Comfort and Joy (8 page)

“I’ll be cailin’ on ye before the week is out, Dad,” Maeve promised.

Holding her father close, she kissed him lightly on the cheek, wishing he did not smell like Jamison’s. Essence of alcohol had clung to him for years. He wore it like some men wore cologne. While her father had always raised a few in celebration, the serious drinking began after Maeve’s mother died. Kathleen O’Malley’s death changed her dad forever and had everything to do with his decision to take his children to America before they starved. To this day, Maeve knew her father pined for his darlin’ Kathleen something fierce.

On long, lonely nights, Maeve had yearned for a man to love her in the way Mick loved his Kathleen. Now she meant for that man to be Charles.

Reluctantly releasing her father, she turned to Shea. Standing on tiptoe, she wrapped her arms around him. A strong and gentle giant, her older brother had always offered protection and comfort. To the end of her life, Maeve knew she would do anything in the world for him.

The first time she’d seen Shea bruised, with his knuckles swollen following one of his professional boxing matches, she’d cried. Although Shea won more bouts than he lost, the results of his time in the ring always showed. As she wondered who would soak her brother’s big hands and rub ointment on his bruises now that she would not be there to do it, a lump as large as Faneuil Hall lodged in her throat. Maeve would sell her soul not to have Shea box again.

“Thank you for bringin’ me things. If you need me, ye know where to find me now you’ve been here. And feel free to knock on Mrs. Gilhooly’s door. She’ll help you with Dad if I cannot be there,” Maeve added to Shea quietly. Mrs. Gilhooly lived in the rear of their South Boston building.

“If yer fancy husband does anything to make ye unhappy, just say the word,” Shea whispered gruffly in her ear. “And I’ll be takin’ care of him for ye.”

“Ye’11 be the first to know,” Maeve said with a wink as she stepped out of his arms.

Taking each in hand, Maeve walked her father and brother to the door. She tugged at her father’s worn jacket and buttoned him up snugly against the cold. He’d gained weight round the middle and needed a new jacket.

Mick pulled his black knit cap down over his ears as Maeve gave a yank to Shea’s bright red scarf. She would miss her O’Malley men dearly, every day.

“Stay safe,” she said, blinking back tears as she pushed her family closer to the door.

“Make sure ye keep yer promise, me darlin’. I expect to see ye before the week is out,” her father called over his shoulder as he and Shea started down the steps toward the street.

Maeve watched silently until the figures of her father and brother disappeared into the silent, icy night.

A shiver tore through her as she stood in the open door. Maeve felt rather than saw Charles move up to stand beside her. The heat of his body warmed her. The masculine, woodsy scent of him eased her emptiness.

“I’ll be apologizin’ for the interruption,” she said, still gazing into the black night.

“There’s no need to apologize. They were worried about you. It is a blessing to have a family who cares so much about you,” he said with what sounded to be a wistful tone. He closed the door.

“ ‘Tis indeed,” she said quietly.

“And now I must face Beatrice.” Charles straightened his shoulders and shot Maeve a wry smile. “I expect with the aid of her smelling salts that my mother has fully recovered. And I am certain she is waiting with great anticipation for a full explanation.”

The unexpected, and quite enticing, twist of his mouth might have charmed Maeve at another time. But not at the moment. “And me as well,” she asserted. “Do ye not think I deserve an explanation? I did not even know your mother lived here.”

“It seems I have much to answer for.” His eyes met hers, soft and silvery and sincere. “Can you forgive me?”

How could she not, when with just one look, he’d managed to melt her heart?

The fourth floor corridor of the Rycroft brownstone featured gilt portraits of deceased ancestors. The painting of Charles’s father, Conrad B. Rycroft, was by far the largest and most prominent in the gallery of rogues, as Charles thought of this display. The flattering portrait was mounted at the end of the long, narrow hall and from this particular spot it seemed the elder Rycroft’s eyes followed every move. Charles felt his father’s critical gaze upon him now as he approached his mother’s bedchamber and sitting room.

Beatrice’s suite was on the same floor as Charles’s. Since she was rarely in residence, he thought himself the beneficiary of the utmost privacy, a privacy he’d enjoyed. Up until now.

