Comfort and Joy (32 page)

“And then what?”

“I shall kiss you soundly.”

“If you are dangling mistletoe above my head, I suppose I must allow a kiss,” Maeve replied with a feigned sigh as her body warmed.

‘‘If you are not careful, I will dangle the mistletoe above you through the night,” Charles warned in a raspy, seductive tone.

Her heart careened wildly. “I shall not be careful then.”

Maeve wanted her husband tonight. She had done her best to stay apart from him but their time together was swiftly running out. One more night. Tonight. A sultry heat sparked deep inside her and slowly spread silky fingers of warmth until Maeve’s entire body was afire.

Beatrice and Stella left the ball at midnight, Cinderella widows. Stella claimed she was not feeling at all well. Although it appeared the pale New Yorker had captivated more than one older man, she seemed to be in a constant snit. Beatrice had worn the cloak of a martyr as she left Boston’s social event of the winter season with her guest.

It was almost two o’clock in the morning when Maeve and Charles arrived back at the Rycroft brownstone. Intoxicated with her success, she’d made not one breach of etiquette, Maeve felt as if she could have danced until dawn. Charles obviously entertained better ideas.

Helping Maeve out of her coat, Charles cautioned his radiant wife to be quiet. He hoped his mother and Stella were fast asleep but if not he did not care to risk an unwanted encounter. It had been a tortuous night for him and he intended to end the evening quite differently.

Charles contrived to slip into Maeve’s chamber, take down her hair, and put the sprig of mistletoe to good use. After what seemed like endless nights of having her door closed to him, she’d not protested his suggestion that he come to her tonight.

Beatrice called to him just as he started up the steps with Maeve.

“Charles, dear. May I have a word with you in the drawing room?”

Chapter Eighteen

Charles recognized an invitation he could not refuse.

Beatrice beckoned from the drawing room doorway.

His heart sank. What was his mother doing up at this hour?

Maeve gave him a melancholy smile. “Good night, Charles.”

“Good night, Maeve.”

Charles watched as his clearly disappointed wife climbed the stairs alone, her hips gently swaying beneath the bustle of her red gown, a seductive summons. His spirits sank lower than the tidal flats. He’d had such high expectations.

Resigned to a fate only slightly better than death by discussion, Charles followed his mother into the drawing room. Settling into the elegant Queen Anne sofa, Beatrice smoothed her skirts. “I would so much enjoy a sherry, dear.”

Charles poured a small amount of sherry for his mother and a goodly quantity of brandy for himself.

“Maeve afforded a tolerable accounting of herself tonight,” Beatrice noted begrudgingly. “Observing her from a distance, no one would guess she was not society-born.”

“Maeve triumphed. She was an unqualified success, Mother.”

“In her own way, perhaps.” Beatrice gave a dismissive flick of her wrist. “But I have a matter of more importance to discuss with you.”

Nothing could be more important than Maeve. The unexpected thought startled Charles.

He sauntered to the fireplace. Picking up the poker, he attempted to stir a fire from the low-glowing embers. “What is it, Mother?”

‘‘ Stella has not felt quite herself for the past few days.’’

“I’m not surprised,” he replied rather smartly. “She’s extremely pale. I thought so from the first.”

Charles could barely disguise his annoyance. It was ridiculous — no, it was sinful to be discussing the state of Stella’s health when he could be tasting Maeve’s warm, moist lips, dipping his tongue into the sweet secret valley between her full, lush breasts.

“Stella is always pale, dear.” The deep lines in his mother’s forehead folded into a disapproving frown. “As most intelligent women do, Stella uses vinegar to whiten her complexion.”

“Really? She does so on purpose?” He could not imagine Maeve applying vinegar to her face.

His mother exhaled wearily. “I’m afraid you know so little about women. My fault, to be sure.

“Stella wishes to return home at once.”

“Now?” he asked, unable to hide his surprise. “Christmas is but days away.”

“We will take the train to New York in the morning.”

“We? Are you going as well, Mother?” Charles could barely suppress the swirl of excitement that warmed his blood and lifted the clouds of his distress. To be alone with Maeve on Christmas was more than he dared hope.

“Well, yes. After all, I brought Stella to Boston as my guest. I can hardly send her on her way alone. And now that your father has forgiven me, I may spend the holiday with Mr. Van Zutoon.”

