A Love by Any Measure (23 page)

Augusta

M
aeve and August jolted as Caroline burst into their room without warning, greatly distressed. August noticed the look of utter terror on his sister’s face, and knew at once some calamity was afoot.

The excitement was the first flutter of activity in quite some time. For nearly a week, Maeve had barely spoken or eaten. She sat in her room, never emerging but for the most necessary of tasks. August stayed often with her, leaving only when necessary to see to business or household duties. He knew she needed time, needed comfort, and that was what he was there for.

“Caroline, what is it?”

“Amelia,” she gasped back. “The baby! It’s time!”

Not a moment later, a horrid, piercing scream echoed through the house. Caroline turned without pause and ran back from the room, saying, “August, get the doctor. Jefferson is readying your horse even now.”

August leapt from bed. “I shall. Stay with Maeve while I … ”

But Maeve was already on her feet and dressing as August wrapped a throw about his shoulders.

“Maeve.” August tried to hold her back, but she continued unfettered. “Darling, it’s all right. You don’t have to—”

“What about the midwife?” Maeve interrupted, focusing on Caroline and ignoring August’s coddling.

“She wasn’t expecting Amelia to break for another few weeks. She’s away.”

Of all the cursed luck.

Maeve had dressed in blinding speed and rushed past August in a blur. Caroline followed and August ran to the stables a few minutes later, his pulse racing for speed with his feet. Jefferson was already mounted and waiting.

“I never let a man go alone into battle,” he declared.

When they arrived back to Meadowlark not an hour later, Jefferson and August shepherded Dr. Stone into the house without delay. Amelia’s screams had grown more intense, the depth of her pain clearly evident in the shrillness of her woe. Jefferson and August kept constant vigil near the door, but neither was permitted entry. August could hear the murmur of Caroline or Maeve passing along reassuring words. Amelia pleaded, pleaded with God and the Heavenly host, pleaded with anyone who might offer an end to her agony.

With every cry, August cursed his father all the more and spat upon his memory. It was his doing that had the poor creature begging for the graces of the merciful creator as she struggled and strived to bring forth the contractual child demanded.

As afternoon passed away, her pleas became mottled and soft. Amelia wept silently, though if it was because the pain was less or that her voice had simply left her from the strain, August knew not.

Finally, after a day of endless agony, a silence descended upon the house. The slightest of rustles came from inside the room. August put his ear to the door and heard only a soft uttering. He couldn’t even distinguish which of the three women he loved — each in her own way — was speaking.

Frustrated, he gnashed his teeth and decided he’d had enough of keeping a gentleman’s proper place. He needed to be inside, and had nearly reached the doorknob when, unexpectedly, it turned and the door opened.

Out stepped Stone, his face flushed and his clothes covered in a mess of fluid August didn’t want to know the more of.

“The child is born,” he said. “A girl, Lord Grayson, and very healthy.”

His heart leapt despite itself and more than that, August’s whole body smiled in a wave of unparalleled euphoria.

“I am … a father.”

As though it had not been real until that moment, he grinned. He had a daughter. His daughter lay inside, just beyond the doors, just out of view. He made again for the room, but as he did, Stone held out an arm to stop him.

“However … ”

“Yes, Amelia – how is she?”

The doctor’s eyes dropped to the floor. He spoke with such caution that August felt his stomach turn.

“She went peacefully, in the end.”

“Peacefully?”

What? What did he mean, she went peacefully? “Oh, no.”

Caroline’s bloodshot eyes met August’s panicked expression as he burst through the door and found the heart-wrenching scene: There, lying in a bed of what had been pure white sheets, in a wholesome dressing gown now stained with blood, was Amelia, eyes closed, skin ghostly. A covering had been placed over her, but August could see the smattering of red specks seeping through. The blood was as fresh as her death.

To the right, Caroline prostrated herself, her arms still outstretched, holding Amelia’s hand. August watched in anguish as he saw the tears stream down his sister’s angelic face and the words “I’m so sorry” mouthed without sound despite the rapture of her body’s quaking.

To Amelia’s left, Maeve held a similar repose, though her eyes were dry. It was not from lack of sorrow; August knew her better than that. Rather, he deemed it to be shock, disbelief. She clutched tightly in front of her a blanket with one hand, her other arm beneath it for warmth, he assumed. The knuckles of her exposed hands were nearly white from wringing.

