Comfort and Joy

by Sandra Madden

  The sparkling gems caught the gold of her dress in their light.

  Maeve fingered the necklace. “Charles, I cannot accept such a gift.”

  “Nonsense. You are...you are my wife. You deserve diamonds and more.”

  Tears burned her eyes.

  Charles clasped Maeve’s hand firmly in his. “Come downstairs with me so that I can show you off. Come for just a few moments,” he coaxed. “I promise not to leave your side.”

  “Show me off? But no one knows I am your wife.”

  “They know I have showed a preference for your company in public.”

  “And they whisper. How long can you ignore the whispers?”

  “Come. We will observe and whisper about our guests after they have gone.”

  After several moments of silent consideration, she relented. “But only for a few moments.”

  The downstairs rooms were full with not only Charles’s friends but his mother’s as well. Her devotion to promoting Stella among their Boston friends could not be questioned. On the other hand, she treated Maeve with polite indifference.

  If it were not against the law, Charles would have dispatched Harriet Deakins to an unknown afterlife with his own hands this afternoon. But all he could legally do was comfort Maeve.

  He proudly escorted his petite wife down the stairs. Although he could feel her hand trembling on his arm, and hear her soft humming, she held her head high. When they reached the parlor, she smiled and greeted the guests as if she were born to the manor.

  Spencer Wellington approached them as they made their way to where Robert Raymond entertained at the piano. “I see you were successful in retrieving the beautiful Maeve,” he said to Charles, but his gaze focused on Maeve. Smiling, Spencer raised her hand to his lips.

  “Charles! Where did you disappear to?” Beatrice sailed up to her son’s side, dipping her head in swift acknowledgment to Spencer and Maeve. But something caught her eye and her head snapped back. She stared quite openly at Maeve’s diamond necklace before recovering herself with a nervous twitter. “My, my.”

  “Did you miss me, Mother?”

  Beatrice tore her gaze away from Maeve’s necklace. “We have guests who have been asking about you. Come with me, dear, please. The Wards have friends visiting from Philadelphia who want to meet you. Their son is a writer.”

  “Couldn’t this wait?” He’d promised Maeve he wouldn’t leave her side.

  “It will only take a few moments. Can you spare my son, Maeve?”

  “Certainly.” She flashed a forced smile as Charles was led away to what he felt would be certain slaughter. Everyone knew a writer with a novel in dire need of a publisher.

  The scents of orange and clove and evergreen permeated the parlor. Beaded and satin-bowed ornaments brought by several guests filled a small table to the side. None of the dozen or so people conversing over eggnog were familiar to Maeve. But all of them seemed to be enjoying themselves. The ladies were dressed elegantly in dresses especially made for them from the finest satin, silk, and velvet. The male guests vied for sartorial recognition in the choice of their waistcoats. It was a beautiful gathering.

  Spencer guided Maeve to one of the tufted settees. While she liked Charles’s friend, she felt uncomfortable with him nonetheless. She feared committing a breach of etiquette that might reflect poorly on Charles.

  “At last I have you to myself,” Spencer said, pushing back a thick lock of black hair that had fallen to his forehead.

  “But there seem to be several young women looking your way,” Maeve noted. She wished to make a good impression but her palms were already perspiring from nervousness and her gaze kept drifting to Spencer’s protruding Adam’s apple.

  “No glances I wish to return.”

  She wondered if it were really so. Maeve thought him a nice-looking young man. However, he had no strong feature to recommend him.

  “You are too modest.”

  Slanting her a trace of a smile, Spencer shook his head. “I’m afraid not.” His amber eyes met hers. “There’s something I need to know and only you can satisfy my curiosity.”

  Saints above! She was in for it now. If Spencer Wellington asked her a question she could not answer, Maeve would lose her hard-won poise. Her old manner of speaking would tumble from her in an uncontrollable stream and she would humiliate Charles and Beatrice. More than likely, Stella as well. But that she would not mind so much.

