“She’s a beautiful coilín, isn’t she?” Caitlín whispered.
He nodded softly against her blond hair, the babe quieting now that it was secure in its mother’s embrace.
Tears cascaded down Caitlín’s cheeks. “Aye, she is beautiful.”
He looked down at her and gently wiped the tears away. “What shall you name her?”
“I’ll be namin’ her Siobhan.”
Shivhan. It was a lovely name, and he liked it, especially the way Caitlín said it.
“Oh, but she’s so wee,” she moaned, more tears slipping from her eyes. “And she deserves so much.…”
Eagan wanted to comfort her, but he didn’t have the chance.
They heard noises from above, and finally Harper’s voice greeted them once more. “Everything all right, Mr. Sheridan?”
Eagan smiled blackly. “Sure, sure, Harper. Where the hell have you been? And when are we going to get out of here? When this babe is out of finishing school?”
“I’ve got a doctor with me, Mr. Sheridan. And Mr. Otis is in the shaft. We’re getting it started up now. The doctor will meet you here on four. It’ll just be another minute, I promise.”
“Promises, promises!” Eagan retorted, and squeezed Caitlín, who smiled.
They looked down at the babe, who had fallen asleep against her mother’s breast. Caitlín was just about to stroke her fine, downy head with her finger when the elevator lamp burned out, depleted of kerosene. They both laughed, as if to say “And what else can go wrong?” They laughed in relief that they were being rescued and that Shivhan was now with them, alive and healthy.
They waited in the dark to be rescued, Caitlín holding her babe and Eagan holding Caitlín, knowing for the first time what his life had been missing.
24
It was almost dawn when Whittaker informed Margaret that she was wanted in the master’s library. Poor Margaret turned sheet-white at this news. She left the servant’s common room inconsolable, believing the master’s notoriously mercurial mood had now resulted in her termination.
At the library door she gave a timid knock and nearly jumped from her skin at Sheridan’s booming “Come in!” Her hand shaking and sweating, she turned the silver doorknob and crept into the room. The library was in darkness. The green velvet drapes had been drawn, and no matter the light color of the woodwork, the imposing room threw long dark shadows.
“I want to talk with you, Margaret.”
The little maid cast her worried gaze respectfully toward him. Sheridan sat near the fire looking rumpled and unkempt, as if he’d not been to bed for several nights. By his side was an empty glass next to an empty decanter. He’d obviously been drinking, but at that moment he seemed stone-cold sober.
“What—what have I done, sar?” she whispered in her lilting accent.
“Sit down.” He nodded to a green velvet armchair.
Surprised by his solicitousness, yet terrified by his tone, she numbly took the armchair.
“Margaret, you and Kevin are the only servants Mrs. Sheridan brought with her when she left Washington Square, isn’t that correct?”
“Yes, sar,” she answered, her voice trembling.
“Why is that?”
She bit her lip. When she couldn’t think of an answer, she blurted, “Is me and Kevin gettin’ the boot, sar?”
He appeared surprised. But far from comforting her—after all, he was a man of facts and logic—he only said, “No” and kept her pinned to her seat with that piercing gaze.
“So why did she only bring you and Kevin to my household?” he demanded.
The maid swallowed, her accent becoming more pronounced with her nervousness. “Well, sar, I suppose because she wasn’t very trustin’ of the other sarvents. Miss Alana’s always been one to keep to harself.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, I suppose it’s because of the fire that killed her family. She’s never gotten over it, sar. In fact, well …”
“Go on.”
“She’s rather obsessed with Miss Christabel, sar. I mean, it seems she’s gotten over the death of her parents, as best as one can, but her sister, she’s always thinkin’ of Miss Christabel, and to my mind it ain’t healthy. Sometimes I’ve heard her whisperin’ to that picture of her sister as if the girl was standin’ right next to her.”
“I’ve never seen that picture,” he mused, a disturbed expression on his face.
“Oh, sar, she keeps it with her always, but she’s very secret about it. She doesn’t like people knowing about Miss Christabel.”
