Irish Meadows Read online

  “I can’t stay long, Henry. I’m afraid I’m quite exhausted.”

  “Of course. It’s been an exciting day for you.” His condescending tone did nothing to endear him to her. “I’ll give you a few days to rest before we begin planning our wedding.” He reached over to take her hand in his. “Your fingers are like ice.”

  He massaged her hand with his own, bringing warmth back to her skin. How she wished Gil were holding her hand instead.

  Lord, I know I’m supposed to honor my father, but how can I accept Henry when my heart is crying out for Gil?

  As soon as she could, she gently disengaged her fingers. The one thought that had circled her brain these last few days came back with a vengeance. Could she marry Henry and still obtain the education she wanted? If that were possible, maybe she could endure this marriage after all.

  She bit her lip and glanced at Henry’s profile. “Henry, how would you feel about . . . ?” She hesitated.

  “About?” He lifted a brow.

  “About me going to college after we’re married?”

  His thunderstruck expression made her hopes sink faster than a horseshoe in a bucket of water.

  “Why would you want to go to college? Shouldn’t your priority be our marriage?”

  She straightened her back against the chair. “One thing doesn’t have to contradict the other. You’ll be at work all day, and we’ll have maids to take care of the household duties. Why couldn’t I continue my education?”

  He pushed up to pace the length of the porch. “It would be a waste of time and money. What if you found yourself . . . in a family way? You wouldn’t be able to keep attending classes.”

  Heat blazed in her cheeks at the sudden realization of exactly what being married to Henry would entail. The image, so abhorrent, sent her stomach into a spin.

  She rose abruptly, nearly stumbling in her haste. “You’re probably right. I really must go in now. Thank you again for coming.” Eyes averted, she headed toward the front door. She’d taken two steps when he snagged her hand.

  “Wait a minute, Brianna.”

  She looked up in surprise at the bold intention in his pale eyes.

  “I think tonight’s occasion calls for a more . . . personal farewell.” He swept off his hat with one hand and cradled her neck with the other as he lowered his mouth to hers.

  Brianna froze, shock stiffening her whole body under his touch. This was not Henry’s usual polite peck. This kiss branded her as his possession, demanding a response she could not give. When he pulled back a few seconds later, his expression radiated disappointment. She stepped out of his arms, trying to force down the anxiety clutching her throat. “G-good night, Henry.”

  Before he could say anything else, she hurried in the front door, hiked her skirts, and ran up the stairs. Once in her bedroom, she closed the door tight and leaned her back against it, the breath heaving in her lungs.

  God forgive her, she could not go through with this. She couldn’t pretend to feel things she didn’t. If she couldn’t tolerate Henry’s kiss, how would she react on their wedding night? A shudder shook her from head to toe.

  Falling to her knees on the carpet by her bed, she poured out fervent prayers to God, begging for His help and for the courage to plan her escape from the undesirable future that awaited her.

  The sun had not even peeked over the treetops on Monday morning when Brianna opened her bedroom door. She poked her head into the hallway to make sure no one was about, and then quietly stepped out, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

  Valise in hand, she tiptoed down the main staircase to the foyer below. Swallowing her nerves, Brianna laid two envelopes on the hall table—one for her mother and another for Henry.

  After two days holed away in her room, thinking and praying, Brianna had come to a decision. She may have lost Gil, but she could not marry Henry.

  No matter how much her father wished her to.

  Brianna took one last long look around her beloved home, her gaze caressing every cherished nook and cranny. Then, before she could succumb to the fear that clutched her heart like a cold fist, she slipped out the front door.

  The walk to the train station gave her time to review each step of her plan. A mixture of anxiety and excitement churned in her veins. For the first time in her life, she was taking action, taking control of her future. In her letter to Henry, she’d politely broken their engagement and wished him well. Perhaps she’d taken the cowardly way out, but she believed if she’d tried to do it face-to-face, she’d have lost her nerve.

