” Quinn said, not meeting her eyes. “Daniel is a grand boy, and he has been very kind to me. He's helped me with my grammar and taught me a great deal about America.” She clenched her hands even tighter. “But I don't have the sort of feelings for him that he seems to hold for me.”

“Oh, dear,” said Alice Walsh softly. “Then I suppose you must tell him so. Are you going to meet him this evening, as he asks?”

Quinn didn't answer right away. She stared into the fireplace, her heart as cold as the empty grate. She wondered if she was being foolish entirely, to spurn a fine lad like Daniel, who seemed destined to be an extraordinary man. Most girls of her station would be wild for such an opportunity. But the fact that he
was
such a good person was the very reason she must not deceive him. He did not deserve shabby treatment. He merited a girl who would appreciate his worth…and one who deserved his affection.

“I expect I will meet him,” she said at last. “I suppose I must. He's been sending the letters, the poems, for weeks now. I can't just let it go on, can I? I can't allow him to believe I share his feelings. It seems the only thing to do is face him with the truth.”

“That will be very difficult for you,” Mrs. Walsh said gently. “Especially with the two of you living under the same roof. Do you think you can make him understand?”

“I must!” Quinn insisted. “He cannot hold any false hopes about me. There can be nothing between us, and I must make him understand so.”

Alice Walsh frowned slightly, regarding Quinn with a peculiar look. “Are you all that certain, dear? I'm sure Daniel would be patient, willing to wait—”

“No!”
Quinn leaped to her feet, her breath coming rapidly in uneven shudders, “I'm not fit for him, don't you see? I'm not fit for him or any other man!”

Mrs. Walsh looked startled, then reached to take Quinn's hand. “Oh, my dear, whatever do you mean? You're a wonderful girl, Quinn. Why, the Whittakers can't say enough good things about you! I'm sure they'd be pleased to know you and Daniel cared for each other.”

Quinn yanked her hand away. She saw the look of bewilderment on Mrs. Walsh's face, and knew she had made a mistake, thinking she could confide in a woman like this. What would a lady like Alice Walsh know of the sort of life she had lived? No decent woman knew of such things; no decent woman would even believe that men like Millen Jupe existed, much less fathom what his sort was capable of!

Yet the look on the older woman's face was not one of shock or repulsion, but simply that of compassion, of genuine kindness. It was the kindness that was Quinn's undoing.

When the girl yanked her hand away as if she'd been burned, Alice also flinched, appalled that she had somehow caused her distress.

Quinn stood, hunched, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as if to keep from flying apart. She was obviously distraught, her mouth trembling, her eyes frenzied.

“The Whittakers don't know me!”
she suddenly burst out, her voice an angry hiss. “They would
despise
me if they knew the truth, would set me out at once! And sure, they would let me nowhere near their precious son!”

Stunned by her outburst, dismayed at the girl's unmistakable despair, Alice could not think what to do. Again she tried to protest, but Quinn silenced her into utter amazement with what came next.

“I'm nothing but a
strumpet
!” she spat out. “A strumpet and a murderer!”

Alice watched with horror as the girl's normal reserve shattered in front of her eyes. It seemed that an enormous wave of anguish and self-hatred and rage had suddenly risen from some secret place deep within her, exploding in that one tortured, heartrending outburst.

She stood and moved to comfort the girl, but Quinn shook her off almost violently, shrinking from her.

“Oh, Quinn…child…I only want to help…”

As if her words had been the final blow of an entire onslaught, Quinn suddenly crumpled in front of Alice, staggering beneath the burden she had carried for who knew how long. With a shudder, she began to weep—the resigned, hopeless weeping of utter despair.

Alice went to her, and this time the girl allowed herself to be led back to the sofa. “Shh, dear. Whatever it is, you must not bear it alone any longer. Tell me, child. Just…tell me.”

Her words seemed to open the floodgate to the girl's soul. Great sobs came ripping up from her throat, as if escaping from the deepest chambers of her being. For several moments she wept, while Alice held her, soothing her, consoling her as she would have her own daughter, her Isabel. Whatever had happened to this child, Alice thought it surely must have had its breeding place in hell.

The weeping finally subsided, but the girl still trembled as slowly, haltingly, she began to speak.

“I have never told a soul,” she said, her voice little more than a rough-edged whisper. “None but my mother. But Mum, she didn't believe me…at least she claimed not to. She said I was selfish and wanton. And then she sent me away.”

Alice swallowed, her own eyes filling with tears as she steeled herself for whatever might come next.