The Heart's Secrets

By Ruth Ryan Langan

A Ruth Ryan Langan Historical Romance Classic.

Dublin O'Driscoll learns a painful secret that will take her from her beloved Ireland to the mean streets of San Francisco in the early 1900's. There she discovers the grandfather she never knew, and is introduced to a lavish lifestyle she couldn't even imagine.

Two very different men fall in love with the fiery beauty. David, the son of her grandfather's bitterest enemy, is like the brother she never had, even though he is forbidden from seeing her. And Ross, plucked from the streets by her grandfather and now the handsome, confident rogue who is comfortable with actresses, whores and debutantes, becomes her secret passion. But Dublin's determination to uncover the identity of her father nearly destroys any chance she may have of finding true love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ruth Ryan Langan
• Release date: Jun 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9781452487540

Ruth Ryan Langan

New York Times best-selling author Ruth Ryan Langan, who also writes under the pseudonym R. C. Ryan, is the author of over 100 novels, both contemporary romantic-suspense and historical adventure. Quite an accomplishment for this mother of five who, after her youngest child started school, gave herself the gift of an hour a day to follow her dream to become a published author. Ruth has given dozens of radio, television and print interviews across the country and Canada, and has been quoted in such diverse publications as THE WALL STREET JOURNAL and COSMOPOLITAN. Ruth has also been interviewed on CNN NEWS, as well as GOOD MORNING AMERICA.

Book preview

Prologue

Sherkin Island, Ireland—1904

She was named for a city she had never seen. In fact, Dublin Mary O’Driscoll had lived her entire seventeen years on the tiny island of Sherkin, never venturing beyond its shores. Though only a mile from the mainland, she had never had occasion to go there. Sherkin’s coastline was rocky and indented with inlets and small coves. Two harbors, Kinish in the west and Horseshoe in the east, extended far inland, almost dividing the island into two parts. From the hills of Slievemore many neighboring islands could be seen: Inishodriscol, Castle Island, and Cape Clear Island.

Sherkin’s hundred inhabitants were either fishermen or boat builders. Dublin’s father, Sean, like his father before him, made his living from the sea. Theirs was a proud heritage. At one time, centuries ago, all fishing activity on this coast was controlled by the O’Driscolls, who levied exorbitant tolls on foreign vessels. But by the sixteen hundreds, the power and prestige of the O’Driscolls began to wane. Now they were simple fishermen. And still proud.

Each morning at dawn Dublin packed her father’s lunch and kissed his weathered cheek, then stood in the doorway watching until he reached the little harbor where the fishing boats bobbed. Late afternoons found her waiting at the dock, holding a tin of hot tea and freshly baked biscuits smothered with his favorite jam. Since her mother had died nearly ten years earlier, Dublin had been the woman of the house. It was her responsibility to see to her aged father’s needs.

It was a fine day, with the sun burning off the mist, and a gentle, southern breeze. A day to quicken the heart and make even the old men dream a young man’s dream.

It was not a day made for tragedy.

Dublin glanced at the darkening sky and wrapped the tin of tea and biscuits in a linen cloth. After pulling shut the door of the little cottage, she hurried to the wharf.

Shading her eyes, she watched the parade of clumsy fishing boats make their way toward shore. Big enough to hold a dozen men, their hulls bleached gray by sun and water, the boats had been built for utilitarian purposes. Seaworthy they were, and able to withstand even the squalls which blew through the Gascanane Sound. The name Gascanane translated to petulant, which summed up the character of that body of Atlantic between Sherkin and the mainland. Inhabitants of the mainland who were forced to make the crossing to the outlying islands often passed the time composing rhyming couplets, in order to divert their attention from the danger lurking around them.

The O’Driscoll boat, owned by her father and uncle, came into view. Dublin strained for a glimpse of her father. He always stood in the bow and waved. With a smile lighting her eyes, she waited.

The boat drew closer, and still there was no sign of Sean O’Driscoll. She felt a tiny thread of fear begin to curl around her heart, and fought to push it aside. He was busy with the catch, she reminded herself sternly. She was getting too old to act like such a child. Was it really necessary for her da to wave to her every single day?

The waves slapped against the docks and the boats slipped closer, until Dublin could make out the faces of the fishermen. Yet there was no sign of her father.