Jefferson was at August’s side in a moment. When he saw Caroline’s crumpled form, however, he dove to her, taking her in his arms as he tried to offer comfort. August slowly paced alongside Maeve before falling to his knees and reaching out to stroke Amelia’s cheek, the skin already pale, her warmth fading.

Maeve’s voice was that of a stranger’s when she spoke, rough and broken and stained by despair. “So much death, August.”

“Maeve ... ”

She cut him off. “But she saw her before she passed. She kissed her daughter.”

Suddenly, August’s mind returned to the moment. There was a baby, but where? August’s eyes darted across the room, searching out for some evidence of the child, his child.

The slightest whine came from under Maeve’s blanket.

He looked down and saw the revelation of the as-yet unwashed product of his and Amelia’s union, blissfully sleeping in Maeve’s arms.

“Augusta,” Maeve held the swaddled infant out to his instinctively awaiting embrace. “Her mother asked that she be named after you.”

Uncouth Men

Boston, MA, November 1872

T
he blond, dimple-faced boy giggled heartily as his playmate, his fair-skinned, blue-eyed cousin, tickled his feet. Charles screamed and squealed and hollered like a jack rabbit in a jamboree as Augusta rolled him onto his back and attacked his stomach.

“Stop it, Goosie, that hurts!” Jefferson’s son begged with perfect British inflection.

His mother, the sweetest English flower, laughed in time and looked over at the children rolling on the floor. Caroline only took a moment away from her stitching to click her tongue playfully.

“I’ll stop tickling you when you stop laughing!” Augusta pledged in her mottled tone, part Irish, part British, part uniquely Augusta. “Or I’ll sing to you, if you’d like.”

Charles wormed out from under her and sprang up. “Oh, yes, do!”

August looked up from the small writing desk across the room, his face beaming as he gazed at his daughter. “Do you know any songs, Goosie?”

“Ever so many!” she squealed with pride and wrapped her dainty little hand around her chin in contemplation. “Now, what would you like to hear?”

Caroline smiled warmly. “Well, it is getting awfully late. Perhaps you can undo the tizzy you’ve gotten him in by singing a lullaby. Do you know any lullabies?”

Charles looked at his mother askew. “What’s a la-la-bee?”

August abandoned his feverish notations and went to the children’s side. He took Augusta upon one knee and Charles on the other. “A lullaby is the most wonderful innovation in the history of parents and children. You see, it is a song one sings to put children to sleep.”

Charles looked up detestably at his uncle, his curls bouncing to and fro with each bitter word he spat back. “I don’t want to sleep! I want to play with Goosie.”

“Now, now,” Augusta cooed, “we’ll play tomorrow. What can I sing? Oh! I know.”

Jefferson watched as Augusta’s angel face lit up and her delicate voice took off in song:

Hush, the waves are rolling in, White with foam, white with foam; Father toils amid the dew, But baby sleeps at home.

“Oh, my! August?”

In a whirl, Caroline had leapt from her seat and was, despite her humble personage, bracing August from falling back on the carpet. His face was positively pale as cotton. Jefferson hastened to help, taking over the lion’s share of the burden.

“I’m fine.” August spoke more to Augusta than the adults as her face had glossed over in concern. Straightening his shirt, he made as though nothing had happened. “That’s lovely, Augusta.”

In her relief, she smiled widely. “Ma sings it to me at bed time.”

August returned her warm expression. “Your Aunt Caroline probably cannot recall that our mother did, too. Do you mind if I sing with you?”

She shook her head, and they resumed together:

Hush! the winds roar hoarse and deep-On they come, on they come! Brother seeks the wandering sheep, but baby sleeps at home. Hush! the rain sweeps o’er the knowes, Where they roam, where they roam; Sister goes to seek the cows, but baby sleeps at home

He leaned over and kissed the bridge of her nose. Augusta closed her eyes and threw her arms around his neck.

“When are we getting Ma and going home, Father?”

Seeing the confusion on August’s face, Jefferson cleared his throat as he leaned over and lifted Charles off the floor. “I think it’s time for bed now, children. Caroline, would you?”

He gave his wife a meaningful glance, and she immediately understood.

“Of course,” she said as Charles’ small frame slacked from her embrace. “Come on, poppets. Let us settle you down.”

With a small peck on the cheek, Augusta kissed her father before exiting with her aunt. August looked to Jefferson with a smirk.

“I know what you want to say, so just hold your tongue.”

