Irish Linen

by Candace McCarthy

  Meghan knew that she should be happy that her fiancé was wooing her with tokens of his affection, but she would rather have received the gift of three words. A sincere “I love you” would be his three greatest gifts to her.

  But she would have to be happy with jewels, she thought miserably. Lucas cared for her, but love? No. She must be content that he desired her enough to want her for his wife.

  Please God, allow me to make him happy. She was of poor Irish stock, while Lucas was a wealthy, upper-class Delawarean. Were his expensive gifts hints that she should learn to become a proper, socially acceptable wife? Meghan frowned. She knew she was right; Lucas was trying to mold her into something—someone— she could never be. The question was what was he going to do when he learned that she could never be anything more than she was—a woman born from poor Irish stock.

  “Meghan.” Flora Gibbons entered the sewing room and went directly to where Meghan sat at her sewingmachine, making a new shift for Rachel. “I’d like you to try on this bonnet. It’s a lovely hat, but I’m unable to wear it anymore.” She lowered her voice conspira-torially. “It’s much too young-looking for me, but not for you, dear.”

  The bonnet was made of straw with a large brim. A huge ostrich feather stuck out of a band of artificial roses, and there were pink satin ribbons attached to be tied under the chin.

  Meghan regarded the hat doubtfully, but Lucas’s aunt insisted upon setting the bonnet on the young woman’s head herself. The Irishwoman felt like a small child again as Flora fussed over the correct placement. Meghan sat silently while Flora straightened the brim and ensured that the ribbons were tied just right, until finally the older woman seemed satisfied.

  “There,” Lucas’s aunt said as she straightened. She regarded her handiwork with a critical eye. “Oh, yes, it looks quite lovely on you, my dear. Here…” She helped Meghan to rise. “Come and see how perfect it is for you.”

  Meghan allowed herself to be dragged down the hall to Flora Gibbons’s bedchamber where she was thrust before a cheval looking glass. The bonnet was beautiful, although a bit fancy for Meghan’s taste.

  “What do you think?” the woman prompted.

  Peering at her reflection, Meghan didn’t feel right in taking it, which was clearly what her employer had in mind. “I think ‘tis grand, but—”

  “It would go splendid with your new blue gown, wouldn’t it?”

  Meghan studied Flora’s mirror image as the woman smiled over Meghan’s shoulder. How did her employer know about Lucas’s gift? The blue gown was the one that Lucas had intended she wear to meet his parents.

  “Mrs. Gibbons, I can’t take this…”

  Flora waved her hand. “Nonsense, dear. You must. I simply insist.” She paused to lovingly touch the bonnet’s brim. “My late husband gave it to me, Meghan,” she said softly. “I’d be pleased if you’d wear it.”

  Fighting emotion, Meghan couldn’t refuse. How could she say no when she was offered something that obviously meant so much to Lucas’s aunt?

  Ye’re going to marry him, girl, an inner voice said. Get used to it, Flora is his aunt; it’s all right to accept the gift.

  “Thank ye, Mrs. Gibbons. ‘Tis lovely—truly.” She blinked back tears. But the woman’s kindness only emphasized in Meghan’s mind her failings as Lucas’s future wife.

  Flora nodded. “You’re welcome, dear. Now,” she said, turning, “I also have this wonderful book of poetry.” She moved to a dower chest and searched inside. “Ah, here it is! A collection of works by Robert Browning!” She closed the lid and approached Meghan with a book, smiling. “I know the most perfect poem for you to memorize. We’ll have to work on your pronunciation, of course, but…”

  The rest of Flora’s words were lost to Meghan when she realized what Lucas’s aunt was doing. She was going to tutor Meghan in the fine art of being a woman of higher class.

  “I think ‘Bells and Pomegranates’ is the best piece, but ‘A Soul’s Tragedy’ is good, too. It’s up to you, Meghan, after all, you’ll be the one to recite it!”

