Comfort and Joy

by Sandra Madden

  Batting back tears, she looked up at the only picture on the wall, a print of Currier and Ives that Pansy had given her the year before.

  “That’s it,” she breathed.

  “What?” Soup dripped from her father’s spoon as he held it midway to his mouth.

  “When Charles was robbed and beaten, the thieves took a sketch he holds dear. A sketch of St. Nick.”

  “St. Nick? Santa Claus?”

  “Aye. ‘Twas a sketch he’d just purchased.”

  “Sure’n you can tell me what a full-grown man wants with a drawing of St. Nick?”

  “I don’t know. But I would like to find it for him. What a grand gift that would be!” And surely, if Maeve recovered Charles’s stolen treasure, he would understand how much she cared for him, how her heart beat only for him. In time he might even come to love her.

  “And how are ye thinkin’ to track down hooligans?” her father demanded.

  “I’m not certain. But at the time, I remember Shea sayin’ Charles appeared to have been beaten by a professional. It’s a boxer I’d be lookin’ for.”

  “An’ what would a boxer want with a picture of St. Nick?”

  Maeve shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “Boxers don’t believe in Santa Claus. That much I’ll be knowin’.”

  But Maeve had a thought. “Maybe the thief took the sketch just because it was there. Maybe he robbed Charles out of desperation. If a man is out of work and has a family to feed, he often resorts to criminal ways. Perhaps this thief took the sketch only because he thought it a pretty gift to give to his woman or a little girl or boy.”

  “Ye don’t know any of that. Where do ye come by yer imagination, Maeve? From the Red Man?”

  Legend had it that the Red Man was a creative fairy fond of playing practical jokes.

  “It’s possible,” Maeve grinned.

  “Get any idea of findin’ the hooligan who done it out of yer head. Yer just a lass. I don’t want me cailin to get hurt over some St. Nick foolishness.”

  Once an idea took hold, Maeve didn’t give up on it easily. “Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”

  “Ye’d best be thinkin’ of somethin’ else to give yer upper-crust husband.”

  But she refused to consider anything else until she’d made every effort to find the only thing Charles wanted.

  Shea would help her. He knew and had fought most of the boxers in the area. While Maeve understood Shea might have been wrong and the man who attacked Charles wasn’t a boxer, she had to start somewhere. There wasn’t much time.

  * * * *

  Dinner promised to be a trial, but one Charles could hardly avoid. His mother insisted this might be the only evening to become acquainted with Maeve. The holiday social season — which is what she and Stella had come to Boston to enjoy — was about to launch into full swing.

  Charles experienced an especially deep sense of foreboding when Beatrice lamented the fact that she’d been unable to greet Maeve properly. The girl had saved her son’s life. If dinner could not be managed, his mother suggested she might enjoy a woman-to-woman talk with Maeve over tea.

  Chills ran down his spine just thinking about Maeve and Beatrice alone. He envisioned an innocent lamb devoured by an old lioness. He had not the heart to embroil Maeve in such a situation without being close at hand.

  Charles approached Maeve’s rooms, prepared to coax her to dinner. At least he would be at the table to protect her and his presence might subdue his mother.

  When Maeve didn’t answer his knock and Charles hesitated only a moment before entering the apartment. He was her husband, after all. He found her in the sitting room. A pile of pale blue yarn and knitting needles heaped upon the upholstered rococo side chair nearest the secretary had been abandoned.

  Maeve stood before the mirror with a book precariously balanced upon her head. Her small, lushly curved body listed at a rather ungraceful angle. Holding another book in her hand, she attempted to read from its open page without lowering her head. Apparently frustrated by this effort, she looked up and addressed the mirror.

  “How do you do, Mr. Smith? I am sooooo pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Charles could not help but grin. Maeve’s exaggerated demeanor might have offended his mother if she’d witnessed this scene but he found it amusing.

  “Is there a foul fragrance in the air, Mr. Smith?” she asked the mirror. “Is that why you hold your nose so high?”

