Comfort and Joy (3 page)

“Shhh,” Charles raised a finger over his lips to still her. “You’re creating a scene.”

“Ye insulted me, you arrogant man!”

“Must you be so loud?”

“Don’t be thinkin’ ye are better than me because —”

“I don’t,” he interrupted hastily. “I don’t think such a thing.”

She appeared somewhat mollified, but a suspicious glint remained in her eyes. She tilted her chin, meeting his gaze. Charles looked away, away from the unspoken accusation, the pain in her deep blue velvet eyes. He turned back to the spot in the alley where she’d found him.

“Obviously, I was moved from the scene of the attack.”

“I wouldn’t be knowin’,” she snipped.

“Was there...did you find a package here?”

“ ‘Twas no package, only you.”

“I was carrying a package which means a great deal to me. It was wrapped in brown paper and was about this size.” Charles described the two-feet-by-four-feet package with his hands.

“We found no package,” she repeated, shifting from one foot to the other.

He thought she might be lying. The Irish were known to have liars and thieves among them. But then again, how would a young, uneducated immigrant and her boxer brother have any idea of the painting’s value?

Only the most knowledgeable art collectors would know the piece was the only one of its kind. Charles had searched long and hard for this particular sketch of St. Nick. While he enjoyed collecting art, this acquisition had meant more than any of the others.

Staring at the cold, hard ground where he’d been discarded like so much garbage, Charles bit down on his lip. A searing mix of frustration and anger shot through him.

“Could we be movin’ on then?” the little bit by his side demanded. “Me feet is colder than a frost fairy’s toes.”

“A what?”

“Never ye mind,” she said with a roll of her eyes and a rueful sigh.

Charles nodded. He didn’t want to know about frost fairies, whatever the hell they were. Recovering his sketch was a primary concern, and where to take Maeve another. Until he resolved the awkward dilemma of their marriage, he couldn’t possibly let his friends and family know he had wed an Irish maid. The whole town would be talking.

Maeve O’Malley gazed up at him, waiting impatiently. Her long lashes and jewel-like eyes, innocent and trusting, reached deep inside him and touched his unguarded heart.

She had saved his life. He must do something special for her. Charles made up his mind quickly. He decided to take Maeve home with him—if only for a day or two. He would have her fitted with a warm new wardrobe and offer a generous settlement. It was the least he could do.

Before he divorced her.

Chapter Two

Charles breathed a bit easier when the hired carriage pulled up to the stately Rycroft residence. The six-story Federal style brownstone was located on Louisburg Square in the exclusive Beacon Hill section of Boston. Although the trees were bare and the square’s lush park greenery had given way weeks ago to the muffled sepia color of winter, the affluent neighborhood retained its charm. Situated in the center of the square, the Rycrofts’ venerable town house, embellished with black wrought iron gates and grillwork at the purple paned windows, had been Charles’s home for most of his life.

Eight servants worked to keep the twelve-room house, and Charles, comfortable. Upon his father’s death three years ago, Charles inherited both the brownstone and the family publishing business.

His mother, Beatrice, resided with him when the mood suited her. But she preferred New York, where she shared her sister’s home on the Hudson. Beatrice enjoyed the more glorious social season and the abundance of spiritualists and mediums offered in the city. She’d been seeking to contact her late husband, Conrad Rycroft, in the great beyond ever since his abrupt departure.

Each year, Beatrice returned to Boston for a few months to visit with old friends. Her visits usually occurred in the summer, when she removed to one of the north shore resorts to take advantage of the cooling ocean breezes. This year, however, Beatrice had sent a message announcing she would join Charles for the holiday season. She’d neglected to mention an arrival date but he had immediately put the household on full alert and preparedness.

Charles hardly knew his mother. Tall and elegant, Beatrice had always been a social butterfly, flapping about in bright, beaded evening dresses with wide satin skirts. Owing to Beatrice’s lack of maternal instincts, a succession of nannies raised Charles. His favorite, Lizzie, served as mother and father to him for the longest period of time. He’d been twelve years old when Lizzie’s gout got to be too much and she retired. His heart had broken. Even though Charles was off to boarding school, knowing Lizzie would not be there when he returned home for the holidays saddened him. His deep, constant loneliness intensified when Lizzie left.

