Chapter Twenty-Two

When the gray light of morning seeped into the room to compete with the yellow radiance from the oil lamp, Dorothea lifted her head and gazed at the man beside her. She’d long since gone from sitting on the edge of the bed to lying curled up beside O’Hare, her hand still in his. Someone—probably Ron—had tucked a blanket around her.

Now Ron dozed in a chair across the room. Dorothea could not claim she’d slept, just flitted in and out of awareness, pricked by constant stabs of fear.

For a long time she’d heard voices coming from the men downstairs and wondered why they stayed, until she realized they must be on guard in case someone came to finish the job and make sure O’Hare did not survive.

Had he survived?

She stared at him in alarm by the sickly combination of real and artificial light. If anything, he looked worse than last night, the bruises deepened in intensity, the swollen patches more extreme. She leaned close, striving to catch his shallow exhalations, for he breathed so low she’d several times during the night been sure he’d slipped away. He lives.

Did this first light count for morning? Did the doctor’s promise hold true, and would Hare now survive?

At least he felt warm. She squeezed his fingers and touched his throat, one of the few places he wasn’t bruised. When she did, she felt the beat of his heart, steady as the blows her father struck in the forge.

Thinking of her father brought tears to her eyes. For a moment she longed so for him, with his kindness and quiet strength, she could barely see straight.

What would he want her to do now? Keep strong, be patient. Fight for the man she loved, tooth and nail if she had to.

The certainty of that allowed her to blink the tears from her eyes. She whispered, “You’re not going anywhere without me, understand?”

O’Hare’s lips moved as if in response. He couldn’t open his eyes, both of which had swollen shut, but Dorothea felt convinced he heard her.

“Hold on to me,” she told him. “This is the worst of it. You’re strong, so strong. And I promise you’re not alone.”

Ron stirred in his chair, got up and moved to the side of the bed. “He’s alive?”

“Yes.”

“Well, girl—you kept him anchored to you all night. That’s a good sign. What now?”

Dorothea tried to think beyond the victory of this moment, to peer into a day she could barely imagine.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Murray, but he’ll have to stay here. It’s too soon to move him yet. I think he should see the doctor again. I’d be much happier if he woke up.”

“And once he does?”

“See what he remembers, so we can file charges. Either way, I think we need to get the police here today. Justice must be available to all in this city—Irish or otherwise. But I’ll accept vigilante justice as well as the official kind.”

Ron smiled crookedly. “He’s responding to your voice—see that? His fingers twitched, and his eyebrow, too. Maybe he likes that you’re still fighting.”

“So long as he keeps fighting also.” Dorothea thought furiously. “Can you send someone for the coppers as soon as it’s full light? And if I write a note, can you get my things from my rooming house? Sorry to do this to you, but I may have to stay here too, for the duration.”

Ron shrugged. “I don’t mind, girl. And I’m not planning to open up today. I think one of the lads is still sleeping downstairs.”

“Good. Because this is the hero of Irish Boston. And it’s time for the Irish of this city to stand up and be counted—with the police or without them.”

****

By noon, Dorothea had spoken to two strapping police officers who came to Ron’s shop and listened impassively to her account of things. Even though one of them had red hair and a thick Irish brogue, they displayed little sympathy and made no promises.

“Happens every day, miss,” said the second, non-Irish officer. “We rarely have any success chasing down the perpetrators. Say—aren’t you the reporter who wrote all those stories about O’Hare—D. R. Sinclair? There’s a story about you in a special edition today.”

So there was. As soon as the police departed, Dorothea asked Ron to send for a copy of the Guardian. They read the headline together, in stunned surprise:

Dead Hero of Irish Boston

Was In Romantic Relationship With Reporter.

Color mounted in Dorothea’s cheeks as she read the account, written by one Jeremy Winton—of course—describing how a female employee on the Guardian staff had deceived them into believing her a legitimate reporter, all while pursuing her own agenda.

The young woman in question had been meeting the subject clandestinely at the den of a fortuneteller in this city and clearly slanted her stories to present her lover in the most favorable light. The Guardian apologizes to its readers for perpetrating a false image of the subject, who has disappeared and is believed dead.

Dorothea looked up from the page and met Ron Murray’s stare. “They think he’s dead!”