  Maeve drew in a deep, bracing breath. “I hope I can help.”

  Spencer leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner. “It astounds me how Beatrice found two such different houseguests. You are so unlike Stella.”

  “It’s...it’s true,” she stammered. “Stella and I do not seem to have a great deal in common.”

  “Do the Irish fare better in New York than here in Boston?”

  He thought Maeve was visiting from New York like Stella! How had he gotten that idea? And then she knew. Spencer’s information came only from one person. Charles. Her beloved husband was so ashamed of her that he had purposefully misled his best friend.

  “It is the same everywhere for the Irish,” she answered vaguely. Her spirits dipped lower than the bottom bough of the Christmas tree.

  “I must tell you, Maeve. You have been excellent for Charles. The change in him has been extraordinary. A closed door has opened.”

  “You...you believe I —”

  “I’ve known Charles since we wore short pants. I have never seen him smile or laugh as much. And thanks to you, he does not require me to fence with him until I am half dead just so that he can release all his inner demons. You have chased his demons away.”

  Maeve could hardly believe she had made such a change in Charles’s life, but she fervently hoped Spencer was right. Voices raised in laughter thwarted the luxury of mulling this new information over.

  An impromptu game had begun. Each guest in the parlor contributed knowledge on how Christmas was celebrated in different countries around the world. Pansy appeared just in time to save Spencer, whose expression betrayed his complete lack of knowledge.

  “In Spain, festivities are held on Christmas Eve, called Noche Buena,” the redhead announced.

  Maeve grinned at her friend, but her heart twisted painfully. If she had not already done so, Harriet Deakins would forbid Pansy to associate with Maeve.

  “And how do they celebrate in your part of town, Maeve?” Stella asked in a voice sweet as sugarplums.

  “I beg your pardon?” Maeve’s calm question belied her racing heart

  “How do the Irish celebrate Christmas?” Spencer repeated the question.

  Maeve bit down on her lip, determined not to show her anger. Although she was certain that Spencer had asked the question in all innocence, Stella had meant to humiliate her. She would not allow it.

  “Very similar to the way you do,” Maeve answered, with a defiant tilt of her chin. “We eat, drink, sing and dance.”

  “Do you do the jig?”

  The question came from Martin Rycroft, who sat off by himself in a corner.

  “Yes.”

  “Show us!”

  “Pansy!” She couldn’t believe her friend had made such a request

  “Do. Show us,” Spencer urged.

  “Oh, I couldn’t.”

  “Surely, you are not ashamed?” Stella asked.

  Where was Charles when she needed him? Maeve’s anger shot through her like a wildfire. She fully expected flames to leap from her nose and ears momentarily.

  “On the contrary, I am proud to be Irish and will be delighted to dance a jig for you. As it happens, Robert has accompanied me before.” She cast Mr. Raymond’s son a smile.

  Robert’s eyes twinkled as Maeve stood up.

  “Clear a space for me now.”

  The center of the room cleared.

  “The jig is a side step dance,” she told the gathering, as Robert played softly. “We keep our arms and hands flat against our sides, like so. As I hop on my left
foot, I bring my right foot up in front, with a pointed toe.”

  “We cannot see the step,” Martin complained.

  Maeve picked up her skirts. “I shall do it again.”

  The third time she demonstrated, Robert loudly played the only Irish jig he knew, the one he’d played for Maeve before.

  Giving herself up to the music, Maeve danced with her heart and soul, lost to those who watched her. She might have been dancing alone on a shamrock-filled meadow. But before long, Spencer had joined her and then Pansy and Martin. Soon half the young people in the room had joined hands in a circle and danced the rousing jig with Maeve.

  Charles appeared in the doorway with his mother. For a moment he only stared, and Maeve thought her heart might break. But after a moment, he did the unexpected. He joined the circle and danced.

  Stella vanished.

  Beatrice appeared to be in the throes of apoplexy. Fortunately for Maeve’s sake, Charles’s mother recovered quickly when she realized her guests were having the time of their lives.

