Comfort and Joy (25 page)

His father, his brother, his mother, none of his immediate family had set a generous example. Father donated to the church, but that was to salve his conscience and bring good will, Charles suspected.

Elsie Dunn, a middle-aged widow who had started the orphanage by taking one child and then another off the streets, thanked them with tears in her eyes. Charles felt humbled.

Pansy parted from them at the door. “I shall see you tonight for the tree trimming,” she said, giving Maeve a brief embrace and a peck on the cheek.

Charles did not miss the relief in Maeve’s answering smile. He knew Pansy’s presence helped Maeve through each holiday festivity more than he. A quick, sharp stab of pain pierced his heart. A heart that expanded and softened, day by day.

“What will you do now?” he asked Maeve when they were once again inside the town coach.

“I planned to visit Da and then practice with old friends who will be caroling on Christmas Eve. I might even purchase some mistletoe,” she said with a grin.

“You do not spend much time at home, do you?”

“Only when I have lessons.”

It did not require genius to understand that Maeve avoided Stella and his mother by being out and about. Charles couldn’t blame her. “Come with me,” he urged. “After I discard this Santa suit I must go shopping and find a Christmas gift for my mother — and Stella. I would be most appreciative of your womanly opinions and assistance.”

A small smile danced at the corner of Maeve’s berry lips. “I think you should find a husband for Stella.”

“Oh, that I could. I would wrap and bow-tie Spencer but he’s asked to be seated far from her at supper tonight.”

Instead of laughing, as he’d meant for her to do, Maeve grew serious. “If Spencer feels that way about Stella, how does he feel about me?”

“He quite likes you, Maeve. He thought you were a game girl, learning to skate with all eyes upon you.”

“Does he know we are married?”

Charles shook his head slowly. “No.”

“You haven’t told even your best friend?”

“No,” he confessed reluctantly. “It’s not come up.”

“Pansy knows.”

“Men don’t discuss personal matters as women are wont to do. Before long the new year will be here, Stella will be gone, and the entire city of Boston will know what we have done.”

“You say it as if we’d done something criminal.”

“Look!” he exclaimed, pointing out the window. “Barclay’s, an exceedingly fashionable shoppe. We’ll shop there.”

A twinge of guilt grabbed at his stomach. Charles knew he continued to disappoint Maeve by keeping their marriage secret, but what else could he do? He would make it up by giving her the best Christmas she’d ever had.

Maeve and Charles returned to Barclay’s within the hour. Smudges of charcoal clouds dotted the winter sky and a raw wind whipped through the downtown streets, but Charles hardly noticed the cold. Shed of his Santa suit, he felt in especially good humor.

Barclay’s provided an assortment of fine and expensive gifts.

Maeve held up a blue bottle. “This is called Romance, a perfume from Paris. Do you think Beatrice would like it? It boasts the fragrance of camellias.”

Charles sniffed at the bottle. “It has a cloying scent. I prefer yours. The scent of violets is so much more refreshing.”

Maeve shot him a disarming smile but did not reply.

He ambled on, stopping at a glass case. “Ah, look. What do you think of these pearl earrings?”

“They’re very beautiful,” she said with genuine admiration.

“The set shall be our gift to my mother then.” From the corner of his eye, Charles spotted delicate diamond stud earrings that would look quite excellent in Maeve’s small ears. He sent her to the opposite side of the store and directed the shopkeeper to deliver the diamonds to his home. He added a matching necklace as an afterthought

Charles had promised himself that he would give Maeve the most memorable Christmas ever, and he intended to do just that. His gaze roamed to a case containing rings, exquisite diamond and sapphire gems that far outshone the ring Maeve so stubbornly wore round her neck. If he were to remain married to the little bit, she would have a magnificent diamond. Married or not, she should have a ring that matched the sparkle in her eye. He ordered the largest diamond and sapphire in the shop and then joined Maeve on the far side of the store.

She looked at a chessboard and figures made of marble.

“Do you know how to play chess?” he asked.

“No, but I should like to learn.”

“Very well. I will teach you.”

Maeve shot him a radiant smile. Charles felt his bones melt.

Had he no resistance to her left?

“I promise to be an eager student,” she said.