“It’s not right,” Jefferson chastised, undeterred, taking a seat in the arm chair nearby. “You can’t drag out poor Goosie’s expectations like this. She thinks somehow you and Maeve are going to find a way to overcome everything. You must tell her the truth. Tell her that Maeve is not her mother and that she will not be with her again.”

“I spoke to the Judge, you know.”

He stated it so matter-of-factly that it took a moment for Jefferson to be taken aback in shock. “No, I was not aware.”

August shrugged. “I tried to get him to drop the charges, but the bastard demanded that I swear on the Holy Book Maeve had permission to take Goosie. I could lie to him, but never to spite the Lord.”

Jefferson slumped back in the chair, his thoughts shooting off in a million different directions.

“Are you saying that you’d actually … That despite everything, you’d take Maeve back? My God, man, she stole your child.”

His green eyes nearly turned black in their hostility. “You know it wasn’t like that. Maeve had a reason. And for all the torment I put her through and expectations I made? I don’t know, perhaps it was my due.”

“Landing another fist on you might have been more merciful.”

August shrugged again as his eyes turned to the fire, pulling his attentions wholly inward. In the years Jefferson had known his brother-in-law, never had he been more distant as in recent days. Caroline was beside herself with concern, although in front of the children she displayed no less than utter poise and placidness. In private, she kept replaying everything in her head, trying to decipher if there had been signs missed. Maeve and Caroline had been as close as sisters. That even she could not gather what had driven Maeve to such desperate measures had been taxing on August. If it had been another lover, he may have handled it better. At least then he could place fault. As there was no evidence to suggest that, he took the error to be totally his own.

The conversation he’d had with the informant only seemed to reinforce that.

“If only Murphy would share a little more insight,” Jefferson mused as he, too, became mesmerized by the fire.

Jefferson had been only too happy to help August find Owen. As the issues at hand were between the two of them, however, he had remained out of sight otherwise. Jefferson didn’t want any of Murphy’s grudges against him to deter August’s efforts in learning the truth.

But he wondered now if maybe that’s what was needed. Maybe if Owen saw that all the cards were on the table, he’d be more forthcoming. Maybe it was time for Jefferson to step in, though he knew he opened himself up to public scrutiny by doing so if his vindictiveness extended to all the Graysons and not only August.

He sat up with a sense of determination, slapping his palms against the arms of the chair. August jolted, turning to Jefferson with a concerned look.

“Tomorrow, I’ll go with you to the courthouse and talk with Murphy. You did say he attends most days, did you not?”

“Yes, I did,” August answered confusedly. “Why do you think he’ll talk to you when he won’t talk to me?”

Smirking, he answered in no uncertain way. “One thing I’ve learned as a soldier: To win the war, you must use the right balance of force and fortitude. I think I know how to get the blacksmith to talk.”

Caroline handed her husband his hat as he looked in the mirror, adjusting the deep purple cravat.

“Anxious, darling?”

“I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“But perhaps when August learns … ”

His mind turned back through the years, to his and Caroline’s whirlwind romance. Jefferson had come to Killarney with a firm goal and purpose, and that purpose was certainly not to fall in love with his intended enemy. He shuddered to think that his activities, had he not chanced upon Caroline in the marketplace that day, could have very well ended her life had he not convinced her to return to England. Of course, how could he ever have known that vacating his once-lofty role leading the Killarney Fenians wouldn’t have the slightest effect on its ultimate short comings?

Fate did not depend on the whims of a few, though so often it formulated the misfortunes of the many.

“He won’t,” Jefferson answered, effectively cutting her off. He chuckled lowly, and said, barely audible, “It is a far, far better thing that I do … ” Caroline gave him a coy smirk. “I’ll find a way to speak with Owen alone. But don’t think wrongly of my intent, darling. I am a man who does not shirk from his past. I only worry that August, should he learn that you have kept these things secret, will think the lesser of you.”

“My loyalty lies with my husband first.”

Jefferson looked to his bride and delighted in the pink flush of her cheeks. He did not doubt her sincerity, not in the slightest.

“Yes, well, despite that, August needs you now and we should not circumvent the bond the two of you share. You are a great comfort to him.”

August rounded the corner just then, lingering in the open doorway as Jefferson leaned over and kissed his Caroline softly.

“I love you. Now let me see what I can do to resolve this.”

August was silent all the way to the courthouse, staring blankly out the window of the coach. Jefferson did not endeavor to engage him. Since August had been reunited with his daughter, the silent living death in which he had kept himself for years had lifted. When he was with her, he smiled once more, laughed once more. But the moment he left her side, his darkness returned. Any attempt to rouse him from this state often resulted in harsh words or rounds of sarcastic bickering.

