Chapter Ten
“They all think I’m a male reporter. For the time being, I’m going to remain on the low-down. But later—ah, later I’ll set them straight.”
Dorothea shared the news as she poured tea for both of them, once more in the back room at Sybil’s. She felt much less nervous in O’Hare’s company this time. In fact, she’d looked forward all day to meeting him, and her spirits ran high.
As always when happy, she chattered. She realized belatedly she’d barely stopped talking since she came in, through the back this time as requested.
Hare said little. He merely sat at his ease, watching her.
Smiling.
And oh, how handsome he looked—even more so than she remembered, and she’d remembered him well.
She halted her flow of chatter abruptly. “I’m so sorry. I haven’t allowed you a word. My ma always says I’m like a runaway train when I get talking.”
His smile deepened. What did she see in his eyes? Surely not admiration?
“You’re a rare one, Dora Sinclair, and no mistake.”
She pushed his tea cup across the table and pulled out her notebook. “So are you ready to do the next interview?”
“No.”
“Mr. Winton plans to run one a week, but we can do the actual interviews anytime…” Her mind belatedly caught up with her tongue, and her heart sank. “No? Don’t say you’ve changed your mind.”
“I have not. And we can do the interviews any time you like. Today, though, I just wanted to thank you.”
“Thank me?”
“It’s a lovely piece of writing, Dora. Mostly fiction, though.”
“I don’t think so. I may have massaged the words a bit—embellished the sentiments—but it’s all true, if you look at it. Everything you told me.”
“I doubt the good people of this city have ever before given a thought to an Irish wean working ten hours on an empty stomach.”
“That’s the whole point, isn’t it? To unite everyone in Boston beneath a single umbrella—that of being human.”
“A fine sentiment, that, and your article was very persuasive. But I fear the soft feelings stop at the pocketbook.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Really, Hare, we’re fighting for the same things—just in different ways.”
“Fighting, are you?”
“Oh, yes, don’t doubt it. I’ve never been able to tolerate injustice.” She thought of her friend Jo, back home—a freed slave. “It trips something in me. I become furious. In this case, I’ll fight with words.”
“Mightier than the sword, eh?”
“They can be. And in conjunction with the sword—oh, just imagine!”
His gaze moved over her face. “I am. So I’m to man the bulwarks of the struggle, am I, while you work your magic behind the scenes?”
“Something like that.”
“We’re a team?”
Her gaze engaged and held his. “I hope so.” She cleared her throat and asked, “What reaction have you had to the article?”
“I’m flaming famous among my friends and cohorts. Of course, everyone in the city knew my identity—half of them thought me a bully, the other half a mouthpiece. No one thought much about the reasons I’m fighting or that there are hundreds in this city just like me. Not till now.”
“That’s good, right?”
“It’s good. People have been coming by the cabinet shop just to take a gander at me and stopping me on the street to shake my hand. The lady of the house where we’re installing the new kitchen treated me to a half-hour diatribe about necessity. Apparently when she bargained down a price, she never thought about the bread she snatched from the mouths of hungry bairns.”
“Till now.”
“Till now.”
“Then we’ve already accomplished something.” Dorothea slid the plate of pastries closer. “I almost feel guilty having these when others haven’t.”
“Don’t. I like seeing you enjoy them.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
Again their gazes touched and held. This time it felt like a physical embrace. Dorothea had a sudden, blinding image of what else she might enjoy with this man. Sweet mercy, what was the matter with her? She never entertained such thoughts.
She selected a pastry and pushed the plate at him. “You too.”
“Nah, I’m fine with the tea.” His gaze didn’t flicker from hers. Why did she feel he implied he’d rather feast his eyes on her?
“You have an incredible face, Dora Sinclair. Do you know that? Lovely as a rose, and it shows everything you think.”
Dorothea devoutly hoped not.
“So,” she said quickly, “what do you think we should highlight with the next piece? I was thinking I’d focus on all the men who get dismissed out of hand, describe the reasons they’re fighting, and outline what happens to their families as a consequence.”
“Continuing the hungry child theme, eh?”
“More or less.”
His graceful, brown fingers toyed with the plate. “How did you come up with that title, then? A Hungry Heart?”