  Pain choked Meghan’s throat. “How did ye find out?” she rasped. She’d never felt so hurt before, because someone thought she wasn’t good enough as she was. Lucas, she thought. It was because of Lucas. “Did Lucas—”

  “No, Lucas didn’t say a word,” the woman said, regarding her with kind eyes. “But it was easy for me to guess.” She laid her hand on Meghan’s shoulder. “I know my nephew better than his own mother does. I’ve seen how he looks at you and…” Her features were soft. “I knew.”

  Meghan felt a little better once she’d learned that Lucas hadn’t told his aunt of their relationship. “Mrs. Gibbons—”

  “Aunt Flora,” the woman insisted.

  “Aunt Flora, I don’t know if I can be what Lucas needs.”

  The woman was quiet for so long that Meghan realized that she’d tapped into Flora’s own feelings. “Of course, you can,” Lucas’s aunt said carefully, “because you already are.”

  Then why don’t ye sound convincing? And why are ye both trying to change me? Meghan wondered. She glanced at the book and then the older woman, and a dawning light entered Flora’s gaze.

  “This isn’t for Lucas, my dear,” his aunt said. “Well, in a way it is, but only to get past his mother.” Her lips firmed. “My sister is a snob, you see.” Then her expression warmed. “But my brother-in-law James will love you.”

  Meghan blushed. “Will ye tell him ye know?”

  “Lucas?” Her employer shook her head. “Lucas will tell me himself in his own time. In the meantime, we’ll help things along a bit. Agreed?”

  Determined to make Lucas a good wife, Meghan said, “Aye, agreed.” The two women shook hands.

  From that time on, Meghan met with Lucas’s aunt for a brief period each day to learn “Bells and Pomegranates” by the poet, Robert Browning. She also practiced walking and talking properly. She was taught how to dress and how to breathe—or not breathe—while wearing a corset.

  Never having owned such a garment in her entire life, Meghan hated the feminine contraption almost more than she’d hated going hungry in her homeland. But for a while each day, she wore it—to please Aunt Flora… and for Lucas.

  Her instructional meetings with Flora she kept a secret from Lucas, although it bothered her to keep silent. She loved her fiancé so much; she wanted to share everything with him.

  Each time she got frustrated with trying to learn proper lady’s comportment, she’d remember the night when Lucas had taken her into his hiding place and the emotional closeness they’d shared.

  Meghan recalled the one time she and Lucas had shared a bed, and she ached with the desire to lie with him again. The physical pain intensified with each day of celibacy. Lucas thought that since they were engaged they should wait until after the wedding before they again became intimate with each other. Meghan thought him sweet for being honorable, but she wanted to scream with frustration that they shouldn’t wait. What difference could a few short weeks make when they were bound by promises to become husband and wife?

  Tonight, she thought, I’ll ask him.

  The opportunity to speak with him privately came when Flora Gibbons retired early, leaving Lucas and Meghan together alone in the sitting room. It had been Flora’s idea that Meghan join them; Flora had wanted to entertain them with a poem piece by Elizabeth Barrett called “The Cry of the Children.” Shortly after they’d collected in the room, however, Flora had pleaded a sudden headache and taken herself off to bed.

  Lucas stared at Meghan seated across the room from him with a look that told her that he still wanted her.As she held on to that burning glance, Meghan was glad that his interest for her continued to hold true. With no caresses and only the briefest kiss these last few days, she’d begun to wonder if Lucas’s desire for her had waned.

  Apparently not.

  “Come here,” he said.

  Her blood rushed as he patted his lap.

  “Your aunt
—” she began.

  “She’ll not come back. Couldn’t you see how tired she is?”

  Couldn’t ye see that yer aunt was acting so that we could be alone? She rose and approached him on trembling legs. She’d wanted so badly to be close to him that her thoughts and her body were responding wildly as she neared him. She chose to sit beside him on the sofa. He raised his eyebrows and reached over to tug her into his arms.

  “I’ve missed you,” he said, his words whispering like a caress across her lips.

  “Ye’ve been busy.” She gasped as he nibbled on her neck. Closing her eyes, she cupped his head, her fingers entangling in his soft, golden hair as he shifted her onto his lap. “Lucas…”

  His mouth trailed a heated path to the collar edge of her gown, grazing lower to moisten a fabric-clad breast.

