Comfort and Joy

by Sandra Madden

  “Who came by to visit her old sick dad,” Mick put in.

  Charles turned to the old man. “My deepest sympathies on your illness.”

  “Sure’n I nipped a bit too much whisky,” Mick explained without shame as he scratched the back of his head.

  “I see.” Charles cleared his throat. Maeve still stood behind the door to the room he recognized as being the one he had shared with her. The room where he had been Charlie. The room where he had regained his memory. “Are you ready to come home, Maeve?”

  She shook her head. Her eyes looked misty.

  “When shall you be ready?”

  She shook her head again.

  Charles’s stomach rolled over. His spine stiffened. He had a bad, bad feeling.

  Apparently, Pansy did as well. The Deakins girl slipped out from behind Maeve and marched into the small living area. She wore a forced, over-bright smile. “I believe I’ll join you for tea, Mr. O’Malley.”

  Mick O’Malley grimaced as if Pansy had promised him castor oil.

  Charles slowly crossed the room toward Maeve. “Is there something wrong?”

  Maeve nodded her head and silently stepped back for him to pass.

  Charles entered the room where he’d spent his wedding night with a bit of trepidation. His heart beat quickly, and out of time, skipping erratically. There seemed no place to sit except the unmade bed. Charles stood. Tension spiraled through the room as thick as mill smoke. He thought he might choke.

  Maeve shut the door.

  ‘‘What’s wrong, Maeve?’’ he asked softly. He could see no sparkle in her lovely lapis eyes. Instead, her gaze appeared misty and as dark as night. Teasing her lip, she clasped her hands tightly together and lowered her head.

  “I do not feel at home on Beacon Hill.”

  “You will in good time.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  A nasty suspicion struck Charles. “Has my mother said something to offend you?”

  “No. Though Beatrice has made no secret of her dislike for me.”

  “My mother’s feelings have nothing to do with mine. You cannot blame me for something my mother has said or done.”

  “I don’t.”

  “In any event, Beatrice will be returning to New York with Stella after the first of the year. You shall not have to deal with her much longer.” He held out his hand. “Come home with me.”

  Although Charles felt he had put Maeve’s mind at rest, she did not move. She still stared at the floor.

  He dropped his hand. In one stride he was at her side. Gathering her small, warm body into his arms, he breathed in her sweet violet fragrance, rested his check against her silky curls.

  “Come home with me now,” he pleaded in a voice strangely husky.

  “I cannot,” she whispered. She stood as stiffly in his embrace as an ice-slicked lamppost.

  If it wasn’t his mother who had hurt Maeve, it must have been Stella, he reasoned. “Has Stella wounded you?”

  “No.”

  Charles didn’t believe her. Clasping Maeve’s hands in his, he stepped back. She stubbornly refused to meet his gaze. “Tell me what has happened. I shall make it right, whatever it is.”

  “You cannot make it right. ‘Tis an accident of birth.”

  Charles bit back his rising panic. “What are you talking about? What do you mean?”

  Maeve raised her eyes to his, eyes glistening with tears. “We are not suited.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Everything.”

  “Everything?”

  Pulling her hands from his, Maeve spun about, marching toward the door. “You were not in your right mind when you married me.”

  Dear God, she was going to make him leave. She wasn’t going home with him.

  Alarm charged through Charles like a rocky landslide, pain tore at his insides. He clenched his jaw to keep from crying out. “I have my wits about me now.”

  While tears glistened in her eyes, Charles saw a flash of anger as well. Maeve’s little fists dug into her hips. “And I suppose you are going to say ye ardently wish to remain wed to the likes of me?”

  “The likes of you?”

  “An Irish maid.”

  “I do.”

  She rolled her eyes...to one of her saints above?

  “I do,” he repeated resoundingly.

  Charles thought for a moment Maeve might spit fire.

  Instead, with her gaze glued to the floor, she took several deep, calming breaths.