“Odd behavior. Mrs. Sheridan has always struck me as being very levelheaded.”
Margaret whitened at his words. “I’m not gossipin’, sar. It’s only because you asked—she is levelheaded—”
Sheridan waved away the rest of her babble, silencing her. He rubbed his unshaven jaw as if he were deep in thought. “She trusts you, Margaret. You know some of her secrets. I have one very important question to ask you before you go, and I want you to tell me the truth. Upon your faith as a Catholic, I want you to tell me the absolute truth, do you swear it?”
“Yes,” she whispered, wide-eyed.
“What was your mistress doing the night of Mara’s debut?”
“The night of the Sheridan ball?” Margaret looked around the library and tried to remember. “I don’t recall her doin’ anything out of the ordinary.…”
“She was just stayin’ at home that night, then?” Sheridan prompted, his face hard, his accent no longer calculated.
She looked at him. “Oh no, sar. She weren’t stayin’ at home. She were dressin’ for the ball.” She shook her head. “And I remember it was rainin’, and I had to run upstairs with her cloak.”
“You mean my wife was going to attend Mara’s debut?” Sheridan’s voice was as quiet as a prayer.
“Yes, sar. She was dressin’, just as she would to go out for any other night. I was helpin’ her.…” Margaret paused. “Then, acourse, her uncle found out what she was doin’ and put a fine stop to that. He locked her in her room, and for hours I could hear her cryin’ in there. It broke me heart. It fair broke me heart. And the next day she had a nasty bruise on her cheek. We had a fine time tryin’ to hide it.”
Sheridan sat back, his face grim, his eyes glittering with some unnamed emotion. “You swear to this, Margaret? You swear you’re telling me the truth?”
“May I die tomorrow and never have children!” Margaret vowed.
Sheridan ran his hand through his hair. He looked worse now than when she’d first arrived. He seemed older, somehow. The lines on his face had deepened, almost as if with remorse.
“You may go, Margaret. And I’ll take you on your word that you won’t speak a word of this to your mistress.”
“Yes, sar.” Margaret rose and curtsied. She left the library overcome by the sadness of his figure. To her mind Mr. Sheridan looked as if he’d lost everything he’d ever wanted in the world.
As planned, Alana and Mara took the basket phaeton out to Central Park on Thursday. The tulips were already blooming, and they rode by bed upon bed of vibrant, sunlit pinks, yellows, and reds. Purple wisteria climbed the sinuous lines of the gazebos designed from knotted tree branches. In the distance a girl sat by the lake reading a book, her figure as placid as a Rembrandt.
They hadn’t seen the duke, but Alana was sure they would meet him. She’d had years of training in society; she knew an unspoken assignation when she heard one.
Mara was quiet today, her concentration too tightly wound around seeing her young duke to spend it in conversation, which suited Alana just fine because her thoughts were centered on her husband.
It was now the second day that Alana hadn’t seen Trevor. Yesterday she’d stayed all day in her room, refusing to go out for the smallest errand. It had taken her that long to gather the courage to face him again. But when she’d emerged that morning, Trevor had already gone downtown to see to his stocks.
Or so the servants h
ad informed her. Perhaps he had really gone to see Daisy. That thought had sent her tumbling into despair. But she put her armor into place once more and rode along the park in the open phaeton looking as placid and cool as the lake on this windless day, though deep in her soul, she was bleeding.
She had surrendered to him in an attempt to save her marriage. But still the lies were piled like the stones of a fortress around them, and the tragedy was that out of those lies one truth had emerged to render the final blow: her love for her husband.
Trevor had taken her body without whispers of love, without even the seduction of false commitment. After they had finished, it was business as usual, his only thought how to chart his way out of the mess their lovemaking had caused. And he’d come up with the perfect end to their crime—another lie, this time for an annulment.
