Comfort and Joy

by Sandra Madden

  “Aye, I am small,” Maeve replied with a melancholy smile. And too round as well, she added to herself. Her next thought held a ray of hope. Perhaps the dressmaker could make her appear slender.

  “I shall do my best to make you presentable in spite of your size,” Mrs. Potts declared in icy tones.

  “Thank you.”

  “If it pleases you, I shall fit the store dresses and take measurements for the others.”

  “What others?”

  “Mr. Rycroft has ordered a complete wardrobe. You shall have walking dresses, day dresses, and ball gowns.”

  “Ball gowns?”

  “Yes, Miss O’Malley, ball gowns.”

  Apparently Charles hadn’t told her this wardrobe was for his wife. He’d meant what he said about keeping their marriage a secret. Though she might not betray her feelings with words, the disdain Mrs. Potts felt for Maeve showed in her drawn blue lips and sharp countenance. Her frosty manner left no doubt that Ilona assumed Maeve to be Charles’s mistress, a wanton Irish mistress to boot.

  Determined to win the resolute woman over, Maeve gave her a grand, shameless grin. “Now fancy that. A complete wardrobe. Aye, the luck of the Irish is smilin’ on me today.”

  Mrs. Potts turned her back on Maeve. “Step up on the platform, please. We will begin.”

  Apparently it would take more than a smile and a dash of charm to win over the sour dressmaker.

  Maeve had never owned but two dresses to her name at one time, and those had either been sewn by her mam or later by herself. When she went to work for the Deakinses, she wore silk for the first time. Ever-generous Pansy gave Maeve her cast-off dresses. With a few adjustments Maeve made the castoffs her own.

  To have dresses made just for her and to own new ready-made store dresses seemed a dream come true.

  If only her dear mother could see her now, how happy she would be. The thought of her mother brought a wave of sadness over Maeve. A sadness that settled directly behind her eyes. Was her sweet mam up there, perched on a silver cloud, watching over Maeve as she’d promised?

  Famine and fever had combined to be the death of Kathleen O’Malley. Maeve remembered her mother before the ravages of ill health. She’d been the most beautiful woman in all of County Armagh. Her eyes were a bright blue and her voice as soft as an angel’s breath. Maeve loved to stroke her mother’s long black hair, a mass of silky waves and curls that tumbled to her waist like a midnight sea.

  Even as Kathleen lay on her deathbed, she’d remained strong of spirit. She gathered Maeve to her and held her through the long nights. Maeve tried to stay awake through those nights, desperately memorizing the faint chamomile scent of her mam and the smoothness of Kathleen’s fair skin. Even on the nights when the sick woman’s body burned with fever, Maeve refused to leave Kathleen’s side. Young as she was, Maeve thought that by sleeping close, her life force might transfer itself to her mother. It was a futile attempt to save her mother by an innocent child who believed in miracles.

  When the end grew near, Kathleen promised Maeve that she would always be with her, watching over her. She would dwell in Maeve’s heart forever. Her beloved mam told her that the good fairy queen, Rane, would always be near to protect her dear, sweet girl and bring her good fortune. A prophesy that Maeve had good reason to doubt. Until now.

  “Turn around, Miss O’Malley. Just a tuck or two more and this dress will be ready to wear.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Maeve could not remember her mother as possessing the same hot temper as she did. There was no denying Maeve had inherited that unfortunate part of her disposition from her dad. One day she meant to take hold and learn to control her temper. Her rush to anger was forever getting her into trouble.

  Kathleen O’Malley, on the other hand, had been everything good in this world. Despite her hard and hungry life, she loved her husband and she took great pride and delight in her children.

  More than anything, Maeve wanted to be like her mother. But she feared she did not have the goodness of heart nor the courage to be content with her lot.

  Maeve had always wanted more.

  “Ouch!” The pin pricked her hip, stirring Maeve from her reverie with a start.

  “Sorry.” Mrs. Potts did not sound sorry.

  Maeve hadn’t realized fittings could be so tiring. A wave of relief lightened her weary body when Dolly appeared with the late-afternoon tea tray and a small package. After insisting Mrs. Potts and her assistant have tea and rest, Maeve retreated from the sitting room to open the package in her bedchamber.

