Comfort and Joy (24 page)

The thought struck painfully — he was leading his father’s life.

He still allowed his father to influence him; a man who had been dead for three years. Maeve was right. As all thoughts eventually did of late, his thoughts had led to Maeve.

If Martin were given more responsibility in the business, Charles would have time for other things. He and Maeve could spend time at Ashton Pond. He and Maeve would have more time together — until the day came when they would go their separate ways.

Soon it would be Christmas and the New Year. Charles had promised his mother he would provide Maeve with a generous settlement and quietly set her free after the first of the year. He found it interesting that Beatrice would rather brave the scandal of divorce than see Charles married to a woman she considered beneath him.

“Charles?”

Charles started. Absorbed in his thoughts, he had forgotten Martin.

From across the desk, his cousin engaged in a frowning examination of him, apparently searching for head or facial bumps. “When I knocked you down, did your head hit the ground?”

“No, Martin. No, I’m fine. Just thinking. As you know, I don’t come to decisions easily. It’s not in my nature to be impulsive.” He smiled then, knowing that in the last several days he had acted impulsively a number of times.

Martin’s eyes fastened on the half-empty inkwell sitting on Charles’s desk. “As much as I am loath to admit it, Rycroft Publishing has done well under your...thoughtful...direction,” he said.

Amused at his cousin’s attempt at diplomacy, Charles chuckled. He stood up. “At the first of the new year I would like you to begin the planning and production of a Rycroft monthly publication.”

Martin’s gaze shot up to Charles, even as his brow deepened into a dark, skeptical frown. He pulled at his ear as if his hearing may have deceived him. “Do you mean it?”

Charles arched a brow. “Do I ever jest about the business?”

“Never.”

“Congratulations, Martin,” he said, extending his hand to his cousin.

Martin vigorously pumped Charles’s hand. “I’ll make you proud.”

How many times had Charles said that same thing to his father? How many times had his father laughed in response? Innumerable.

“I know you will, Martin. We’ll set up regular weekly meetings. I’ll expect to be informed every step of the way.” With his hand on Martin’s shoulder, Charles walked him to the door.

“You will know every move I make, Charles. And I, ah, I might get started before the new year.”

Laughing, Charles closed the door after his cousin. They might have just shared their finest moment together.

But from that point on, Martin popped into his office on an hourly basis. Apparently, ideas for a monthly had been stewing for months in Martin’s brain and his cousin meant to share all of them in one day.

Charles did not even look up when his door opened for what must have been the thirteenth time. Until he heard the swish of silk and the delicate sigh.

“Mother!” Charles jumped to his feet. “What are you doing here?”

She gave him a withering look.

“Have a seat.” He rushed to hold a chair for Beatrice.

Swathed in yards of mink, his mother’s tall, thin frame appeared especially fragile. She wore a tall, boxy mink hat and carried a mink muff the size of Rhode Island. Beatrice looked as if she’d been swallowed whole by a mammoth mink.

She perched primly on the edge of the chair. “Thank you, dear.”

Her exceedingly formal demeanor told Charles he was in trouble. “You’ve taken me by surprise, Mother. To what do I owe this honor?”

“I so seldom see you at home,” she said, giving a limp flick of her wrist. “After coming all this way to spend the holiday season with you, I find you are rarely available to me and our guest.”

“It has been unusually busy at the firm.”

“You do not appear busy, all alone in this great big office.”

“I’m figuring the Christmas bonus for our employees — which does not require a great deal of physical activity,” he said, retreating behind his desk.

Her charcoal eyes met his in cold accusation. “Your father spent a great deal of time here too.”

Charles could not deny it. His father had spent most of his waking hours at the publishing house, albeit for different reasons. “Speaking of Father, how did your meeting go with him the other night?”

“He did not appear.”

“No!” Charles could not help feigning shock.

“But he did appear to Helen Foster and told her quite clearly that I should follow my own desires.”

“Do you have proof that father appeared to your medium?”

“Of course.” Beatrice pressed a hand over her heart. “I saw the drapes move. And both Stella and I felt the table shake.”

“Definite signs.”

