Dead Handsome

by Laura Strickland

  Clustered around the table—around him—were what appeared to be all the children of the household, and there were ten who lived beneath this roof. Liam seemed to be conversing with the two eldest, Fred and Woodrow, while the others, including little Petey with his brace on his twisted leg, hung on his every word.

  “Yes,” Woodrow said as she came in, “we go out to work at a proper trade—contribute to our keep, we do. Fred and I are skilled laborers.”

  Liam slid a glance at Clara and the two women at her back before returning his gaze to Woodrow. “I am glad to hear it. What sort of work do you do?”

  “Repairing boilers, and we’re good at it. I was in training at Montgomery’s boiler works until there was a mishap.”

  Yes, and that didn’t half tell the tale, but the scars splashed across Woodrow’s maimed hand and arm did. He’d been apprenticed to a cruel master, and when the boiler on which he’d been working leaked, the man had left the boy to suffer the ensuing burns without care. By the time Anson Allen heard of his plight and had him brought to the surgery, he was nearly beyond help. When queried, his master told Clara’s father that without two good hands the lad was no further use to him.

  Woodrow had been beneath the Allen roof ever since. His companion, Fred, to whom he’d taught his trade, had suffered the woes of a drunken father, now deceased, who alternately beat and neglected him.

  Now Liam shot both boys respectful looks. Clara knew he must see the scars mottling Woodrow’s skin, but he gave no sign. “That’s a valuable skill to possess in today’s world. Our society and our manufacturing both run on steam. There must be no end of jobs.”

  “Yes, well”—Fred shot an uncertain look at Clara, his basic honesty winning out—“it’s more the small operations will hire us, just lads as we are. And we can’t charge as much as the licensed boilermen.”

  “What goes on here?” Clara interrupted with some haste.

  Liam turned those sky-blue eyes, fringed by spiked black lashes, on her. “Breakfast, and I am becoming acquainted with your household,” he purred, “as befits your future husband.”

  Both Georgina and Ruella gasped. Clara’s heart seemed to seize for an instant and then start up again, double time.

  She was saved the necessity of a reply by Fred turning to her. “I told you, miss, I’d marry you if you needed a husband.”

  All his heart lay in the declaration, and this wasn’t the first time it had been made. Truth be told, Clara adored the lad who was all fight despite his fourteen years and the fact that he stood no taller than she.

  Gently she told him, “Fred, we have spoken of this before.”

  “Yes, and I don’t understand—” He directed a clearly resentful look at Liam, who went on eating.

  As kindly as possible, Clara said, “I am afraid my grandfather would never take you seriously as my husband.”

  “And you think he’ll take him seriously?” Fred jerked his head at Liam.

  Ruella pushed her way past Clara into the room. She ruffled Fred’s hair.

  “No matter, sprog. You know I am only waiting for you to grow enough to marry me and take me away from the hell of the jailhouse kitchen.”

  Fred smiled, and Ruella thrust a beefy hand across the table at Liam. “Ruella Whedon,” she introduced herself. “I brought you here last night.”

  Clara hissed in annoyance. Nothing like announcing it in front of all the children.

  Liam sprang to his feet; he and Ruella were nearly of a height. He took Ruella’s hand and bowed over it. “I should say, then, I owe you a debt of thanks. Liam McMahon, at your service.”

  McMahon? Clara’s eyebrows ascended. What of Fitzgerald, with which she had christened him?

  Ruella stiffened. “I did not know you were a bloody Irishman when I dragged you in.”

  “And under the circumstances, I guess I need to overlook the fact that you are a loathsome, treacherous Englishwoman.”

  Georgina laughed. Or was that a smothered groan?

  Ruella raked Liam with an outraged stare from her slightly protruding eyes, lingering a little too long on his bare chest. “Well, I suppose no one is perfect. I just hope, bog-jumper that you are, you intend to do right by the mistress of this place.”

  “I can scarcely do otherwise.”