  The unexpected gift had been sent by Pansy. Maeve began to read the small leather-bound guide at once. ‘Twas the perfect gift: Miss Hastings Etiquette far Young Ladies. She took the book with her when she returned to the sitting room and resumed her pose on the platform.

  Miss Potts pretended not to notice.

  Engrossed in her reading, Maeve paid slight attention to the remainder of the fitting, simply obeying commands to step in or step out of the dress. Only when corseted and strapped into a wire cage-like contrivance did she look up from her reading to wonder at it all.

  When at last Mrs. Potts put an end to the pinching, turning, pricking, and pinning, the November sky had darkened and lacy flakes of bright, white snow drifted past the windows.

  “You now have two fine dresses to wear immediately.”

  “I’ll be thankin’ ye, Mrs. Potts…”

  “Now, we must choose the fabric for the other gowns.”

  “Aye?” Maeve did not realize looking grand took so much work.

  An hour later, at last alone, she approached the mirror wearing the latest style for the first time in her life. The azure blue silk store dress was draped with a striped overskirt that swept up to the back and gathered in a tidy bustle. Tiny mother-of-pearl buttons marched from the waist straight up the tight-fitting bodice and stopped where the ruching of the low, square-cut neckline began. The same inching trimmed the sleeves, which stopped at Maeve’s wrists. A double row of ruching hemmed the dress.

  Maeve was astounded to see the extraordinary difference a proper dress could make. Her eyes sparkled bluer than before and her cheeks appeared to be rosier. Buoyed by her new look, she took the brush to her hair. Instead of sweeping the whole mane to the top of her head, she pulled the front to her crown, pinned it with a comb of faux pearls left by Ilona Potts, and let the rest cascade in glossy, blue-black glory past her shoulders. If she only knew how to fashion ringlets like Pansy!

  She had so much to learn. And she would learn. Maeve was determined to be a wife Charles could take pride in, a wife he would adore.

  A tingle of hope skipped down her spine and Maeve pirouetted before the cheval mirror wishing someone could see her, wishing Charles could see her now.

  * * * *

  Charles greeted his mother in her sitting room where she was resting from her journey. Streaks of silver threaded through Beatrice’s dulling chestnut-brown hair, reminding Charles how his mother aged between visits home and of how long she’d been gone. Beatrice took great pains with her appearance. She wore the latest fashions, the most expensive jewels, and rouged her lips and cheeks. Not so much as a hair upon her head was ever out of place. He’d always thought his mother most intimidating. Only his father had been more threatening.

  Beatrice made a great show of being happy to see him again, insisting Charles have dinner with her and their houseguest that evening. And by houseguest, he knew his mother did not mean Maeve.

  Charles had no opportunity to tell Beatrice about Maeve as she waxed poetic — and at length — over her friend Stella Hampton. Within minutes Charles feared the worse. It became all too clear that Beatrice had decided to fill her empty hours by becoming a matchmaker. She had brought Stella Hampton home to dangle before him as a potential mate.

  Dear God. Was he destined to have one torment follow another?

  Charles had no choice but to accept his mother’s invitation to dinner. So much for his plan
to dine with Maeve in her sitting room tonight. He felt certain that by spending as much time with his Irish bride as possible, the strong-willed beauty would quickly understand they were ill-suited. She would agree to the dissolution of their marriage. But he would spend no time with her tonight.

  Charles rubbed his brow. This new headache had begun when he started thinking of how to break the news of his ill-gotten, exceedingly unsuitable marriage to his mother. He’d earlier sworn the servants to silence about Maeve’s presence in the house until he devised a satisfactory explanation. It was a cowardly avoidance and definitely not the right thing to do for a Rycroft. In all likelihood, the thunder Charles imagined he heard was the sound of his father attempting to rise from the dead.

  At the appointed dinner hour Charles gamely strode into the spacious dining room. Beneath his feet, a magnificent Aubusson carpet overlaid the new parquet flooring and cushioned each step. The walls were paneled with dark mahogany reaching to the dado rail. Gaslight sconces mounted against the gold-and-ivory damask wallpaper added to the glittering light from the enormous crystal chandelier bright with candles.