But his caustic comment was lost on his mother as she warmed to her tale. “Conrad asked Helen to convey his message to me. Your father wanted me to know that he always considered me an intelligent woman.” A tear sprung to her eye and she fished in her muff for a handkerchief.

“Father said all that, did he?”

“What’s more, he conveyed his regrets that he had rather ignored me during his lifetime.” Beatrice dabbed at her eyes with the lacy cloth.

It was all Charles could do to suppress his laughter. “So Conrad came to all this understanding in the afterlife, did he?”

“Apparently your father has found happiness in the spirit world.”

“Good. Did he give any other messages to Helen?”

“No.” His mother sighed and tucked her hanky away. “Although he did tell Helen that I should not feel guilty for any untoward remark I might have made to him...or about him just before he passed away.”

“Then all is forgiven. You must feel much better.”

“Oh yes, I do, dear. But your father requested that I allow him to rest in peace. So I shall no longer be attempting to reach him in the spirit world.”

“Just as well, Mother.”

“But now my own dear mother is to make contact with me through Helen.”

“Apparently Helen is well connected in the spirit world.”

“I daresay! And all she asks in return is a small donation for her efforts.”

In an effort to suppress his frustration, Charles closed his eyes. “Mother, the dead do not return.”

Beatrice raised her head in a most regal manner. “I did not come here to discuss the spiritual world with you,” she replied in a clipped, frosty tone. “You brought it up.”

“So I did.” He opened his eyes. “What is it you wish to speak to me about?”

“That woman.”

She could only mean one. “Maeve?”

His mother launched into her scold mode. “You are spending entirely too much time with a woman you shall discard soon enough, and hardly any time with Stella.”

“In your opinion.”

“And my opinion should be important to you,” she snapped, and then sat back in her chair, regaining her composure. “Stella feels slighted. When I tore her away from family and friends in New York, I promised her a festive holiday.”

“I believe Stella has been included in all of our holiday activities.”

“Not in the manner I had anticipated. Charles, I expect you to perform as Stella’s escort at the Cabots’ Snow Ball.”

“Mother, I shall do my best, but dividing my attention between two women is not always easy.”

“That is what concerns me. You have yet to divide your attention equally. Your eye is always on the Irish maid.”

“Maeve is my wife, no longer a maid.”

“She is only a novelty. A novelty you will weary of and be sending on her way. And then what?”

“And then I shall concentrate on business. While I appreciate your efforts to find me a bride, Mother, I already have one.”

Giving a small, shrill hoot, Beatrice bounced in her chair. “You don’t mean to keep her!”

“I may.”

With a glare that would freeze the sun, Beatrice rose stiffly from her chair. “I expect to see the last of Maeve O’Malley by the new year. If I don’t, I will feel compelled to take matters into my own hands.”

“Don’t fret, Mother. I will take care of Maeve.”

“See that you do.” Beatrice sailed to the door and stopped. She glanced back over her shoulder at Charles. “I’ve arranged for a small group of family and close friends to join us tomorrow evening for a light supper and the trimming of our Christmas tree. I expect you to be there, Charles.”

“I believe I’m free.”

“And I expect you to be attentive to Stella. Remember, she’s one of us.”

* * * *

The following afternoon Maeve arrived at Rycroft Publishing on a mission. She carried a large package and hummed a new tune. The fact that Charles came to her rooms every night and made love to her with great enthusiasm encouraged Maeve to believe he would help her.

She pleaded and cajoled, smiled and batted her lashes in mock flirtation until finally Charles agreed to leave the building wearing the outfit she’d brought for him.

A hush fell over the first floor offices of Rycroft Publishing as Charles’s employees stared in dumfounded disbelief.

“I’ve never played Santa Claus before,” he grumbled beneath his breath.

“ ‘Tis a shame, “Maeve said cheerily. “You look splendid in your Santa suit.”

“I don’t look splendid. The pillows that form my stomach feel awkward and the beard itches.”

“Bah humbug!” she laughed.

“How did you talk me into this?” he demanded as he helped her into the coach.

“You’re doing it for the children,” she said, settling back on the bench opposite him. “Santa Claus has never paid a visit to the Essex Orphanage before.”