He conspired to stay in touch with his beloved nanny, sending her funds regularly, disguised as birthday and holiday gifts. A wizened old woman now, she lived with her daughter in the mill town of Lowell. Charles stopped to call whenever he was in the area.

“Is this where ye be livin’ then?”

Dear God, she was still with him.

Charles had momentarily forgotten the little bit of a woman who sat at his side. All hope that he might soon waken from an especially grievous nightmare vanished.

“Yes. This is my home. Come.” He helped Maeve from the carriage. Her mitten scratched against his palm as he took her hand. But the sweet violet scent of her somehow contrived to soothe and warm him in the frosty morning air.

Maeve O’Malley’s eyes grew wider as Charles escorted her up the steep steps of the brownstone.

“I’ve lived here ever since I was a boy,” he said, releasing her hand. Charles knew he must be careful not to give the diminutive creature any reason to think he might continue their unsuitable marriage. He’d married under duress, married in the only way conceivable to a confirmed bachelor. He’d been quite out of his mind at the time. Literally.

“The Deakins house is not near so grand as this,” Maeve whispered. “And sure’n I’ve never walked in through the front door. Aye, and just look at the polished brass nameplate ye have here!”

“My grandfather built the original house,” Charles told her. “Later my father added two floors.”

Charles loved his home. The high-ceilinged, paneled rooms smelled of beeswax, lemon, and leather; clean, comforting aromas. He took solace in the evenings reading manuscripts in his study. Bolstered by a fine cigar and brandy, Charles found contentment surrounded by his favorite leather-bound books and treasured art collection. By nature he was a quiet, solitary man.

Maeve did not move when he opened the door.

“What is it?” he asked.

“After you,” she deferred in a hushed tone.

“No, after you. Ladies before gentlemen.”

She inclined her head.

Charles leaned to whisper in her ear. “I’m not going to carry you over the threshold.”

Maeve’s hands went to her hips and her lovely lapis eyes darkened to a deep, stormy indigo. “‘Tis not what—”

“Please,” he begged, raising his hands in front of his chest as if he expected to ward off a blow. “No public scenes.”

With a sniff and a tilt of her chin, she marched before him into the foyer.

Inexplicably amused, he followed.

A scream went out from the top of the stairs. The upstairs maid, who had been polishing the banister, stood stock still, her hand clapped over her mouth.

Responding to her cry, Dolly, the housekeeper, and Stuart, the butler, rushed to the foyer, each coming to an abrupt halt. Charles’s servants were clearly shocked to see him.

“Mr. Rycroft, we’d given you up for dead!” exclaimed Dolly, the ruddy-faced housekeeper.

“Did you contact the police?”

“Yes, sir. And we contacted Mr. Martin, who did so as well, sir.” Round and stout as a stump, the housekeeper referred to Martin Rycroft, Charles’s cousin and second in command at the publishing house.

“Well done. Have the police reported their findings as yet?” Charles asked drolly. The Boston authorities were used to young men from well-heeled families disappearing for days at a time. The sowing wild oats with wanton women, gambling, and whatever other mischief available was almost expected of them and deemed quite acceptable.

“No, sir. Though they’ve questioned us all several times.” Dolly regarded his clothes in silent horror. Instinctively, he pulled at the hem of the flannel shirt to straighten it as he would one of his tailor-made jackets. “What’s happened to you, sir? If I may ask,” she added quickly.

“I met with an unfortunate accident and this brave young woman saved me.”

All eyes flew to the petite woman at his side who blushed and angled her chin a degree higher. She was humming, so softly he could barely hear, but it was a definite hum—and a familiar tune. A Christmas carol, he thought.

“This is Maeve.” Charles rested a hand on Maeve’s shoulder and, to his surprise, felt her trembling. He’d assumed a woman who took home a man she believed to be a bummer must be a woman who feared nothing. Apparently not.

In an awkward attempt to ease Maeve’s anxiety, Charles patted her shoulder as he spoke to his curious household help. “Maeve will be staying on the sixth floor temporarily.”

Maeve nodded and bobbed a clumsy curtsey simultaneously. Plainly, she did not know how to acknowledge his vague introduction. But to introduce her as his wife would be a disservice to the Irish beauty in the end. They would not be married long.