  Charles felt comfortable among the heavy, masculine-style Renaissance Revival furnishings; the long dining table, the intricately carved chairs, the massive sideboard. And he needed to feel as comfortable as possible on this particular evening.

  A fire blazed in the handsome marble fireplace at one end of the room. At the opposite end, two floor-to-ceiling windows were draped with burgundy velvet curtains pulled back and looped with golden tassels.

  Charles’s mother and an attractive young woman waited at the table. A small golden dog slept on the young woman’s lap. He could hardly believe his mother had allowed a dog at table. Seated opposite one another, the women fell silent as he approached.

  Smiling, Charles attempted to loosen his collar, which at once felt a bit too tight. He was late and he was in trouble.

  Dipping his head in greeting, he took his place at the head of the table between the two ladies. “Good evening.”

  Beatrice bestowed a warm smile in return. Her gray eyes, he’d inherited his eyes from his mother, shone round and soft like smoky pearls. While once her slender figure complemented her height, his mother now appeared bony. Tall and bony, all angles and knobs. Charles tried to remember when this evolution had happened.

  “Charles, I should like to present Miss Stella Hampton. She is the daughter of Elsie, one of my dearest New York friends.”

  Charles turned to the woman on his left. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  The little dog woke and yapped at him in a high, irritating pitch.

  “The pleasure is mine,” Stella said, stroking her pointy-nosed pet into silence. “Your mother has told me many wonderful stories about you. Have your ears been burning?”

  “My mother exaggerates.”

  Charles’s first impression was of excessive paleness. Stella Hampton possessed a pale complexion, a pale smile, and pale blond hair gathered high on her head, where it fell in thick sausage curls to her shoulders. She reminded him of a faded canvas.

  Her emerald green dress dipped deep to reveal most of her generous breasts. Pale satin breasts, with pale blue lines mapping a labyrinth trail to what barely lay hidden beneath her gown.

  Stella’s little dog stared at Charles, growling low. Neither his mother nor Stella seemed to be aware the dog had taken a dislike to him. He made a mental note to watch his ankles if the dog should leap from Stella’s lap.

  Beatrice arched her brows. “You are much too modest, Charles. Stella has been looking forward to meeting you.”

  “I can only hope my mother has not created false expectations.”

  “Not at all.” Stella’s pale pink lips curved in an enigmatic smile and for the first time Charles noticed the small black mole at the right corner of her mouth. “I regret that I had already retired to my rooms when you arrived home this afternoon,” she said. “Our journey exhausted me.”

  “I understand.” Charles’s mother had lectured him early on how women were frail creatures to be cosseted. “Are you staying in the blue rooms?”

  “Yes.” Her cocoa brown eyes locked on his.

  “I hope you are comfortable.”

  “Exceedingly.”

  Charles had the unpleasant feeling Stella was sending him some sort of message. He couldn’t be sure if it was the tone of her voice or the look in her eyes. At least her little dog had gone back to sleep. Ignoring his momentary confusion, Charles turned to his mother.

  The tiny lines fanning Beatrice’s nose and eyes had deepened since last he’d seen her. Although she held her head high and her neck stretched to a certain tautness, Charles could detect the small beginnings of jowls puffed at either side of her chin.

  “Have you rested well, Mother?”

  Instead of replying, Beatrice gave Stella a knowing smile. “Did I not tell you? Charles is the most considerate son a mother could have.” She leaned toward him then, lowering her voice.’ ‘Dolly insisted the blue rooms were best for Stella. She’s convinced it is the quietest of the two guest suites. Do you agree?”

  “Quiet? Definitely. Most assuredly, I agree.”

  But for how long? Maeve had not proven to be an especially quiet woman. A shudder swept through Charles. Maeve and Stella were installed across the corridor from one another — his wife and the woman his mother would have as his wife.

  He had no illusions as to why Beatrice had brought Stella home for the holidays.

  “The rooms are so comfortable and well appointed, I shouldn’t care if they were quiet or not,” Stella demurred.