  Meghan moaned as he blew into the cloth, heating her nipple and making it rise, before moving to its twin.

  “I want you,” he said thickly.

  “Aye,” she whispered. “Love me.”

  Lucas gently set her off his lap and onto the sofa beside him. “I can’t,” he said with a raw look in his eyes and a twisted smile. “I promised to wait.”

  Here was her chance, she thought. “Why, Lucas? Why do we have to wait?”

  He seemed startled by her question. Then he continued to study her, his lips forming a more genuine smile. “Soon, love. I’m anxious, too.”

  “Are ye?” she thought, not realizing that she’d spoken aloud until she saw his expression change.

  “Of course, I am.” He cupped her face with both hands. “Look at me.”

  She raised her lashes and regarded him uncertainly.

  “Do I appear to be content to keep from touching you? Look at me, Meghan. Even now, I can hardly keep my hands still.”

  And Meghan realized that he spoke the truth. His hands had been caressing her—and still were—back and forth the length of her upper arms. “Oh, Lucas.”

  They kissed. Briefly.

  “There’s a child to consider, love,” he pointed out. “We must wait to ensure that our child is conceived within wedlock. Now, come.” He rose and helped her to stand. “I’ll walk you to your room.”

  He paused at her door and eyed her solemnly. “I think you’d be interested to know that we fired Mathew Phelps today. Your friend Priscilla came in to talk to us, and after she did, so did several others. It’s as I thought, they hadn’t come forward before now, because they were afraid.”

  “Why did Priscilla change her mind?” she asked.

  “I think you’ll have to speak to your friend Susan about that.”

  Meghan smiled, pleased with her friend and the man who stood before her for doing the right thing. “I love you,” she said on impulse.

  Her only answer was a deep, long kiss that left her dizzy and gasping for breath. When he kissed, herdoubts about their marriage disappeared, only to resurface later.

  Two days later, afraid to face being a failure as Lucas’s wife, Meghan was packing her belongings to leave Gibbons Mill.

  Thirty-two

  It was the evening before the Ridgelys were due to arrive in Gibbons Mill. Meghan had had a trying day. She’d begun her courses only that morning, and her abdomen hurt. And she felt particularly clumsy.

  Earlier, when she’d met with Aunt Flora to try on her blue gown with all the proper undergarments, Meghan had felt so restricted by her corset that she’d nearly fainted. And her new “quality” shoes hurt her feet.

  She couldn’t remember the poem she’d practiced daily to recite to Lucas’s parents. Flora had been extremely patient, but Meghan had recognized the worry in her dark gaze.

  Lucas had been charming and polite today, as always, but she’d sensed tension within him. He was obviously concerned whether or not she’d be able to win his family’s approval.

  She could never be anything more than a simple peasant girl from Ireland. Which was why she realized she couldn’t stay here.

  The house was dark. Fortunately, there was a full moon to light up Meghan’s way as she left. She picked up her small pack with one servant’s gown, a clean shift, and an extra pair of stockings. The cloak that Lucas had given her to replace the green one was red and had a hood just like her other one. She recalledwith a sad smile how Lucas had apologized when he’d given her the cloak. There hadn’t been a green cloak available in all Philadelphia, he’d told her, but he’d hoped she would accept this bright red one. Meghan had accepted his gift, because the wish to please her had come from his heart. She would treasure her new red cloak forever.

  Meghan put the cloak over her simple muslin gown and glanced about the bedchamber one last time through a haze of tears. She thought she’d go to Philadelphia and find Bridget, who was living there with her cousin Sean. When she’d visited Mari Bright that other morning, she’d been unable to bring herself to discuss leaving the area with her friend. And she’d decided that she didn’t really want to leave—then.

  A note for Lucas lay on her pillow. She could have left earlier, for the household had been asleep for some time, but she’d struggled over the right words. Finally, she’d carefully written what was in her heart. The missive was short, but she’d said what she had to say. She’d told him she loved him, but that she could never be the wife he needed. She asked him not to be angry with her for leaving.