  When the dance was done, Maeve enjoyed a new popularity. For the remainder of the evening she found herself dodging the mistletoe which had been strategically placed in every doorway.

  At all previous social occasions she’d been quiet and retiring, her unnatural demeanor designed to prevent potentially embarrassing moments for the Rycrofts. Tonight she’d become a success by being herself and dancing a rather wild jig. Who would have imagined?

  The guests still talked about the new dance they’d learned as they trimmed the tree. Maeve was awed by the elaborate ornaments owned by the Rycrofts. Covered with pink satin, Beatrice’s favorite color, the decorations were beaded with pearls and sparkling gems and bedecked with ribbons.

  At the end of the evening, Maeve was chosen to climb the ladder and place the star on top of the tree. Charles assisted her. He held her hand as she reached to the top with the other. Looking down upon him, his eyes shone with pride and something else...something she had not seen before. Could she dare hope it was love?

  * * * *

  The next morning Maeve chose to breakfast in her sitting room. Although tired, she still felt a tingle of triumph. Perhaps she could overcome Harriet Deakins’s opinion.

  “Maeve!” Stella’s voice snapped like a bullwhip on a quiet morning. A sharp rap at Maeve’s door followed.

  She could not think of a worse way to start the day, nonetheless, Maeve opened the door for the pale widow.

  “I caught you!” Wrinkling her nose, Stella swept through the door, carrying her ugly dog in her arms. As she sashayed into Maeve’s sitting room, Babe began growling. Ignoring the Pomeranian, Stella continued. “At last we can have a chat. You dash out quite early in the day, usually before I am awake.”

  “Yes.”

  “I suppose as a servant you were used to getting an early start.”

  “I find morning the best part of the day.”

  Stella sank into a chair. Three feathers from her dressing gown floated to the floor. “Just another point we disagree upon.”

  Maeve told herself to tread carefully as she perched on the edge of the chair opposite Stella. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  Wrinkling her nose again in her annoying manner, she forced a smile. “I wish to speak frankly to you. Before it is too late.”

  “Too late?”

  Babe stood on her mistress’s lap and barked at Maeve.

  “On a night like last night with everyone dancing your, your Irish jig, you might have the impression that you have been accepted into Boston’s society.”

  When Maeve did not respond, Stella went on. “But that is far from accurate. Maeve, I do not mean to be unkind, but someone must tell you the truth. You are an oddity, providing temporary distraction.”

  Saints above! The woman had been sent to torture her — as if the yapping dog alone could not do it.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Stella pushed Babe down into her lap and stroked the angry animal. “Beatrice hoped her son would be attracted to me, and me to him. Her tales of Charles intrigued me. But it did not take long before I understood that he and I would not make a good match. And for entirely different reasons, neither are you a suitable match for Charles.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because, despite what you may think, I do have a heart. You must not delude yourself. Take it from one more experienced in these matters. Dismiss any thoughts you may entertain of remaining married to Charles.”

  Maeve’s heart felt as if it had stopped. The blood in her veins froze. “Charles cares for me.”

  “Charles takes advantage of your so-called marriage bed, but he cannot long be wed to the former maid of a neighbor. Word will get out. It just isn’t done. Think of his reputation and his role in Boston society. He is from a distinguished family.”

  “I...I know that.” Maeve felt like one of the icicles dripping outside her window, numb and frozen.

  The dog quieted.

  “As his wife, you shall only make him the subject of ridicule. He will no longer be invited to Boston’s finest social events. Like you, he will become an outsider.”

  “No.” The word caught in Maeve’s throat.

  Stella stood. “If Charles’s happiness means anything to you, Maeve, you will agree to the divorce.”

  The hard ache in Maeve’s chest took her breath away. She rasped out the words. “My...my husband has said nothing about a divorce.”

  “He will. He promised Beatrice that after the first of the year he would free himself.”

  Although her knees trembled and her stomach tossed, Maeve pushed herself up. “How do you know this?”