  Beatrice’s smile never wavered. “You are too kind, my dear. You know, I worked with Mr. Ward, Boston’s finest designer, on our guest rooms. During the next few weeks, I am certain that you shall discover many splendid aspects of Boston.”

  Charles had never known his mother to smile so much.

  But Stella matched her, smile for smile. “I do not doubt it for a moment.”

  “There are all sorts of holiday festivities.” Beatrice adjusted the ruby-and-diamond necklace that adorned her thin chest, though Charles hadn’t noticed it move. “Isn’t that so, Charles?”

  “Yes.” He nodded, feeling increasingly uncomfortable, trapped as it were, between the two women. “Yes, many events.”

  “We shall host a party immediately for Stella,” his mother announced. “She shall meet your friends within the week.”

  “A party?” Charles felt a terrible gnawing in the pit of his stomach, the pointed teeth of trouble.

  “I made the plans and sent invitations from New York. It shall be the very first Christmas party of the season.”

  “You are a wonder, Beatrice dear,” Stella marveled.

  His mother acknowledged Stella’s compliment with another bright smile and dismissive wave of her hand. “Undoubtedly we will be invited to attend a round of parties. We shall visit our country house and, of course, we must be at the Cabots’ Snow Ball.”

  “I look forward to all of the Christmas festivities,” Stella assured his mother.

  “You will be the star of every gathering. Won’t she, Charles?”

  Charles shifted in his chair. Agitated almost beyond endurance, he felt as if he might jump out of his skin any minute. An invisible noose was tightening around his neck. “Most certainly,” he agreed, taking a more than appropriate swallow of his wine.

  The truth was, his wife Maeve was far more comely than Stella.

  “Stella is just coming out of mourning, you know. She’s a widow.”

  The pale woman by his side gave him a doleful smile.

  “My condolences.”

  “Thank you.” Stella inclined her head. Her brown eyes regarded him with a melting sweetness. “I hope my visit won’t interfere with any plans you’ve already made. I should dislike being a bother.”

  “Tish!” Beatrice rocked back. “You could not be a bother if you tried. Could she, Charles?”

  “
No, Mother. No bother.” Charles felt like a man caught in a vise which was about to squeeze the very life from him. “Ah, how long do you plan to stay in Boston, Stella?”

  She smiled, of course. “I’ve not restricted myself with a return date.”

  He forced a smile. “How wise of you.”

  “On the other hand, I promise not to wear out my welcome.”

  The dog opened one eye and, growling softly, leveled a hostile gaze at Charles.

  Beatrice took up the dinner conversation, going on about the excellent meal the cook had prepared while Charles wondered if Maeve, alone in her rooms, was enjoying the roast and Yorkshire pudding as well. Had she been served wine? Did she enjoy French burgundy? Were the apple dumplings to her liking?

  He decided to find out for himself. Nearing the end of the meal, he dabbed at his mouth with the linen napkin and prepared to make his getaway. “I beg your forgiveness, but I don’t seem to be feeling well at all tonight. Will you excuse me?”

  Stella’s mouth turned down. Her dog looked up.

  A suspicious light sparked in Beatrice’s eyes. “Whatever is ailing you, dear?”

  “A fierce headache, Mother. I’m certain it will pass by morning.”

  “I will look in on you later.” His mother’s tone left him unsure whether it was a promise or a threat. She could not be pleased with him. Plainly, Beatrice had expected him to spend a pleasant, fireside evening with Stella and her.

  Charles almost made good on his getaway. He’d reached the stairs when there came a loud knocking at the door. Not expecting a visitor and fearing yet another disaster, he waited in the foyer while Stuart the butler opened the door.

  Two men, one big and the other small, stood on the small stoop. A surge of excitement shot through Charles’s veins. These might be the thieves who stole his sketch of St. Nick come to demand a ransom. Charles stepped closer but stopped when he recognized the voice.

  “Me name is O’Malley and this here is me boy, Shea. I’m wantin’ to see me Maeve.”

  “Da!”

  Charles turned from the male O’Malleys to Maeve, who stood midway on the staircase behind him. His anger at her for once again disobeying his orders dissolved in a heartbeat.