  Swallowing a chuckle, Charles knew he should make his presence known, but he rather enjoyed eavesdropping. Obviously, Maeve had learned a thing or two about Boston society while employed by the Deakinses. Just as obviously, she didn’t like what she’d learned.

  Charles leaned back on the door frame, folded his arms, and studied his wife. The stubborn tilt of Maeve’s chin reflected a strong will and saucy attitude ... traits he found challenging and rather captivating. It might be wit, or intelligence, or the devil behind the sparkle in her remarkable eyes. A man could lose himself in those deep blue depths before realizing the danger. When Charles looked into Maeve’s eyes, he saw the enticing shade of a siren sea.

  And he could not deny that her softly rounded figure, displayed so neatly in a dark blue day gown, would turn any man’s head, shanty Irish or Beacon Hill bred. Silky tendrils of shining onyx hair had escaped from her thick topknot to fall in charming disarray, framing her fair, heart-shaped face. The face of an angel.

  An untoward impulse to loosen the pins of Maeve’s topknot took hold of Charles. At the moment he would give his publishing empire just to run his fingers through the temptress’s glossy mane. Temptress?

  The temptress was his wife!

  But he never bowed to impulse.

  Charles was entitled to do much more than run his fingers through Maeve’s hair, but he refused to take advantage of a woman he would soon part from. No matter how much she made him ache. A Rycroft always did the right thing.

  “Oh, sir, no,” Maeve declared to the mirror. “I could not possibly flee to the garden with you! Whatever would my husband say? Yes, I know ‘tis done. Affairs are common, but not by a woman who fancies her husband. Not I. Not me.”

  Biting her lip, Maeve fell silent, apparently deep in thought “I? Me?”

  The knowledge that she “fancied” him warmed Charles, caused an unexpected spurt in the beat of his pulse. Smiling, he watched in silent fascination as his Irish wife’s softly arched brows bunched in an irritated frown.

  “Oh! What is it?” she cried in frustration. “Should I say me or I?”

  Before he could step forward and offer help, Maeve heaved the book at the wall.

  Startled but amused, Charles came close to choking and revealing his presence. Maeve’s determination to overcome her lack of education in certain areas was admirable. Although she might struggle with the language, he’d quickly come to realize his wife possessed a quick, intelligent mind. If she could just control her temper, Charles would feel better about her future.

  A part of him hoped she would never lose the melodic lilt to her speech. The sound of her voice was like a song to his ears.

  He cleared his throat “Me. It’s me.”

  Maeve spun around. Her eyes were round with fright and her lips slightly parted.

  “My apologies. Did I frighten you?”

  Her head shot up. “No.”

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  With a toss of her head, Maeve stepped away from the mirror. A rosy red blush heightened the color of her cheeks. “Sure’n I’ve never been frightened by a man.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “I did not hear ye...you come in.”

  “I knocked but you were busy.”

  “Practicing my manners.”

  “Your manners are fine,” Charles assured her. “You acquitted yourself perfectly last evening.”

  “I did not speak a word.”

  “You didn’t have to say a thing. Your beauty spoke for y
ou.”

  Good lord what was he saying?

  Maeve’s luscious cherry-red lips parted in a hesitant smile. “Sure’n you’ve kissed the Blarney stone.”

  “No,” he replied softly. He’d spoken the truth.

  His wife’s beauty radiated from the inside, from her heart or soul — he wasn’t sure which — and was captured in her glorious smile. Her real beauty, a pure beauty, shone from within.

  “Charles?”

  Damn. He’d slipped into some sort of odd trance.

  Charles made a great business of clearing his throat. “My cousin informed me today that you are now the woman of mystery in town.”

  Her beautiful blue jewel eyes grew wide again. “What?”

  “By saying so little last night, you aroused the curiosity of our guests. They assume you to be a woman of great mystery.”

  “I did not mean to arouse curiosity. It was Stella’s party so I —”

  “You outshone the guest of honor indisputably,” he interrupted, feeling an astonishing satisfaction.

  “Oh, no!”

  “I am afraid so.”