  When at last she raised her eyes to his and spoke, she made her request in a soft, resigned tone. “I want a divorce and I want it now.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Maeve did not expect an argument from Charles. She’d used every ounce of strength to tell him she wanted a divorce. Her parched throat swelled, her voice broke on the word divorce.

  Saints above, she was bound for Hell! She would be struck dead on the spot. Maeve raised her gaze to the ceiling, eyes swimming with hot tears.

  If her dad knew what she’d asked for — a divorce — he’d be calling on Father Thorn for an exorcism.

  To Maeve’s surprise, instead of being relieved, Charles appeared stunned. Stiff and unmoving, he stared at her as if she had spoken to him in a language he did not understand.

  “What have I done to make you feel you need to be rid of me?” he asked quietly.

  Unable to face him, look into his eyes, Maeve bowed her head, focusing on the hem of her dress. “ ‘Tis nothing you’ve done. You have been generous and kind to me.”

  And when he made love to Maeve, Charles made her body sing and her spirits soar. He made her happier than a woman had a right to be.

  “Then why do you wish a divorce?”

  “ ‘Tis just the way of the matter. We come from two different worlds, we do. Look around you. This is my world, my life. I will never belong in yours. I will never be accepted or feel comfortable on Beacon Hill.”

  “Pansy would be lost if you left. Spencer and Martin —”

  “It has been weeks since we were married and no one except for Pansy knows I am your wife,” she interrupted a bit too sharply. “And your mother and Stella, who manage to keep the secret well for their own interests.”

  “Haven’t I said all along that after —”

  Once again Maeve interrupted, spurred by a spark of anger. “Our secret has been so well kept, we can be divorced and no one will be the wiser. Isn’t that what you’ve been planning?”

  Charles took a step toward her. “Stay with me until Christmas, until the holiday is over.”

  Maeve stepped back. For one brief moment she entertained the idea that Charles hadn’t been planning to divorce her. In an attempt to save her own pride, had she wounded Charles? No, the thought was ludicrous. Her husband was a good man trying to save face. He wasn’t saying the words she longed to hear. He wasn’t vowing his love for her and declaring that his heart would shatter if Maeve was no longer his wife. Worse, he did not deny he planned a divorce all along.

  “Time cannot change how dissimilar our lives have been,” she insisted. “Time will not make a difference.”

  “Until Christmas,” he coaxed, in a hoarse timbre. “Come home with me until Christmas.”

  What had happened to his voice? What had happened to his heart? Charles could not feel his heart beating. His lungs refused air. He felt as if he’d been turned to stone by one of Maeve’s evil Irish fairies. A granite knot sat squarely in his midsection.

  A Rycroft did the right thing, he reminded himself.

  Begging was not among the right things in life and not at all in Charles’s nature nor experience.

  Dear God, she wanted a divorce!

  Maeve had handed Charles a way out of this highly unsuitable marriage on a silver platter.

  Indisputably unacceptable.

  He’d been waiting to divorce his Irish wife quietly and without a scandal ever since he first woke up in this room after regaining his memory. An
d now, to his utter amazement, Charles did not want to divorce Maeve. She’d become an integral part of his life. He wanted to keep her by his side always.

  Nothing in his experience had prepared him for a moment like this. He and Maeve had reached a crossroads and Charles dared not veer off onto the wrong path. He did not know what to say or do to convince her that divorce would not answer. He only knew Maeve must come with him. Her laughter must continue to fill the corridors of his house, her violet scent must remain to sweeten each room. He could not lose her.

  “This is my home, Charles. And what good would it do to come to Beacon Hill with you until Christmas? It’s just days away. What difference can a few days make?”

  “Perhaps all the difference in the world.”

  Tears shone in Maeve’s extraordinary eyes and her chin trembled when she raised her gaze to his. “I thought you would be relieved when I asked for a divorce, Charles.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  Because he was supposed to feel relief.

  Now Charles could not bear the thought of never seeing Maeve again.

  Her lips quivered in a rueful smile. “I would think so because I know my behavior has been an embarrassment to you upon occasion.”

