A Love by Any Measure (19 page)

The Roost

Boston, MA
September 1872

“W
hat did you mean I was named after my father?”

Blessed Mary, don’t children hear everything?

The child’s big blue eyes, too large for one so small, looked up through the black curls brushing over her face in the autumnal breeze. Maeve hesitated, wondering if she ignored it perhaps Augusta would not insist. She curled her fingers around the child’s and pulled her more insistently toward the flat.

“Ma, my father was named Augusta?”

Maeve couldn’t help but to give a laugh. “No, Goosie. Your father’s name was August. Not exactly the same, but close.”

“If I was a boy, would you have named me Maevibald?”

“No, I imagine you would have been named … ” Maeve stopped herself short. Augusta noticed the abrupt cut off and turned a familiar grin. “I probably would have named you Aurora, after my da,” Maeve quickly recovered.

The lass seemed satisfied with the response as Maeve turned the corner of Federal and Congress towards the old wood warehouse remade to house Irish. A few of Augusta’s playmates passed. Augusta giggled and waved, her dark, woolen cloak batting about in the wind.

After a quiet contemplation, she spoke very matter-of-factly. “Your da is dead.”

Maeve nodded slowly. “Yes.”

“Somebody shot him.”

Silence acknowledged it as so.

Augusta stopped completely. “Is my father dead?”

Maeve bit her bottom lip, hesitating and deliberately plotting what to say. She had never lied to the child, but had found remarkable ways to stretch, pass over, and avoid the truth. She had become the master of saying much without saying anything at all.

But Augusta was catching on to the game. Perhaps even sharper than her intellectual father, she had learned to be direct with her questions.

Maeve relented to her sincere, innocent gaze. “No, Goosie, he’s alive,” she sighed. “Only, he and I … Well, after you were born … ”

“Did you have a row?” She blinked twice, her eyes soft and patient.

“Something of that sort, yes, dear. We reached a … juncture that we could not cross, and he did something which hurt me very, very much.”

“Will I ever see him again?”

“I’m not certain.” She paused. “I hope so.”

Maeve was thankful that she hadn’t asked further after her father. In earnest, she didn’t know what she would say if she did.

Did you love him?

Yes, of course.

Then, why did you leave him?

Because I love you too, mo chroi, and I had to keep my promise.

But how would such a wee darling understand the truth without thinking the circumstances were her making?

The next morning, a scattering of snow greeted them. Augusta squealed, wanting to run downstairs and toss about in it before it would surely melt away with the sun. As they walked back up the North streets, Maeve watched the wee one giggle and play, sweeping her mitten-covered hand over the top of anything within reach and sending snow flying.

“Mornin’ to you, Maeve.” Tara peeked out from her stoop, expecting their arrival. She had a woolen blanket at the ready and quickly swept crimson-cheeked Augusta into its warmth.

“Morning, Tara. She’s a tad bit stirred today. Sorry if she gives you any trouble.”

Tara laughed and kissed Augusta’s nose. “Goosie be trouble? Ne’er mention the idea.”

She turned the child around to face Maeve as she leaned over and kissed her on the nose tenderly.

“Be a good lass, now. All right?”

“I shall be nothing but honey and sunshine.”

Maeve pulled back. Augusta’s inflection had been a curious particularity, but had leaned more Irish. In that moment, however, she sounded perfectly English, and so very much like her father. So … appropriate.

“Yes,” she sighed in distraction. “Won’t be long today. The snow might slow business.”

Maeve heard the echo of Augusta’s giggle as she walked back down the stairs. Tara had minded Augusta since they’d come to Boston. She had known Owen’s father years before. Now she watched Augusta every day while Maeve worked, supporting to some degree all three of them. Tara was an angel to Augusta, a strong protector and loyal nana. It was a fine trade.

Maeve walked hurriedly the remaining distance as the melting snow began to seep through her clothes. For once, she felt herself longing to arrive at the bakery early. On a chilly day like this one, the heat of the ovens and the smell of the warm bread would be a Godsend.

It seemed she was not wholly alone in this sentiment. To her surprise — and frankly, her dismay — the bakery storefront was nearly filled to capacity. Even at mid-morning, the number of eager customers was impressive.

“Sarah?” Maeve called out as she made her way through the small crowd of a dozen or so. “How goes it?”

A mousy, rust-haired girl barely sixteen gave a sigh far too hefty for her own modest size. “It’s like we’re selling tickets to Heaven this morning, Mrs. Murphy,” she returned over the crowd. “Sam’s already put third rounds through the ovens, and they’re still not slowing down.”

Maeve nodded as she took off her overcoat, ducked behind the counter, and tied a white shop apron around her waist and back. For three straight hours she couldn’t find time to draw breath. Finally, as afternoon settled in, the tide subsided. Sarah and Sam were given permission to leave as Maeve stayed behind alone in case any mid-afternoon customers wandered in.

