Comfort and Joy (5 page)

“But I am not of your class. Nor have I your education, or fancy manners. Me husband thinks me too loud. And he’s already been after me for creatin’ a scene. I’m not even sure what he means by that. Worse, I’ve lost my temper with him a time or two this morning...and it’s not even midday.” Maeve’s shoulders slouched as she lowered her head and sank to the chaise once again. “I’m an embarrassment to Charles.”

Pansy pulled her up. “Maeve, do not think yourself an embarrassment to anyone. You are most intelligent. How long have you been borrowing books from me? Three years? Four? You have learned more than I know.”

“I’ve had no fancy schoolin’.”

“Where you learn makes no difference.”

“I don’t know. There’s so much about me that needs fixin’. In case ye haven’t noticed, I’ve a hint of an Irish brogue that marks me as an immigrant. What am I goin’ to do about that?”

“Let me teach you elocution! I can teach you to talk softly and lose your accent. All great actresses excel in these matters.”

Maeve shook her head. “I cannot ask you.”

“Yes, you can. Please let me help. You know how bored I am. There is nothing for me to do until my parents relent and let me pursue a stage career. I cannot possibly play the piano for twelve hours a day.”

“Ye would do this for me?”

“You are my friend, Maeve. And now you are Mrs. Charles Rycroft, who will travel in my social circle. Nothing could be better.”

Maeve’s heart pounded a bit faster, a bit harder. Her eyes teared up again. “I’ll be obliged to ye for the rest of my life. I do not care to be hidden away on the sixth floor like some mad, ranting wife.”

“Charles wouldn’t dare hide you away or divorce you if you were the Belle of Boston,” Pansy offered with a sly smile.

“The Belle of Boston?”

“We haven’t much time. The round of Christmas parties is about to begin.” Pansy stopped and clapped her hands, her eyes sparkling with delight. “We shall create a new you in time for the Cabots’ Snow Ball. Everyone who is anyone in Boston attends their ball.”

“It would be a magnificent adventure,” Maeve allowed, although she felt a bit lightheaded. Dizzy with trepidation rather than pleasure. “I intend to do me best to keep my husband.”

A heavy pounding on the front door knocker interrupted Maeve. Her head snapped round to the sound. Her heart nearly stopped.

With a mischievous grin and a finger to her lips, Pansy snatched Maeve’s hand and pulled her from the room. Although Maeve resisted, she could not dissuade the impulsive Pansy. They reached the landing on tiptoe and hunkered down. Peering over the banister, they watched as Charles Rycroft strode into the small foyer.

As Maeve watched her dour husband address the Deakinses’ housekeeper, she wished she could shrink to leprechaun size and disappear into the Land of the Ever-Young, the home of Irish fairies.

She wished to be anywhere but here.

“I wish a moment with Mrs. Deakins,” Charles informed the butler. “Tell her Charles Rycroft has come with a message.”

“One moment, sir.”

Pansy grinned, apparently enjoying the little drama immensely.

Maeve held her breath. Before she could gather her wits and flee the landing, Harriet Deakins emerged from the parlor. The large-bosomed matron glided toward Charles like a schooner at full sail.

“My dear Charles, to what do we owe this great honor?”

“Harriet, how good to see you.” He tipped his head and gave her a polite smile. “Regrettably, I cannot stay. I’ve merely come with a message.”

“Oh?”

“Miss O’Malley will not be able to serve you this week.”

Harriet Deakins did her best to disguise her displeasure but her tight-lipped smile held little warmth. “Really? How do you know this? You are not in the habit of stealing servants, are you?”

If possible, Charles’s already rigid figure appeared to stiffen several degrees. “No, not at all. If you will—”

Pansy sneezed.

Maeve sucked in what she thought might be her last breath.

Charles’s head jerked up. His steely gaze took in Pansy crouched by the rail with Maeve just behind her.

“Maeve?”

She moved her hand in greeting, a hapless little flick of her wrist.

Harriet Deakins glared up at her daughter and maid. “What is the meaning of this?”

“It’s all right, Mama.” Pansy took Maeve’s hand and led her down the stairs. “Maeve and I are friends, Charles.”

Feeling dreadfully faint, Maeve forced a weak smile.

“Friends?” Harriet Deakins echoed in unconcealed horror.

