Only in My Arms Read online

  Mary's slender fingers trailed lightly over the lid of the box. Her hair had been her one true vanity, she thought, so it was good that it had been cut. She had had to fight tears as the weight of each long curl was lifted away from her head and lopped. There was no mirror for her to watch the shearing, but a single glance at the floor, at the red-gold carpet of hair surrounding her feet, told its own story. The face of Sister Benedict told another. "She knew it was my vanity," Mary said softly to herself. Her fingers left the box and ran across the tips of the brushes. "She took a lot of pleasure in watching it go."

  Even now Mary could hear the snapping of the shears. There had been no public tears for the loss of her hair, only private ones. And they fell silently in her solitary room as she prayed for forgiveness for being so proud. "Maybe Sister Benedict knew I would always struggle with pride." But Mary didn't believe it. Sister Benedict was a small-spirited, spiteful woman who liked nothing so much as making others feel they were not as worthy as she.

  Mary ignored the four-poster with its eyelet lace comforter and pillow shams. She had not returned to her room for a lie-down as Peggy imagined. She was set on a different purpose this day.

  Sunshine from the French doors fell across the writing desk and polished floor in slanted rectangles of light. Mary sat at the desk and opened the middle drawer where the ecru stationery was neatly stacked. She had been composing the letters she was about to write for months in her head. Knowing what she wanted to say did not make her task any less difficult.

  The first letter was to Maggie. Wise Maggie whose skill at healing often extended to those with no visible wounds. She wrote to Maggie about her decision, what it meant to her, and what she suspected it would mean to the family. Maggie would understand where there would be hurt and where there would need to be healing.

  The letters that followed were copies of the first in some of the content, but each missive accounted for the uniqueness of the sister who was going to read it. To Michael, the reporter for the Rocky Mountain News, Mary described her decision as writing a new chapter in her life. For Michael's twin Rennie, a construction engineer for Northeast Rail, Mary wrote in terms of building bridges with her past and the foundation of her spirit. Composing Skye's letter was perhaps the easiest. To Skye, her baby sister who wanted nothing so much as adventure, Mary wrote of just that. Change was its own adventure, and the change she was planning would give her that ten times over.

  Each letter was carefully folded, the envelopes neatly addressed. Three would find their destination in different parts of Colorado. One would find Skye months from now in Shanghai.

  Mary relaxed in the ladder-back chair and stretched. Her fingers uncurled stiffly. The small of her back curved until she felt the lines of tension ease. There was a tiny popping noise in her neck as she moved it from side to side. She picked up the letters and carried them downstairs. She considered giving them to Peggy to post but decided there was no one she wanted to entrust with the mailing of these particular letters. Mary found her shawl and left the house unnoticed, accomplishing her mission by the time her mother arrived home from shopping.

  Moira Dennehy Worth was a petite woman who stood only as high as her oldest daughter's chin. That didn't stop her from hugging Mary to her breast as if this grown woman were still a child in braids. "It's good to see you, darling," she said cheerfully. She took a step back, examined Mary carefully, and pronounced herself satisfied. "You're looking very well. You've a bit of color in your cheeks this afternoon."

  "You just squeezed it in there."

  Moira wagged a finger, but she was smiling. "Don't be insolent."

  Mary kissed her mother's softly lined cheek. "All right."

  That lifted Moira's dark red brows a notch. "So agreeable? Are you certain you're not sickening with something?"

  "Mother."

  The dry, level tone was more familiar to Moira. She smiled and rang for tea. "Come and see what I've bought for your nieces and nephew."

  "Your grandchildren, you mean."

  "You always were the quick one," Moira acknowledged with a sly smile. She began opening the packages from A. T. Stewart's and Donovan's that covered the cushions of all the available sitting space in the front parlor. She paused long enough in her enthusiastic recounting of choosing the perfect dress for Madison to order tea and sandwiches when Peggy arrived.

  Mary dutifully admired each outfit and accessory her mother unfolded from the tissue paper packaging. There was enough ribbon, lace, and bows to set up shop as a milliner. Every item was quite lovely and obviously chosen with an eye for color and the individuality of each of the grandchildren. "Are you going to send these out for Christmas?" she asked.

