Dawn of the Golden Promise (40 page)

More the pity. Even if she were to find some feeling for the lad, she could never let him suspect as much. A young man like Daniel Kavanagh deserved a fine girl—a girl as decent and innocent as himself. A girl who would make him proud.

Quinn bit her lip. She would never be one to make a man proud. She was used and spent and ruined, all by one who had been the scum of the earth. Had it not been for the knife, she might still be enslaved to him today.

Sometimes she felt like an old woman already, not a girl of seventeen years.

Seventeen…and already a fugitive and a fallen woman. Certainly not a girl for the likes of Daniel Kavanagh, and so she must be careful not to encourage him in his foolishness. The last thing he needed was an entanglement with someone like her. He deserved better, much better. Why, even a rough, bold Irishman like the mulish Sergeant Price would think twice before taking up with someone like Quinn O'Shea, did he but know her for what she was.

The thought of the burly policeman brought a grim smile to her face. Sure, there was nothing subtle about
that
one. Sergeant Denny Price would never be the man for keeping his intentions to himself, now that was the truth.

But even the hardheaded policeman would not be so eager to hang on her sleeve if he knew what lay in the darkness of her past. Not likely.

She sat there for a long time, staring at the paper in her hand without really seeing the words. Finally, the sound of music from downstairs brought her back to her surroundings. Voices—boys' voices—coming from the cavernous dayroom on the first floor reminded her that Mr. Whittaker would be rehearsing the singers by now. The younger boys not a part of the group would need attention, and since Johanna was still at school, Mrs. Whittaker would be requiring help with wee Teddy so she could have her afternoon rest.

She got up, stretching her arms up over her head full length. No more time for lolling about like a great lump of a girl, letting her wits run to mush. Quickly, even a little fiercely, she folded the paper back inside the envelope, then crossed the room to tuck it away with the others.

What she must do from now on, though carefully, so as not to hurt the lad's feelings, was to discourage Daniel Kavanagh from his regard. Perhaps she should start by avoiding him as much as possible.

The grammar lessons should probably cease, though she was reluctant to bring them to an end before she had learned all she could. Still, she wasn't all that comfortable with Daniel as it was, and lately she had found herself more awkward than ever.

Odd, that she would be so ill at ease with one as attentive and so obviously enamored of her as Daniel Kavanagh, yet she could feel almost comfortable—at least some of the time—with the exasperating Sergeant Price. For someone who had never known anything but oppression and intimidation from the law, it seemed peculiar entirely that she could be more herself, even occasionally enjoy herself, in the company of a policeman.

True, he could set her teeth to grinding when he acted the buffoon or flashed that wide-mouthed, smug grin at the most inappropriate times. But as insufferably thick-headed as she sometimes found him, Quinn would give the man this much: he could make her laugh. At the least likely times, on the most unexpected occasions, the big sergeant could make her laugh, even at herself.

At those times she could almost forget that he was a policeman.

But not for long.

Within ten minutes after the start of rehearsal, Evan Whittaker considered the possibility of canceling
all
rehearsals until Alice Walsh returned.

If
she returned…please, God.

He had seen her only twice since her husband's death. The burial service had been private, with no calling hours beforehand, but he had gone to Staten Island anyway, just to express his concern for the family.

He had found Mrs. Walsh terribly shaken, but seemingly glad to see him. There had been a heavy sorrow about her, of course, but with more composure than he would have expected. But then, Alice Walsh had always impressed him as being a strong, resourceful woman. Depending on the outcome of next month's hearing, Evan had hopes she would eventually move past this ordeal and make a life for herself and her children. He fervently hoped that life would include her returning to help him with the singers and the band.

The entire sordid situation had to be unbelievably difficult for her. It was a hideous story, blown out of all proportion because of the potential for scandal. Supposedly, Walsh's mistress, who had been carrying the man's child, had confronted both Patrick Walsh and poor Alice that dreadful day, with disastrous consequences. Walsh had cold-bloodedly murdered his paramour by shoving her down the stairway. Evidently Walsh had meant to put a bullet into her, just to make absolutely certain she was dead. Alice had tried to stop him, and he had been shot in a struggle for the gun.

Apparently Sara Farmington Burke was the only person to whom Alice Walsh had confided the ugly facts of the situation. According to Sara, it was nothing less than remarkable that Alice Walsh had not suffered a total nervous collapse from the ordeal.

For his part, Evan was convinced that Mrs. Walsh would bear up, if only for the sake of her children. Still, to learn that her husband had been unfaithful—and to learn the ugly truth from the other woman herself—would surely be enough to devastate even the strongest will. And to have to live with the fact that she had shot him, albeit accidentally—well, it would be no easy road for her to follow.

Yet a few days after her husband's burial service, Alice Walsh had surprised him and Nora by appearing at Whittaker House, bearing a sheaf of papers and even managing a faint smile as she gave them the exciting news: Firth, Pond was offering a publishing contract to Evan for some of his instrumental and choral arrangements.