  He slowly shook his head, denying the truth. “On the contrary, Maeve. You’ve made me proud to know you.” The stilted tone of his voice disturbed Charles. How could he hope to convince his doubting wife if he sounded subhuman? A Rycroft never revealed his emotions, however. He had learned that lesson well.

  Yet, the firestorm of feelings thundering through Charles threatened his composure. If he wasn’t careful the passions he held at his heart’s core would burst in a flood of words and action he would never be able to retract

  Maeve inclined her head. The quizzical purse of her lips, along with her clearly skeptical expression, challenged Charles as no mere words could have done.

  “You showed great courage learning to skate in front of a party of critics waiting to pounce on your lack of performance,” he began. “But you showed them otherwise. And if you weren’t a plucky, proud woman, my friends and I would have missed a rousing lesson in the Irish jig the other evening.”

  The corner of Maeve’s luscious mouth turned up in a tentative smile. “That did turn out well, didn’t it?”

  “Yes, it did.” Charles could not tear his gaze away from her lips. He could not throw off the longing to make her his, here and now. The unmade bed beckoned to him. The knowledge that he’d once made love to Maeve on that same bed set his pulse spinning. He could do it again, make love to Maeve on her bed, and this time he would remember each kiss, each sigh, each soaring sensation.

  “Charles? Are you all right?”

  He made a great show of clearing his throat. In reality he cleared his mind of tantalizing visions. “Yes. Quite.”

  No, dammit. I am not all right.

  “Furthermore,” he continued. “I have never experienced the unselfishness you demonstrated by giving the Essex Orphanage a Christmas party with the funds I meant for you.”

  “Having the ability to give the children a party was a dream come true and actually your doing Charles.”

  He dismissed her claim with a shake of his head. “And just how many women do you think could convince me to wear a Santa Claus costume?”

  “You were very good,” she grinned. With the memory, the sparkle returned to her blue, blue eyes. “You possess a natural talent for portraying Santa. I think you should repeat your role every year.”

  Charles jumped on her proposal. “I will. I’ll play Santa Claus again tomorrow if you will come home with me tonight.”

  The smile on Maeve’s lips, the sparkle in her eyes faded. “Returning will just prolong the inevitable.”

  “I expected to escort you to the Cabot’s Snow Ball. Do you know what my fate will be if I cannot?”

  “No.”

  “Mother will insist I escort Stella alone.”

  “Saints above! ‘Tis a dire fate,” Maeve exclaimed with a mocking wag of her head.

  “If you grant me these few short days I promise I shall respect your privacy. I will not come to your rooms, or...”

  What the devil? What was he promising?

  “Or?”

  “Or pressure you in any way to stay beyond the holiday. It will be your choice if you wish to be with me. I would never force myself upon you.”

  A strained silence fell over the cold, unkempt room. Maeve could hear a teacup clink against its saucer in the next room. She could hear her heart beat, a slow thump...thump.

  Charles hammered at Maeve’s resolve with his earnest promises and soft persuasion. He wore her down with the troubled light in his deep ash eyes, his compelling magnetism and masculinity. Charles was like the jaguar, sleek and strong, prowling, circling her. How could she resist him? How could she turn a deaf ear to the eagerness in his voice to please her? With Christmas less than a week away, she doubted anything could happen in such a short period of time to change her mind about the divorce.

  Maeve knew she would always love Charles. But there was only one way she could stay with him. If he loved her and told her so, told her over and over.

  If the wee people or Santa Claus could make a wish come true, she would wish for only one. She would wish for her husband’s love. With Charles to love her, Maeve could survive the society snubs and gossiping tongues. She could survive anything at all. Charles’s love would be the grandest Christmas gift.

  But she knew that wasn’t to be.

  “Please, Maeve. Say yes,” Charles coaxed. “Come home with me.”

  Her heart skipped in an ominous rhythm as Maeve gazed up at the man who towered over her. His forehead folded into a dark frown and his firm-set lips pressed tightly together as he waited for her answer.