  When she reached the station, she purchased a ticket to Manhattan, and not long afterward, the first train of the morning pulled up to the platform. The conductor helped her mount the steps to the car, which was almost empty. Brianna had left early to ensure she wouldn’t be on the same train as Colleen and Rylan. She remembered they volunteered at the orphanage most Mondays and Wednesdays, and though Colleen likely wouldn’t care what she did, Brianna felt sure Rylan would feel obligated to stop her.

  As she took her seat, she heaved a sigh of relief. Phase one of her plan had gone exactly as she’d envisioned. An hour later, when the train pulled into the Manhattan station, Brianna shored up her courage and marched into the depot. The clerk at the main desk gave her directions to the streetcar that would take her to the street where Aunt Fiona lived, assuming she hadn’t moved.

  The trip took less than fifteen minutes. Brianna got off at the stop the clerk had mentioned and headed west, per his instructions. Two blocks later, she came to West 94th Street. Her spirits lifted at the quaint beauty of the houses lining both sides of the street. Most of the residences were tall and narrow, with a set of wide cement stairs leading to the front door.

  At her aunt’s address, she paused, doubts drowning her certainty. Perhaps she should have called first, but she’d feared Aunt Fiona might seek Daddy’s approval before allowing her to come, and she couldn’t take that chance.

  Squaring her shoulders, Brianna climbed the stairs to the front door and rang the bell. A big-bosomed woman with graying hair opened the door. From the uniform, Brianna guessed this was her aunt’s housekeeper.

  “Good morning. Is Miss O’Leary at home?”

  The woman looked Brianna up and down. “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “Brianna O’Leary, her niece.”

  The woman’s eyebrows rose above her spectacles. “Is she expecting you, Miss?”

  “No.” She hesitated. “It’s a surprise.”

  The woman eyed the suitcase on the ground at Brianna’s feet, then switched her gaze to Brianna’s face, which burned with humiliation.

  “Please come in. I’ll see if Miss O’Leary is taking visitors at this hour.” She didn’t bother to hide the disapproval in her tone.

  “Thank you.” Brianna stepped inside the door, gripping her gloved hands together. The Victorian-style house oozed warmth and charm, and immediately Brianna felt at home. If only Aunt Fiona is as welcoming . . .

  In the entranceway, she waited patiently until the murmur of voices met her ears, followed by the sound of footsteps on the narrow staircase. Swishing skirts above high-laced shoes came into view. Brianna found herself holding her breath. She hadn’t seen Aunt Fiona in more than five years. Rumor had it she and Daddy had had some type of falling out, and her aunt hadn’t visited Irish Meadows since.

  The stylish woman stood before Brianna in the hallway, her bright blue eyes so much like Daddy’s that Brianna’s heart bumped with fear. Please, Lord, let her be sympathetic to my cause.

  “Brianna? Is it really you?” Aunt Fiona rushed forward and enveloped her in a warm hug. “It’s so good to see you.” She wiped tears from the corner of her eyes. “The last time I saw you, you were a child with your hair in braids. Look at you now, a beautiful young woman.”

  Brianna laughed. “I don’t know about that.” She cast an admiring glance at the tall, willowy woman dressed in a fashionable skirt and a lace blouse. “I’m s
orry to arrive on your doorstep without calling . . .”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m delighted to have company.” She looked down, noticing the suitcase. Her thin, arched eyebrows rose in question. “Are you planning to stay awhile?”

  Brianna hesitated. “If it’s all right with you. I need to decide what I’m going to do with my life, and I’m hoping you can help.” She raised pleading eyes to her aunt.

  Regret and some other emotion passed over Aunt Fiona’s fine features. “Does your father know you’re here?”

  Brianna’s knees shook, despite her will to stay strong. “By now he might. I left Mama a note telling her where I was going.” She pushed away the thought of her mother’s reaction to finding her gone, lest she break down in front of her aunt.

  “Oh, my dear girl. Come into the parlor and tell me the whole story.”

  17

  WILL YOU HELP ME draw a giraffe, Miss O’Leary?” Delia O’Brien’s big blue eyes widened as she waited for a response.