She sat for a moment on a stool out of open view, but still with an ear on the front door. Sure enough, some short time later, the store door opened.

“Good afternoon,” she said as she emerged from the back room. “What can I get … for … ”

Her voice trailed off as she squinted and tried to make out the nature of the omen that had just entered her bakery.

“Owen?”

He nodded, snowflakes falling off his white-flecked hat, as though he wasn’t a ghost of her past returning to haunt her.

“Maeve,” he said in greeting.

Whether it was a smile or grimace that met her as she stared into his face, Maeve wasn’t certain. He seemed to be making up his mind as to whether or not he was happy to see her too. They stared at each other without word or waver. Owen seemed just as uncertain as how to proceed with their reunion after nearly three years as she.

Finally, Maeve broke the silence. “What are you doing here?”

“Something’s happened.”

Her heart sank in morbid anticipation. Her mouth went dry. “Has someone … died?”

He shuffled a bit, looking with great concentration at his feet. “No. Saints be praised, no. What I mean to say is, something’s happened to me.”

“What?”

“They know,” he stated ominously, and though there was no more than that, Maeve understood in a moment who they were and what they had discovered. “I’m not sure how. They came looking for me.”

Her own heartbeat drowned everything else from her ability to hear. She felt weak in the knees as sweat broke across her brow.

“How much do they know?” she heard herself ask, though it seemed as though it was coming from somewhere else in the room.

He gave a small shrug before he answered in a quaking voice tinged with regret. “All of it.”

She was nearly in tears. “Then why are you here?”

The words had barely escaped her lips when the door opened again, and two blue-swathed bizzies, night sticks in hand and scowls on their faces, eyed her warily.

“I’m sorry, Maeve,” Owen said sincerely. The air was quickly becoming thinner and thinner. “I hadn’t a choice; if I agreed to take them to you, they said they’d let me go. They know all about the Fenians, the ones who got away like me. Luckily, I had a bigger fish for them.”

“Is this her?” one of the bizzies growled.

“Yeah,” Owen offered. “This is Maeve O’Connor.”

Before Maeve could reckon the turn of events, one bizzie had her arms behind her back while the other was slipping something cold and metallic around her wrists.

“Come along, now. Don’t give us a fight,” he demanded.

Her thoughts ran to Augusta. She felt her stomach drop to the floor, wondering what would become of the tender little girl she loved with all her heart. Where would she go? Who would take care of her?

In a startling moment of realization, Maeve knew who. Owen had arranged this, which meant he knew and was likely on his way to Boston, if not already here.

The bizzie pushed her through the door of her own bakery, and a myriad of passersby turned in shock and horror.

“Maeve O’Connor,” the other bizzie declared, making sure, she was certain that a good number of people were within earshot to bear witness. “You’re being taken into custody and charged with the kidnapping of Augusta Grayson.”

Revelations and Relations

Norwich, England
January 1867

M
aeve tried to take ease as the coach swayed side to side and traveled the road from Yarmouth to Norwich. She was so thankful for one night’s rest at the inn portside so that she could recover from the ship. Her inability to spontaneously sprout sea legs was a great embarrassment. She longed to have August beside her in the night to hold as she had in Cork. Instead, Caroline was her bedfellow. She realized she should have anticipated as much, given that they were now within the peripheral vision of English society.

The proximity indeed made her wonder just how August planned to explain her presence. Would he pass her off as a servant? Caroline’s maid? Further, would she care? Within the confines of Meadowlark, she hoped that August would still be August, and that Lord Grayson would not reappear. Outside of Meadowlark, she understood that appearances would have to be maintained.

Seated across from her, August looked more anxious than a plump goose on Christmas morning. Maeve parted her lips to ask after him for the third time in the last hour, but he silenced her before she had a chance.

“Please,” he begged, tilting his head to the side.

“I’m not trying to be a bother, August,” she tried to assure him. “You should know that I don’t care what a cackle of old English hens say. Same as the Killarney chickens with better dresses. I can endure.”

He looked amused by her declaration, leaning his head over on his bunched fist and hiding his smirk from view, his elbow crooked to allow the arm to support. His grin evaporated after a few moments when his face again resumed a nervous demeanor.

“You amaze me. You have so much faith in me. I hope … I hope I prove worthy of the sacrifice.”

The words were eerily similar to a declaration she had made just a short time ago to Owen. The thought made a chill rush down her frame.

Brushing aside the momentary anxiety, Maeve thanked the saints that Jefferson had suggested two smaller coaches be taken to Norwich rather than a shared larger one. Within the confines of theirs, the curtains drawn so no one could see in and the sounds of the horse’s steady clap clomp clap clomp preventing any muted sounds of their conversation from being overheard by the driver, Maeve felt at ease to take what actions — and make which sounds — she so willed.

