Comfort and Joy (30 page)

She started off again with a lighter step and a smile upon her face, unprepared for the blast of wind that hit Pansy and her as they turned the corner. The frosty rush of air took Maeve’s breath away. Hunched over, head down, she hurriedly led the way down the short block and into the boxing hall.

Once used as a stable, the cavernous building held four makeshift practice rings. A large, open loft held shabby equipment and medical supplies. It was almost as cold inside the gymnasium as it was outside. The dank smell of sweat, alcohol, and stale tobacco assaulted the senses. Fully dressed boxers sparred in two of the rings while several groups of trainers, boxers, and hanger-ons engaged in heated conversations.

“Isn’t this exciting?” Pansy gushed.

“No,” Maeve replied flatly.

“I would wager my life that none of the other Beacon Hill ladies have ever been to a gymnasium. Certainly no one I know has ever met a pugilist.”

“Which is to be desired.”

“But our men regularly attend boxing matches and horseraces.”

“ ‘Tis a man’s sport,” Maeve said, as she scanned the room in search of her brother.

“They even wager on clam digs,” Pansy added on a sulky note.

Maeve spotted Shea in the far boxing ring, talking with a man who appeared to be his sparring partner.

“I see him!” Pansy announced seconds later. “I see Shea.”

Shea’s thick biceps strained beneath his long John undershirt. Maeve conceded that her brother’s dark, rugged features and thick black curls had turned many an unsuspecting woman’s head. She could not deny that her brother was a handsome man. But he wasn’t meant for the likes of Pansy, just as Maeve wasn’t meant to be with Charles.

Pansy appeared positively thrilled at the prospect of a clandestine meeting in a forbidden place with a man Harriet Deakins would consider unfit. A man as suitable for her daughter as P.T. Barnum. In fact, Mama Deakins would probably prefer P.T.

Determined to return Pansy to the safety of Beacon Hill at once, Maeve marched toward her brother, waving her hand above her head. Pansy kept pace.

Grinning, Shea slipped through the ropes and jumped to the ground to give Maeve a hearty embrace. ‘‘What are ye doin’ here, sister of mine? Dad has warned ye against comin’ to the gymnasium.”

“Do you and Dad think if I do not see you practicing, that I will not know you are getting ready for a match?”

“We’ve never been able to fool ye,” he chuckled.

“My friend Pansy came along with me.”

Shea turned his smile on Pansy.

The rebellious redhead regarded Shea as if she’d just met Hercules himself. “You are like the mightiest gladiator,” she greeted him breathlessly.

He grinned. “Tomorrow night I will fight like one.”

“Tomorrow night?” Maeve asked.

Flashing a most mischievous smile, Shea turned to her. “I’ll make enough to put a big, fat goose on the table this Christmas.”

“And who’ll be cookin’ your goose?” she demanded with hands on hips.

“Mrs. Gilhooly.”

“Oh?”

“You told us to call on Grace Gilhooly if we needed anything. She’s been a darlin’ help.”

“I see.” Maeve’s heart sank. Her family didn’t need her anymore. She would not be missed on her first Christmas away from home. The life force drained from her. Heat and energy ebbed away as she realized the sad truth. Maeve no longer belonged anywhere.

“May I come to the match?” Pansy asked, reminding Maeve that her friend had forced this rendezvous. “I would like to see you box.”

Shea shook his head. “ ‘Tis not a pretty sight for a woman, especially one like you.”

Surprisingly, Pansy blushed.

“Can I not stop you, Shea?” Maeve pleaded. “Must you fight?”

“Maeve, me darlin’, as soon as I’ve earned enough for me boat, I promise ye never to lift a fist again.”

‘‘With each fight you run the risk of hurting yourself so that you will be unable to fish, boat or no,” Maeve argued.

“Me sister tries to frighten me at every match,” Shea said to Pansy. “She cannot see the good sport of it. ‘Tis far better than street brawlin’.”

With her eyes locked on Shea’s, Pansy nodded. She appeared to be in some sort of trance, smiling insipidly.

Maeve felt her anger rising. Shea flirted shamelessly, without regard to consequences. It was up to her to protect her freckle-faced companion.’ “Pansy and I must get back before we’re missed.”

“I’m not in a rush,” Pansy objected.

Maeve ignored her. “Have you done what I asked, Shea?”

“Aye. Do you see that big fellow over there?” he asked, gesturing with his head.