Every muscle in his body felt as tightly wound as a clock mainspring run amuck. For the first time in memory, he experienced the angst of a tormented man, a man caught in the grip of circumstances quickly spiraling out of his control. As he walked the chilled corridor, beads of sweat broke out on Charles’s forehead. Clearing his throat, he knocked on his mother’s door.

Beatrice answered with a faint bid to enter. Alone in her sitting room, she reclined on a pink-and-white striped satin chaise. Only the ornately carved rosewood furniture offered the eye a respite from the many shades of pink used with abandon in his mother’s rooms. Wall and bed coverings, drapes, and upholstered furniture had been swathed in varying shades of Beatrice’s favorite color. She made no secret of feeling that pink was the only color that truly flattered an aging woman.

Charles pulled one of the uncomfortable, dusty-rose, tufted chairs close to his mother’s chaise and sat gingerly on the edge of the seat. He always expected the balloon-back gilt chairs to give way under his weight

“How are you feeling, Mother?”

She raised the back of her hand to her forehead. “I am quite undone.”

“I am sorry tha —”

“What have you done?” Beatrice snapped.

“I fear it is a long —”

“Surely you make some cruel jest,” she interrupted impatiently.

“No, Mother, it’s no joke.”

“But you cannot be married.”

“My thought exactly when I was first informed.”

“How could you let such a dreadful thing happen?” Beatrice wailed. More dramatically than necessary, Charles thought.

“I was under the impression that you wished me to marry, Mother.”

“Yes but to a suitable woman like Stella.”

“Of course.”

Tears brimmed in Beatrice’s eyes as she extended a limp hand toward him. “Did the vixen hoax you, son?”

Charles took his mother’s cool hand. “No. Not really.” He could think of no easy way to explain. “It is, rather it was an extraordinary situation.”

“I don’t think I can bear to hear it.” Beatrice closed her eyes, in a bid, Charles supposed, to shut out reality. “But do go on.”

What choice did he have? “Last week, I paid a call to Edgar Dines’s establishment in order to purchase a sketch I’d heard —”

“Oh, no. Another?”

His mother’s disapproval did not trouble Charles. Someday, he would bring Beatrice around to his way of thinking. Someday she would understand. “The sketch of St. Nick is the best of the lot, I believe.”

“Go on.”

“On my way to the carriage, I was accosted. Ambushed. The sketch was stolen.”

Dropping his hand, Beatrice bolted upright. “My dear boy! Were you hurt?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact, I was.”

“Oh!” She reached for her smelling salts.

“Maeve —”

“Maeve?”

“Maeve O’Malley, the young woman you met earlier.”

“Oh Lord, is she Irish?”

He nodded slowly. “Yes.”

“Oh, no.” Beatrice rapidly fanned the bottle of smelling salts under her nose and then proceeded to choke.

Charles continued in a rush. “Maeve found me bruised and incoherent. A blow to the head had left me with a temporary loss of memory. During the time when I was not quite myself, we were forced to wed.”

Beatrice threw her head back and moaned.

“As Maeve nursed me back to health, there were...” He faltered here, letting his thought go, envisioning others, oddly joyful and intimate.

His mother’s frosty frown demanded that Charles finish.

“Evidently there were some compromising moments.”

“Have mercy!” Beatrice’s outcry startled Charles. He was unaccustomed to hearing such an epitaph from his proper mother.

“I didn’t mean to shock you, Mother.”

Upright on the chaise once again, Beatrice’s angry frown involved every line, fold, and wrinkle in her face. “Did the Civil War nurses marry all their patients?”

“Hardly.”

“And certainly, they faced compromising situations and awkward moments.”

“More than likely those angels of mercy did not have Maeve’s father and brother standing over them,” Charles pointed out

“It is a ruse to use you and gain your fortune!” Beatrice declared.

“Perhaps.” Charles had entertained the same thought and could not deny the likelihood.

“Annul—”

“Impossible.”

“You’ve engaged in...?”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Why are you not outraged?”

“I am outraged, Mother, but I must proceed with reason.”

“Charles, you behave the same whether you are outraged or pleased,” she huffed. “I have never known whether you were happy or sad, angry or joyful.”

“Father taught me long ago that wise men do not reveal their emotions.”

She arched a dubious brow. “Perhaps in business, but if you are to have a proper wife, you must display a bit of emotion.”