When the boat was several yards from shore, Shea O’Donnell leaped over the side and began heaving on a rope. Slick with sheen, his muscles rippled, and the veins in his forehead stood out in sharp relief. The others waited, knowing that this giant of a lad could manage without their help. Soon the boat was tied securely at the wharf.

Where’s my da? Dublin called, racing along the pier.

Wait now, Dublin. We’ll bring him, Shea said sharply, catching her arm.

Bring him? Her eyes widened. God in heaven, what’s happened?

He has a fever. The voice, usually robust, was hushed, almost reverent.

Dublin wrenched her arm free and ran to the boat. Several of the men had already managed to lift the old man to a sitting position.

What’ve you done to yourself, Da? she cried.

Seeing his daughter, his lips twisted into a semblance of a smile. Hush, now. Don’t be fussing. Run ahead, lass, and make ready my bed.

For a moment Dublin was unable to move. Never had her father taken sick. Never had she seen him take to his bed before supper. He was the strongest man she knew. Strong enough to man the oars when a norther whipped the sea into a frenzy; strong enough to work the cumbersome nets all day, heavy with fish and kelp and seaweed; strong enough to spend the late hours of the night sitting by the fire mending the nets while younger men gave in to exhaustion. He could do the work of three other men and never complain of being tired. Though he was only average height, and his middle had thickened with age, his neck and shoulders were corded with muscles. Close to seventy, Sean O’Driscoll could still beat any man on the island in a test of strength, be it arm wrestling or beaching an overturned vessel. His mind was equally strong. When it came to strength of strategy, no one came close to beating him at chess. No one except his equally clever daughter.

Go, Dublin, he said, his voice cracking.

She blinked, then forced herself into action. Still clutching the linen-wrapped tea and biscuits, she lifted her skirts and began running toward the little cottage.

When the men arrived, carrying her father, his bed linens were turned down, and several lighted candles flickered at the windows of the spotless little room. In the fireplace a log hissed and snapped.

While the men lowered their burden to his bed, Shea O’Donnell took one look at Dublin’s ashen features and drew her aside. He was a strapping youth, only a year older than Dublin, and unlike his father and brothers, who were shipbuilders, he had joined the ranks of the fishermen. Though he’d never admitted it, even to himself, he’d taken the job so that he’d have the chance to see her every day.

A thatch of sandy hair curled softly around Shea’s handsome, boyish face. Intense blue eyes studied her. We were bringing in the nets, and your da just stood there, letting the net slip through his fingers. A minute later he pitched forward into the water. I managed to haul him back to the boat, but the fever was already upon him.

Dublin glanced at the still figure in the bed.

Was he sick this morning, Dublin?

Distressed, she could only shake her head.

The young man studied the spill of coal black hair, and eyes the color of a storm-tossed sea. Green they were, with little flecks of gold that sparkled like sunlight on the foamy water. Her skin was classically Irish, pale as porcelain, with finely chiseled features that he’d loved since he’d first seen her at the age of five. She was the finest lass in Sherkin. Too fine for the likes of him, he told himself sternly. But his heart refused to listen. He loved her, and would probably go on loving her all his life, even if she never bothered to look his way except to offer a proper greeting.

Her uncle walked over and touched her hand. Like his brother, Brian O’Driscoll was thick-shouldered, with arms as sturdy as tree limbs. His skin was the texture of leather, and though he was nearly ten years younger than Sean, his hair had long ago gone white.

I’ll be fetching Father Malloy.

Dublin blanched. Do you think it’s that bad, Uncle Brian?

The man nodded somberly. I was only seven when my own da took the fever. He was dead before morning. Seeing the pain in her eyes, he added softly, I’ll send one of the lads for my Kate. You’ll be wanting a woman’s comfort. Motioning for the others to follow, he led the way from the cottage. Feeling the panic rising inside her, she turned to follow them.

Dublin.

At the sound of her father’s voice, she hurried to his side. Here, Da, drink this. She held the tin of tea to his lips.

No, darlin. Take it away.

But you need to regain your strength. Drink.

I’m dying, lass. And no amount of tea can change that.

Hush, now. Don’t talk nonsense.

