“At last! I was ready to telephone the Wakefields!” Mrs. Melkford exclaimed. “They made you walk in this weather?” But she didn’t give Maureen time to explain. “You must get out of these wet things, child! Oh, I should have never let you go alone. The idea!”

Maureen could not remember having been fussed over, could not have said that anyone had ever drawn a hot bath for her, rubbed her hair dry before the stove, or made her sit while she was served a steaming bowl of turkey soup that tasted so delicious, so nourishing. No matter that the long day had proven disastrous, no matter that her nerves had been stretched taut and wound tight as a child’s top, she giggled at the kindness and grandmotherly warmth of Mrs. Melkford.

“And I’d just like to know what is so funny, Maureen O’Reilly?” Mrs. Melkford stood in the midst of her small kitchen, her nightcap askew and her hands clamped to her hips.

“I’m sorry—truly, I am.” Maureen coughed to constrain her giggles and wiped a laughing tear from her eye. “It’s just that you’re so good to me—so very, very good, and I love the pleasure of it.”

Mrs. Melkford colored in return. “Well, it’s nice to be appreciated, but I’d prefer that you’d been better treated. The thought of sending a young woman out alone after dark, let alone this time of night, is appalling—and in such weather! Whatever could they have been thinking?”

Maureen sobered.

“What is it, child? What did they say?”

Maureen drew a deep breath and spun a lie. “The comin’ home in such weather was fully my fault. I told them I was stoppin’ nearby.”

Mrs. Melkford opened her mouth to speak, but Maureen rushed on.

“I didn’t want to seem a burden the first time I met them. I wanted them to understand that I can manage on my own, with just a little help.”

Mrs. Melkford’s eyes softened and she took Maureen’s hand. “But you can’t manage alone, my dear.”

“As soon as I’ve begun a proper position, everythin’ will be fine.”

“They offered you a place, then? In service? In their home?”

Maureen shook her head. “I told you I don’t want to go in service—never again.”

“But that’s the occupation you gave for the ship’s manifest. It’s one of the best paying, most secure jobs a single woman in New York can take. Your lodging, your meals are provided, and the pay is—”

“No. No, I won’t do it.” Maureen could not keep her voice from rising. “I must provide a home for Katie Rose. I can’t do that if I’m housed in the servants’ quarters of some great house. And I was given an address—an address for a position.”

“Oh, that’s something, at least.” Mrs. Melkford poured them each a cup of tea. “What is the position? Where are they recommending?”

Maureen opened her purse and offered the paper Jaime Flynn had given her. Mrs. Melkford squinted at the paper. “‘Darcy’s, 34th Street, Manhattan.’” She frowned.

Maureen held her breath, hoping Mrs. Melkford would confirm the safety of the area.

“Darcy’s Department Store,” she said, tapping the paper. “That’s just off the old mile-long shopping district.” She stirred her tea, took a sip, and placed her cup in its saucer. Then she brightened. “I suppose that’s all right!”

“Department store?” Maureen didn’t know the term.

“Yes—oh, it’s like a group of shops, but all in one very large store. Ladies’ hats and gloves and shoes and day wear and undergarments. Jewelry and linens, children’s clothing, even some things for men—all under one roof.”

“I’ve always wanted to work in a shop.” Maureen could not believe her fortune. Perhaps Jaime Flynn was a good man, as good as his word, after all.

“It’s hard work, mind you,” Mrs. Melkford cautioned. “On your feet ten, twelve hours a day, running to and fro and waiting on customers—not really good for a woman’s health. And with the Christmas season upon us, the work will be ferocious.”

But it seemed wonderful to Maureen. “I’ve worked as a lady’s maid, and in service before that, I was on call day and night, with only a half day off on Sundays.”

“The pay is not much, and they’ll expect you to dress well—respectably and somewhat fashionably—to represent the store.”

Maureen’s heart fell. “I’ve only these things I came in.”

“Did you tell the Wakefields that?”

“No, I couldn’t.” Maureen drew in but honestly said, “I couldn’t bear to say such a thing.”

“A little pride is understandable, my dear, but it well may be your undoing.” She stood and brushed off the crumbs from their late supper. “Well, at least we can do something about that. The Missionary Aid Society has charity bundles—cast-off shoes and clothing and the like from society matrons. They’re not very practical, but we’ll likely find something suitable among them.” She eyed Maureen’s figure critically. “You’re a tall one, but there’s not much meat. We can make do.”

Maureen sighed. It was more, by far, than she’d expected.

“I suppose Monday’s soon enough to apply. That gives us a day or two to fit you out.” She placed the dishes in the sink. “Are they expecting you tomorrow?”

“The shop?”

“The Wakefields. Are they expecting you to move in with them tomorrow?”

Maureen hesitated.

“They are expecting you to live with them, aren’t they? At Morningside? Gramercy Park is fourteen or so blocks from Darcy’s, but you’re young; you’ll have no trouble with that. You’ll not make enough to live on your own, let alone to support your sister, you know.”

“No, no of course not.”

“Sunday? Monday?”

“They’ll not be expectin’ me before Monday.” Maureen checked her clothes to see if they were dry. She couldn’t bear to look into Mrs. Melkford’s eyes and lie outright. And after all, I only said they’re not expectin’ me before then. I didn’t actually say they’re expectin’ me at all.

“Well, I’m just as glad to have you here for a few days more.” She patted Maureen’s hand. “Henry and I never had children of our own, and I do enjoy you girls.” She straightened to the business at hand. “The Society’s running on light duty through the weekend, thanks to the Thanksgiving food donations from churches and donors. I’ll not be needed there before Monday. We can outfit you, and you can rest up a bit before your big day. That will surely give the Wakefields time to contact Darcy’s owners and clear your way—unless they gave you a letter of reference to present directly.” Mrs. Melkford tipped her head. “Did they?”

“Did they?” Maureen repeated.

“Did they give you a letter to present to Darcy’s?” Mrs. Melkford repeated patiently.

“No, but—I suspect you’re right. They’ll send word round.”

“Hmm. Yes, I suppose that is how they’d manage things. Though it would be nice to have something in hand when you go.” Mrs. Melkford smiled tentatively. “Well, I imagine they know best.”

Maureen sighed in relief. She knew she should feel shame and remorse for misleading Mrs. Melkford. She knew she should be worried about Katie Rose and all that lay ahead. But for now, she could rest and sleep, knowing no harm would come to her while under Mrs. Melkford’s watchful eye.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Oh yes, I’m sure they do.”

It was a small matter for Maureen to wait until the clock bonged twelve and until she was assured of Mrs. Melkford’s even breathing, of her deep sleep. Maureen rose from her place on the settee and crept on bare feet to Mrs. Melkford’s desk, turned up the lamp, and twisted the small brass key, left trustingly in the desk lock. Inside the drawer she found the impressive Missionary Aid Society letterhead—letterhead entrusted to Mrs. Melkford’s care and for her use on behalf of the society.

In her best hand, the hand tutored by Lady Catherine herself, Maureen wrote a fine letter of recommendation for the recently immigrated Maureen O’Reilly—not glowing, but credible and substantial, detailing her excellent character and past service to Lady Catherine Orthbridge of County Meath, Ireland. She signed the letter with a modest flourish, Mrs. Florence Melkford.