“Father forgave you?”

“Have you forgotten the séance?”

“No.” Charles swallowed a great gulp of brandy, sacrificing enjoyment for expediency. “How could I?”

“As you may recall, Conrad spoke through Helen Foster to reassure me.”

“As I recall, Father’s strong suit was never reassurance.”

“One changes in the spirit world,” Beatrice admonished.

Charles could only hope.

“Knowing that Conrad does not hold my words against me, words spoken in a moment of anger, I might add, frees me.”

“Frees you?”

Beatrice’s fingers skimmed over the silk roses bordering the neckline of her gown. “Without Conrad’s blessing I did not feel I should encourage Harold Van Zutoon’s suit.”

“You have a gentlemen friend, Mother?”

“He’s a Dutch merchant whom I met at the opera several months ago.”

A wealthy Dutch merchant, if Charles didn’t miss his guess. “Father blessed your association with Mr. Van —?”

“Zutoon.” Beatrice finished for him. “Yes, your father gave his approval. In a manner of speaking.”

“I’m speechless.”

His mother heaved another overwrought sigh as if dealing with Charles was a tiring ordeal. “But more than a companion of my own, I do so want grandchildren. I thought Stella might be a credible match for you but I was sadly mistaken. You need a more ... lively woman. Someone like Pansy Deakins.”

“Did you know that Pansy believes in free love —”

“Heavens!” Beatrice bolted upright.

“And I have it from a reliable source that her mother is shipping her off to Europe.”

“Poor Harriet.”

“Pansy will be fine ... eventually.” Charles drained his snifter of brandy. “But I regret that you and I shall not be spending Christmas together.”

“As do I, dear.” Beatrice rose, tilting her head, eyeing Charles as if to gauge his true feelings. “You won’t be too upset, will you?”

“No, Mother,” he answered honestly.

“It isn’t as if you haven’t spent other holidays by yourself,” she reminded him.

“No, it isn’t.” Although he knew Beatrice loved him in her own way, he’d spent too little time with his mother through the years. Even when she was in residence in Boston. And his mother could not take all the blame. He had spent too much time by himself in the past, buried in his books, in his work, while life passed him by.

“I shall make this holiday up to you,” she vowed as she had so many times before.

“Mother, you have nothing to make up to me. I promise you I will not be upset, nor alone.”

She arched a brow. “Maeve will celebrate with you?”

“I will celebrate with Maeve.”

Beatrice nodded and with a slight lift of her chin glided to the door. With her hand on the knob, she stopped and turned. His mother’s soft, pearly gray eyes met his with ominous intensity. “Do remember what your dear departed father always said, Charles A. Rycroft always does the right thing.”

His tyrannical father had now become a saint!

“How can I forget? Don’t be concerned, Mother. I fully intend to do o the thing right thing ... for me.”

* * * *

The morning following the Cabots’ Snow Ball, Edgar Dines opened his gallery on Warren Street and made ready for business as he did every morning, six days a week. In the privacy of his back office he sat in a worn leather chair beside the wood-burning stove and opened the Boston Globe. He hadn’t been reading long before he yelped and shot up from the comfortable old chair.

Just as he had promised, Charles Rycroft offered an increased reward for Barnabas’s sketch of St. Nick. The full-page advertisement offered a reward three times more than what the sketch was worth, with no questions asked. No art dealer, Dines included, could ever hope to sell the sketch for more. The expenses Edgar would incur traveling to Europe to sell the sketch, as was his original plan, would only eat further into his profits. He immediately decided to abandon his original plan and claim the reward.

When the other Boston and New York art dealers were buying Winslow Homer, Edgar had purchased the watercolors of Jonathan Box. When his colleagues raved about Turner, he saw more merit in the work of Ely Sykes. He’d spent a fortune buying the abstract oils of an unknown French artist with great promise, while eschewing Whistler. Not long ago the French artist jumped off a bridge.

Edgar had failed bitterly in his attempts to establish himself in the art world as a dealer of great repute. He had not been a particularly successful art dealer, nor as a crook. Now, with this one sketch by Barnabas, he could recoup the monies he’d lost in the past. He would not have to risk a journey abroad, nor deal with the underworld.