Across the street from the courthouse steps, Jefferson saw Murphy entering the building. Making some excuse to August, Jefferson strode away, following Owen through the crowded halls.

He caught him up, and in as delicate a manner as possible, positioned himself behind the Irishman, leaning slightly over his shoulder as he spoke deftly, else someone overhear.

“You and I, sir, need to converse in private.”

Owen’s breath caught in his throat and Jefferson swore he heard him take a nervous gulp of air. Still, as he turned, Owen’s manner was collected and cool.

“Aye, if you like.”

Jefferson leaned his head to the side in a vague directional gesture. Owen walked casually the path indicated. They wove through halls and vestibules for minutes, until at last Jefferson believed they were alone.

Without further hesitation, his hands slapped against Owen’s shoulders, pinning him to the wall.

“I want you to know, Murphy,” Jefferson began in a tone both firm and gravelly, “I have killed men before with my bare hands, and I have the ability to do so without leaving any indication of my involvement.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! What are you playing at?”

Utter rage filled him, and almost without thinking, Jefferson’s hands pulled away from Owen’s shoulders and circled his throat, squeezing just below his woolen scarf where no marks would show above the collar. Owen gagged.

“I will let go my hands and allow you to breathe. You, in turn, will wisely use this breath to answer one question and one question only. Answer me falsely, and it will be your last breath. Do you understand?” Owen nodded vigorously, though his eyes were tearing over. “Good.” Jefferson released his throat. “Tell me, why did Maeve take Augusta and run off to America?”

“Be … cause,” he spluttered, doubling over, “because of what she promised the bastard’s wife.”

“What did she promise to Amelia!?”

“I don’t know!” he almost screamed. Jefferson violently whipped his head left and right to make sure no one shared the hall and the conversation. “She wouldn’t tell me. She only said she had to keep her promise.”

He was telling the truth, that much was certain. But what was also certain was that he was still holding something back. Jefferson could tell by the tension apparent in his eyes.

“And?”

“And … whatever it was, it wasn’t enough. She still wanted to go back to him, even after everything.” Owen straightened, a smug smile crossing his face. “Aye, but I saw through the mess. I convinced her that she would only be hurt again, and if she really wanted to protect the child, she had to leave. For good.”

“And you … what? Brought her to America? Only later to turn her into the police?”

The supposition struck a nerve, and Owen’s fair-skinned face flushed red.

“It’s as much your fault, you know! If you had done what you promised, Rory O’Connor might even still be alive. If you hadn’t had him spying on Grayson, he never would have come up with that hare-brained idea to shoot himself in the foot.”

Jefferson grounded his teeth. “Which he did only when you panicked because Maeve was trying to convince you to let them move in with you and away from Middle Lake. You told Rory he had to do something that would distract August, make him feel too guilty to throw them out.”

“Does it matter?” Owen spit back. “But God only knows if Maeve would have fallen for Grayson if she had never stayed at his house. And if you had been there during the uprising instead of turning tail, Rory might have never been killed that day. Maeve would be with me. I hope your trollop was worth a good man’s life and a good woman’s name!”

Owen doubled over again as Jefferson’s fist connected with his stomach. As he groaned and grimaced, Jefferson leaned close and growled into his ear. “No one has ever loved Maeve as August. And I hasten to say that until your involvement, Maeve had loved August just as much. And if you ever insult my wife’s honor again, I will see you six feet un—”

“Jefferson?”

August’s voice echoed up the corridor. Jefferson tensed. August’s face twisted in confusion, trying to decipher the scene before him. Owen took advantage of the break to flee. As August approached, Jefferson tried to shake off the nerves that had overtaken him.

“What’s going on? Did you learn anything?”

He shook his head. “Owen said only that Maeve said something about a promise to Amelia. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Not a thing,” August answered woefully. Then his eyes narrowed. “Did you … You said, ‘Owen.’ Did you … Do you know Owen Murphy?”

Jefferson made his answer brief while keeping to the truth.

“I had encountered him in Killarney. Shall we … ?”

He motioned with his hands up the hall.

“Yes, court will be convening soon. Let us.”

August spent the next several hours biting his finger in frustration, staring squarely at the back of Maeve’s head from his seat in the crowded galley. Maeve’s gaze never drifted beyond the edge of the table before her. When alas she was asked if she wished to speak in her own defense, she declined. August let out a sigh of regret in the wake of her only words: