Comfort and Joy

by Sandra Madden

“The lady came to my rescue one snowy day,” Charles explained hastily.

  “She rescued you?”

  “I shall be glad to tell you the whole of it later. But for the present we must not ignore our other guests.”

  “No, no. Beatrice would be quite upset.”

  Without giving Martin the opportunity to prolong the conversation, Charles pulled Maeve from his cousin’s grasp and strode into the crowded parlor where the games had begun.

  A rousing rendition of Hunt the Slipper was followed by a round of Charades. Maeve managed to sit quietly in a corner with Pansy, Charles, and his best friend, Spencer Wellington. Though many inquiring glances were thrown her way, Charles avoided introductions as much as politely possible.

  An hour into the party, Maeve had yet to speak a word. With each introduction, she merely bowed her head and smiled. And hoped she would not be sick to her stomach. Her tossing stomach threatened to send her from the party at any moment

  Charles looked extraordinarily handsome dressed in formal attire. His dark velvet jacket eloquently defined the broad expanse of his shoulders. Maeve noted the rich fabric of his waistcoat, the precise fold of his tie. He cut a dashing figure, one that could never be overlooked. Towering over the rest of the guests, Charles moved with animal grace, compelling and powerful. He exuded subtle signals of strength and a keen intelligence.

  A tumble of warm, prickly needles and pins raced down Maeve’s spine. Her heart leaped like some wild thing locked within her chest. She wanted him. Alone. Now.

  Impossible.

  Throughout the games an enigmatic smile lurked about his sensuous mouth. The desire to taste Charles’s lips again and warm his cool smile filled Maeve to an aching point.

  But she was not the only woman in the room drawn to him. Stella appeared unable to tear her gaze away from Charles. The merry widow flirted openly with Maeve’s husband from beneath pale, hooded eyes.

  Maeve concentrated on the games, learning and memorizing so that she might play with abandon at the next party. Even now she still possessed the heart of a child. Perhaps because there had been no time for games in her childhood. Each day had been a new struggle for survival.

  “You are about to play Blindman’s Bluff,” Pansy whispered. “It’s time to take part and no skill is required for this game.”

  Maeve looked to Charles. “Would it be proper?”

  He gave her a smile of encouragement. A true smile. “Yes, of course, Maeve. Join in.”

  Her heart skipped several beats and landed with a thud.

  “I’ll play, too,” Pansy declared.

  “Dear God. I fear my cousin has been chosen as blindman,” Charles remarked drolly.

  “Is that bad?” Maeve asked.

  “In this game the blindman must identify a person by touch alone. It’s the only game I know Martin to play. Keep your distance,” he warned.

  Once Martin was blindfolded and a circle of participants formed, Pansy snatched Maeve’s hand. “We must change our seat, he knows where we are.”

  Maeve did not like leaving Charles’s side but giggled as Martin stumbled toward Stella and patted her hair before stepping back.

  “A woman with lovely, silk hair...but I do not know who. And I dare not touch again, I fear.”

  The room broke out into laughter.

  As Martin turned in place like a drunken sailor, Pansy led Maeve to a spot on the other side of the room where they could observe and dodge the blindman if it became necessary.

  Martin reached out and patted the shoulders and chest of the young man standing next to Stella. “I don’t believe I know you.” As an afterthought, Charles’s cousin ran his fingers lightly over the man’s face. “No, no, I don’t know you. But I should like to become acquainted!”

  Again, the room filled with laughter. When it became quiet again the blindman lurched in the direction of Maeve and Pansy.

  Maeve froze in place, barely breathing. Even if Martin touched her, he would never guess who she was. They’d only just met.

  With his arms outstretched, the heavily bearded young man moved slowly toward her. Maeve had seen photographs of grizzly bears that were not much more fearsome than he. It was almost as if Charles’s cousin could see exactly where she stood. Maeve’s feet felt rooted to the floor. She could only stare at Martin Rycroft’s approaching bulk.

  He stumbled.

  She turned just in time. His outstretched palm missed her cleavage and clutched her bare arm. A unified gasp went up.