“Not for long,” Ron grunted. “There’s too many know he’s here.”

She swore softly, using words of which her mother would heartily disapprove. “Those blackguards—they used me and my features to sell all those papers, and now they fall back to their usual stance, that of hate-mongering. What’s more, this edition must have gone to print last night. How could they have known about the attack, unless…”

“Unless one of the lads talked, which they wouldn’t.”

“Or Dr. Liffey.”

“Don’t think he would, for all his sins.”

“If he were drunk…”

“Even if he were drunk.”

Dorothea tapped the byline on the paper. “Maybe the Guardian orchestrated the attack on Hare. What if Winton not only knew about the contract but initiated it?”

“Would he?”

“Mr. Murray, I believe Montgomery and Jeremy Winton would do any vile thing to further the profile of this paper.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Have my things been brought from the boarding house yet?”

“Yes. The old harridan there went off on the lad—said to tell you never to darken her door again.”

“She needn’t worry.”

“But your reputation, miss—if it gets out you’re staying in an all-male household…”

“Oh, it will. Everything will out. And my reputation be damned. What worries me is protecting O’Hare once Boston at large figures out that he’s not dead—and just where he is.”

Ron’s eyes narrowed. “You have something in mind, haven’t you?”

“I intend to write a story.” She turned her eyes on Hare, who lay so quietly. She hated to leave him even for a moment but didn’t know how else she could carry on the fight. “Then I’ll have to go out for a while.”

“Not on your own, you won’t. It’s not safe. I’ll come with you.”

“No, Mr. Murray, you need to stay here, organize a guard, and look after him.”

Ron snapped his fingers. “I think I have just the solution. You write your story, girl. Leave the rest to me.”

****

“Are you sure he’s not dead?”

The woman who stood at Hare O’Hare’s bedside smelled of the finest French perfume and shone with sartorial splendor from her tiny, silk-clad feet to the smart hat perched on her golden head.

Dorothea, who had dressed hastily in clothing dragged from Mrs. Bennett’s and couldn’t find a hat at all, eyed her with mingled emotions. Marielle Dickenson, so Ron Murray declared, was a good friend of Hare O’Hare’s. And, obviously, a woman of some means.

“The story’s all over town that he’s been murdered and thrown in the Charles River,” the vision went on miserably. “And I must admit, he looks dead enough.”

She might appear a great lady, but Irish rolled from her tongue and shone from her eyes when she gazed at Dorothea—an indefinable something visible despite the tears.

“It was a close thing last night. The doctor seemed to think the head injuries would carry him off.”

“So—you’re she? The woman in his life? And you’re also the one who wrote those marvelous stories. It’s all anyone’s talking about, and nearly a riot out there. Won’t be long till he’s located. What then?”

“I believe all this was orchestrated by management at the Guardian.”

Marielle’s eyebrows flew up. “So what’s to be done?”

“I mean to expose them. I’ll go there this afternoon and resign, and then I’ll take my story to the Herald.” Dorothea indicated the sheets of paper on the table beside the bed. “But I need someone to accompany me—someone of unimpeachable credentials.”

“Me?” Marielle’s eyebrows soared higher still. “Mr. Dickenson will have a fit.”

“If you’re not willing…”

“I didn’t say that. I’d love to take on those hate-mongers at the Guardian, with their lies. I have to say, I was that surprised at them running a series of stories putting someone like Hare in a good light. But they were just selling papers.”

“I believe they were behind the attack.”

“If you’ve a way to bring the bastards down, count me in.”

“Mrs. Dickenson, if you don’t mind me asking—what’s Hare O’Hare to you?”

Marielle smiled tenderly. “You mean, Timmy? That’s the name he went by when we first met, you know. We were in service together. Ah, don’t look so surprised; I was naught but an Irish lass laying the fires and scrubbing the pots of those better than me. Only they weren’t better.” She glanced at the man in Ron’s bed. “He may well be. And you. But in any case, I love him like a brother, if that satisfies you.”

“I have three brothers. They’re maddening, but I’d give my life for them.”

“Or your reputation? You’ve no idea what it’s like out there, Miss Sinclair. The city’s gone mad. But if you—or he—need me, I’ll stand by your side.”

“Then, Mrs. Dickenson, better gird yourself up for a battle.”