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Authors: Jennifer McVeigh
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for it.”
“It wasn’t your father who started Irvine & Hitchcock?”
“Yes. That was him.”
She steeled herself for him to say something pointed about her father’s losses, but instead he said, “What a coincidence. So it was your father who started up the Charity for the Houseless Poor?”
Frances nodded. “I didn’t find out about it until he died. He never talked to me about his public work. Do you know the charity?”
“A little. Your father was generous with his success. He had a reputation for being openhanded. This particular charity is unusual, you see, in that anyone is allowed through the door, regardless of sex, race, or criminal history. I’m partly Jewish, so I like the idea of a charity that doesn’t discriminate. It houses some six hundred people every night who would otherwise be on the streets. Well, we donated some money, and were invited to dinner. Your father seemed a very charismatic man.” He looked at her kindly. “You must have been proud to be his daughter.”
She hadn’t been proud, not for a long time. There had been recrimination and disapproval from all sides in the aftermath of his death, and she realized with a surge of relief that she had been waiting for someone to name the qualities of the man she had respected and adored.
“There are lots of people who would say otherwise,” she said.
“There are lots of people who are fools. Your father was a genius in business. So what if there are men who resent him for it? A man should be judged by his achievements over a lifetime, not by a moment’s ill judgment.” He straightened up, flexing his hands so his knuckles cracked. “Besides, it’s not as if he was the only one to take a punt on Northern Pacific. I would rather achieve greatness as your father did, and lose it all at the end, than set my sights on mediocrity and risk nothing.”
Mr. Westbrook had given her father a better, more honest tribute than she had heard from anyone who had known him personally. For the first time, someone had spoken about her father’s background—that he had been born Irish and poor—not as something to be ashamed of, but as a mark of pride. The huge burden of her grief shifted, making way for something lighter. She wanted him to stay. She hadn’t had a chance to ask him about himself, but he was already moving away. “Good-bye, Miss Irvine. I wish you all the best at the Cape.”
Eight
T he hot, crowded little cabin reeked of shame. They were cargo being shipped for export. Women without choices. Their families had thrown them out to save the embarrassment or expense of keeping them at home, and emigration was an acknowledgment of failure.
“I’d rather die than spend my life looking after other people.” Mariella unlaced her boots, lifted a foot onto Frances’s bunk, and began to unroll a stocking. Anne stood next to her, unbuttoning a petticoat. There were three girls in the cabin, and only just enough room between the bunks on either wall for the two girls to undress. Mariella grunted as she struggled to lever the stocking off her foot, and her thick, glossy blond hair spilled onto Frances’s bunk. She spent hours pinning it each morning, teasing out two ringlets with curlers heated over the fire in the fore saloon. When she took off her clothes she seemed to swell in size, her ample pink flesh springing loose from a tight corset. She was quite happy to walk around their cabin showing off the full weight of her breasts with their expanse of creamy skin and darkened, stretched areolae. Frances, unused to living with other girls, was surprised and a little revolted by this casual lack of modesty.
Anne slept in the bunk opposite. She was a petite Catholic girl with an oval face and black hair parted down the middle, which gave her the look of an Italian Madonna. Her hands were small and delicate, and always busy with a skein of wool, knitting shawls or bed socks for her mother. She looked younger than eighteen, spoke
“It wasn’t your father who started Irvine & Hitchcock?”
“Yes. That was him.”
She steeled herself for him to say something pointed about her father’s losses, but instead he said, “What a coincidence. So it was your father who started up the Charity for the Houseless Poor?”
Frances nodded. “I didn’t find out about it until he died. He never talked to me about his public work. Do you know the charity?”
“A little. Your father was generous with his success. He had a reputation for being openhanded. This particular charity is unusual, you see, in that anyone is allowed through the door, regardless of sex, race, or criminal history. I’m partly Jewish, so I like the idea of a charity that doesn’t discriminate. It houses some six hundred people every night who would otherwise be on the streets. Well, we donated some money, and were invited to dinner. Your father seemed a very charismatic man.” He looked at her kindly. “You must have been proud to be his daughter.”
She hadn’t been proud, not for a long time. There had been recrimination and disapproval from all sides in the aftermath of his death, and she realized with a surge of relief that she had been waiting for someone to name the qualities of the man she had respected and adored.
“There are lots of people who would say otherwise,” she said.
“There are lots of people who are fools. Your father was a genius in business. So what if there are men who resent him for it? A man should be judged by his achievements over a lifetime, not by a moment’s ill judgment.” He straightened up, flexing his hands so his knuckles cracked. “Besides, it’s not as if he was the only one to take a punt on Northern Pacific. I would rather achieve greatness as your father did, and lose it all at the end, than set my sights on mediocrity and risk nothing.”
Mr. Westbrook had given her father a better, more honest tribute than she had heard from anyone who had known him personally. For the first time, someone had spoken about her father’s background—that he had been born Irish and poor—not as something to be ashamed of, but as a mark of pride. The huge burden of her grief shifted, making way for something lighter. She wanted him to stay. She hadn’t had a chance to ask him about himself, but he was already moving away. “Good-bye, Miss Irvine. I wish you all the best at the Cape.”
Eight
T he hot, crowded little cabin reeked of shame. They were cargo being shipped for export. Women without choices. Their families had thrown them out to save the embarrassment or expense of keeping them at home, and emigration was an acknowledgment of failure.
“I’d rather die than spend my life looking after other people.” Mariella unlaced her boots, lifted a foot onto Frances’s bunk, and began to unroll a stocking. Anne stood next to her, unbuttoning a petticoat. There were three girls in the cabin, and only just enough room between the bunks on either wall for the two girls to undress. Mariella grunted as she struggled to lever the stocking off her foot, and her thick, glossy blond hair spilled onto Frances’s bunk. She spent hours pinning it each morning, teasing out two ringlets with curlers heated over the fire in the fore saloon. When she took off her clothes she seemed to swell in size, her ample pink flesh springing loose from a tight corset. She was quite happy to walk around their cabin showing off the full weight of her breasts with their expanse of creamy skin and darkened, stretched areolae. Frances, unused to living with other girls, was surprised and a little revolted by this casual lack of modesty.
Anne slept in the bunk opposite. She was a petite Catholic girl with an oval face and black hair parted down the middle, which gave her the look of an Italian Madonna. Her hands were small and delicate, and always busy with a skein of wool, knitting shawls or bed socks for her mother. She looked younger than eighteen, spoke
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