Charles glared at Maeve. “My carriage is waiting. You will return to Rycroft House with me immediately.”

Weak-kneed, Maeve turned to Pansy for support. The improper Miss Deakins fairly beamed with pleasure. But of course, what did Pansy have to fear?

 Chapter Three

“No one disobeys me!” Furious, Charles ground the words through his teeth.

Once inside the confines of the luxurious Rycroft town coach, he felt free at last to release his anger. From the time he had awakened this morning to find himself wed to the petite, dark-haired creature beside him, nothing, absolutely nothing, had gone his way. His world had been turned upside down.

Instead of searching for his missing sketch as he meant to be doing, Charles was forced to deal with a headstrong bride who paid no heed to him.

Dear God. How could someone so small cause so much trouble?

Maeve’s chin tilted defiantly. “I could not have Pansy and Mrs. Deakins thinkin’ I’d just disappeared into thin air like one of the wee fairy folk, could I now? I am a responsible woman.”

A responsible woman who assumed the impervious attitude of England’s Queen Victoria and believed in fairies. Right. Pausing to summon patience from his now considerably shallow well, Charles regarded Maeve from the corner of his eye. Her lips were deep ruby red, the seductive shade of the juiciest apple on the tree. He wondered how it had felt to kiss those full, currently petulant, lips. For a moment he longed to remember the taste of her.

Damn. Once again he’d allowed Maeve to become a distraction.

But Charles refused to be deterred from his message. The stubborn little creature must realize her duty to obey him. In his circle of civilized society, wives unquestionably obeyed their husbands’ bidding. And, for the moment, she was his wife.

“Maeve, I told you I would deliver the message to the Deakinses and I distinctly asked you to stay in your rooms. Did I not make myself clear?”

“Aye, ye did indeed. You’re not talkin’ to an Irish feather-brain, ye know.”

“I did not mean to imply you were.”

“There are folks who depend upon me like Pansy and me dad and Shea,” she interrupted indignantly. “I cannot just disappear.”

“Allow me to remind you once again, you have not disappeared.”

“Ye took me straight off to your attic!” Plainly agitated, Maeve’s dark blue eyes flashed with anger and her head bobbed sharply to emphasize her words.

“Guest apartment,” Charles countered. “Your room is not in the attic.”

“Are ye thinkin’ to hide me away now?”

In hopes of restoring peace between them, as imperfect as it might be, Charles proceeded with caution. “You and I need time alone,” he explained in a conciliatory tone. “Time to get to know one another. For the present, I think it’s best to keep our marriage to ourselves. We do not need interference from others, including Pansy and Harriet Deakins.”

A gleam of suspicion burned in Maeve’s steadfast gaze. “Aye, and your wish to keep me hidden would not be because ye are ashamed of me? Ye wouldn’t be fearin’ the gossips?”

Gossip. The words of his father rose from his subconscious. Conrad Rycroft’s many admonitions lurked within Charles, always close to the surface of his awareness. Too close.

A Rycroft is above reproach in all matters, personal and professional. A Rycroft does nothing which would incite gossip or condemnation. A Rycroft can be counted on to do the right thing. Charles did not have to think twice; marrying an Irish maid was definitely not the right thing. He had no doubt that at this very moment his father was rolling over in his grave.

Conrad Rycroft had demanded much from his son. From the time Charles could walk, he was striving to please his father and meet seemingly impossible expectations for a boy his age. His father was a strict disciplinarian, an unforgiving authoritarian intent on building a legacy. Like the Scribners, his New York rivals, he meant to build a family publishing dynasty known round the world.

Sometimes of late, in the deep of night, Charles feared he was becoming his father. His drive to meet his father’s goals had overtaken his life. So much so that he felt as if he had no life.

With Maeve’s dark, intense gaze upon him, Charles chose his words carefully. “There will be gossip when our marriage is made known,” he acknowledged. “Indisputably. It’s unlikely that we will be able to escape the wagging tongues.”

“I am not afraid.” She raised her head in a show of eloquent defiance that served to lengthen her long, porcelain neck. The graceful arch struck Charles as lovely, but unusual in a small person.

“The gossips will be unkind,” he warned.

She stared straight ahead into some unknown abyss. “Sure’n mere words cannot hurt me.”