The very idea made her blood run cold, but she knew if he insisted, she would have to accept it. In a fit of anger she’d spoken of divorce, but she didn’t think she could go through with it. Trevor was right. Divorce was too ugly. It would harm all of them, even Christal. And what would be the point? Alana would still lose him. She couldn’t force Trevor to care for her. One person could not make a marriage. It was both of them, or it was nothing.
She turned to Mara, who anxiously looked around, hoping to see the Duke of Granville riding across the Mall toward Bethesda Fountain. Watching her, Alana’s heart grew even heavier. She’d grown to love Mara, and it was painful thinking how expendable she was in Mara’s life. Trevor had used her only as a matchmaker for his sister, and it was now obvious he cared nothing about his wife’s feelings or her attachments. When her task was completed and Mara well married, he no doubt expected Alana Van Alen to shed her married name like a satin cloak, pack her bags, and never see any of them again.
But she would have to see Mara again. Eagan too. They were the only family she’d known in years. Alana had grown to care for them too much. Trevor might feel she was nothing more than a chain around his neck, something he had to endure to get what he wanted, but she prayed that Eagan and Mara felt differently.
“He didn’t show,” Mara suddenly announced like a death knell.
“It’s still early,” Alana comforted, patting Mara’s kid-gloved hand with her own.
“No, let’s go home. I’ve waited before. I’ll never do it again.…” Mara turned away to hide the pain in her eyes.
Alana felt a lump come to her throat. On the verge of tears herself, she instructed the driver to head back to Fifth Avenue.
They had barely passed the Terrace when they were barraged with the thunder of hoofbeats. Both women turned around and found the Duke of Granville and his entourage closing the gap between them, the duke sporting a brilliant smile on his face at seeing Mara. “Good day to you, Mrs. Sheridan!” He reined in his shiny black Thoroughbred and doffed his top hat to Mara. “And good day to you, Miss Sheridan.”
Alana was, appropriately, the first to speak. She exchanged words with the duke like an actor in a well-rehearsed play. “Why, Your Grace, how coincidental that we should bump into you here at the park.”
“Yes, I was thinking the same.” He nearly winked.
“Would you like to ride along with us before we return home?”
“If that wouldn’t be presumptuous.”
“Of course not.” Alana smiled. “But would you ride at Mara’s side? I’ve developed a crick in my neck and would much prefer you at my right.”
His Grace nodded, an appreciative smile on his lips. He pulled his steed along Mara’s side of the phaeton and gazed almost hungrily down at her as if he were afraid he might not see her again.
Mara threw him several shy glances. As always, she looked like an enchantress of demure innocence, dressed today in deep blue velvet the exact color of her eyes.
The duke hadn’t a prayer.
Alana led them into an innocuous discussion about the Greensward, and quickly Granville took Mara into a conversation of their own, letting Alana sit back and play chaperone. During the slow trip back to the bustle of the city, the duke invited them to join him at a soiree in his honor given by Mrs. Astor, and Alana nearly clapped with glee at the triumph.
By the time they arrived at the mansion, Mara was infatuated, the duke entranced. And Alana was depressed as she had never been. No matter how thrilled she was at Mara’s conquest, there was no denying what that conquest would cost her. Any chance at happiness would die with her annulment. She must accept the agreement her marriage was built upon, but it agonized her to think that the day Mara married was the day she would be sentenced to having her thoughts dwell forever in lonely places. Forever haunted by Trevor Sheridan.
Bríd Óg Ní Máille
Oh, Bridget O’Malley, you left my heart shaken
With a hopeless desolation, I’ll have you to know.
It’s the wonders of admiration your quiet face has taken,
And your beauty will haunt me wherever I go.
The white moon above the pale sun,
The pale stars above the thorn tree,
Are cold beside my darling, but no purer than she.
I gaze upon the cold moon
’Til the stars drown in the warm sea,
And the bright eyes of my darling are never on me.
25
“Who died and left you all alone to sit at the wake? Don’t you know it’s a beautiful day?” That same afternoon, Eagan entered the library and shoved back the heavy green draperies. A stream of afternoon sunshine fell on the grim face of his brother, who sat by the hearth.