She moved near to August, who seemed at first apprehensive, then relaxed. Letting out a sigh as he put his arm about her, he pulled her close to his side and kissed her on the forehead.

“How did someone like me capture your affections?”

She crooked her neck so that she could look up into his green eyes, like they were a little piece of Ireland given to her whenever she so desired. “I still wonder at how someone of my birth could ever hope to win the love of an English lord.”

August leaned in and kissed her, as though this was a counter to her question and she had been a fool for asking it.

“We are all equal in the sight of God. It is only in the eyes of man that we find the faults of this world within.”

The warmth of his words washed over her, through her, around her. August took Maeve’s hand in his own, raising it slowly to his lips and placing the most tender, heart-felt kiss, never taking away his gaze. He then leaned over again and met her lips chastely at first, before slowly pushing the kiss, marking his every movement with passion.

“Mo chroi, I need to … ”

His lips found hers again, then trailed down over her jaw. His arms circled round, drawing Maeve’s body flush to his as well as could be done while seated.

A ragged breath broke the strength of her voice. “You need to … ?”

He paused as his mouth hovered over her neck. “Tá grá agam duit, Maeve.”

Maeve’s mouth curled into an unfettered smile. He had told her he loved her, but never in Irish. “I love you. So much.”

Without further hesitation, August moved his hands to her hips and pulled Maeve unto his lap so that she found herself straddling him. She wondered if she should resist. But after all, they were alone, and the cadence of the horses outside would cover up any utterances from within.

Which was a lucky bit of fate. She had learned from the last few weeks of their frequent indulgences that laying with August often led to an inability to subdue her moans and screams. The pleasure, far beyond any thrill she could have anticipated, made her overlook that very dangerous reality of to what such frequent rendezvous could lead.

But now and then, the question would occur to her: how it had come to pass that August and she could have indulged in each other’s company so frequently without conceiving? She concluded that the Almighty really did answer prayers. Yet Maeve was surprised to find herself slightly bereft. A tug in her heart wondered if perhaps she might like to discover that she was carrying August’s child.

Not another thought could be spared on idle daydreaming for now, however, as August fisted her hair and pulled her face nigh to his. His lips crashed against hers with abandon and Maeve found herself giving way to instinct as he pulled the fabric of her skirt and petticoat from underneath, allowing the pulsating portion of her person to align to his with no more than the fabric of his pants and the thin cotton of her knickers between. August’s expression was partly shock and partly thrill. Maeve knew this was hardly the most appropriate place for an interlude, but she couldn’t scrape together enough wits to care.

The pale skin of Maeve’s knees and thighs revealed a sacred path. His hand traipsed back down the flesh slowly, achingly tantalizing Maeve’s senses with want, with need. He moved his hands back up again, this time underneath the fabric to find the hem of the knickers she wore. August looped his fingers down over the waistline and pulled with all his might, shearing the garment in two.

Hardly wanting to sit in wait, Maeve mirrored his actions, grasping at the waist line of his pants and pulling suggestively. He lifted himself off the bench as she held onto his shoulders to keep from falling, then lowered them just enough to let his erection free.

“To make love to you in England ... ” he breathed, letting his finger fall tantalizingly across her thigh. “I’ve dreamed of having you in so many ways, in so many places … ”

Maeve gasped, as he renewed his efforts with his mouth on her neck, hands full of her posterior, pulling her closer. She had supposed the act would begin to become familiar, dull, but every time held just as much, if not more, of a thrill. It reminded her of the first time she had tasted chocolate and how the mixture of sweet and bitter overwhelmed her senses. Subsequent tastings never brought the thrill of discovery that the first encounter had, but each occasion was just as pleasing.

Maeve lifted herself and came down unto him slowly, savoring the sensation of his filling her. August’s hands planted on her hips as he began coaxing her frame in an enticing cycle of wax and wane. Though at first content to let only her body navigate, he soon began thrusting upward with each pass that he guided down. The duality of push and pull drove him deeper into her than ever she recalled. Their eyes locked as he uttered “I love you” like a benediction.

Weaving her fingers through his hair as she rode out the crest of her climax, Maeve pulled his face into her breasts. She successfully subdued most of her screams of pleasure as the ebbing tide was met by a new crashing wave: August’s arrival to the shores of ecstasy.

They stayed joined above and below for some time. Eventually, the carriage slowed and Maeve began to take note of the sounds of street life outside their private paradise. August shifted to the right and opened the flap of the curtain only enough to peer outside.