With her quick intelligence, Charles had no doubt Maeve would pick up the game immediately. At last he would have someone to challenge other than a reluctant Spencer.

His stomach tightened. A short time with Maeve as his opponent would be better than no time at all, he told himself.

“Why not one of your books as a gift for Stella?” she suggested.

“Have you ever seen her read?”

“Well, no.”

“But of course the right book might encourage her to become a reader.”

Maeve agreed. “In time, Stella might even support Rycroft Publishing with her voracious reading appetite.”

“Parkens Booksellers, next stop,” he declared.

Charles guided Maeve around the corner to the old bookstore, musty and fragrant with the scent of leather.

Before long, Charles picked up a small, leather-bound volume. “Here is the perfect book.”

Maeve read the tide aloud. “A Widow’s Life. Do you dare, Charles? I know the rule: A Rycroft does the right thing.”

“Very well. This will do, won’t it?” He held up a book by Walt Whitman. Charles didn’t care to spend much time shopping for Stella. But in a quick scan of the books, he had found something perfect for Maeve. After dispatching her to the biography section, Charles ordered another book and directed the bookseller to deliver the purchases to his home.

Charles had never had such a pleasant time purchasing gifts. His spirits were almost as high as if he’d been sipping brandy all day. He liked the feeling. He enjoyed Maeve’s ready laughter and brilliant smile.

In short order, he and his small companion came upon a stand selling holiday items on the corner of Tremont Street

Charles held up a mistletoe ball. “Do you like this one?”

“It’s so large, Charles.”

“That’s good-it promises more kisses.”

Maeve grinned. This afternoon with Charles had been more wonderful than she’d expected. He’d surprised her by leaving the office to shop, but she fully enjoyed his company. “If with each kiss a berry is removed, how long do you suppose that mistletoe ball will last?” she asked.

“A month?” He shook his head. “Not long enough. Perhaps we should purchase two.”

“Are you planning to kiss a lot of ladies under the mistletoe?”

“Only one. You.”

The warmth that trickled through Maeve threatened to undo her. If she could, she would have thrown herself into Charles’s arms and kissed him soundly right in the middle of Tremont Street. With her thoughts on Charles rather than what she was about, Maeve did not see the woman heading her way and jostled her by accident

“Oh! I’m so sorry Mrs. Deakins.”

Pansy’s mother held tight to the patrician alignment of her features. Either unaware or unconcerned, Charles was close by and might overhear what she spat out beneath her breath. “Don’t think I don’t know where my daughter’s strange ideas come from. You have been a dreadful influence on Pansy. After I opened my home to you and treated you with all kindness, you betrayed me and my family. No matter what airs you may put on, you were once my maid. And no one shall forget it, Maeve O’Malley.”

Chapter Fourteen

On the way home, Charles attempted to comfort Maeve — to no avail. She could not be consoled. Harriet Deakins was right. No matter what Maeve did, no matter how adept she became at using the proper fork or turning her toes outward when she walked, she would always be the Irish maid to Charles’s friends and family. Harriet didn’t even know Maeve was married to the Rycroft heir. Being seen in Charles’s company too often had been enough to earn the dowager’s displeasure. That and leaving her employ without notice, if Maeve knew anything at all about Harriet Deakins.

Pleading exhaustion, she fled to her rooms as soon as she and Charles crossed the Rycroft threshold. Charles followed, offering, with a teasing grin, to banish her weariness or simply hold her through the night. After much persuasion he finally left Maeve to nurse her wounded pride in solitude.

Ever since her unexpected encounter with Harriet Deakins, a seemingly permanent lump lodged in Maeve’s throat, making it impossible to take a normal, deep breath. Her lovely balmorals had become iron-soled shoes that weighted her every step.

Maeve stayed to her rooms, moving about like a sleepwalker, caring little whether she ate or slept, searching for an answer to her dilemma.

Conflicting emotions contributed to the turmoil simmering in her belly. Should she stay on Beacon Hill and fight for her husband and a place in his world? Or should she return to her family and the community where love and acceptance abounded for her?

Maeve pleaded a headache in order to avoid Beatrice’s Christmas tree trimming party. She was convinced that Beatrice only included her out of necessity and for the opportunity of observing and criticizing her. Maeve had the distinct feeling that any breach of etiquette was duly noted and reported to Charles. With the possible exception of Pansy, no one approved of Maeve’s relationship with Charles.