“What do you want, Eagan?” Trevor growled, squinting in the light.
Eagan cracked a smile. “I came to learn some Gaelic. I found out last night that it definitely can come in handy.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’ll never guess what happened last evening in Lord and Taylor.…” Eagan recounted the story in a couple of minutes. When he finished, he grinned.
“So where’s this girl and her babe now?” Trevor asked, as if, by Eagan’s grin, he needed to.
“She’s downstairs with the other servants. When she’s up and around again, I promised her a job. I knew you wouldn’t mind.”
“No, I don’t mind.” Trevor scowled at his empty glass and poured himself a drink. “I do find it particularly ironic that you’d take a girl in trouble under your wing, especially since you’re the type who gets them into trouble.” He held out a fresh glass. “Drink?”
Eagan declined. “But you should see this baby, Trevor. She’s really special. She’s beautiful.”
“I’m sure she is.”
“Come see her, and come meet Caitlín. You can talk to her in her own tongue. That’ll comfort her. I know she’s frightened, but by God, she’s a brave girl.”
“I’ll go downstairs when I finish my drink.”
Eagan paused to examine him. Trevor hadn’t shaved in two days, and his wrinkled shirtfront had long since worn away its starch. He couldn’t remember seeing his brother so unkempt since the days down at Mott Street. “You look like hell,” he commented.
“Do I?” Trevor snapped, gulping his whiskey.
“This has to do with what I did the other night, doesn’t it. I promise you, Trevor, Alana and I aren’t—”
“It doesn’t matter,” he growled. “Just get out, Eagan. I’m in no mood for this.”
“What’s happened?”
Trevor grew silent.
“Tell me.”
Trevor swallowed a large burning sip of whiskey and became even more morose.
“I know it has to do with Alana.…”
Slowly Trevor said, “You should have never been in her room the other night. You interfered with our marriage, and because of that, the consequences may be grave.”
“The way I see it, I saved your marriage.”
Trevor looked up. From the look in his eye, if there hadn’t been a fraternal bond between the two men, the conversation might have turned violent.
“That’s right.” Eagan stood his ground. “You finally consummated it, didn’t you? And high time you did, too.”
Trevor’s words were ominously low. “I consummated the marriage because I was pushed to do it by your stupid antics, and now we must lie to get an annulment”
Eagan was shocked into silence.
A muscle bunched in Trevor’s jaw, hinting at his agitation. “I never meant for my marriage to last. I never meant to get this—involved. The last thing I ever wanted was a society woman for a wife.”
“But you are involved, so why throw your marriage away?”
He released a long, bitter sigh. “What would you do, Eagan, if you’d set out to take revenge on a number of people and in doing so, you’d discovered you’d hurt someone completely innocent? What would you do?”
“I’d apologize … I’d make restitution.…” His gaze scanned Trevor’s morose figure and especially the glassful of whiskey held tight in his hand. “… I’d feel guilty.”
Trevor closed his eyes as if he felt a pain in his chest. “I’ve found out—Alana was truly going to come to Mara’s ball.”
“I knew it.” Eagan shook his head. “So what stopped her?”
“It’s just as she told me. Her uncle forbid her to go, locked her in her room.” He took a deep gulp of whiskey. “All this time I’ve looked upon my wife as embodying every kind of evil—prejudice, oppression, injustice—and I punished her for that. But in the end it looks like she was the only one defiant enough, brave enough, to lash out at them and attend Mara’s debut.”
“So now that you know what a wonderful woman she is, why are you insistent about this annulment? Do you think patting her on her head and saying ‘Sorry, my mistake’ will make everything all right?”
Trevor’s voice rose in anger. “What else can I do? Do I betray her again, bind her to my side, force her to stay with a man she loathes?”
“She doesn’t loathe you,” Eagan answered quietly.
“She’s said as much” was his grim answer. “She’s told me she wanted a husband better than me.”
Lions and Lace Page 31