  How could she deny Charles anything? It was only a matter of days and he’d promised not to pressure her. Besides, if what Stella had said was true, Charles had been planning all along to set her free following the holidays.

  Maeve’s stomach lurched and her hands trembled like an old woman with palsy. Undaunted by these unsettling physical signs, she forced a smile and sealed the pact. “Yes, Charles. I’ll come with you.”

  The following day Charles placed Martin in charge and left his office at Rycroft Publishing shortly after luncheon. Of late, he worked less and enjoyed Martin’s help more. Except for Maeve, he felt a new sense of control over his life.

  Maeve was another matter. While they had enjoyed a quiet dinner in his study the night before, she’d left him immediately following to retire. After arguing for her return, Charles had hoped she would give him the pleasure of her company. Instead he paced his study, attempting to sort his feelings, his duty against his desire. The long, lonely evening resulted in no resolution.

  But this was another day, another opportunity for Charles to come to terms with his own needs and determine just what it was he wanted of Maeve. The answer would certainly come. A Rycroft did the right thing.

  Charles left the Boston Globe after placing a full-page advertisement announcing the increase in reward for the return of Barnabas’s irreplaceable sketch of St. Nick. It was his last hope. The erstwhile investigator Herbert Long still had not uncovered any new information. To ease his mind, Charles chose to believe he’d been attacked by a poor fellow who didn’t know the value of the sketch and used it to decorate a tenement wall. He reasoned the news of such a large reward would get around and soon the sketch would be returned.

  Because he hadn’t been fencing with Spencer of late, Charles walked for the exercise rather than ride. By prior arrangement, his driver would pick him up in the town coach in just over an hour. Charles had Christmas purchases to make for Maeve. He had vowed to make this the best Christmas the Irish sprite had ever known and he was determined to do just that.

  Charles went into several shoppes before he noticed a tall, brawny fellow appeared to be following him. While he told himself the likelihood of being a
mbushed and robbed again was improbable, Charles decided to exercise caution. He stopped to gaze into the dry goods emporium of Mr. Jordan and Mr. Marsh. The window display featured an array of colorful toys. From the corner of his eye, he noticed the brawny fellow had stopped as well. Wearing a knit cap and dark jacket outgrown years ago, the ominous figure leaned against a light post, ostensibly picking at the dirt beneath his nails.

  What attracted ruffians and thieves to him? Charles wondered with no small amount of annoyance. He considered confronting the man until, with another surreptitious glance, he noticed a glint of metal against the black post A knife? Was the fellow carrying a knife?

  A hasty survey of the street told Charles there were no mounted patrolmen in sight. At times like this there never was. He decided to take refuge in the emporium until the bully tired of waiting for him and fixed on some other poor soul.

  Sleighbells on a strap attached to the door jangled noisily when Charles strode purposefully into the dry goods store. After greeting Mr. Jordan, he browsed through the toys. He discussed the workmanship of every toy boat and porcelain doll as if he had a dozen children waiting for him at home.

  If he had children with Maeve, Charles hoped they would have her sparkling jeweled eyes and fair skin.

  Children! What was he thinking?

  Charles dallied a full hour before the thug who had followed him finally gave up and went away.

  “If you will wrap my purchases and deliver them to my home I shall be much obliged.” With those brief instructions and a perfunctory smile, he left the emporium, eager to return home and be with Maeve.

  “Your mother will have my head,” Maeve declared, hurrying along beside Pansy as the two young women headed for South Boston.

  Even wrapped in her heavy coat, hands burrowed deep inside the warmth of her muff, the chilling cold wind still managed to penetrate her clothing, sending icy shivers down Maeve’s spine. The frigid air of early afternoon stung her cheeks and numbed the tip of her nose.

  “My mother will never know,” Pansy assured her. “If Charles hadn’t led you away, and me along as well, before Shea came home last evening this visit would not be necessary.”