Chapter Eleven

O’Hare stole yet another look at the woman beside him. For the sake of her continued anonymity he’d hired a cab—not that anyone would tumble to her identity as D. R. Sinclair if they saw her with him. Female reporters were far too rare. More likely folks would consider her his fancy piece.

But she didn’t look that part, either. As he’d said yesterday, she was too much the lady. Today she wore the blue hat he’d rescued for her on the waterfront—somewhat repaired—and a fetching little outfit with a short jacket and blue piping all round.

She’d spent every minute since they’d met telling him about refurbishing the hat, brushing away the dried grit and mending the veil with tiny stitches she hoped wouldn’t show. She went on and on about her ma being a seamstress, as well as her best friend—the one married to her apprenticed blacksmith not-quite-brother—and how, despite all that, skill with a needle never came easily to her.

She could talk—sweet Jesus, how the woman could talk! The fact that she didn’t give him a chance to insert a word meant she felt either happy or nervous.

O’Hare didn’t mind. He liked listening to her, letting the conversation sort of wash over him like water onto a shore. He liked being alone with her in the cab, as well, just the two of them together—enjoyed the way it made him feel and how he could catch the delicate scent of her, mingled roses and woman.

He even liked the way she clutched the white bakery box from Sybil’s, balancing it against every bump and turn to protect the contents. How could he explain to her that Terry’s bairns wouldn’t care if she brought a sack of crumbs—it had been so long since they had a treat.

Still, it was a kind gesture on her part, and something he wouldn’t have considered. He spent his time thinking about fundamentals like keeping the Gallaghers’ rent paid. A treat, as he knew, could be just as important.

He’d never celebrated a birthday when young. In fact, when he was eight, he’d had to ask his ma when his birthday was; all his friends knew theirs—he didn’t.

“It’s in May,” she’d told him and taken a vague stab at it. “The twenty-first?”

He focused hastily on what Dora was saying just as she paused for breath. “Words. For me it’s always been about words.”

He wondered what she’d do if he kissed her right here in the gloom of the stuffy cab. He bet she’d stop talking then. Maybe even drop the box of pastries.

That would be a damn shame.

“What?” she inquired, peering at him. “Why are you smiling?”

“Am I smiling?”

“Yes.”

“Must be your matchless company. Hold on now, lass; we’ve arrived.”

The Gallaghers shared three cramped rooms at the top of an ugly house in a narrow street, and glad to have them. Since Terry had been thrown out of work last winter, they’d paid the rent in a variety of ways, including through collections raised by their friends. O’Hare knew Terry Gallagher for a proud man who rarely took a drink and wanted only to work—at variance with the caricature of the Irishman rife in this city.

He wondered what Dora, with her compassionate heart, would make of the family.

Deirdre Gallagher, leading with her great belly, opened the door to his knock and greeted them with a dignified nod. A bonny woman was Deirdre, with pretty blue eyes and glossy brown hair now twisted into the semblance of a bun.

“Will you not come in?”

Terry stepped up then, a big shuffling man who shook O’Hare’s hand and gave Dorothea an uncertain look. Terry had needed to be talked into this. He didn’t relish having his personal business splashed all over the city, he’d declared, but at last he’d been persuaded by the prospect of helping other families like his.

The children stood in a silent row, the eldest, Graine, with the youngest, Matty, in her arms. Pity tugged at O’Hare’s heart when he saw how Deirdre had done her best to clothe them all for the occasion in garments passed down so many times they were faded to gray. He remembered the winter he’d had nothing for his feet but a broken, ill-fitting pair of shoes found in the trash, shoes he’d had to tie to his feet.

He felt for these bairns.

“Oh, what a beautiful family! Here—we brought these.” Dorothea thrust the white box of pastries at Deirdre. “I hope you’ll share them around.”

It took precisely five minutes for Dorothea’s warmth to thaw Deirdre Gallagher, ten for Terry to lose his stiff pride and lean toward her confidingly at the kitchen table. The children loved her from the moment their ma opened the white box.

And after all, O’Hare had to say little. He just sat, drank the weak tea Deirdre gave him, and watched while Dorothea Sinclair worked her magic.