  Clara elbowed Ruella aside. “Mr.—er—McMahon, we have much to discuss. And Georgina has brought you some suitable clothing, so if you’ve finished your breakfast—” She eyed his plate.

  “Not quite yet.” He sat back down and resumed plying his fork in a leisurely fashion. “The other members of your household, here, were just filling me in on how matters stand.”

  Little Jimmie asked Clara plaintively, “But where did he come from? And will he beat us?” A former servant in a household on Bryant Street, Jamie had been all too well acquainted with his master’s fist.

  Liam answered before Clara had a chance. “Never. In fact, I hunt down those who abuse women and children, and give them as they deserve.”

  “Truly?” Pippin, along with the other children, brightened. For Liam, seated there at their head, looked perfectly capable of carrying out the assertion.

  Ruella sat down at the table and rested her chin on her fist, staring at him. “An Irish avenger, is that it?”

  He shrugged. “I detest bullies, and all those who take advantage of folk weaker than themselves.” He waved his fork at Woodrow and Fred. “Remember that, lads—no one who will not stand up for another has a right to call himself a man.”

  Oh, sweet heaven, what had she done? Clara wondered. But even now, gazing around the room at all these dear ones dependent on her, she did not know how she might have acted differently. They had come, most of them, from the streets. She could not see them cast out there again.

  She made a shooing motion with her hands. “Go, children. Off about your chores now. Fred and Woodrow, Mr. Baker will be wondering where you are. Udina, please help Lillie get dressed.” Lillie, their smallest, who had been run down by a cart horse, also had a mangled arm. “Mr. McMahon and I have things to discuss.”

  They obeyed reluctantly, most giving Clara a hug in passing. Fred’s arms clasped her spasmodically.

  “This is for the best,” she spoke into his ear. “I’m acting for the good of all.”

  He nodded. She knew how he loved her. They all did.

  When they had gone, the dining room felt strangely empty. Liam laid down his fork and eyed the three remaining women.

  “This looks like a delegation. What have I done?”

  “For starters, you’re bloody Irish,” Ruella accused again, but did not stop gazing at him very like a lovesick goat.

  “And,” Clara put in hastily, “the name upon which we agreed was Fitzgerald.”

  “No.” He looked her full in the eyes. “That is not the name on which we agreed; it is the name you attempted to force on me. I will not accept it. The Fitzgeralds were more English than Irish, and flaming interlopers in Ireland.”

  “And,” Clara challenged, “how is it you remember that?” He shouldn’t be able to recall any such thing.

  His expression went suddenly blank, like that of a stricken man. “Damn me, lass, but I have no idea.”

  Chapter Eight

  “So, how do I look?” Liam McMahon asked.

  Clara struggled to school her expression and not reveal her true feelings as he turned in front of her, displaying his new clothing. He looked—well, sinfully attractive.

  “Not bad, eh,” he continued smugly, “for a dead man?”

  “Not dead; recently dead,” Clara corrected hastily. They were alone in what had been her father’s surgery—the one place the children were sure not to intrude. Clara felt unaccountably nervous, a state she despised in herself. She had planned all this, rehearsed the details ad nauseam. But she hadn’t bargained on Liam McMahon.

  Instead, she’d imagined some fellow dragged from the depths of hell, recovering from his resurrection in a darkened room, knowing only w
hat she told him—malleable and dependent on her. Not one who insisted on finishing a breakfast fit for a king, and who clearly had enough confidence to take over her household.

  “Please sit down. We need to talk.” She indicated the visitor’s chair and seated herself behind her father’s desk in what she considered the power position. She always felt closer to Father here: the very scents of the room comforted her.

  Liam nudged the chair out with his knee and sat in a lordly fashion. His eyes gleamed at Clara. “You look prepared to call me to task. What is it?”

  She folded her hands on the surface of the desk. “I would have appreciated a chance to introduce you to the children myself, and prepare them properly.”