  “Saints above.”

  “You might want the saints below and by your side this evening.”

  “Why?”

  “We have been invited to dine with my mother and Stella. My mother regrets she has been unable to spend time with you up until now.”

  “ ‘Tis only been two days. She need not worry over me.”

  “Dinner is at seven o’clock. Meet me in my study and we shall go into the dining room together.”

  Heaving a wistful sigh, Maeve again attempted to beg off. “But tonight I feel so weary and thought to have me...my meal right here in the sitting room.”

  Charles refused to let her off the hook. He was not going to dinner without Maeve. “And what did you do today to bring on such exhaustion?”

  “I paid a visit to my father and cooked his favorite potato soup. Then I went off to find Shea but never did. When I returned I worked on my knitting and then me...” she paused before correcting herself once more. “My manners.”

  Before preying on her sympathies, he remained silent for a moment as if he might actually be considering her excuses. “In my humble opinion, you should have enough strength to join us for dinner, Maeve. Would you leave me alone to such a fate? Would you have me dining with Mother and Stella alone?”

  Wary eyes fixed on his. “You really want me?”

  “Yes,” Charles answered quickly. “Please. Do this for me.”

  Knowing the dinner would not go well, he felt like a traitor of sorts. But the only way for Maeve to learn how far apart their worlds were was to make her a part of his at every opportunity. A world that served lobster bisque instead of potato soup.

  “I suppose, for you, I shall manage to muddle through,” she acquiesced quietly. Her sweet berry lips parted in a faint, uncertain smile.

  Struck by the melancholy of her smile, Charles knew he could not put Maeve through what promised to be a punishing ordeal without rewarding her in some way. As much as he, the girl was an innocent victim of circumstance.

  Her luminous eyes reflected absolute trust as they met his.

  In that silent moment an unseen, powerful hand reached inside and gripped Charles’s heart, melting his defenses like a red-hot seal on wax.

  Maeve touched him as he’d never been touched before. She caused him to say things he’d never said before. And he seemed unable to stop himself from saying more. “After dinner I shall take you for a sleigh ride if you like.”

  Maeve’s glowing smile warmed Charles to the marrow. “Oh, Charles, I should like a sleigh ride very much.”

  The depth of her delight set his heart to beating in a new, swift-thumping rhythm. An alarming excitement took hold of him, infusing Charles with a great burst of energy. All at once, he felt like a small boy on his way to a parade.

  “Then let us consider dinner a duty that we will dispense with as soon as possible,” he suggested to Maeve with all the equanimity he could muster. “A sleigh ride will follow as our just reward.”

  Her light, melodic laughter filled his senses with the same dizzying effect of having drunk too much French champagne. The music of Maeve’s laughter struck Charles’s heart anew and drew an unabashed grin from him. Although he hadn’t planned a sleigh ride for tonight, he’d accidentally hit on a good idea for himself as well as his temporary wife. A change of routine with a quiet, intimate ride might prove just the thing.

  Normally, Charles relaxed alone in his study following a particularly trying day as this had been. During the first appointment of the morning he hired Herbert Lynch to recover the stolen sketch of St. Nick. The private investigator could have been more encouraging concerning the chances of finding the lost art. But he wasn’t, mumbling that too much time had elapsed and the trail was cold.

  In a later meeting with Martin, Charles argued again with his cousin about the future course of Rycroft Publishing. Martin could never win and seemed completely unable to stop feeling sorry for himself.

  When Charles became head of the company, he resolved to make Rycroft even more successful than when his father had been at the helm. Conrad had never expressed faith in his abilities, preferring to disparage Charles at every opportunity. Although his father had been dead for three years, Charles still felt driven by the need to prove he could operate a successful business enterprise. He meant to take the publishing business to heights Conrad Rycroft never dreamed of.

  Martin could not be expected to understand.

  Finally, toward the end of the day, Charles worked out his increasing restlessness by fencing with Spencer Wellington.