Charles plopped down across from Maeve. “What must I do again?”

“You will wish every child a Merry Christmas and give each boy and girl a toy from the sack I have brought. And try to be jolly,” she added as an afterthought.

“Jolly?”

“Laugh if you can.” She demonstrated for him. “Ho ho ho.”

“Where have the toys come from that I shall be distributing?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“The funds you gave me for Christmas shopping enabled me to buy many wonderful toys. You’ll find dolls and toy trains in your bag along with tops and wagons —”

“You bought toys for orphans?”

“Yes. Thanks to your generosity.”

“Did you not purchase anything for yourself?”

“Well, yes. I bought a lovely warm jacket for my da and a lovely fringed parasol for Pansy. Too much sun darkens her freckles, you know.”

Charles leaned forward as much as his newly acquired girth would allow. “I repeat, did you not purchase anything for yourself?”

“Christmas is about giving, Charles.”

“I know, and my gift to you seems — “

“You’ll see how wonderful you feel when you give out the toys.”

Maeve felt as if she would burst with excitement. She could hardly wait to see the expressions on the children’s faces. No matter how embarrassed Charles might feel about his appearance, she knew he would be warmed by playing the part of Santa Claus.

As they pulled up to the orphanage, Maeve squeezed into the space beside Charles and plumped the pillows beneath his red velvet jacket. “I wonder if I could give Santa Claus a kiss?”

“If you don’t, Santa isn’t getting out of the coach.”

Maeve raised her lips to his. A gentle buss became a fierce, warming kiss. Charles ground his mouth against hers, sending sparks shooting though Maeve’s every limb. She moaned softly.

“Have you ever made love in a coach?” Charles whispered.

“Never. But I should enjoy the challenge,” Maeve replied breathlessly. “At another time.”

When his driver opened the door, Maeve swallowed hard and did her best to collect herself. Slanting Charles what she hoped was a dazzling smile, she took his hand and led him into the Essex Orphanage.

The children waited in the hall where they took their meals. Immediately as Maeve and Charles entered the large, unadorned room, Elsie Dunn led the children in singing We Wish You a Merry Christmas. Pansy played the brand-new piano she’d donated.

Charles stopped in his tracks.

Pansy grinned.

Maeve squeezed his hand. “The children won’t bite. On the contrary, they are oh so happy to see you.”

In the two days since the skating party, Maeve had been busy preparing for this party. Much to her dad’s delight, she’d baked dozens of gingerbread and sugar cookies in her old flat, leaving him and Shea a good supply. This morning she had come early to the orphanage with Shea to build a small platform for Santa’s rocking chair and sack.

Charles followed Maeve to the chair, smiling and waving to the children. He sat down a bit tenuously.

“They love you. You’re doing fine,” Maeve assured him in a whisper, before sitting on the floor beside her reluctant Santa Claus. She spread her lavender silk skirts about her. Wearing one of her favorite new dresses, trimmed with wide strips of ruching and fringe about the overskirt and bustle, she felt almost as if they were posing for a Christmas card.

She would help Charles distribute the toys to the children while Pansy continued to play Christmas carols. When Pansy first discovered Maeve’s work at the orphanage, she’d insisted on helping too.

In just a matter of minutes the boys and girls, ranging from four to twelve years of age, approached. Some advanced shyly, and others grinned and giggled as they stood before Santa. All eyes sparkled with joy.

Charles quickly fell into the spirit of the occasion as Maeve had felt certain he would. The delighted smiles of the children proved contagious. Soon everyone was smiling and laughing. Maeve’s heart swelled with love, a love that spilled through her, warming her thoroughly.

When they finished, and every toy had been given out, the hall rang with music and the excited laughter of the children.

Maeve looked up at Charles to find him regarding her with a gaze that made her heart stop. It almost looked like love shining in his eyes. For her. Just for her.

“Did you have a good time?” she asked, knowing the answer.

“I have never enjoyed myself more.”

Charles learned that afternoon that the little Irish maid, Maeve O’Malley, was a far better person than he. What had he done for anyone other than himself lately?