It was almost inconceivable that, in the midst of her own personal anguish, she would make the effort to travel from Staten Island on an errand of goodwill for others. Evan had virtually been struck dumb by her selfless generosity.

Even now, weeks later, he still found his astonishing good fortune, which had come about almost entirely through Alice Walsh's efforts, nearly impossible to believe, especially coming as it had on the heels of her own personal tragedy. He would be unceasingly grateful for her encouragement. He wished there were some way to repay her, but she had asked for nothing in return but his and Nora's prayers on behalf of her and the children.

Certainly he was becoming more and more aware of just how much Mrs. Walsh contributed to the boys' choir as he tried to muddle along without her each week. Being a one-armed director, he conceded grimly, was difficult enough in itself. But attempting to be a one-armed director
and
a one-handed pianist was simply impossible.

For the moment, however, he would have to make do. The boys were clearly waiting for his lead. With a sigh, he scanned the familiar faces, his intention being to choose one of the older lads to help beat time, leaving Evan free to pick out parts on the piano.

Only then did he realize that Billy Hogan was missing.

“Where is Billy?” he asked. His eyes scanned the group, an assortment of ages and skin colors. One or two shrugs and a number of blank expressions were his only reply.

While waiting for Oscar, the group's newest and youngest member, to go and fetch Billy, Evan rehearsed the others in a quick review of some of their favorite songs. A few of the older boys had left the singing group altogether, opting for the military-style band Evan had recently formed some months back—again with the help of Alice Walsh. Others had chosen to be active in both groups.

Although most of the members still lived in the Five Points district, Evan had recently moved rehearsals to the house here on Elizabeth Street, an easy walk from the notorious slum. This enabled him to keep a close eye on the smaller boys now living at Whittaker House, and at the same time be available to Nora. Besides, he was convinced it did the boys good to get out of that ghastly pit, even if for only an hour or so a week.

When Oscar didn't return right away, Evan grew impatient and inexplicably disturbed. He had been worried about Billy Hogan for some weeks now, fearful that, against all practical advice, the boy would take it upon himself to go to see his family. Although Evan had made the strongest sort of appeal that Billy avoid the Five Points—thereby staying out of the abusive Sorley Dolan's reach—he had stopped short of forbidding him to go. In reality, he had no right to forbid the boy anything, since he was not his legal guardian.

That prompted another thought, one which occurred frequently these days, but which he had so far kept to himself. He wasn't sure how to broach the subject with Nora—or with Billy, for that matter. But he sometimes considered trying to gain legal custody of the boy…if Billy were willing, that is—and if Nora approved.

From what he could tell, the child's mother was virtually indifferent to him. There had been no attempt to contact Billy, no communication of any sort, in weeks. Even with Dolan hanging about the premises, the woman could surely manage to get in touch with her son, if only to warn him to stay away. But there hadn't been a word from her, and Evan had sensed the boy's bewilderment and hurt.

His heart ached for Billy Hogan. He had come to care a great deal for the little fellow with the straw-colored hair and fine-boned features and angelic voice. He wouldn't mind at all calling Billy his own. But he hadn't the slightest idea how
Billy
might feel about the possibility.

The appearance of Oscar roused him out of his thoughts.

“Can't find Billy nowhere 'tall, Mistah Evan. Miss Quinn says she ain't seen him either. And the cat, Finbar—seems like he's disappeared, too.”

Evan stared at the small mulatto boy for a moment, then turned back to the others. “Has
anyone
seen Billy? Billy Hogan?”

Again there was no reply. A growing sense of uneasiness swept over Evan. He was almost certain he knew what Billy was up to.

The boy seemed to relish every rehearsal, usually showing up early and hanging back after the hour was over. Billy simply would not miss for no reason.

Evan made the reluctant decision to go on with rehearsal. If Billy did not return before the end of the hour, he would leave at once for the Five Points.

He might not be legally responsible for Billy Hogan, but certainly his heart held him accountable all the same.

30

For Man's grim Justice goes its way,
And will not swerve aside;
It slays the weak, it slays the strong,
It has a deadly stride…

OSCAR WILDE (1854–1900)

W
hen Michael Burke stopped by Jess Dalton's office in the Bowery early that same Thursday afternoon, he found the big curly-headed preacher considerably more cheerful than when they had last met.

The pastor's handshake was vigorous, his smile quick. “Michael! Good to see you. You've come with the clothing collection your enterprising wife promised, I expect. Come in, come in!”

Michael sank down in the chair Dalton indicated, while the pastor went to sit behind the desk.

“I promised Sara to ask after your wife and family first thing,” Michael said.

Jess Dalton's smile remained cheerful. “Kerry is doing well enough, considering the circumstances. Casey-Fitz is a great help to her. And we've had some good news about Amanda, as a matter of fact. The court has granted an extension of our petition. Winston can't take Amanda
anywhere
for another month.”