The old man lay in his bed, his breathing labored. Despite his illness, his grip was surprisingly strong as he grasped her hand. Listen to me, Dublin.

At his tone the protest she was about to utter died on her lips.

Hand me the little wooden box under my bed.

She did as she was told.

With trembling fingers the old man withdrew a yellowed document. Your mum and I never knew how to tell you this. His voice broke. But with Molly dead, I have to tell you before I die as well. He took a long, deep breath, and she heard the rattle of fluid in his lungs. You were never really our daughter, Dublin.

She touched a hand to his forehead and felt the heat of his skin. What nonsense. That’s the fever talking, Da.

No. He pushed her hand away and held the paper toward her. It’s all here, lass. The day of your birth, your real mother’s name, as well as the name of her parents.

Dublin stared at the yellowed document, her features going stiff. The blood seemed to have drained from her, leaving her trembling from the damp chill.

Your real mother was a young lass, no older than you are now. She said she had no husband. She had run away from her home in America because she couldn’t bear to tell her father what she had done. She was trying to reach her mother’s people in Dublin. He paused, but before Dublin could interrupt, he went on. There was a terrible shipwreck. Some of the bodies were washed ashore during the next few weeks. Some were never recovered.

Da, you don’t know—

Listen, child. I have so little time. He drew in his breath, as if each word were an effort. Your mother was beautiful. Molly and I thought she was the most beautiful creature we’d ever seen. His tone lowered. You’ve inherited her beauty. When Dublin remained silent, he went on. We found her lying on the beach. Molly assisted her in the birth, then together we brought the two of you here to our cottage. He thought of the tragic young woman, so beautiful, so near death, desperately trying to arrange her baby’s future. She knew she was dying. She refused to reveal the name of the man who was your father. She said only that her own father would never understand, and would never forgive her for what she had done. She asked that we name you Dublin, for the city she’d hoped would be her refuge, and that we raise you as our own.

He thought of their consternation when he and Molly had agreed to the child’s name. In order to assuage their Catholic guilt at not giving the babe a saint’s name, they had added Mary. The priest who baptized her was indignant, but had finally agreed.

The old man grew silent for long minutes, and the girl grasped his hand, staring at the beloved face whose skin was withered like parchment from a lifetime of sun and water. Not her father? This couldn’t be. Da and Mum had showered her with love. It had been apparent to all who knew them that their only child had been the center of their lives. Their faces, the tone of their voices, the ripple of their laughter, were indelibly etched on her soul. If they hadn’t given her life, it mattered not. They were hers. She was theirs.

It was the fever, she told herself firmly, refusing to glance at the yellowed documents clutched in his hands. In the clear light of morning he would retract this fable.

When he opened his eyes, they shimmered with tears. Molly and I felt you were a special gift from God, since we’d never been blessed with children. And we loved you like our own, lass. A sound like a sob escaped his lips. We loved you so much.

She brushed her lips across his cheek, and the tears she’d been fighting spilled over.

Don’t cry, love. Just listen now, he murmured. When I’m gone, there’s nothing here for you. Sherkin has been home for all the O’Driscolls. But life here is hard. The young ones are leaving for America. You have a chance now for a brighter future.

I don’t want anything else, Da. I want to stay here.

He touched a finger to her lips to silence her. Brian will pay you for my share of the boat and will buy this cottage from you. His son will be needing a place for his wife and baby. Take the money and go to America. Find your mother’s people.

So it wasn’t some terrible dream conjured by the fever. He was speaking the truth. The terrible, painful truth.

You want me to go to the family she . . . my mother had been fleeing? Da, they’ll never accept me. If she feared her father’s wrath, how can you ask me to go to him now?

Sean sighed. Show them these papers. There will be no way to refute the facts. They will welcome you, lass. Regardless of the past, you are a part of them. And you will have a future there with your real family.

You’re my family, Da! she cried, throwing her arms about his neck. She buried her face in his throat and sobbed, This is my home.

The old man felt the sobs that were wrenched from her, and thought his own heart would break from the pain of the lie he’d kept from her all these years. Oh, lass, what have we done to you?

Still she clung, crying until there were no tears left. While the fire burned low, she held him close, seeking the strength she had always found in him. When at last she lifted her head, the room was cloaked in shadow. Lifting a candle, she held it aloft, studying the figure in the bed.