  “You are a bit off the mark, old boy.” Charles appeared at Maeve’s side before she took her next breath. His gray eyes, dark as ash, glinted with anger.

  Martin’s hand dropped away.

  Maeve straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, but beneath her gown, her knocking knees felt as unsteady and runny as morning mush.

  Beatrice rushed into the brink. “Ladies and gentlemen, supper is about to be served. Let us adjourn to the dining room.”

  Charles roughly removed Martin’s blindfold.

  “My humblest apologies, Maeve... Charles.”

  “Accepted,” Charles snapped. He turned to leave the room but Martin refused to stifle his curiosity.

  “You know the whole room is abuzz, wondering about the identity of the beauty at your side. I simply sought to break the ice, as the saying goes.”

  “Maeve, you and Pansy go into the dining room. I wish to speak with Martin for a moment.”

  “It was an accident,” Martin insisted as soon as the ladies were gone.

  “I don’t believe you. Your blindfold was placed so that you could see quite well.”

  “Have you proof?”

  “No.” The anger churning inside Charles was out of proportion to his cousin’s latest misdeed. He knew it, but could not overcome his simmering rage.

  “How can I convince you?”

  “You cannot.” Charles could never believe Martin. He’d been dishonest since he was a boy, mastering the art of lies and subterfuge from an early age. Yet no one, even within the family, seemed the wiser. A testimony, Charles supposed, to his cousin’s expertise.

  “It is just a game,” Martin scoffed. “No need to get so riled.”

  “Keep your distance from Maeve. She is an innocent young woman.”

  In rapid, agitated movements, Martin jerked at the purple scarf used to blindfold him. “Who are you to tell me?”

  “I am the cousin who has kept you out of trouble all these years.”

  What flesh that showed behind Martin’s beard, mustache, and side whiskers deepened to a ruddy shade of anger. He spoke quietly and distinctly. “You are a very fortunate man, cousin. You have inherited a publishing empire, you have more money than Midas and more women to choose from than any man I know.”

  “But I am burdened with a cousin who resents me.”

  “Why shouldn’t I? You give nothing to me!”

  “Which does not seem to stop you from taking,” Charles bit out, hardly able to restrain his mounting fury.

  Martin narrowed his eyes, his mouth turned down in surly arrogance. “Taking?”

  “You have just recited all the things I have. Well, there is something I don’t have that was in my possession a week ago.”

  “Are you accusing me—”

  Releasing his anger, Charles launched into a verbal attack. Although his mother’s guests had gone up to the dining room, he dared not be overheard. Instead of bellowing at his cousin as he wished to do, Charles ground the words between his teeth. “I didn’t just disappear from the city, from the publishing house. I did not abandon my responsibilities to embark on a sudden holiday. I was robbed, beaten, and left for dead.”

  Martin’s mouth dropped in apparent shock. “No!”

  “It was a robbery and the sketch taken from me at the time is extremely valuable in more ways than one.”

  “You think I had something to do with this?”

  “I was left for dead,” Charles repeated. “If I had been killed, you wo
uld have inherited Rycroft Publishing.”

  Martin stiffened. His lips drew into a thin, tight line before he shook his head slowly and emphatically. “My only crime is envy. I envy you Charles, I always have.” Stepping back, he scanned the richly appointed parlor. “While I have had to struggle for everything I own, you take all of this, your golden life, for granted.”

  “Do I?”

  “Yes.” Martin made a move to leave the room, but stopped. “Perhaps you will find the men who beat you. You may even recover your missing sketch. But do not insult me further.”

  Charles met his cousin’s gaze. “The stolen sketch was of St. Nick...by Barnabas.”

  A dark stillness fell over the room. In the silence Charles heard his heart beat in a slow, thudding rhythm.

  “You have my condolences,” Martin said at last

  “I have hired a private investigator. The sketch will be recovered and my attackers found.”

  “Naturally. You have always enjoyed the best of luck, Charles.” Casting his cousin a sardonic smile, Martin turned on his heel and strode from the room without even a nod to the figure he passed.

  Maeve stood in the doorway, her curious gaze locked on Charles. He wondered how much she had overheard.

  Chapter Seven

  “An’ is yer husband doin’ right by ye, me cailin?”

  Maeve had returned to her father’s South Boston flat to pay the call she’d promised. Before leaving the Rycroft residence, she’d made a detour through the kitchen where the cook helped her fill a basket with potatoes, cream, flour, bacon, lamb, eggs, oranges, and apples. Shea and her father would feast for days on these simple pleasures.

  “Sure’n he is, Da.” Maeve stood at the old iron stove stirring a steaming pot of potato-and-leek soup, her father’s favorite.

  Mick sat at the small, chipped, and faded wooden table watching her cook. Shea was at work on the docks, but the elder O’Malley didn’t have to be serving the ale at Rosie’s until late afternoon. Before he left for the saloon today, Maeve meant for her dear dad to have a good, hot meal. Lord only knew what he did for meals now that she wasn’t around to cook.

  The flat felt twice as cold as Maeve remembered. Even wearing her new leather high-button shoes and warm stockings, her feet were cold. There were no roaring fireplaces to warm each room as there were at the Rycroft residence. During the winter months the O’Malleys depended on the iron stove to provide heat

  Determined to leave her father and brother well stocked with food, Maeve had spent the better part of the morning mixing, boiling, and baking.

  She’d brought decorations as well as food. She “borrowed” two fragrant green garlands from last night’s party. Now draped over the flat’s two windows, the garlands added a bit of color and life to the drab atmosphere. It didn’t seem right that Maeve should be living in such splendor while her father and brother remained trapped in the cold, smelly tenement.

  While she did not expect Charles to take her father and Shea into his Beacon Hill brownstone, he could afford to see them situated under a far better roof. Maeve hoped she could persuade him.

  “Society stiffs like the Rycrofts don’t hold with little people like us,” Mick O’Malley grumbled, scratching a snowy, three-day growth of beard. His fringe of uncombed, wispy hair shot off in several directions. “Don’t let ‘im hold his station over ye.”

  “There are no little people, Da. Unless by little people you’re meaning the leprechauns,” Maeve replied. “Charles can certainly see that I’m not a leprechaun.”

  “If he does anything to harm me girl, I’ll send Shea’s boxer friends after him.”

  “Please, Dad. Charles is a good man.”

  “If I’d known he lived on Louisburg Square, I might not ‘ave been so quick to see ye married to ‘im.”

  “But ye did and it’s done.”

  “The air we breathe, ‘tis not good enough for the likes of him.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Sean Casey is still askin’ about you.”

  Maeve never cared for Sean although he’d courted her stubbornly for the past three years. He’d fancied himself a gift to ladies, but the young Irish lad had never inspired any fire in Maeve. “Have ye told him I’m a married woman?”

  When Mick did not answer, she knew her father had not broken the news to the man he’d long hoped would be his son-in-law one day. “Sean’s a police officer now, you know. The whole neighborhood is lookin’ up to him.”

  “I’m happy for him then. Please tell Sean that Mrs. Charles Rycroft sends her best wishes.”

  Except for the faint bubbling of the soup, the flat fell silent.

  “Yer losin’ your brogue, me cailin.” Her father’s soft comment was laced with the unshed tears of an expatriate’s regrets.

  “Saints above!” Maeve dropped the spoon and whirled around in a swish of silk to face her father. “I’m not.”

  Mick woefully disagreed.’ ‘Yer soundin’ more like one of them.”

  “Da, I’ll always be one with you,” she insisted. Kneeling by his side, she took one of his heavily veined hands in both of hers. Maeve loved her father too much to hear the pain in his voice without aching for him. “You’re me own dear Dad and I’m proud of bein’ an Irish lass.”

  After working so hard to lose her Gaelic accent, it had never occurred to Maeve that her more proper speech would be cause for criticism. She would rather be mute than hurt her father.

  “Yer frownin’, lass.”

  “Do not ever think I’m not proud to be an O’Malley.”

  He squeezed her hand. “Mind yer husband knows it as well.”

  With a wry smile, Maeve pushed herself up. “Sure’n I’m convinced there’s not a minute goes by that Charles doesn’t remember who he is married to.”

  After serving Mick soup and soda bread fresh from the oven, Maeve watched with satisfaction as he attacked his meal like a starving man. After filling his bowl a second time, she reached for her coat.

  “Where are ye goin’?” Mick barked.

  “I must be on my way. I have much to do.”

  The old man’s eyes almost disappeared beneath the weight of his dark scowl. “Like what?”

  “For one, I haven’t finished my knitting for the Essex Orphanage.”

  Located on Essex Street, the orphanage housed over fifty immigrant children from several European countries. Some had lost their parents on the crossing to America; others had been abandoned by mothers and fathers who could not afford to feed and clothe them. Every year, all year, Maeve knitted mittens and caps for the children at Essex. Not only was she behind this year, but Elsie Dunn, who ran the shelter, must think she’d fallen off the face of the earth. She was used to helping at the orphanage at least twice a week on her way home from work. But Maeve hadn’t visited in more than ten days since moving into the Rycroft residence.

  “Ye don’t have to knit for ‘em now. Charles Rycroft is a rich stiff. He can buy mittens for the whole of New England. Let yer husband take care of the matter.”

  “It wouldn’t be the same, Da. If it comes from me hands, it comes from me heart. It’s about more than just mittens. Besides, there are Christmas cakes to bake and berries to string for the tree.”

  Year after year Maeve stretched her imagination to brighten up the cramped, barren flat in order to bestow a sense of cheer. Last Christmas Shea brought home a small, broken pine tree he’d found on his way from the docks. Despite its dry, prickly branches and scraggly appearance, Maeve had been overjoyed with the sad little tree.

  She’d always taken great pleasure in the Christmas season and the spirit of good will that prevailed for however short a period of time. Maeve loved the Yuletide music, the carols, the festive decorations, and colorful ornaments. The shades of the holiday gave her great pleasure, the deep green holly, bright scarlet ribbon and silver-capped snow.

  The mistletoe.

  Santa Claus. Though the jolly fellow had never yet paid her a personal visit, she k
new that someday he would.

  Nothing gave Maeve more happiness than giving gifts she’d made either in the kitchen or with her knitting needles. Invigorated by the icy bite in the air and dazzled by the beauty of ice needles dangling from the eaves, Maeve even enjoyed the cold and snow during the holiday. Nothing had ever managed to dampen her spirits for long during the month of December.

  Mick O’Malley screwed up his face. “Christmas will be different this year,” he said, as if he was in mourning.

  “It shall be better.”

  “I remember ye put one candle atop our tree last year. ‘T’was all the poor dead fir could hold. And ye sang all day about figgy pudding.”

  “It was wonderful!” Maeve recalled with enthusiasm. “But this year you and Shea shall have a tree ablaze with candles and a feast to celebrate.”

  She would make certain of it.

  “We’ll see,” he said, sounding doubtful.

  “Da, what do ye suppose you give a man like Charles for Christmas?” Maeve asked, seeking to turn her father’s thoughts in a different direction. “A man who has everything.”

  “And how would I be knowin’?” he asked peevishly. “Yer askin’ a man who never had anything.”

  Maeve slanted her father a teasing smile. “What are ye talkin’ about. Ye have always had the best. You have Shea and me.”

  After a moment Mick’s surly frown collapsed into a grin. “Aye. That I have.”

  “I know what I would like to give Charles for Christmas,” she said, warming to the idea as she shrugged on her new winter coat.

  “You wouldn’t be knittin’ Rycroft mittens, would ye?”

  “No, Dad.”

  “Ye still know how to cook a good soup,” he said, turning back to his meal. He slurped as if to emphasize the fact

  “I’ve not been gone but a few days. Why would I be forgettin’ how to cook?”

  “Seems longer.”

  Maeve’s heart swelled painfully tight against her chest. Though he never said the words, Maeve knew her father loved her. His way of saying he missed her was indeed roundabout. Still, she knew since her mother died, no one had ever loved her more.

  “I know. It seems longer for me too.”