The lovely golden dress she’d intended to wear to the party before her spirits had been crushed, hung on the open door of the armoire. Maeve sat by the fireplace, knitting. The needles clicked in a furious rhythm while she hummed a comforting carol, attempting to forget the fun she might be missing. At least Shea’s Christmas sweater would be finished before the night was over.

“Maeve?”

Charles.

She went to the door, opening it only a crack. Charles grinned down at her. The irresistible, heart-melting smile momentarily immobilized Maeve’s ability to breathe. When had he learned to do that? While her wondering gaze locked on Charles, the distant sounds of piano music and laughter drifted upstairs. The party had been underway for an hour. She felt a foolish sense of longing. Her da had always said an O’Malley must live up to the tradition that called upon the Irish to be the first to arrive at a party and the last to leave.

“How is your headache?” Charles asked, planting his foot in the open door.

“Painful.” Maeve demonstrated her suffering by raising the back of her hand to her forehead.

“I have brought you something that might help. May I come in?” Without waiting for an answer, he strode through the door, forcing Maeve back.

She felt like a small, insignificant twig standing next to a powerful, towering oak. Dressed in dark frock coat and trousers with a deep holly green satin waistcoat edged with gold, her husband cut a dashing, patrician figure. Caught in the gleaming light of Charles’s eyes, Maeve allowed herself a moment to admire the man she’d married without knowing who he might be or where he had come from.

From his slick, dark hair curling ever so slightly at the nape of his neck to his clean-shaven jaw and down his long, muscular body, Charles manifested raw masculinity. Fine tailoring and a restrictive code of conduct could not disguise his virility. He owned a lusty appetite and Maeve knew it. She knew it well. And the knowledge made her weak in the knees.

He gave her a crooked smile. Her heart fluttered wildly.

“Charles, I really don’t think anything can help ease my pain.”

“Harriet Deakins is to blame. Don’t think you can hide the truth from me. That inane woman wounded you and she shall never step foot in my house again.”

“Charles, she is a friend of your mother’s. You cannot ban her. Besides, I would not like it if you did.”

“You have a more forgiving nature than mine.”

“Harriet Deakins is not a bad person, only conventional. And I expect she is not alone in her thinking.”

“Are you going to allow such a woman to prevent you from enjoying yourself this evening? That is not the Maeve O’Malley I’ve come to know.”

The Maeve O’Malley he’d come to know did not belong at Beatrice’s party. She wasn’t welcome, only tolerated. Charles knew it but his heart refused to admit it.

“The Maeve you’ve come to know is being held captive by a throbbing head.”

Charles ignored her excuse, ambling toward the armoire. “Ah, what a beautiful gown. Did you plan to wear it this evening?”

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Potts outdid herself. Would you mind putting the gown on for me, since I will not have the pleasure of seeing you wearing it downstairs tonight?”

“Oh, Charles, my head —”

He promptly cut off Maeve’s objection. “It will only take a minute,” he coaxed with a devastating twist of his lips. “And I’ll be only too happy to help you.”

He helped. Sprinkling kisses along her bare back and nuzzling her neck and the soft, sensuous spot behind her ear. Wave after wave of delicious chills swept through Maeve. Laughter bubbled in her throat

“Charles ...”

“Hush, I am chasing your headache away. Call me Doctor Rycroft.” He nibbled at her ear.

She’d gone soft inside like bread-and-butter pudding, warmed too long on the iron stove. “Charles ...”

Engulfed in his soft kisses and pine forest fragrance, feigning a headache became exceedingly difficult. The ache Maeve felt pulsated from between her thighs.

She did not know how much time passed but at last Charles secured the back of her dress and turned her to him. Her knees wobbled so that she could barely stand.

“You look ravishing.” A smoldering silver light burned in his ashen eyes. His keen gaze traveled the length of her in unabashed admiration.

Her sumptuous gown featured an overskirt of champagne with beige-and-ivory silk stripes that swept from front to a small natural bustle in the back. Delicate golden silk roses were gathered at the bustle and bordered the deep square neckline and hem of her dress. Maeve felt regal in the golden gown, and Charles’s obvious appreciation boosted her spirits.