  "Actually I was thinking I might get your father to visit Denver before then."

  "Oh."

  "That's all?" Moira asked. "Just 'Oh'? Don't you think it's a good idea?"

  Mary injected the proper note of passion into her voice. "I think any time you can get Jay Mac away from the Worth building and Northeast Rail, it's a good idea. You'll have an argument, though, since everyone was just together for Maggie's graduation."

  Moira sighed, surveying the bounty of purchases. "I know. But that gathering made me want to have all my babies under one roof again."

  "Babies or grandbabies?"

  "Both."

  "Mother," Mary said, giving her a level stare. "Skye and Walker can't possibly—"

  "Oh, I know that, too. It's just a dream. I'll take as many of my babies as I can get."

  Tea arrived and Mary helped her mother clear the loveseats to make sitting room. The small watercress and cucumber sandwiches had a delicate taste, and Mrs. Cavanaugh had prepared Mary's favorite spiced orange tea. "Will Jay Mac be late this evening?" asked Mary.

  "No more than usual, I think." Her mother frowned slightly. "Why? Is it a problem? You can still stay for dinner, can't you? We have raspberry sorbet to finish the meal."

  Mary couldn't help but smile. She supposed her mother hardly realized she was tempting her with sweets as if she were a child. Perhaps it was the nature of motherhood to always see the little girl in the grown woman. "I'm staying," she said. "Even if raspberry sorbet is not on the menu."

  * * *

  The twelve-course meal was served in the smaller, family dining room. Moira and Jay Mac sat at either end of the walnut table, and Mary, in spite of the fact that there were five chairs she could have chosen, chose the one in which she had sat for every meal with her family. Perhaps, she reflected later, it was in the nature of childhood to always be a little girl in the presence of one's parents.

  Jay Mac was full of news from the business world. Moira and Mary had no trouble following it. They were familiar with the vagaries of the market, the unpopular attempts to unionize laborers, the problems with getting government land, and the difficulties laying track in the hostile Southwest Territories. Jay Mac shared his information as if he were among board members, not family. The expectation was the same: they should understand what put food on their plates and cash in their coffers.

  Somewhere between the artichoke consommé and the roast lamb, Jay Mac's recitation ended and he entertained questions and suggestions. Moira and Mary's contributions moved the meal through the light green salad and salmon and peas. Jay Mac listened thoughtfully to what they had to say. He accorded their opinions the same respect he accorded those of his business associates, which was to say he took everything under advisement. His broad face could be impassive, the dark green eyes distant, but when they lighted on his wife or his daughter there was no mistaking the warmth at their depths.

  John MacKenzie Worth wore his authority and power as other men wore an old dressing gown. He was comfortable with the mantle of influence, enjoyed the responsibility and the challenges. Over the years it had been proven to him that nowhere was he more challenged than in his own home. He still had a thick head of dark blond hair, but every graying strand at the temples he counted as ground lost in a skirmish with on
e of his daughters.

  They were all settled now, each with a family and a profession. Even his darling Mary had a family of sorts, Jay Mac thought. He hadn't approved of her joining the sisterhood—he considered it his first major defeat at the hands of the Marys—but he had come to accept it. He even made anonymous contributions to Little Sisters of the Poor to help them run their hospital. He suspected Mary knew where the large donations to the charity originated, but she kept her own counsel.

  Moira made overtures about a November trip to Denver while the potato croquettes were being served, but Jay Mac did not bite on the dangled bait. She tried again, regaling him with a humorous account of her shopping expedition while they ate from a selection of cheeses. He chuckled in all the proper places but showed no interest in pursuing the topic of a trip West.

  Moira's unsuccessful maneuvering took them just to the end of the meal, and so it was that Mary's own announcement was finally made over the raspberry sorbet.

  "I'm leaving the Little Sisters," she said. Her tone was clear, and she didn't mumble or glide over the words. Still, she had to repeat herself because neither Jay Mac nor Moira could believe they'd heard correctly. Though her resolve had not changed, it was more difficult to say the second time.