  When tension stretched him to his limit, Charles could usually find relief by fencing with his friend. Today, however, the match had not eased the edginess coiled in the pit of his stomach like a snake ready to strike. He wondered at that

  “Will you read your book on our sleigh ride?” Maeve asked, stirring Charles from his uncomfortable reverie.

  He looked down in surprise. He’d entirely forgotten the book he’d brought home for her. “It’s for you. A novel called Around The World in Eighty Days by Jules Verne. I thought perhaps you might not have read it yet as it was just published last year.”

  Maeve smiled up at him, a sweet, reverent smile that made him feel like the hero in a dime novel. “I shall read it as soon as I finish the manuscript you brought last evening. Thank you, Charles.”

  She spoke slowly, once again lapsing into a practice of her speech. A bittersweet sadness settled over Charles. He felt a loss of something intangible. It did not seem right for Maeve to curb her natural exuberance. At the same time, he understood her desire to achieve the restraint and manners of his class. The fiery little bit of a woman did not wish to stand out in his circle of friends. She wanted to be like everyone else.

  In his heart, Charles knew she would never be like everyone else.

  Maeve displayed unquestionable courage, working diligently to fit into a world which in reality she could never become a part of. Somehow he must find a way to ease the shame of their inevitable divorce for her.

  “I shall keep you well supplied with books,” he promised before turning to leave.

  “You have been sent to me by my faerie princess.”

  Dear heaven, she was back to the faeries.

  “I’ll see you in an hour for dinner.”

  “Dinner.” Maeve repeated the word as if it were a death sentence and she was headed toward the gallows.

  As he left her chamber, she began to hum. He recognized the tune. Now, if he could just remember what it was.

  * * * *

  One lamp burned in the small, dark room where he paced impatiently. Samson. A man distraught. No matter what he attempted something always went awry. It was the story of his life. The best of his plans seemed destined to sink like leaky boats. Including his current undertaking. It was going down fast. Only desperate action would save his skin.

&nbs
p; The original plan did not call for Charles Rycroft to be killed. He’d depended on the elements to finish Rycroft, but then Charles was found and rescued before the cold could claim him. Another case of bad luck.

  At last the rear door opened and his brawny accomplice lumbered through. Shoulders hunched and jaw set, the scowling amazon grunted an indiscernible greeting.

  Bill “Spit” O’Brien.

  The jagged scar above Bill’s right eye gave him an ominous appearance, even in the full light of day. By the light of one flickering lamp, he looked truly terrifying.

  “Do you know what Rycroft has done now?”

  Bill shook his head.

  “He’s hired a private investigator. The man was here today asking questions.”

  Bill just stared.

  “Why is this happening to me?”

  Bill shook his head.

  “In just a few weeks I will be able to leave the country with no questions asked. In the meantime something must be done about Rycroft. I refuse to be constantly looking over my shoulder. It’s not expected for a man in my position.”

  Unfazed by his scolding, Bill “Spit” O’Brien merely shrugged.

  “I paid you to do a job and I expect you to finish it. I don’t want to see you again until it’s done.”

  The ferocious-looking giant simply nodded.

  “Do you understand?” he barked, irked beyond endurance. If he’d had the funds to hire a true professional at the beginning, he wouldn’t now have to deal with this slow excuse for a man. He just had no luck at all.

  Bill nodded again.

  Samson could not fully trust a man of so few words.

  “Send me a message when you’ve completed your task. We can’t risk meeting here with a private investigator lurking about. I’ll meet you at the footbridge in the public gardens.”

  Again, Bill nodded. His dull blue eyes seemed to have no life nor comprehension behind them.

  Samson feared the worst. A repeat of past calamities. If only he really was Samson. He asked once again, “Do I make myself clear, Bill?”

  Chapter Eight

  Maeve entered the dining room on Charles’s arm. She held her head high even as her knees threatened to buckle out from under her. Hopefully, neither Beatrice Rycroft nor Stella Hampton could detect the nervous trembling of her lower lip. The moment they’d crossed the threshold, Maeve felt as if she were on trial. Rules of etiquette swirled in her brain.