All he had to do was send the Irish boxer to Charles Rycroft. O’Brien would tell Rycroft he had found the sketch of St. Nick and arrange to exchange the sketch for the reward in a public place. The Old North Church would do. Edgar could wait across the street in the Symthe’s Olde Book Store until the exchange had been made. O’Brien would bring him the reward. Edgar would give the Irishman a bill for his trouble and send him on his way.

The simple scheme gave Edgar more happiness than he’d experienced in weeks. His mirthless laughter echoed in the gallery. Light headed and muttering with relief, he danced by himself around the sputtering stove. Not only would he have more money than he bargained for by collecting the reward, he would retain Charles Rycroft as a loyal client! He felt like Samson after all, a man to be reckoned with, strong and powerful.

Edgar dashed to his desk. Trembling with excitement, he stroked the tip of his mustache with the fingers of one hand while scribbling a hurried note with the other. The whole messy business would be concluded by Christmas. There was no longer a reason for Charles Rycroft to meet with an accident. Within the hour a runner had been dispatched with Edgar’s simple message: Come at once.

On Beacon Hill Maeve awoke to the sounds of doors slamming, high-pitched, nonstop doggie yapping, footsteps running on the stairs, and servants whispering in the corridor. The floor creaked and groaned as if shifting beneath great weight.

What now? Leaving the warmth of her bed, she padded quickly across the cold floor. Opening the door a crack, she peeked out Stuart and Charles’s coach driver carried a sizable and obviously heavy trunk from Stella’s rooms.

Maeve closed the door and leaned back against it. The pale widow and pointy-nosed dog were departing! It was too much to hope for. Scolding herself for indulging in wishful thinking, she quickly dressed and ventured across the hall. Stella’s door was ajar. Maeve pushed it opened and strolled inside. The merry widow was nowhere in sight, but her maid was busy packing.

“Is Miss Hampton leaving?” Maeve asked.

“Yes, ma’am. Miss Hampton and Mrs. Rycroft are returning to New York on the morning train.”

Both ladies were leaving! Maeve’s heart drummed with excitement until another thought occurred. She would soon be alone in the house with Charles.

If it hadn’t been for Beatrice’s intervention last night, Maeve certainly would have surrendered to her husband’s plentiful charms and welcomed him to her bed for one last time. Alone in the house with Charles, she faced a severe test of her resolve. Could she hold fast?

Maeve paced in her rooms, humming fiercely. Instead of embarking on her pursuit of St. Nick as she had meant to do, she was forced to wait until Beatrice and Stella departed. When the time arrived, she joined the widows in the foyer and expressed her regret that they were leaving. Giving each a polite, light embrace, Maeve bid the ladies a safe journey.

Stella’s cold lips pressed against Maeve’s cheek before the tall, pale woman stood back and softly issued a final warning. “Remember what I told you. Do not think because I am leaving for a richer hunting ground your marriage will continue. It is quite impossible. Quite unacceptable. Think of Charles.”

“I always think of Charles.”

Babe, the wee Pomeranian, bared her teeth and growled.

Maeve was thankful she had no reason to accompany the ladies to the railway station. Although Charles had gone to his office early, she learned from Beatrice that he’d made plans to meet her and Stella before their departure for a final farewell.

Just before leaving the brownstone, Beatrice drew Maeve aside. “I must apologize if I have offended you, Maeve O’Malley. You are an intelligent and beautiful young woman. Nevertheless, you are not one of us. And although you have much to recommend you, a woman of your background does not belong here.”

Maeve tilted her chin and attempted to smile, even as tears gathered behind her eyes and a landslide of fieldstones rained down inside her body, crushing her, pushing the air from her lungs.

The lean widow leveled a gaze as cold and flat as winter storm clouds. “I warn you not to mistake my son’s gratitude for love.”

All Maeve could manage was a slight dip of her head. Swallowing the hurt she’d been handed, she raised her head proudly, defiantly. And hummed the national anthem.

Maeve waved from the porch as Beatrice and Stella departed in a parade of coaches. She wished the ladies well, but wished them their wellness as far away as possible. Although Maeve knew she would not be a part of Charles’s life much longer, she also knew he would do extremely well without the interference of his mother or Stella.