Sleep now, Da. She touched a finger to his lips, then stiffened. He was still. On his face was a look of peace. She felt for the pulse at his throat. There was none.

She pulled the blankets up, smoothing them until there were no wrinkles. Taking the brush from his dresser, she brushed his silver hair until it was just the way she and her mum had always liked it. Then she pulled the wooden rocker close to the bed and sat. She wouldn’t allow herself to cry. Da wouldn’t like it. She would just sit with him a while longer. Soon the old priest would come, and with him the women of the island, to prepare Sean O’Driscoll for his final rest.

Fingering the wooden box, she resisted the urge to open it and read her mother’s name. Her name now. For this last night she would still be Dublin Mary O’Driscoll. Soon enough she would have to find the strangers whose surname she would bear, the strangers who would shape her future. But for now, until he was taken away for burial, she would sit alone with her da.

Taking his hand in hers, she began to rock and croon the song her mum had taught her in her childhood. Childhood. Her lips quivered and she sang louder, to hide her fears. This was the last night of her childhood. Tomorrow she would face a strange new world. For when she left this cottage next, she knew, she would never return.

Chapter One

So this was America.

Dublin knelt by the window in the cold upper room, propping her chin on her hands, and stared out at the gray San Francisco morning. All night a fine, misty rain had fallen, producing what the Gallic called that soft Irish weather. Thin sunlight struggled to break free of the mist. At least the weather wasn’t so different from home. But everything else was.

She had left a sleepy little island, where the principal means of transportation was by donkey cart. Here the streets were littered with a swell of humanity the likes of which Dublin had never even imagined. Hand carts and horse-drawn carriages vied with pedestrians and men on bicycles. What was most startling of all to Dublin was the occasional appearance of a noisy motorcar.

A ship in the harbor arrested her gaze. Where was it heading? Ireland? She grasped the damp window ledge and studied the docks. She was reminded of Cobh, the last glimpse she had had of her beloved homeland. Cobh, the Harbor of Tears, where hundreds of thousands of sons and daughters of Ireland had fled the famine and poverty of their homeland. Her own people, being fishermen, had survived the famine better than the farmers. And now a new plague had come into her life.

Montclair. That was the name on her birth records. The Montclairs would be her salvation—or her humiliation. They could accept her as their daughter’s child, or reject her as an embarrassment to be hidden away, to be spoken about in whispers, if at all. Now that she had a job, she would begin her search for her mother’s people. Next Sunday, after church, she would go through the list of Montclairs in the San Francisco area. She had steadfastly refused to face up to the search until she could come to them with pride. She would not shame the O’Driscoll name by showing up hat in hand. It was necessary to her that she have a place to stay, and a way to earn her keep, so that they wouldn’t feel obligated to take her in.

A horn blasted in the harbor, and Dublin covered her ears, remembering once again the terrible voyage to this new land. While all around her throngs of people had milled about, she had pushed her way to the rail, desperately trying to keep the shoreline in her sight. As the ship plowed steadily onward, the crowds had thinned, bustling indoors to ward off the damp chill. Still Dublin had clung to the rail, watching until her beloved country was only a thin line on the horizon. Swallowing back the tears that stung her eyes, she continued to stand at the rail, her eyes squeezed shut, willing herself to remember every line and curve and hill of her tiny island.

Oh, Sherkin. Oh, my beautiful Ireland. When will I ever see you again? To hear the soft brogue, to taste the gentle Irish mist on my tongue.

That first day on the ship she had turned from the rail, feeling lost and desolate, and to her astonishment, found herself staring at a dear, familiar face.

Shea. Shea O’Donnell. Is that really you?

The big strapping youth had stood straight and tall, his feet wide apart, braced against the roll and pitch of the ship. His hair lifted in the breeze, glinting gold in the sunlight.

In her excitement at finding a friend, Dublin had nearly flung herself into his arms. At the last moment she restrained herself and merely caught his hand.

