Farmington from his private library, others collected from all over the state by ladies from various church societies. Mr. Whittaker said the library would be one of the most important features of the childrenâs home. It was his intention that every child who took up shelter at Whittaker House eventually learn to read.
âThere is a kind of freedom in these books,â he had remarked to Quinn and Daniel during one of their organizing sessions. The three of them had spent the entire afternoon dusting books, then filling the shelves. As they worked, Mr. Whittaker had talked, explaining in his quiet, halting speech his personal conviction that the underprivileged children in their midst could eventually free themselves from povertyâby learning to read.
âFor many, these books m-may represent their only opportunity for a better life.â
He had smiled then, a fleeting, shy smile, as if embarrassed by his brief speech, but Quinn had taken his meaning right away. Somewhere in the rows and rows of books upon these shelves might well lie the key to her future. A promising future, not the squalid existence of just another starving Irish peasant. Something even beyond the respectable position in service she had found with the Whittakers, though sure, her present employment was far better than anything she had known before.
No, she was determined that her future would hold more. She would make a good life for herself, on her own effortsâa life that would include more than mere existence, more than a full stomach and an aching back at the end of the day. More than a sin-stained conscience. A life in which she would never again be forced to do anything for the sole purpose of survival.
She walked the length of each wall, passing her fingers lovingly over one book after another on the shelves. I shall make my own future, my own place in the world , she promised herself. I shall build me a future of freedom and securityâ¦and respectability. No matter how long it takes or how hard I have to work, I will make a life for myself of real value. A life that matters.
Her eyes drank in the storehouse of opportunity at her fingertips. Whittaker Houseâ¦this roomâ¦was the beginning of that life. She could feel it.
But it was, she was quick to remind herself, only the beginning.
Unable to drag himself away, Daniel Kavanagh stood just outside the partially open door, watching Quinn OâShea move along the library shelves. Something about the way she stroked the books, the warmth in her gaze, the faint movement of her lips, gave her actions all the intimacy of a caress.
This wasnât the first time he had covertly observed her as she paced the room or selected a book, her face rapt, her eyes shining. She came here almost every night, after the family had settled in their rooms upstairs and the boys in the dormitory were abed.
Daniel shared her love of the books, understood her pleasure in the library. But Quinnâs passion for reading went far beyond his own experience. For him, it was a simple act of entertainment or a quest for knowledge. For her, the library seemed to hold a fascination bordering on obsession. Her entire countenance changed when she entered the room.
He saw it again now. Gone was the guarded watchfulness of her catlike eyes, the faintly cynical smile, the brisk resolve with which she went about her daily tasks. Years seemed to drop away, and with the years, the fortress of grim reserve and suspicion from which she rarely emerged.
Daniel enjoyed seeing her like this, yet at the same time he felt inexplicably threatened by the change in her. He was struck by the light of wonder in those strange, amber-flecked eyes, the unexpected softness of her features, the hint of vulnerability she revealed at no other time. Again he would realize that, instead of the flint-edged woman she seemed so intent on making herself out to be, Quinn OâShea was in reality a mere slip of a
âThere is a kind of freedom in these books,â he had remarked to Quinn and Daniel during one of their organizing sessions. The three of them had spent the entire afternoon dusting books, then filling the shelves. As they worked, Mr. Whittaker had talked, explaining in his quiet, halting speech his personal conviction that the underprivileged children in their midst could eventually free themselves from povertyâby learning to read.
âFor many, these books m-may represent their only opportunity for a better life.â
He had smiled then, a fleeting, shy smile, as if embarrassed by his brief speech, but Quinn had taken his meaning right away. Somewhere in the rows and rows of books upon these shelves might well lie the key to her future. A promising future, not the squalid existence of just another starving Irish peasant. Something even beyond the respectable position in service she had found with the Whittakers, though sure, her present employment was far better than anything she had known before.
No, she was determined that her future would hold more. She would make a good life for herself, on her own effortsâa life that would include more than mere existence, more than a full stomach and an aching back at the end of the day. More than a sin-stained conscience. A life in which she would never again be forced to do anything for the sole purpose of survival.
She walked the length of each wall, passing her fingers lovingly over one book after another on the shelves. I shall make my own future, my own place in the world , she promised herself. I shall build me a future of freedom and securityâ¦and respectability. No matter how long it takes or how hard I have to work, I will make a life for myself of real value. A life that matters.
Her eyes drank in the storehouse of opportunity at her fingertips. Whittaker Houseâ¦this roomâ¦was the beginning of that life. She could feel it.
But it was, she was quick to remind herself, only the beginning.
Unable to drag himself away, Daniel Kavanagh stood just outside the partially open door, watching Quinn OâShea move along the library shelves. Something about the way she stroked the books, the warmth in her gaze, the faint movement of her lips, gave her actions all the intimacy of a caress.
This wasnât the first time he had covertly observed her as she paced the room or selected a book, her face rapt, her eyes shining. She came here almost every night, after the family had settled in their rooms upstairs and the boys in the dormitory were abed.
Daniel shared her love of the books, understood her pleasure in the library. But Quinnâs passion for reading went far beyond his own experience. For him, it was a simple act of entertainment or a quest for knowledge. For her, the library seemed to hold a fascination bordering on obsession. Her entire countenance changed when she entered the room.
He saw it again now. Gone was the guarded watchfulness of her catlike eyes, the faintly cynical smile, the brisk resolve with which she went about her daily tasks. Years seemed to drop away, and with the years, the fortress of grim reserve and suspicion from which she rarely emerged.
Daniel enjoyed seeing her like this, yet at the same time he felt inexplicably threatened by the change in her. He was struck by the light of wonder in those strange, amber-flecked eyes, the unexpected softness of her features, the hint of vulnerability she revealed at no other time. Again he would realize that, instead of the flint-edged woman she seemed so intent on making herself out to be, Quinn OâShea was in reality a mere slip of a
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