“It just came to me. Things frequently do. I mean to expand upon it, show throughout the series that a heart can be hungry for more than food—for justice, respect, equality…”
“Love?”
“Love, certainly.” Dorothea drew a breath.
“The men you’re talking about, the ones who work sixteen-hour days for a pittance, who scrape their fingers bloody and break their backs only to be dismissed out of hand, who accept the insults, the slurs, and the injustice—that’s why they do it. For love. Love of their wives and their bairns—the children society says they have by accident and don’t value. This I’ve seen for truth.”
“Then that’s what I’ll have to show through our interviews.”
“There’s a passion in the struggle for equality, Miss Dora—a quiet passion that beats in men’s hearts. They spend themselves for those they love.”
Breathless, Dorothea asked, “Is that what you do?”
“Me?” He shrugged. “I do it for love of them—for the sake of their valiant spirits. I’ve no one close to me now.”
“No wife? No sweetheart?”
“Sweetheart, is it?” He grinned. “There are women. There are always women. They come and go like the tides. Not one has stayed.”
Dorothea found that hard to believe. “Perhaps it’s because you don’t welcome them.”
“Perhaps so.” Laughter brimmed in his eyes. “Never say you mean to write a story about my romantic exploits.”
“People might be interested. The girls at Mrs. Bennett’s would.”
“I doubt that. By any road, it’s scarcely relevant.” He wagged his eyebrows at her. “Enjoy that Napoleon, did you?”
“Very much.” Unthinking, Dorothea licked her fingers; O’Hare’s eyes narrowed.
“You missed a bit there.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Cream at the corner of your mouth.” Languidly, he reached across the table and used his finger to scoop away the errant blob of filling. Dorothea froze where she sat, while sensation spiked through her and her heart took up a slow, throbbing rhythm.
“Can’t have you looking anything but the proper lady now, can we?”
“No.” Dorothea tore her eyes from his and focused them on her notebook. “So…so our next effort will showcase the men involved in the struggle, as you call it, and their families. Only these are meant to be interviews with you, so it will all have to come through your m-mouth. Mr. Winton was very specific about that. Otherwise I feel I have fairly free license, which is quite extraordinary in the newspaper business. I can’t even tell you. No reporter gets that kind of leeway, least to say one who’s a virtual unknown—”
“Dora.”
“Reporters have to work years and years for this kind of opportunity, so you see I’m really the one who should be thanking you—”
“Dora!”
“Yes?”
“Breathe, lass.”
“Eh?”
“You’re running on something fierce.”
“Oh, yes, I guess I am. Will—”
He reached across the table again and covered her hand with his. The sheer heat of his touch silenced her.
I can’t do this, I can’t be around him. Not when he affects me this way. Why does he affect me this way?
“I did warn you,” she addressed their joined hands.
“Warn me of what?”
“That I tend to talk too much when I’m—excited.” Heat stained her cheeks at the implication. He withdrew his hand and laughed softly.
That made her glare. “Are you scoffing at me?”
“No. Never.” He laid his hand on his heart. “I wouldn’t dare. You’re much too earnest. Anyway, there’s nothing to scoff at. You’re right; this is a sterling opportunity for both of us.”
Still addressing her notebook she said, “I think we should approach this through the medium of employment. Talk about your job at the cabinetmaker’s, how you got it and all, then veer into the lack of opportunities for other Irish, no matter how skilled or unskilled.”
“That’s an intelligent plan.”
“Then you approve?”
“I do. With one addition.”
She lifted her eyes to his. “What’s that?”
“I think, before you write the piece, you should meet one of these families.”
Enthusiasm flooded her. “Oh, yes. You just give me their direction and—”
“No, it doesn’t work like that. They won’t talk to you, won’t even let you in, unless I introduce you.”
“Very well. Can you think of a particular family?”
“There are dozens. But Terry Gallagher’s comes to mind.”
“How many children?”
“Six, and Deirdre’s expecting.”
“We’ll take them some pastries. I’ll bet they’ve never tasted the like. Might we?”
Again he studied her before he said, “All right. I’ll pick some up on the way. Tomorrow night?”
“Fine, but we’d better meet here. It wouldn’t do for you to come to the rooming house.”
He winked at her. “Five o’clock?”
Dorothea couldn’t wait.