Charles pretended not to notice her uncertainty.

Dolly had yet to remove her startled gaze from his shirt

“You will afford Maeve every courtesy and provide her with anything she desires. I will show her upstairs personally.”

Stuart, who served as both Charles’s valet and butler, pressed his lips together in silent evidence of his disapproval. “Yes sir.”

Charles did not miss the exchange of alarmed glances between Stuart and Dolly. They obviously thought he’d lost his mind during his absence. And of course, he had. Indisputably.

“Come with me, Maeve,” Charles ordered. “I shall require a bath and fresh suit,” he called over his shoulder to Stuart as he marched ahead of Maeve up the stairs.

The sixth floor consisted of two guest suites, known as the rose room and the blue room. Charles led Maeve to the rose room, a spacious bedchamber complete with marble fireplace and an adjoining sitting room. Thick Oriental carpets were spread over the polished wood floors and heavy claret velvet drapes framed the floor-to-ceiling windows.

As she inspected her splendid rooms, Maeve’s eyes felt as big as the cream cabbage roses in the floral-patterned wallpaper. She could barely conceal her awe.

Even the Deakins house where she was in service had no room that could compare to this one. The flat she shared with her dear father and Shea could be placed twice over in these rooms. She felt an overpowering urge to spread her arms and spin — or do a jig of joy. But she knew instinctively that such a spontaneous display of delight might unduly disturb Charles.

Instead, humming softly, Maeve ran her hand over the rosewood armoire, feeling the smooth, cool wood beneath her fingertips. Beneath the watchful eye of her taciturn husband, she gingerly tested the large, cream-satin-canopied four-poster bed.

She’d never dreamed of living in such luxury. Her dreams had always been simple. Maeve wished only for a loving husband, several babes hanging about her skirts and a full pot of stew every night.

“Do you think you can be comfortable here?” Charles asked.

“Saints above, I’m certain of it, me love.”

His jaw dropped and his light ash eyes widened. “Charles. Under the circumstances, I believe you should consider calling me Charles.”

“I’ve been used to calling ye Charlie.” And how she adored her Charlie.

He frowned. His dark brows knit together at the bridge of his nose, making him appear a bit fearsome. “Charlie definitely will not do.”

“Then Charles it shall be,” Maeve assured him, rising from the bed to examine the corner dressing table. “Ye’ll find me as easy to be gettin’ on with as the mornin’ sun.”

Charles did not appear convinced. The quirk of his lips might have been a nervous tic.

Maeve didn’t know what to do, what more to say. She who had nothing, suddenly seemed to have everything. She could not quell the unsettling roil of her stomach, nor could she keep her knees from knocking. Truth be told, she felt so lightheaded that she feared she would collapse any minute at her husband’s feet

The little Irish immigrant who had never even owned a rag doll had suddenly been set down in splendor. Surely, one of the wee people, a fairy princess perhaps, was looking out for her just as her dear departed mother had promised. Life would be different now and so much better.

Charles cleared his throat. “This is a ... difficult situation we find ourselves in.”

“Aye.”

“But we shall deal with it like the adults we are.”

Something in his tone made Maeve leery. “Aye? And how would that be?”

He shoved his hands into the pockets of Shea’s denim trousers and studied the tips of his shoes. “I would like you to place yourself in my position, Maeve. Can you imagine how extremely discomfiting it might be to go to sleep and wake up to find yourself married?”

“To the likes of me?”

His head shot up. “To anyone.”

Maeve knew Charles was not used to plain talking. In his world, the world she’d glimpsed as a servant in the Deakins household, the truth was hardly ever spoken. And if it was, the words were couched in terms to render it almost unrecognizable. Polite society wrapped the truth in sugar as if it were a bitter medicine to be made palatable. Maeve did not see the sense in such behavior. She had always spoken her mind and had no intention of changing.

Obviously disturbed, Charles Rycroft paced the room.

Just the sight of him, tall and solid and darkly masculine, ignited a sweet heat within her. She felt a sadness, too. When the man she’d married regained his memory, he’d lost his easy smile and become a somber man. Charles took himself much too seriously.