Maureen had not felt the damp and raw of New York’s bleak November as she’d made her way along cobbled and paved streets to the address printed on her da’s precious letter. She’d felt only the warmth of hope, hope, hope beating in her chest.

But with the all-important letter reduced to ashes in the Wakefields’ grate, and with nothing better than a shove and a kick through the front door, the cold seeped through Maureen’s woolen shawl and skirt and chemise, right down to the chilled bones beneath her flesh and the feeble heart they covered.

The late-afternoon mist became a frigid drizzle. Shivering against the dampness that trickled down her neck, she pulled her dripping shawl over her hair, adjusting the wet, woolen weight across her shoulders. The miserable turn of the weather reflected the miserable turn in her soul.

She’d tried to prepare herself for the possibility that Colonel Wakefield, like her da, might no longer be there. She’d never prepared herself for the rough treatment of the man called Drake.

She supposed him Olivia Wakefield’s husband. If so, she pitied her yet wondered that American women were so outspoken to their husbands in front of strangers. Still, Drake’s actions and wishes had prevailed.

“Katie Rose,” she whispered as she trudged through rain-wet leaves and muddy gutters, “what will we do now? What will become of us?”

The very whispering aloud made Maureen shiver. It gave her fear voice.

“There must be another way,” she spoke louder. Those words heartened her a little, so she tried again. “Of course there’s another way. There’s never only one way.” It sounded fine spoken into the rain, but she didn’t believe it and walked a little faster—down East 20th, across Park Avenue and Broadway—as though she could outrun the inevitable.

What if I told Mrs. Melkford that I have a job—that the Wakefields gave me a job in their great house? Maureen turned down Fifth Avenue and crouched on a low stone wall beneath a tree—the first she’d seen surrounding a residence more modest than the Wakefield mansion. Dusk settled heavily. She’ll know I’ve lied when I come back with no money and no place to live. They’ll not let me have Katie Rose if I’ve no job.

Maureen buried her head in her hands. She would have sobbed if she’d been able to muster the energy. But she was too worried to sob, too frightened at the thought of losing Katie Rose to Ireland and Gavin Orthbridge.

When she lifted her head without inspiration, the night had truly come. Without a map she’d be fortunate indeed to find her way back to Mrs. Melkford’s.

Just keep walkin’, Maureen O’Reilly. You must have come halfway. Washington Square . . . Washington Square . . . It’s bound to be straight ahead, and West Fourth is just a bit from there.

Twice she tripped, the weight of her sodden skirt stretching inconveniently over her boots. A sudden weariness made her clumsy, but she pushed that away, willing herself forward.

By the time she’d traipsed another four blocks, she began to slow.

As the rain had slackened, fog had settled in across the ground, as thick as any Maureen remembered over the lakes of Ireland. But suddenly the scene changed. In one swift breath, as though a magic fairy’s wand swept the night, lights, evenly spaced along the street, created a glow like stars hanging above her reach. Maureen gasped. She’d never seen anything so bright and beautiful, so close at hand.

She looked up and down Fifth Avenue, as far as she could see, through the fog that lay beneath her waist. She’d seen electric lights, but never like this—not out-of-doors and framing a street. “It’s a sign—a sign that somethin’ good will come.” She dared say the words.

Maureen stood and shivered all the more, realizing she was soaked through. She stuffed frozen hands into her pockets, hoping to warm them, and felt something crumpled there. Digging deep, she pulled out the bills the man, Jaime Flynn, had given her. She wondered if it was enough to rent a flat, to buy food, and how long it could last in New York. She unfolded the bills from the paper that enclosed them.

Something was written on the paper. She stepped beneath a streetlamp and in the pool of electric light held the paper close. “‘Darcy’s—34th Street, Manhattan,’” she read aloud.

“What did he say?” Something about knowing of a job and a friend—a friend who would act as a relative? Maureen frowned, her heart quickening. Who is Darcy—his friend? What sort of job did he mean?

Fear and hope alternated in her mind. He didn’t seem like someone she should trust. His eyes held that lustful light that kindles in men’s eyes—not quite like men of Lord Orthbridge’s cloth, who’ve nothin’ and none to fear, but men who know how to take possession of what they want. She swallowed. But he offered to help. And the Wakefields, though they surely have aplenty, refused.

She dared not presume that Mrs. Melkford would produce a miracle—she’d only helped because Maureen was so certain things would work out with the Wakefields. No. I must convince Mrs. Melkford that I’ve worked it all out, that Katie Rose and I have a certain future and are in good hands.

Maureen tucked the paper and the bills inside her purse and drew in her breath. But what if this man Darcy wants references? Everyone wants references—hard work, character, length of term. She pondered the improbability of surviving an interview without them.

“Well,” she said aloud, “I’ll just have to get references, then, won’t I?”

But what if he wants what I’m not willin’ to give? What if he’s like Lord Orthbridge?

Maureen cringed at the thought. But what choice do I have? If I go back to Ireland, I’ve nothin’, and Katie Rose is lost. If I stay here, at least we have a chance for a different life—eventually. ’Tis a big country.

She sighed, hoping she was only borrowing trouble that she’d never have to face. Still, I’ve done what I had to before to survive and care for my family. Whatever it means, I’ll see it through.

Maureen closed her purse decisively, the click of the clasp sounding too loud in the lonely street.