  As Meghan left silently down the stairs, logic waged a battle with her emotions.

  It would be all right if she stayed. Surely, Lucas’s parents would love and accept her.

  Don’t be daft, lass! Why would Aunt Flora go to so much trouble if she thought ye’d be willingly accepted into the Ridgely family?

  Lucas would marry her even if his parents hated her.

  But with the pressure from his parents, Lucas will soon hate ye, too… after a while.

  “But I love him,” she whispered.

  But he’s never declared his love for ye.

  But he asked her to marry him.

  Guilt, lass. He’s bedded ye against his better judgment, taking advantage of ya after the fire when ye were most vulnerable. She couldn’t forget how Aunt Flora thought she needed lessons to be a proper wife to Lucas. She couldn’t put aside the fact that they had been raised differently in different classes. Lucas was of the upper class while she was well beneath him.

  She would never measure up; she would shame Lucas before his family and friends. It was that last argument that kept Meghan going out the front door and into the cold mid-February night.

  Clutching the ends of her hood with one hand and her satchel of clothes with the other, Meghan left Gibbons Mill and headed toward Philadelphia.

  Beth and his parents were due to arrive, and it occurred to Lucas that Meghan might be overly anxious this morning. After going to the kitchen to get his fiancée a cup of tea, Lucas went upstairs to her room.

  He’d been anxious and concerned himself these last days. He loved Meghan so much that he wanted his mother and father to love her, too. Not that it would alter his feelings for her if his parents didn’t take to his bride-to-be. But his concern was for Meghan, who could be hurt by his family.

  Meghan was genuine and sweet. On the night of the fire, she’d given herself to him without reservations or guile. It had been hell for him these past weeks keeping his distance from the woman he loved. But today, he thought, the wait would be over. Finally, he would tell his parents and then the world just how much he cared for his “Irish.”

  He’d tried to express how he’d felt for her these last weeks. The litde gifts he’d given her had been his wayof telling her that he’d always be there to love and care for her.

  It was his concern for her feelings that had prompted him to buy her the blue gown. He preferred to see her in a dress of plain linen, for her Irish features were beautiful enough without adornment of any kind. But as he’d recalled his sister’s delight in pretty things, he’d worried that Meghan would feel out of place or insignificant in Beth’s and his pa
rents’ company without a gown as expensive or as well made.

  Lucas smiled as he reached Meghan’s door. His betrothed could stitch a gown better than any of his sister’s. In fact, he’d be willing to wager that Meghan would have preferred and enjoyed sewing her own gown.

  He knocked and waited for her to answer. He could picture her inside the room rousing from sleep, her blue eyes slumberous, her dark red hair tousled about her smooth white shoulders. She’d be wearing that white bed gown his aunt had given her—for modesty’s sake, of course, in case one of the servants entered without knocking first.

  A frown settled on Lucas’s brow as he stared at the closed door. Surely she must have heard him. He wondered if she was all right.

  Poor thing, she’d seemed tense yesterday, probably from worry over meeting his family.

  His face softened. He’d have to assure her that his family would love her. His mother might cause a scene, but he would explain to Meghan beforehand about Mary Ridgely’s penchant for the dramatic.

  “Meghan,” he called, thinking she might not want to see one of the maids right now. He no longer cared if the servants saw him at her door. She was his betrothed, and he had a right to bring her a cup of tea.Everyone would know soon enough about their relationship.

  A scowl formed on his features when Meghan still didn’t come to the door. He reached for the doorknob and turned, relieved to see that the door was unlocked.

  “Meghan, wake up, love,” he teased as he entered the room.

  Sunlight streamed in the window and fell across the empty bed. Lucas froze. The bed looked like it hadn’t been slept in, and it was too early for the chambermaid to have been in… unless Meghan had put the linens to right herself.

  Lucas’s gaze fell on a folded sheet of paper propped against Meghan’s pillow. He approached the bed with a growing sense of dread. He unfolded the parchment and began to read. The letters were printed carefully as if she had written the words with great care. It read:

  Lucas,

  I can never be the kind of wife you need. I love you— always. Please don’t be mad at me, because I had to go.