  He shrugged. “As soon as I sat down to me breakfast they came flooding in, the whole flock.”

  “You needn’t have identified yourself as my future husband.”

  “Why not? ’Tis the truth, as I understand it. And the way you’ve explained things, their livelihood depends on us foxing this grandfather of yours.”

  “Yes, but…” Panic fluttered in Clara’s chest. She should be in charge. That was how she’d planned and imagined it. “Mr. McMahon, much plotting and consideration went into your resurrection. I wish you to let me decide how it should play out.”

  His eyebrows lifted. He sat back in his chair and regarded her with a new expression. “Well then, and that may be a bit of a problem. I’m a man used to making his own decisions.”

  Clara leaned across the desk. “That’s just it—you should not be aware of any past personality traits, whatsoever. You shouldn’t remember enough of your life to know what sort of man you were. I don’t understand what went wrong.”

  “Ah, so you wanted a puppet, is that it? So many stone of flesh you could raise up, put in his place, and tell what to do? When to fart and when to breathe? Is that how it was with the others you’ve raised?”

  Clara bit her lip. “To tell you the truth, I’ve never before resurrected a man.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It is.”

  “Well then, I’m a first.” She saw the quick thoughts move behind his eyes. “So how do you know how it’s supposed to be?”

  “I have used my skills before.”

  “How many times?”

  “It doesn’t matter how many—”

  “I think it does.”

  “—because it was on animals.”

  “Animals!” The dark brows ascended nearly through his hair.

  “In theory, there should be no difference. When I resurrected my own dog, she no longer knew me. And every other creature with which I have worked retained no familiarity with past training.”

  “Aye, well, I retain little enough. I don’t remember much before the noose went round me neck.” Again he lifted his fingers to his throat and his gaze became distant. “No name, no real memories—just the things I know in the bone.”

  “You should know nothing.”

  “Are you saying I should not have a sense of meself?”

  “I am.”

  “But what man could live so? Don’t we, as babes new born, have a sense of ourselves?”

  “Yes, but one that is not oriented.” That was how it had been with Mollie. Clara had even needed to housetrain her all over again.

  “Well, I’ll be damned if I feel oriented,” he retorted with a touch of anger. “And do not tell me how to feel, unless you’re inside my head.”

  They stared at one another for several moments in irritation.

  Then Clara drew a breath. “The thing I am trying to say, Mr. McMahon—”

  His lips quirked. “There’s one thing: you don’t like the fact that I chose my own name.”

  “I do not,” Clara agreed with some heat. “I believe the name Fitzgerald carries some gravitas and will succeed better in persuading my grandfather to accept our story.”

  “Sounds like less of a bog-jumper, is that it?”

  It was, but Clara did not wish to admit it. She abhorred prejudice and welcomed anyone in need, of all backgrounds and colors, into her household. “You have not met my grandfather. He is not easy to impress.”

  Liam reared back. “Need you impress him? Or just present him with a husband, job done?”

  “In essence, the latter. But the whole of it will go better the less fault he can find.”

  “Well, so, Miss Clara, did you truly expect to drag a man home from the jail and end up with someone to impress this paragon?” Not giving her a chance to reply, he went on, “And as for that, I will need the name of the jailer.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve a score to settle with him, don’t I? Corrupt sod—taking money to feed his prisoners and then doing away with them.” A spark ignited in his eyes. “He will know my name, will he not? My true name.”

  “I do not think that is a good—”

  “And, begging pardon, Miss Clara, I don’t care what you think.”

  Now they glared at one another with some heat.

  “Look here, Mr. McMahon. We have an agreement.”

  “We have not! Did I ask you to bring me back to life?”

  “Would you rather be dead?” Again she drew a breath. “We do, in fact, have an implied agreement, since my sole purpose in returning you to life was so you could be of service to this household.”

  That seemed to arrest him; he inspected her slowly, in a manner that brought the heat to her cheeks. “Service, eh? Just what will this marriage involve?”