  Stella started toward the door. “Beatrice confided in me from the first. Charles feels indebted to you because you saved his life. And, of course, he pities you for the poor life you’ve led.”

  Maeve moved in a shrouded haze of pain. Her heart shattered like colored glass dispersing thousands of sharp, piercing shards to every part of her body. She rubbed her chest but the pain only intensified.

  “No...”

  “I have come to you in confidence, Maeve. The truth is difficult to face but you have a certain intelligence and I felt it was my duty as a woman. Do not betray me.”

  With another forced smile, and a single yap from her insufferable dog, Stella turned and left.

  Maeve fell back against the door, blinking back her tears until she heard Stella’s door close. And then she sobbed.

  * * * *

  Charles paced his office. Herbert Long had just left after reporting no progress. The private investigator insisted he’d scoured every art gallery and questioned every artist in the area without success. No one had seen anything or heard of the St. Nick sketch becoming suddenly available for sale. Charles was growing impatient. Not only had Long made no progress on finding his stolen sketch, the investigator had been dead wrong when he implied Martin might be involved in the theft

  Pulling out his watch fob, Charles glanced at the time. He decided to leave the office early and pick up a gift for Maeve to acknowledge her triumph at last evening’s party.

  In polite society, awkward questions were not asked and she continued to be known as one of his mother’s house guests, a mystery woman. But a new dimension had been added, the gossips suspected her of being an Irish princess.

  Charles’s friends and acquaintances were charmed by her beauty and lyrical accent. Last night enough of his male friends had maneuvered Maeve beneath the mistletoe to set his blood to boiling.

  But today she would be waiting at home just for him.

  Charles called for his coach.

  When he arrived home an hour later, he carried an armful of flowers, including a bouquet for Stella and one for his mother. The other four were for Maeve.

  “How sweet, dear. Where did you find flowers in December?”

  “The Rawlings greenhouse.” The Rawlings were thought to be eccentric when they’d constructed thei
r greenhouse. The ability to provide flowers throughout the year eventually dispelled the notion.

  Stella wrinkled her nose at him. “You are the sweetest man.”

  Charles winced. He’d never been described as sweet, nor wanted to be.

  His mother tucked her arm through his. “You must come with us to the ballet tonight, dear.”

  During the journey home, Charles dreamed of spending the evening with Maeve curled beside the fire. “I really don’t feel up to it. Difficult day at the firm.”

  “You have not accompanied your mother anywhere,” Beatrice cried. “I feel quite neglected.”

  “I’ll see you before you leave,” he promised. “But now I must take Maeve her flowers.”

  “Maeve is not here, my dear.”

  The ricochet of sharp disappointment that shot through him took Charles by surprise. “Where is she?”

  Beatrice wore a pained expression as she shrugged. “There’s no telling when the little Irish girl will return. She went to visit her father. She claimed he’s ill.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “I’m a sick man,” Mick O’Malley groaned, rubbing his bloodshot eyes.

  “Oh, Da. You just had a wee bit too much ale last night. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, drinkin’ all of your pay away.”

  Maeve made her father comfortable on the Deakinses’ cast-off sofa and set the kettle to boil on the old iron stove.

  “I felt all right at the time I was doin’ it. Must be a sickness goin’ round.”

  “Aye, the leprechauns are playin’ with ye to be sure, Daddy,” she said with a chuckle. “It’s a good thing I happened by.”

  It felt good to be home. This damp, cramped flat had been the center of Maeve’s world since coming to America. She felt safe and secure within its peeling walls. And on the streets of South Boston, everyone knew and respected Maeve O’Malley. She wielded influence in the immigrant Irish community. This is where she belonged. Or did she?

  “And did ye just happen by now?” her ailing father asked.

  “Aye. An sure’n it’s a good thing. You’ve got to stop your drinkin’, Dad. I can’t bear the thought of you bein’ as drunk as a piper and no one here to care for you.”