  Colleen crossed the wooden floor of the classroom with a ready smile. Though she knew little about giraffes, Colleen would try her best, just to please the girl. In a little over a week, the imp had captured her affections, becoming almost as dear as her own little sister. In fact, Colleen wished she could bring Delia home for a visit, thinking how much she’d love Deirdre and Connor.

  “How is that alphabet coming?” Colleen pulled out a tiny chair and perched beside the eager pupil.

  Delia held the end of the nibbed pen to her lips. “I’m all done.”

  Colleen scanned the row of crooked letter A’s and stifled a grin. “If you finish one more row of letters, we can draw a giraffe. I’ll find some paper to use.”

  She smiled at the concentration on Delia’s face and checked on the other children as she moved toward the cupboard that housed the school supplies.

  “Miss O’Leary, did you give ink to the younger children?” The sour nature of Sister Marguerite’s voice prickled irritation down Colleen’s neck.

  She schooled her face into a neutral expression. “Yes, Sister, I did.”

  “We have to use our resources sparingly. The younger ones are much too clumsy. They always waste the ink.” Sister Marguerite’s face pinched into a wreath of wrinkles under her wimple, as if the material pulled too tight.

  Colleen kept her tone even. “I’m sorry, Sister. I didn’t realize.”

  “Make sure you don’t make that mistake again.”

  Colleen returned to Delia, noting the apprehension on all the pupils’ faces. Sister Marguerite was no one’s favorite as far as Colleen could tell. How such a strict, dour woman had ended up caring for a group of energetic children was beyond Colleen’s comprehension. If only the pleasant Sister Veronica had stayed to help, the atmosphere would have been so much nicer.

  The clock in the hallway chimed three o’clock. Soon she would have to meet Rylan to leave for the train station.

  “It’s time to start cleaning up now, children. Put your work on the teacher’s desk and go wash your hands.”

  A loud gasp made Colleen whirl around in time to see a small river of ink spilling across Delia’s desk. The girl stood with the inkpot clutched in her stained hands, panic on her stricken face. Colleen grabbed some loose sheets of paper and rushed to blot the stream before Sister Marguerite could notice it dripping onto the floor.

  “I’m sorry.” Tears appeared in Delia’s wide eyes.

  “Don’t worry, sweetie. It was an accident.” Colleen scrambled to mop up the mess, but two big splats landed on the polished hardwood floor. “Oh, saints alive.”

  “Miss O’Leary!” The horrified voice of Sister Marguerite screeched across the room.

  Colleen froze, wads of crumpled, ink-stained paper in her hands. She tried to calm the trepidation that crawled up her spine, as though she were the child in trouble once again.

  “We had a bit of an accident here, Sister. Could you call the caretaker, please?”

  Sister Marguerite’s beady eyes bored into Colleen. “Who is responsible for this mess?”

  Colleen moved to conceal Delia, who cowered behind her out of the nun’s immediate sight. “It’s my fault for bringing the ink out. I’ll pay to replace it.”

  “Who spilled the pot?” Sister Marguerite peered around Colleen. Her face hardened when she saw the girl standing with the evidence still in her hand. “Delia O’Brien. You know the punishment for wasting supplies.”

  The girl’s tears flowed freely down her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to,” she whimpered.

  “Put that inkpot down at once and get the cane.”

  Rylan jumped down from the ladder and stood back to survey his handiwork. The girls’ dormitory looked much cheerier now, painted a soft yellow. Even better than the boys’ room, which he’d painted a bright blue last week. He gathered his supplies and moved them out into the corridor, leaving the ladder against the wall. With quick movements, he retrieved the paint can and the dirty brushes and carried them downstairs to the utility room.

  The grandfather clock in the main entranceway bonged out three chimes. He’d have to hurry if he and Colleen wanted to make the afternoon train back to Long Island.

  Ten minutes later, hands and face as freshly scrubbed as the paintbrushes, Rylan whistled a tune as he bounded up the stairs to the main floor. Colleen was not waiting for him in their usual spot by the reception area. With a grin, he changed direction and headed toward the classroom, hoping to catch Colleen interacting with the children.