Shea flushed and looked immensely pleased with himself. It had taken all his willpower to keep from gathering her close and offering her a measure of comfort when he’d seen her crying at the rail of the ship. Even now the dampness of her tears still glistened on her dark lashes. It wasn’t like her to show any weakness. All their young lives she had displayed a rare strength of purpose. She could run as fast as he, climb trees until her knees were scraped and bloody, and sail a boat better than most of the boys. It was only in the past two years or so, when he had grown taller than his brothers, and she had become more woman than girl, that they had gradually stopped racing, and fighting, and competing.

What in the world are you doing on a ship bound for America?

The same as you. Going off to seek my fortune.

A fortune, is it? She laughed then, and he felt a burden lift from his heart. If only he could always be there to bring a smile to her eyes.

I’ve been wanting to go for a year or more. His lips twitched, and the humor that was always just below the surface shimmered in his eyes. But something always seemed to hold me back.

Then what made you decide now to leave Ireland?

You, he thought. The chance to be near you for a while longer. The chance to see you safely to some foreign shore. The slim chance that in your fear and confusion you might turn to me for comfort. It was time for me to go, he lied. I’m a man now, Dublin. I had to face the fact that there was no future for me on our little island.

A man, is it? She looped her hand through the crook of her friend’s arm, sending a delicious warmth snaking through his veins. Come on, then, Master Shea O’Donnell. I’ve bread and cheese packed in my trunk, as well as some dried fish. The least I can do is give you one last meal from home before we learn what it is they eat in America.

America. The ship’s horn sounded again, more distant now as it moved through the San Francisco harbor. Dublin studied the blur of people at the rail and wondered how they would fare on their journey.

Her own had been a nightmare. They had been twenty-three days at sea. In that time nearly everyone on board had been touched by illness.

For her the seasickness had started almost as soon as they had left port. For days Dublin had lain in her blankets, too weak to do more than lift her head to the bucket someone had provided. That was how Shea had found her, when finally, like a rampaging bull, he had forced his way into the cabin occupied by eight women and six children. The cabin had originally been outfitted to accommodate two passengers comfortably. With the bunks removed, the emigrants lay on blankets, row after row of bodies crammed into every available inch of space.

Shea hadn’t minded being stuck below deck, with the mass of humanity crammed into the hold. No one seemed to care if he climbed up to the rail, or slept on the open, unprotected deck wrapped in blankets beneath a hazy, cloud-draped moon. Because of his size, no one accosted him or gave him any trouble.

But with Dublin it was different. He couldn’t bear the thought of her enduring such conditions. When he had seen her, green eyes looking too big in her pale, pinched face, her fingers gripping the edge of a filthy blanket, he had scooped her up and carried her outdoors. Ignoring the stench of sickness, he washed her and wrapped her in a fresh blanket. Cold clear air filled her lungs, reviving her, bringing color to her cheeks. He left her only long enough to fetch her some weak tea, which he had to force down her throat. For days afterward he hovered over her, seeing to it that she ate, insisting that she remain outdoors in the thin sunlight, away from the cabins filled with sickness and death.

When her health was restored, she returned the favor by caring for others too sick to care for themselves. The sound of the women’s keening, a half moan, half shriek, sent the fear of the devil into her. It reminded her too painfully of her father’s funeral. But despite her fears, she sat through the night with sick ones, holding their hands, sharing her courage. Several women had Dublin to thank for their very lives. One of them was a girl of fifteen.

The lass was small, thin for her age, with fiery hair that streamed down her back in a riot of curls. Wrapped in several layers of crocheted sweaters and hand-made shawls to ward off the chill, she had fought the fever for four days before gaining the strength to stand alone.

Though the girl was grateful for Dublin’s aid, it wasn’t until Shea O’Donnell appeared with a cup of tea that a wan smile touched her lips, and her pale blue eyes lit with an inner fire. She accepted the cup from his big hands and stared at him as if he had just arrived in a chariot of gold.

My name is Dublin and this is my friend, Shea O’Donnell, Dublin had said to the frail girl.

I’m Caitlin Sweeney. Seeing Shea’s gaze fixed on her, she lowered her face, hoping to hide the flush that stole across her cheeks.

Where is your family? Dublin drew the edge of her shawl about herself to ward off the breeze.

My father and mother stayed in Ireland. A soft brogue gave a lilt to Caitlin’s words. Along with the six younger ones. I have a married sister in America. She’s expecting a baby and begged me to come over and stay with her. She glanced up shyly, offering her words as much to Shea as to Dublin. In Ireland she and her husband were weavers. Nearly everyone in our county carried on the tradition.