“I shall endeavor in the future to make my feelings known,” Charles hedged. He had no intention of leaving himself vulnerable in such a way.

“As much as I hate the scandal of it, you must obtain a divorce at once,” his mother pronounced. “It’s long past the time when you should have made a proper marriage and produced an heir. You have neglected your duty to the family and your father’s publishing company for far too long.”

“Yes, Mother.” Even as he agreed a dark sadness settled into his bones. As much as he’d declared himself a confirmed bachelor, before Maeve,he knew it to be impossible. A Rycroft did the right thing, and the right thing for Charles was to produce heirs.

“The sooner you are rid of this Irish woman, the sooner you can make a suitable marriage.”

Charles stood, preparing to make his escape. “I quite agree.”

“I brought Stella home with me especially for that purpose. She is from a fine family with impeccable breeding.”

“Yes, however —”

“Is she not attractive?”

“Extremely attractive, Mother.”

“And being a widow, she is eager to marry again and start a family. Stella has been so looking forward to meeting you.”

“At present I am not in a position to court anyone.”

“You soon shall be,” his mother assured him with some asperity. “Make arrangements at once.”

“Mother —”

“You cannot continue another day with a marriage so ill-suited. A marriage foisted upon you by shifty, greedy Irishmen cannot be considered a true marriage.”

“No, and I —”

“Why did you not put an end to it immediately after you came to your senses?”

“Because Maeve saved my life,” Charles said, biting back the unexpected anger swirling like a tainted meal in the pit of his stomach. “I brought her home so that by spending time with me, she will see first-hand that we come from far different backgrounds. Maeve will quickly come to understand that she and I are too dissimilar to make a success of our marriage.”

“You give her too much credit,” Beatrice sulked.

“I intend to reward Maeve for taking my life into her hands. Mrs. Potts has been instructed to provide a proper wardrobe and after the holiday I will settle with my...” Charles paused, he’d almost said wife. “I will settle with Maeve.”

“What do you mean?” His mother frowned as she inclined her head.

“Maeve will have enough funds so that she will never have to work again. In return she will give me a divorce.’’

“Work?” An even deeper frown drove Beatrice’s eyebrows dangerously near to the bridge of her nose. “What sort of work does the woman do?”

“She is in service,” Charles said quietly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Maeve’s a maid, or was, in service to Harriet Deakins.”

“Oh Lord, save me!” Beatrice closed her eyes and moaned. “The Deakinses! Does Harriet know about your marriage?”

“I don’t believe so.” Charles rose. This interview had gone badly. He attempted to reassure his prostrate parent as he ambled to the door. “Mother, this will all be over soon. In the meantime, please be kind to Maeve. Remember, she saved my life.”

“I cannot promise,” Beatrice replied faintly, lifting the smelling salts to her nose once again.

Charles reached the door and was about to say good night when his mother spoke again. “Be warned. I shall speak to your father about this.”

His hand froze on the polished brass handle. “I beg your pardon?”

“There is a new medium in Boston; Mrs. Helen Foster. I have been corresponding with her and she promises contact with the spiritual world and most especially your dear departed father.”

A man Beatrice avoided as much as possible during his lifetime had been relegated to sainthood shortly after his death.

“Mother, no one talks to the dead.”

“I shall, through Helen.”

Heaving a resigned sigh, Charles turned the handle. “Very well. Give father my best.”

* * * *

He brushed his fingertips over the sketch, soft strokes of admiration for the art. His hands trembled from the chill of the damp, cold room.

He gazed with reverence at the picture: St. Nick sketched in black and white. Not a drop of color on the canvas and yet every fine line evoked a feeling. Love and whimsy were portrayed in the curl of the old man’s beard, the twinkle in his eyes and even the very girth of him. His generosity was depicted by the sack across his back that overflowed with toys: dolls, wooden soldiers, trains, and tops.

The artist had only produced a dozen sketches before his untimely death. Each was valuable, but this sketch of St Nick was the only known piece by the artist showing joy. The difference made it especially valuable.

The sketch promised to bring a great deal of money when he sold it in London. And he needed money desperately. Things had gone badly for him most of his life. He was due a stroke of luck, even if he had engineered it himself.