“Yes.” The man her brother pointed out was of giant proportions and bore frightening scars. A chill skipped down Maeve’s spine.

“Bill ‘Spit’ O’Brien he is. Called Spit because he, he…”

“I understand,” Maeve interrupted. “Go on.”

“Spit’s been sparrin’ here every afternoon for as long as anyone can remember. But he hasn’t won a match in years. Not long ago the big lad began betting. Unless he met a leprechaun and found the pot o’ gold at the end of the rainbow, it’s a mystery where his money is comin’ from. He’s not winnin’ as much as he’s losin’.”

“You say he spars here every afternoon?”

“Aye. Every afternoon.”

A bubble of hope, a bolt of excitement, shot through Maeve.

Bill ‘Spit’ O’Brien. At last a likely suspect. This could be the man who attacked Charles and stole the precious St. Nick sketch by Barnabas. There was only one way to find out.

“Thank you, me beautiful brother.” Maeve stood on tiptoes to kiss Shea good-bye.

Pansy extended her hand to Shea. “I wish you luck tomorrow night.”

“Thank ye, me lady.” Shea’s blue eyes danced with delight as he gazed at Pansy.

Maeve couldn’t be sure but she thought she detected her brother squeezing Pansy’s hand. He fancied himself a ladies’ man. Sure’n he’d be wearing a hat size larger now that a fair, society-born miss had paid him a visit. Shea knew well enough Pansy Deakins didn’t belong in the A Street Gymnasium.

For a moment, Maeve considered throwing herself between her cocky brother and headstrong friend,

“And I look forward to seeing you again.” Pansy’s hazel eyes glowed with a dangerous light.

“Don’t you worry now, lass. I’ll be beggin’ me sister to bring you by.”

Maeve seized Pansy’s hand. Whirling on her heel, she practically flew from the gymnasium, pulling the improper Miss Deakins behind her.

Once outside in the bitter-cold air, Maeve did not stop. Nor did she notice the man who followed them.

Chapter Seventeen

The night of the Cabots’ Snow Ball at last arrived; anticipated by Beacon Hill society, dreaded by Maeve. As she dressed for the evening ahead, her mind raced in review of every point of etiquette she’d ever read.

When walking, a lady keeps her toes pointing slightly outward.

“And under no circumstances,” Maeve warned her corseted reflection in the mirror, “do not slip back into your South Boston brogue! If you do, the gossips will be talking about you from now until they raise their flags on the Fourth of July.”

During the past few weeks Maeve had acquired a proper Bostonian accent — with a slight Irish lilt. But when she grew tired or especially nervous, the Irish in her erupted, which pleased her father but no one else.

Keeping her mind on the ball proved difficult. She’d been filled with excitement since leaving Shea this afternoon. Her brother had given her hope along with the name and face of Bill “Spit” O’Brien. Although O’Brien possessed a truly fearsome appearance, it was an aversion she must overcome. The boxer might well lead her to the sketch of St. Nick. To recover the last outstanding piece of Barnabas’s work for Charles, Maeve would follow the burly man wherever he might lead her. Starting tomorrow morning, O’Brien would not make a move without Maeve close on his heels.

The thought of finding the sketch before long sent a tingling rush of warmth from her head right down to her toes. St. Nick, just in time for Christmas!

If Maeve had her druthers, she would rather be on O’Brien’s trail than be dancing with Charles Rycroft tonight. The danger of dancing with Charles caused Maeve more anxiety than the thought of any physical harm done to her by a ruffian boxer called Spit.

To feel Charles’s strong, protective arms around her always caused her to go weak in the knees... and almost everywhere else. Perfectly sturdy, healthy limbs dissolved to the consistency of a meringue cloud. The very scent of him, masculine and woodsy, melted her heart. And should Charles give her one of his devastating crooked smiles at the same moment his soft pewter gaze met hers, Maeve would be rendered defenseless. Speechless. Breathless. She risked capitulation.

Enfolded in her magnificent husband’s arms, Maeve became as vulnerable as a chicken courted by a fox. She became as pliable as fresh, warm taffy. Charles possessed the power to turn her heart steal her common sense.

She could not risk a dance with him.

Her idle musings were brought to a halt with a sharp rap on the door as it opened. Dolly bustled in to help Maeve finish dressing, a task not included in the housekeeper’s regular duties. The experienced lady’s maids in the Rycroft household were devoted to Stella and Beatrice looking their finest tonight.