Dublin studied the distinctive tweed in the girl’s shawl. Pale oatmeal interspersed with browns, greens, and the merest hint of other colors. Both the shawl and the handmade sweater were beautifully woven. Though there were many skilled weavers in Ireland, few could boast of better work than this.

Donegal? Dublin asked.

The girl nodded.

And have they brought their craft to America?

There’s no work in the mills. At least not for the Irish.

In the silence that followed, Dublin glanced at Shea, then asked softly, Then what does your brother-in-law do in America?

The girl looked away quickly. Whatever he can. The last we heard, he was a digger.

A digger?

The girl swallowed. A priest got him a job in the church cemetery. Digging graves.

Dublin felt a wave of pity for this proud young woman. What a terrible thing, to be forced to waste a precious talent. The generations that followed would be denied the chance to learn the wonderful secrets of weaving that had been passed down through the ages.

What of Shea? she wondered. Would he find a job equal to his skill in this strange country? Or would he be reduced to taking anything in order to survive?

Dublin took the girl’s thin hand in hers. It takes time in a new land. But I’m sure your sister and her husband will do just fine. Hesitantly, she added, I don’t know where I’ll be staying yet, but I’d like to come and see you after I’m settled.

The girl’s eyes had rounded in surprise. Suddenly the future didn’t seem so bleak. In that strange big land across the sea, where the voices would speak in too many alien dialects to decipher, and where the faces would be even more strange to behold, there would be someone to share a familiar word, a gentle laugh. She had a sister. And now a friend. Two friends, she thought, glancing shyly at Shea. Fumbling in the pocket of her dress, she handed Dublin a scrap of paper. This is my sister’s address. I’ve already committed it to memory. When she turned to Shea, her voice nearly faltered. I’d be honored if you’d come to visit, too.

I’d like that, he said. And when I find a job as a shipbuilder, I’ll take both of you to a fine, fancy restaurant.

The young people had laughed, feeling their courage grow in the presence of each other.

When I’m settled, I’m going to start my own Weaving business, Caitlin said softly.

Dublin’s voice was firm. And as soon as I find a job, I intend to start looking for my family.

They had smiled at each other then, and turned to watch as the hills of San Francisco had come into view on the horizon. In their youthful innocence they knew there was no mountain they could not climb, no success they could not achieve. All they needed to do was believe.

When at last the boat docked, they tried not to notice the shacks and shabby buildings that littered the docks, or the beaten, haggard faces of the men working there.

Dublin felt a heaviness about her heart. She had left a green and beautiful country, a land steeped in history and tradition. This city was raw and rough, with no sense of order about it. The buildings seemed to cling to the sides of hills, and muddy roads meandered up and down haphazardly between rows of houses. Some of the houses were grand, made of wood and brick and granite. Others were little more than shacks.

The faces of the people on the docks reflected every race and country of the world. Dublin’s head swam with the strange dialects and foreign phrases. She watched as rail-thin Chinese vied with fat Germans and muscled Swedes to move the cargo. There were bearded Russians and dark-eyed Mexicans, as well as shabby miners and slick, perfectly tailored gamblers. She’d never imagined that this new, raw-boned land would be so different from the one she had left.

In their excitement and confusion they never even glanced at the man seated in the wagon parked beside the wharf. His clothes, dirty and ill-fitting, hung on a bulky frame. Beefy hands held the reins as the horse blew and stomped in the damp air. His midsection bulged over a piece of rope holding up his pants. A half-moon scar puckered his skin from eye to jaw.

As the passengers disembarked, he watched through narrowed eyes. He found it amusing that all these poor, dumb immigrants thought they’d find streets paved with gold. Instead, most of them would soon be reduced to fear and despair, and would be willing, in a matter of weeks, to accept any job to stave off hunger. One of his employers, who hired him on the condition that his identity be a carefully guarded secret, paid him to keep an eye out for any females who might be useful on the streets.

Spotting the three young people, he noted the thin little redhead, who looked in need of a good meal. Men were attracted to unusual hair. And she would certainly stand out at night. But she was skinny and far too pale. Definitely not his kind. He’d keep an eye out for her anyway. Maybe she would please his employer.