  “Not that,” Clara said hastily. “This is purely a marriage of convenience. You play this role on my behalf; I will provide for you to the best of my ability.”

  Did he look disappointed? Hard to tell, with that wicked light filling his eyes.

  “Provide for me, how?”

  “A roof over your head, food in your belly. And, need I reemphasize, the enjoyment of your life?”

  “So I owe you, is that what you’re after saying?”

  “I hoped to keep from putting it that way, but in essence, yes.”

  He let those words hang in the air while he continued to examine her. Clara did her best not to squirm in her seat.

  “How do you know,” he asked then, “that I am not already married?”

  Clara lowered her gaze abruptly. She’d hoped he would not ask that question. “I do not,” she replied honestly.

  “Bigamy—is that not what they call it?”

  “I will confess I have contemplated it at length and concluded the true ethical dilemma rests upon the fact that this will be a marriage only in name, to be terminated after a certain span of time. Even if you are married, you will not in fact be committing adultery.”

  “What ‘certain span of time’ would that be?”

  She lifted her gaze again and measured him with her stare. “Once my grandfather dies, we can dissolve the marriage and go our separate ways.”

  “What makes you think he’s going to die soon?”

  “He is ninety-nine years old and quite frail—he cannot possibly live forever.”

  “An unpleasant bugger, you say?”

  “Extremely unpleasant, with very few redeeming qualities.”

  “Are those not the sort who tend to live the longest?”

  Clara widened her eyes and leaned toward him. “That is one of the things of which you should not be aware. You should have virtually no knowledge of past or present, or any surmises in your mind.”

  “I have little enough, believe me. I’m not a patch on a clever lass like you.”

  Clara didn’t feel very certain of that. She had the feeling he played her even now. She spread her hands. “If you wish to walk away from this, I cannot prevent you. But we are in a terrible fix here, and it is the children who will ultimately pay the price. They are completely dependent on me, aside from Woodrow and Fred, who do contribute in some small measure to the solvency of the household.”

  “Not that you would wish to make me feel guilty, or any such thing.”

  �
�Of course not.”

  “So then, Miss Clara, what sort of story have you cooked up to feed your grandfather? Will he not think it odd you should turn up with a husband right before your birthday?”

  “You are the son of one of my father’s former colleagues with whom he went to medical school. We have been corresponding via letter, and you have agreed to marry me.”

  “What city?”

  “Well, I gave that some thought. I could not make it somewhere too easy for my grandfather to trace your background, should he try. I thought Montreal.”

  “An Irishman from Montreal?”

  “I did not expect you to be an Irishman. Many people of all nationalities are funneled through Montreal via the St. Lawrence.”

  “And what does this fantastical betrothed of yours do for a living?”

  “Well, I had thought you should be at loose ends, which would make you likely to relocate. I thought perhaps a failed business such as a gentlemen’s haberdashery.”

  “A what?”

  “Hats of high quality.”

  “Can you see me selling hats?”

  “No,” Clara admitted. “But when I envisioned all this I did not, in fact, see you at all.”

  “A livery stable,” he said decisively.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He rubbed his hands together. “Tell him I ran a livery stable that was forced out of business by these damned steamcarriages. That will explain why I am a bit rough around the edges, will it not?”

  Clara drew a breath. “Does that mean you agree, you’ll go through with the plan and marry me?”

  He gave her a crooked smile that sped her pulse unaccountably. “Damn me,” he said, “but I guess it does.”

  Chapter Nine

  The house had at last fallen quiet, and Liam—he supposed he should now think of himself as Liam, since he owned no other name—lay on his back in the bed, straining to catch any stray sound. Sleep eluded him; his thoughts ran rampant, like an enraged rat in a trap, over the same matters again and again. Throughout this endless day, while he’d been agreeing to marry a stranger and trying to sort out the details of the household, two things had battled for predominance in his mind.