  Jay Mac didn't watch Mary as she repeated the words. This time he watched his wife. Moira's complexion faded to the paleness of salt, and she looked as if she'd just swallowed arsenic. "You're serious about this?" Jay Mac asked.

  "You can't be serious!" Moira said almost simultaneously.

  Mary pushed away the dish of sorbet. "I've quite decided," she said calmly.

  "You mean you're joining another order," Moira said, her voice at once coaxing and hopeful.

  The question challenged Mary's composure, but she managed to meet her mother's eyes and answer with credible firmness. "No, Mama, I mean that I am leaving the sisterhood altogether. I'm renouncing my vows."

  "Oh, my God." Moira's face crumpled and tears welled in her eyes. She was so frozen by the revelation that she couldn't raise the napkin from her lap to her eyes. "Oh, my God," she whispered softly, tragically.

  Mary had had a suspicion all her life that the clashes with her father were preparing her for something more formidable. She knew now that it was true and called on an inner reserve of strength, if not Divine guidance, to see her through this battle with her mother. It was accepted, even encouraged in a subtle sort of way, to match wills with Jay Mac. It fostered purpose and initiative and clear thinking. For as long as Mary could remember, no one had ever stood up to her mother.

  It had never been necessary. Until now.

  Jay Mac cut through the tension at the table by posing a question and drawing attention to himself. "Perhaps if you told us what's brought this about," he suggested.

  Mary's hands were clasped in her lap, the knuckles nearly bloodless from her tight grip. Her chin lifted a notch, but her face remained composed. "It's not easy to explain," she said slowly, searching for the right words.

  "Sure, and it's a crisis of faith," Moira interrupted. "That's what it is. I'm certain if you talk to Bishop Colden or Mother Superior they'd tell you it's not an uncommon experience. People of the cloth go through it just like parishioners. It doesn't mean you have to leave the church."

  "Mama," Mary said with rather more sharpness than she intended. "A crisis of faith is not a cold. It's not something one catches and suffers. One doesn't simply recover and go on. And I've talked to Bishop Colden and Mother Superior, and they agree this is not a crisis of faith."

  "But—"

  "Moira," Jay Mac said firmly, deeply. There was a caution in his tone he did not often use with his wife. "Let Mary say her piece."

  Moira was stricken. Her head snapped up, and her full mouth narrowed. The usual sparkle in her eyes was a militant glint now. "You're taking Mary Francis's side," she said, accusing in her hurt. "Sure, and you never wanted her to take her vows. You should be reminding her to honor her promises, especially when they're made to God."

  "Please," Mary implored softly, her eyes darting between Jay Mac and Moira. "This isn't supposed to be an argument between the two of you."

  It was as if she hadn't spoken. Jay Mac tempered his tongue by taking off his spectacles and making a show of cleaning them. "In the first place, Moira, I'm not taking anyone's side. As near as I can tell there's no side to be taken. And while it's true that I didn't think Mary should take her vows, I had to finally accept it was her decision. Now, if something's happened to make her change her mind, isn't that between her and God? Don't you think she's discussed this with Him?" He rose from his chair and replaced his spectacles on the bridge of his nose. Without asking what they wanted, he went to the sideboard and poured three cognacs. Rather than returning to his own chair at the head of the table, he pulled out the one at a right angle to Moira. He set the glasses in front of them and indicated they shouldn't be shy about drinking. "Do you think it's a crisis of faith, Mary?"

  She raised the crystal balloon glass between her hands, warming the liquor, but she didn't drink. She shook her head slowly. "No, it's not that. My struggle hasn't been with God but with what He wants for me. It's not that I don't believe in Him, I believe He has something else in mind for me."

  Moira stared straight ahead, looking at neither her husband nor her daughter. Her expression was stony, and when Jay Mac laid a hand on her wrist she stiffened and tightened her lips.

  Mary saw the movement, and the ache in her heart grew deeper. The sympathy in her father's eyes only made her want to cry. "I've given this a lot of thought, Mama—"

  "Then you should have prayed more and thought less."