His gaze slid to Dublin, and he sucked in a breath. That one had fire. Even from this distance he could see the proud way she carried herself. Hair as thick and rich as a raven’s wing drifted about her face and shoulders. As she turned and laughed up into a tall boy’s face, he had a glimpse of her eyes. Green and gold. Cat’s eyes. A man would pay a fortune for a night with that one.

He watched as they threaded their way along the pier, and cursed his luck when they were swallowed up in the crowd. He’d wanted to follow them to their final destination. That way it would be a simple matter to keep an eye on their progress and offer them a job when they were the most likely to accept anything to stay alive. No matter. San Francisco was a sprawling town. But he managed to get around. Sooner or later he’d spot them again.

* * * * *

The chimes of the clock in the hallway sounded the hour. Dublin stood, smoothing the wrinkles from the uniform she had been given.

Two weeks she had been here. Two weeks of walking up one hilly street and down the next in search of work. The population of San Francisco had swollen to one and a half million. All needing a place to eat, a place to sleep. And most of all, a job. Father Malloy had given her the name of a parish priest who helped Irish immigrants find work as domestics and laborers. And now she had been accepted here in the Dumont mansion on Nob Hill.

On the top floor of the house, Dublin shared an unheated room with five other young women. All of them had recently come to this country. All were expected to do whatever was necessary to keep this fine house in perfect order. To Dublin it was all very challenging, as well as confusing. There were upstairs maids and downstairs maids. There were the trusted old servants, who were allowed to handle the exquisite silver and fragile china. There were maids who disappeared into the hushed bedrooms, the elegantly appointed living rooms and dining rooms. And then there were the lowest order of help, the scullery maids, who handled the menial jobs. Dublin had joined their ranks.

Dublin spent her days scrubbing pots and pans, scrubbing cold stone steps until they gleamed, or washing laundry until her fingers were stiff and sore. At night she and the others would fall into bed, too exhausted even to dream.

You’d best get downstairs before Mrs. Lindstrom comes looking for you, one of the other girls said.

Too late Dublin headed for the door. The doorway was filled with the tall, forbidding figure of the Swedish woman who mangled the English language and ran the Dumont household like a tyrant.

So. You think ve pay you to hide up here and daydream? the woman shouted.

No, ma’am, Dublin said.

Do you know how many girls stand in line each day for your job?

Dublin swallowed. Though she kept her spine rigid and her chin lifted with an air of defiance, the big woman saw the look that came into her eyes. They were all alike. Hungry. Frightened. Desperate.

I give you vun more chance, the housekeeper said in that frosty tone she had learned to use to its best advantage. If I find you wasting time again, you go. Out on the street. Understand?

Dublin nodded, too relieved to find her voice. She couldn’t afford to lose this job. She needed it to survive. Her pride needed it, so she could go to her mother’s family with dignity.

Come on, girl. Don’t yust stand there. Ve have work to do.

* * * * *

Scrubbing viciously at the stone-paved entrance, Dublin wiped a damp strand of hair from her eyes. She felt the chill of evening through her thin clothing and yearned for some fine Irish tweed. When the horse-drawn carriage clattered up the driveway and came to a stop, she continued scrubbing without even glancing up at the occupants. She was aware of Mrs. Lindstrom’s gaze riveted on her.

This was truly her last chance. Yesterday, weary from hours of back-breaking scrubbing on her hands and knees, she had knocked over a bucket of water. Though she managed to mop up most of it before it could do any damage, some of the soapy water had seeped into an exquisite rug which Mrs. Lindstrom said had been brought by Mrs. Dumont all the way from Turkey. The housekeeper was livid with rage and had threatened to fire Dublin on the spot. The only thing that had saved her was the fact that one of the other girls had been fired just that morning and they were short of help.

And only today, when she had been scrubbing the kitchen floor, she had backed into a table, causing a crystal goblet to tumble, shattering into a thousand fragments. When Dublin had offered to pay for the object, Mrs. Lindstrom had flown into a temper, saying Dublin’s salary for six months wouldn’t be enough to replace a single piece of the precious crystal.

What would a body have to earn, Dublin wondered, as she poured a small amount of sudsy water