Free Dawn of the Golden Promise by BJ Hoff Page A

write; but when he tried to think of a way to let her know he was no imbecile, he couldn’t seem to get past that steely look of hers. And despite his strong discomfort in her presence, more often than not the very next evening would find him back on Elizabeth Street, heading for Whittaker House once again.
    He simply could not seem to stay away from the girl. He was running out of excuses for calling so often, and he knew that soon he would have to confront her with his reasons for coming by—or else appear even more of a great fool than she already thought him.
    But now here they were again, with her about to go inside, and as always they had discussed nothing of any consequence.
    At the bottom of the steps, they stopped, and Denny found himself fumbling like a great glunter for something to say. “And how is Mrs. Whittaker getting on these days? I thought she was looking a bit brighter last week when I dropped by.”
    Quinn nodded. “She seems to be improving some. But she’s still poorly. Too weak by far.”
    Denny nodded. “I’d hate to see anything happen to her. She’s a fine lady.”
    She arched an eyebrow. “A lady, is it? I don’t know as I’ve ever heard one of our own called a ‘lady.’”
    Denny studied her. “Well, now, it seems to me that being a lady has little to do with where you come from. Any fool can see that Mrs. Whittaker is indeed a lady.”
    â€œShe is that,” Quinn agreed. “But I doubt there are many who would acknowledge it, her being Irish.”
    Denny noted the tightness about her mouth and eyes, the edge to her voice. “You don’t much take to being Irish, do you, lass?”
    Her eyes went cold, but she merely shrugged off his question. “’Tis what I am.”
    â€œAye,” he said softly. “’Tis. And I for one do find it an acceptable thing to be.”
    â€œThat’s for you,” she shot back. “There are some who might say there are better things.”
    Seeing the shutters draw down over her eyes, Denny moved to change tacks. He was reluctant to let her go after so brief an hour with her. “Have you heard from your little sister recently? Molly, is it?”
    Her face softened almost instantly. “Aye. She writes often. I taught her to read and write before I left, you see.”
    Denny smiled at her. “And did she ever receive the letters you had to write the second time—the ones you lost in the river at Tompkinsville?”
    She nodded. “She says she has them all, and will keep them. She even used some of my own words from the letters when she wrote back. Molly was always a clever girl.”
    â€œYou’re still planning to bring her across, I expect.”
    Her chin went up. “I am. I will.”
    Denny liked watching her when she talked of her young sister. It was the same as when he observed her with the wee orphan boys of Whittaker House: her features would brighten, and the wall of self-protection she seemed to live her life behind would slip, at least a little. At those moments, like now, she looked young and small and hopeful—almost happy.
    She was good with those homeless little boys. They tagged along after her like shadows trailing the sun, and she seemed to have infinite patience with every wee one of them. There was no mistaking the look of affection in her eyes when she was bandaging a knee or wiping a nose.
    Unwilling to part with her just yet, Denny kept up his attempts at conversation. “What of your mother, then? I expect she will be making the crossing with your little sister?”
    As if snuffed out by a sudden gust of wind, the light in Quinn’s eyes suddenly died. “No,” was all she said, averting her gaze. “She wouldn’t leave Athlone.”
    Denny frowned. “Not even for her daughters?”
    â€œNot for this daughter anyhow.” Abruptly, she turned away from him. “I must