It lay in her words, her impulsive sympathy, and the thoughtless respect she offered her hosts. It shone through the kindness in her lovely eyes which, more than once, filled with tears.

She scribbled lines and lines of notes, all while continuing to listen with the utmost attention. In the end, Terry Gallagher tapped her notebook and asked, “You think it will help, this story o’ yours?”

“I believe it will, Mr. Gallagher, I sincerely do. Otherwise I wouldn’t be doing this.”

“You just make sure you put in there that I want to work, mind. I’d work twenty-four hours a day if I had to, to keep my family from want. All I’m asking is a fair chance.”

“I’ll do my best to make my readers understand that, Mr. Gallagher.”

“And feel it, miss.” Deirdre scrubbed tears from her cheeks. “If only they could feel what I feel, putting my weans to bed at night, knowing they’ve not had enough to eat. And this new one coming—I fear for him, so I do.”

Dorothea Sinclair might have nodded, she might have made promises and added to her notes. Instead, she reached across the table and gave Deirdre Gallagher a hug. The two women embraced like old friends—or rather, O’Hare thought, like new ones.

“I wish there were more I could do to help your family.”

“’Tis not just us,” Terry told her earnestly. “There are dozens like us throughout Boston, men who get dismissed when they raise the slightest request, who get tossed out and have to go home and tell their families…” His voice broke.

Deirdre took it up. “And they call us lazy! My husband is not lazy, miss! I’ve seen him work like a draft horse at jobs no one else would touch, for pennies. Pennies!”

“I understand.” Dorothea gripped her notebook. “And I will do my best. But you make me feel humbled, putting so much faith in me.”

O’Hare’s heart stirred in his chest. He did not want to entertain feelings for Dorothea Sinclair. She represented temptation enough already, with her rosy cheeks and glorious, midnight-dark hair. This thing they undertook together was much too important for him to muck it up with his feelings.

“Are we finished, Miss Sinclair?” he asked softly.

“I think so, yes.” She got to her feet and offered Terry and Deirdre her hand in turn. “It’s been an honor meeting you, and speaking with you.” She smiled at Deirdre. “Good luck with the baby. When are you due?”

Deirdre’s face lit. “Within the month.”

“I have a new baby brother back home in Maine. His name’s Andy.”

“Ah, and isn’t that just the name we plan on if this one’s a boy?” Deirdre clasped Dorothea’s hand in both of hers. “Bless you, miss.”

O’Hare laid his finger aside his nose. “And not a word, now, that D. R. Sinclair is a miss. We’re keeping that under our hats for the time. It’ll get out eventually, just not yet.”

O’Hare steadied Dorothea’s elbow going down the steep, narrow stairs, wondering again why he felt so stirred by this woman at his side. Sweet and genuine, smart and beautiful—how then could he fail to be stirred?

He saw her into the cab and climbed in after her. A few minutes alone before he had to part with her again.

“You’re unusually silent, Miss Dora.”

She looked at him in the soft gloom. “I’m wondering if I can do their story justice. So much rides on it.”

“You can.”

“I’m not sure—”

“Dora, lass, you can.”

Her gaze clung to his. “How can you be certain?”

“Because you were marvelous back there. You have a rare ability to affect people. Don’t underestimate it.”

“I wish—I wish I could find Terry Gallagher a job, a good one. I wish I could take the worry from his wife’s eyes. I wish those children could have cakes every day and never, never go to bed hungry.”

She swiped her cheeks, much as Deirdre had.

“Don’t weep, lass.”

“I can’t help it. Did you see their faces when they tasted those pastries? Did you?”

“Yes.”

“And can you imagine going without?”

He could; he had. It made a wide gulf between them, because she couldn’t imagine what he’d lived, so well had her blacksmith father and her seamstress mother taken care of her.

Yet she had a heart capable of making a leap across that distance. And there in the cab he wanted nothing so much as to take her in his arms and kiss her, make an intimate acquaintance with all the warmth that lay in store for the man—the one lucky man—upon whom she might bestow it.

Not him. Surely not him. They were crusaders together, nothing more.

And surely he’d long ago outgrown wanting things he couldn’t have.