“We’re coming into Norwich now, Maeve.” He placed the lightest peck on her chin before allowing her to fall back to the other side of the carriage. He pulled his pants back up and examined warily the shorn pieces of cotton sitting on the cushion next to him. “I’m sorry about that.”

“I am not.”

It was delightful to see him smile back, though quickly his mood seemed to darken and his brow creased under the weight of his apparent worry.

“August, you can’t keep whatever it is eating at you from me.”

He looked up as though he was a child caught kicking the chickens. Before he could make an excuse, Maeve narrowed her eyes and stared him down. With a sigh, his body relaxed against the bench, resolved to share whatever woe he had been carrying.

“I have been remiss,” he offered. “I’ve kept something from you that I should have made known long ago.”

She tried to quell the sudden pull of her stomach and show him only confidence. “Whatever it is, I assure you, I’ll understand.”

He melted at her words. “Bless God and all his creation, I hope that is true.” He swallowed hard before straightening himself and smoothing out his coat and pants. “I love you. I know I have said this before, but I will say it once more that you may have no doubt. I love you: beyond rich, beyond poor, beyond lord and peasant, Anglican and Catholic, Irish and English. Beyond any measure of time or wealth or ruin, I love you. No greater truth has ever been spoken. But there is a truth. A horrid, unavoidable, undeniable truth — a burden so heavy as I do not know that I could bear it should it cause you slight. What I mean to say is —”

“Meadowlark!”

The carriage made a hard stop, Maeve’s body jolting and eyes fluttering as the door of the coach opened. August grimaced, looking as though he were trying to decide whether or not to continue unabated. His decision was made for him by Caroline, who tentatively poked her head into the carriage expectantly.

“I don’t know about you,” she uttered with a half-smile, though somewhat warily, as though she had somewhat expected to open the door to find a lion ready to strike, “but I could stand with a strong cup of tea.”

Maeve nodded and August muttered something under his breath. The coachman presented his hand as she descended. August hesitated but at last emerged and fell in step behind Caroline, with whom Maeve locked arms to be led in fair parade step toward the entry of a veritable palace.

If she had been impressed by Shepherd’s Bluff in Killarney, she was in awe of Meadowlark. The differences were striking; it was more refined, built of stately grey, square-cut stone. Truly an impressive sight, it appeared more a fortress than a house.

“Now, Maeve, don’t you worry about a thing,” Caroline said as she rubbed a gloved hand over hers. “Just remember, such arrangements aren’t so unusual. In fact, just a generation or two ago, they were considered commonplace.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Maeve exclaimed as she turned with a disbelieving frown. “First August, now you. Whatever are the two of you going on about?”

Caroline’s smile evaporated in a cloud of bitter rage. She snapped her whole body in August’s direction. “You didn’t tell her!”

Defensively, August’s hands flew out. “I was on edge of doing so, but you interrupted.”

Caroline took no comfort in his assurance. “Oh, August, how could you! This is so uncouth!”

“Please!” Maeve shouted over their escalating battle as she stared down both of the Grayson siblings.

“August?”

The voice was sweet, feminine, and full of joy. It came from behind, from the doorway of the house, Maeve realized a moment later when she turned back and looked up at the woman who had just emerged. She was a beauty like those in the paintings August kept at Killarney, complete with hair soft as pale, red roses and crimson lips. She wore a fine dress, delicately pink, though not too detailed. A knitted shawl was pulled taut around her shoulders to defend against chill, though Maeve was certain she was trembling nonetheless. And her eyes! How they startled, like the still, azure blue of Middle Lake in the crisp of winter.

Then Maeve’s insides lurched as her eyes lowered down the redhead’s frame and took in the view of her swollen belly.

August stepped forward and offered his hands to the gravid woman and lovingly kissed her cheek. He turned and spoke, though the pounding of Maeve’s heart in her ears drowned out his voice. His words haunted as she swirled into blackness.

“Maeve, may I present Amelia Grayson.”

Her mind reeled, attempting to find a piece of reason that would allow for another Grayson, one heretofore unknown. A sister-in-law? But then, August had no brother. Nor another sister, at least none of which she had ever heard. A cousin, perhaps? Yes, that could … must be it. Amelia must be August’s cousin.

Feeling the sense of woe leave her, Maeve gave a respectful nod of her head. “Miss Grayson,” she greeted. “How do you do?”

It was then that the coachman, perhaps sensing Maeve’s faux pas, approached and whispered to her. “Pardon, Miss, but you’d do well to address Lady Grayson properly.”

But that was impossible, she thought. August’s mother had been Lady Grayson, and she was dead. There would only be another Lady Grayson if August was … That was, if Amelia was August’s …

Maeve’s vision blurred, then clouded over.

“Dear Lord, August!” Lady Grayson shouted. “August! August, quickly, catch her!”