The girl had spunk. Charles had to give her that, spunk and a fine, fair beauty. “Maeve, let me speak plainly. I don’t know you. And you only think that you know me. For a handful of days you were married to a shadow of a man—a man without a past or future. The man you wed doesn’t exist”

“I married a man with a gentle soul and loving nature.”

“Which anyone will tell you is not me.”

“Aye? Ah, but my Charlie might be the real you. The soul of you.”

“Maeve, my instincts tell me you’ve endured a difficult life and I’ll wager you’ve suffered a great deal for one so young.”

“Saints above, I’m not so young. I shall be twenty years in just a matter of months.”

She was an innocent.

“I intend to do everything in my power to ensure your future happiness, Maeve, but—”

“Ye are not speaking plainly as ye promised! What are ye meanin’ by ‘your future happiness?’ Will ye be packin’ me off with a pocket full of shamrocks for good luck?”

Dear God, she could read his mind.

“Damn it, woman, no!” Charles quickly denied his plan. Unaccustomed to being challenged, he also disliked the fact that Maeve’s mind seemed to be running ahead of his. In the future he would be more careful when engaged in conversation with her. “But I, I have a business to run. A business neglected for over a week. I cannot be constantly at your side.”

“Has your business fallen on hard times in a week?”

Charles cocked his head and shot Maeve a look meant to quell her impertinence. Both the effrontery of her question and the sarcasm with which it was delivered annoyed him. “Not that it matters to you,nor that you should care, but in my absence, Martin—”

“And who would Martin be?” she interrupted.

“My cousin. My cousin acted on his own to take over the helm while I was among the missing. He implemented several policies we recently have been in disagreement about. I stayed longer in my office than I assumed would be needed in order to set right the wreckage.”

In fact, Charles spent most of the time at the office searching through piles of mail and messages. Against hope, he sought to find a ransom note for the priceless sketch of St. Nick stolen from him seven days ago. In truth he was more upset and angry about the loss of his prized art than about Martin’s impropriety.

“And that is your excuse for not delivering my message to the Deakinses promptly?”

“I am not obliged to offer excuses to you,” Charles replied tersely. The Irish harridan relentlessly ruffled his feathers. Who did she think she was talking with?

Her husband. Dear God.

Maeve turned her head away, silently gazing out of the window, ostensibly engrossed in the passing scenery.

Charles could think of no other woman in his acquaintance whom had ever exasperated him so. Yet, he took an odd comfort in her presence. An amazing abundance of warmth emanated from her small, round body; a warmth that eased the chill of the coach and thawed the icy marrow of his bones. Maeve’s violet scent spilled through the coach like a spring mist, mingling with the leather fragrance, softening the masculine edges of his elegant conveyance.

Charles heaved an audible sigh of relief when his driver pulled the town coach up to the family brown-stone. He jumped down quickly and was about to help Maeve from the carriage when he noticed two other coaches. Saratoga trunks, satchels, and hatboxes were being unloaded from the closest coach.

His mother had arrived. Earlier than expected. Much earlier.

Maeve vigorously protested at being driven to the back of the brownstone and hustled up the back stairs like so much contraband. She had been mistaken; this new man who was her husband did possess emotions, especially anger and impatience. His anger operated at various levels from brooding to barely controlled, between-the-teeth anger. If Maeve didn’t know better, she would have suspected Charles of having a bit of the Irish in him.

He was quite unlike Charlie, the easygoing, thoughtful man she’d married. In the short time they had spent together in happily wedded bliss, Charlie displayed a wide range of emotions. Maeve found it difficult to believe that two such different men dwelled within the same skin. She wanted Charlie back.

She was abruptly deposited inside her guest apartment with hasty orders to stay put. Her anger flared, hot blood roiled through her veins. Two buttons went flying as Maeve removed her old woolen coat with more strength than required.

“Would you be Maeve O’Malley?”

The rather shrill voice that startled Maeve came from the sitting room. Throwing her coat on the bed, she marched into the room.

“Ilona Potts. Howja do?”

The unsmiling woman gave a curt nod. Taller than Maeve, the seamstress wore a black silk dress accentuated with a high white collar and white cuffs. One of the new small, round bustles graced her rear. Mrs. Potts presented a striking but inflexible figure with high, rouged cheekbones and silver hair swept into a sleek chignon. Her young assistant slept in a corner and was not introduced.