  Jay Mac's sandy brows arched this time and he lowered his chin, looking hard at his wife over the gold-wire rims of his spectacles. In thirty-one years of knowing and deeply loving Moira, this was a side he had never seen. It was not like her to be so closed or intractable. She was subtler about her wishes than this exchange would lead one to believe. And she was never cruel. "Moira, to twist your phrasing, you're being thoughtless."

  "Mama," Mary entreated, breaking in. "I did pray. This wasn't a decision quickly come to."

  Moira shook her head. "I don't believe it."

  "I can't be responsible for what you believe," Mary said tonelessly. "But it's the truth that I've been struggling to just this point for years."

  "Years?" Jay Mac asked, surprised himself. "Mary, you've never let on, never told anyone."

  The corners of Moira's eyes creased deeply and she gave Mary a narrow glance. "Not your sisters? Did you tell them and swear them to secrecy?"

  "No. I didn't do that. I told them today, by individual letter. I wouldn't mock you and Jay Mac by sharing with them and not with you. If any of the Marys suspect it would be Maggie and Skye, and that's only because they've been close to home until recently. They saw me more often, and perhaps there were hints that I didn't know I was giving."

  Moira was not mollified, but she didn't comment.

  "Mama, what would I have said?" Mary went on. "And when would I have said it? My decision's made now, and I can hardly find the right words to explain. Most of the time the conflict is grappling with uncertainty. One hardly knows whether to reach for a light or snuff one out. When I went to our summer home in July, it was to be alone with my thoughts and my prayers and find answers to the questions I could hardly express." She paused and reached forward to touch her mother's arm, stopping short of Moira's satin sleeve when her mother did not lean into her. Mary's hand hovered for a moment before she withdrew it. "Can you understand any of this, Mama?" When Moira didn't answer, Mary looked helplessly to her father.

  "It's a lot for her to accept," he said quietly. "There's been no warning. It's a shock, I confess, even to me."

  Mary nodded. It had gone as badly as she had feared, and her world seemed shifted for it. The only thing that hadn't been changed was her mind. "Perhaps it would be better if I didn't spend the night here."

  "Don't be absu
rd," Jay Mac said brusquely. "Of course you'll stay here. This is still your home. God knows your room hasn't been changed in thirteen years, and it's certainly ready for you now." He looked sideways at Moira. "Almost as if someone's been expecting you."

  "I wouldn't put that construction on it," Mary said, coming to her feet. In spite of her best intentions her tone was caustic. "It's more likely that Mama wanted to remind herself of the sacrifice she made."

  "Sacrifice?" asked Jay Mac.

  Moira stared at her oldest daughter. "What sacrifice?"

  Before Mary could help herself she said, "Me, Mama. I'm the sacrifice. You offered me up to the Church to atone for your sins."

  Jay Mac stayed Moira's hand, keeping her from striking Mary. "I think you'd better go to your room, Mary. Enough's been said here this evening."

  For once Mary Francis Dennehy had no argument with her father.

  * * *

  Fort Union, Arizona Territory

  The ball was in full swing. The officers' wives wore a brilliant array of colors, taking this occasion to show off their finest gowns from back East, or at least something they'd been able to order from San Francisco. The fabrics were satin and silk and taffeta, and their hues covered the spectrum. The wives looked especially bright against the solid blue dress uniforms of their husbands. Gold braid, white gloves, and polished black boots, all of it so distinguished on the parade ground, was now a mere background complement to a dizzying display of crimson and sapphire, emerald and jade.

  Not every officer had a wife, and not every woman at the ball was married. Several of the women were mere girls, still fresh-faced from the schoolroom. Others were in their early twenties and of a single mind to leave the arid drabness of Fort Union. They were the daughters of commissioned and noncommissioned officers alike, and their dance cards were eagerly sought by the eligible bachelors. It would have been unthinkable to allow any one of them to go unaccompanied through a single dance, especially when their fathers were taking notice. Even eighty-year-old Florence Gardner did not want for partners. The interest shown her was in part because she was shockingly free with her opinions and always engaged in lively conversation, and in part because she was the widowed mother of Fort Union's commander.