  Fortunately, the wooden door stood slightly ajar, allowing him to peek inside. The sight that greeted him, however, wiped the grin off his face. Sister Marguerite stood at the front of the classroom, making angry gestures with a cane before an obviously incensed Colleen. Little Delia, her tiny hands covered in ink, cowered sobbing behind Colleen’s skirts. The other children huddled together at the far end of the room, as though fearing the punishment may extend to them, as well.

  Colleen fisted her hands on her hips. “Touch that child one more time, Sister, and you’ll be meeting Jesus a lot sooner than you expected.”

  Rylan choked back a half-laugh, half-gasp at the expression of shock on the nun’s face, and stepped into the room. “Ladies, what seems to be the problem?” He didn’t really need to ask. There was enough ink on Colleen’s hands and apron to tell the tale.

  She whirled to face him, eyes blazing. “This woman is beating little Delia because of an accident.”

  Lord, a little help here would be appreciated. Though he tended to agree with Colleen and didn’t uphold the beating of small children, he was loathe to challenge the older nun’s authority. “Now, Sister, surely we can come up with a suitable consequence that doesn’t involve”—he cast a stern look at the instrument in her hand—“caning a child.”

  Her face turned a mottled purple. “How dare you criticize the way I run this institution.”

  Rylan pasted on his most charming smile and laid a calming hand on the nun’s shoulder. “I see how much responsibility you have here, Sister, and how well you take care of these children.”

  She relaxed a fraction of an inch, but her mouth remained pinched.

  “And I understand the need for strict discipline to keep the asylum running smoothly.”

  Her shoulder stiffened under his hand as she straightened. “We are doing God’s work here, Mr. Montgomery.”

  “Of course you are.” He deftly removed the cane from her hand. “You and the other sisters are doing an amazing job. I’m sure you must find it overwhelming at times. Tell me, do you ever have a day off?”

  She blinked like a wizened owl behind her spectacles. “We do not take time off. This is our vocation.”

  With one hand behind his back, he motioned for Colleen to get Delia out of the way. At the same time, he smiled into the nun’s eyes. “What would you do if you had a whole day to yourself with no responsibilities?”

  Her mouth fell open, as though she’d never entertained the possibility. “I
. . . I suppose I’d spend the day in Central Park.”

  “Aye, that sounds lovely. I will make it my personal mission to arrange a day off for all of the nuns working here.” He smiled at her stunned expression. “Just give me time to line up some volunteers, and we’ll make it happen.”

  She sank onto the chair by the front desk. “I don’t see how. Where would you find enough volunteers?” she asked weakly.

  “Leave that to me, Sister. In the meantime, if you’d be so kind as to ask the caretaker to clean up the desk and floor, Miss O’Leary and I will be on our way.”

  “Of course.” She rose and headed to the door, then turned back. “Thank you, Mr. Montgomery.”

  “My pleasure, to be sure.”

  Seated on the train several minutes later, Colleen stuffed her blackened hands under her skirts. She could hear her father’s admonition now. “Ladies never get their hands soiled. And they certainly don’t yell at nuns.”

  She released a weary sigh. She did not regret saving Delia from the punishment Sister Marguerite had begun to inflict. She only wished she’d done it with a bit more grace, without losing her temper in the process.

  “Don’t worry. That ink will wash off with a good scrub of lye.”

  Her gaze flew to the amused grin on Rylan Montgomery’s cheeky face. He had an uncanny way of always knowing what she was thinking.

  She scowled at him. “How do you always stay so calm?”

  Amusement softened his eyes to melted chocolate. “The blessing of an easygoing nature . . . and a wagon-load of prayer.”

  She lowered her gaze back to her lap. He’d been so supportive of her during the whole fiasco, never once admonishing her for her rudeness to Sister Marguerite. Regret sat heavy on her shoulders. “I’m sorry if I caused any problems for you with the nuns.”

  “What problems?”

  She ignored his attempt at a joke. “I suppose they won’t let me come back now that I’ve proven to be an unsuitable volunteer.”