Maeve appreciated Dolly’s help. What the housekeeper lacked in fashion sense, she made up for in enthusiasm. When, an hour later, Dolly had completed her administrations, Maeve stared at her reflection in stunned disbelief.

“I do believe you are my fairy princess.”

Rotund Dolly looked less like a fairy than anyone could. But her ruddy face lit up like the summer sun at Maeve’s compliment. “ ‘Tis you who looks like a princess tonight.”

“I hardly recognize myself. You have made a miracle.”

“The miracle is you and what you have done for Mister Rycroft.”

“Oh, Dolly. You have been so kind to me.” Maeve reached out to clutch Dolly’s hand. She would miss the efficient housekeeper. Although the brusque woman had made no secret of her disapproval when Maeve first arrived, within days she had taken to helping her whenever possible.

“It’s been my pleasure.” Dolly dipped into an awkward curtsey. “I’ll let Mr. Rycroft know you are ready.”

“Thank you.”

Long after she heard the door close behind the Rycroft housekeeper, Maeve continued to stare at her reflection. Who was that woman?

Charles paced the foyer. He felt in no mood for the Cabots’ Snow Ball. Even though, on the Boston social scale, the Snow Ball ranked in the top five activities of the season. A tug of war played inside him. What Charles wanted was contrary to what was right, Rycroft right. What his heart craved, his mind rejected.

“Maeve O’Malley will be down shortly, sir.”

He looked up at Dolly, beaming from ear to ear like a cat that had got into the cream. Unusual for the no-nonsense woman.

Tonight he would escort Maeve, his mother, and Stella to the Cabots’ Snow Ball, but only Maeve’s pleasure interested him. It was true they came from two different worlds but he’d begun to consider the possibility of creating their own world. One world.

He’d never been so tormented by a dilemma.

If Maeve did not enjoy herself tonight socializing with the cream of Boston society, how would he convince her to stay? His wife. An Irish maid. His father must be rolling over in his grave. In all likelihood, even now the earth of the Granary Burying Ground was shaking with the ghost of Conrad Rycroft’s rage.

Charles weighed the special characteristics of Maeve O’Malley: an incomparable beauty, tenement-raised, intelligent and generous but with a fiery temper. His friends and acquaintances would find her imminently unsuitable.

“Charles.”

He looked to the stair landing where the sound of Maeve’s voice had come from.

And his heart stopped.

“Maeve.”

A shimmering vision in red velvet stood before him. When she smiled, Charles’s heart swelled to twice the size it was meant to be. He could not catch his breath or tear his marveling eyes away from her as she slowly descended the long stairs.

Her midnight hair, swept up from the sides, was held at the top with a delicate posy of mistletoe and red velvet ribbon. Strands of the red ribbon intertwined in her lustrous curls as they cascaded down her back. Maeve’s full, delicious lips were parted slightly in excitement or expectation — he did not know which.

He forced his gaze lower to her long, graceful neck, to the contrast of her silky alabaster shoulders caressed by crimson velvet. A deep border of delicate lace skirted the low round neckline of her gown and peeked flirtatiously from along the hem. The tight bodice emphasized Maeve’s tiny waist, and beneath the full bustle a hint of the lush comfort of her hips. Charles wanted the lady wrapped in red beneath his Christmas tree. He could think of no better Christmas gift. He would open her carefully, tenderly — although the tightening of his loins suggested another approach.

The only jewelry Maeve wore was the diamond earrings and the necklace he had given her as an early Christmas gift. But her beauty outshone even the bright white, sparkling stones.

Charles greeted her on the third step, taking her hand and leading her down to the foyer. “You will be the most beautiful woman at the ball.”

“If it is true, I have Dolly to thank.”

More than ever, Charles regretted having to attend the ball. He would rather stay home and make love to this lovely vision. But he had made a bargain. He would not force his attentions. If Maeve wanted his kiss, his caress, she must come to him. Unless he could melt her resolve.

Soon Stella made her entrance, but Charles only had eyes for Maeve. He was barely aware of the pale widow sashaying down the stairs in a rustle of emerald taffeta and gold fringe. Beatrice was the last to leave her rooms. She wore a swirl of white crepe and silk festooned with pink and red silk roses. Rubies glittered in her hair, in her ears, and around her neck.

Charles dutifully complimented his mother and Stella on their appearance, but knew in his heart that Maeve would outshine them at the ball. The knowledge brought a proud smile to his lips.