by Tinnean
And in spite of the subdued excitement that surrounded him and his son, in spite of Olivia’s distress at realizing she now carried another life under her heart, they all made a good dinner.
Chapter 10
Deirdre O’Connor sat collapsed on one of the dining room chairs, her face buried in her hands and her shoulders shaking.
She heard Tom Pettigrew leave the room, no doubt joining that little bitch and his brat of a son. Only then did Deirdre raise her head and send a baleful scowl toward the door. Her eyes were wet, even though it was an act she’d put on. It should have worked. It always had before. Why hadn’t it this time?
Why hadn’t Tom Pettigrew rushed to take her in his arms and soothe away her tears?
Deirdre had a way with men. A glance from her green eyes, a toss of her coppery-red curls, a sway of her hips, and any man she’d set her sights on would fall into her hand like a ripe plum.
Hadn’t it been that way with the fool she’d married? Banan O’Bannion—she’d changed her name when she left Ireland—took one look at her and had come panting after her.
* * * *
Banan had been the youngest, not-too-bright son of an earl who was rich as Croesus, or so he’d said. And the old man had one foot in the grave to boot.
She’d hoped for one of the older sons, but they were either already married or courting. Not that she would have let that stop her, but she wanted to be a wife, not a mistress. Banan was the best she could do—by marrying him, she obtained an honorable before her name—but she’d had plans to get rid of his brothers and whoever else might stand between what should have rightly been hers. She planned to make sure Banan inherited the old man’s wealth as well as his title. She’d be Lady Deirdre…
Only all her dreams had come crashing down like a house of cards when Banan, who was horse-mad, got himself kicked in the head by one of his damned hunters. He’d wound up a drooling idiot, confined to his bed, babbling nonsense like an infant.
Of course, there were men who appreciated a woman with a…complaisant husband, but if she’d been willing to walk that path, she never would have tied herself to a man with no more brains than a flea.
The least he could have done was have the courtesy to die.
She looked good in black—she was one of the few women in her family who could carry off the stark color—and no one realized she’d covered that buffoon’s face with his pillow. He hadn’t even struggled.
No one except Aislinn, the oldest brother’s witch of a wife. She had suspected something and started poking around. The brothers had been fond of Banan, and if they’d learned she was behind his death, they would have killed her.
Deirdre had had no choice but to flee the country, using the excuse she’d been widowed by the Great Famine and had nothing left as the reason behind her leaving.
So she changed her name, caught a steamship leaving for America, and wound up in Hoboken. She’d met an old man with money who was more than willing to marry her. She’d thought he wanted her on his arm as an ornament—he was not only old, but he also had a heart ailment, for which he took laudanum. Who’d have thought he had it in him to make love? It was a miscalculation on her part, one she had no intention of accepting. Increasing his dosage hadn’t been difficult, and it took care of the situation.
After all, once you’d put one husband out of his misery, it wasn’t so very difficult to do the same for the next one.
He’d left all his money to her, his loving wife, and it hadn’t taken her long to make her way to New York City. She’d changed her name once again, and in an even shorter span of time, she’d found the boarding house in the East Village. She’d hoped to rent rooms to gentlemen, one of whom might be interested in a wife, but for some reason she only seemed able to attract widows.
Until Tom Pettigrew came looking for a room for himself and his son. At first she hadn’t seen him as a candidate for husband number three. After all, the man was a mere hansom driver, and Deirdre intended to continue going up in the world, thank you very much. If she couldn’t have a title and wealth, she’d have wealth. She’d gone into his room to clean; that was what she intended to tell anyone who might find her there, because she wasn’t a thief. But then she’d found that ruby brooch at the bottom of the saddlebag at the back of the wardrobe. The size of the ruby alone…she knew it was worth a fortune. There was also a title to land—a vast amount of land—in the Dakota Territory. What she didn’t know was if Tom Pettigrew was that wealthy, why was he slumming in the East Village? She’d turned over the brooch and decided that if he brought it along with him, she didn’t care….
* * * *
The door burst open, returning her to the present, and she flinched from the high-pitched wails.
“Deirdre!” Eilís Keogh cried. “Oh, my dear! Are you all right?”
“Of course I’m not all right.” Deirdre frowned at the woman who’d come rushing in.
“Did that man do something to my precious girl?” Eilis took a handkerchief from a pocket and patted her cheeks dry.
“Tom Pettigrew has left. He’ll no longer be residing with us.” After what had gone on tonight, Deirdre found she enjoyed the attention.
“I saw him as he was about to walk out the door. Oh, Deirdre, what have you done?”
“What makes you think I did anything?” Deirdre glared at her. Eilís had changed her tune quick enough, she thought sourly. What happened to her precious girl? “Why does everyone always blame me for whatever happens?”
“You forget I’ve known you since you opened this boarding house.”
“Well, I didn’t do anything. I simply tried to warn him that St. Claire trollop would never be safely delivered of the child she’s carrying.”
“You said that to a man who lost his beloved wife in childbirth? Oh, Deirdre, how could you?”
“It’s the truth,” she said sulkily.
“Just a second…Miss St. Claire is in an interesting condition?”
Deirdre rolled her eyes. “Didn’t you suspect anything when she spent the mornings puking her guts up?”
“Well…er…no. Is Mr. Pettigrew the father? Such a shame. He seemed like a very nice man.”
“Fool,” Deirdre muttered under her breath. “No man is nice.” She dismissed the other woman’s presence. Deirdre wanted Tom Pettigrew—it didn’t matter whether or not she’d been taken by his blond hair and blue eyes from the first moment she’d seen him—and she was going to have him.
“The girls are waiting to serve dinner.” Eilís stood there wringing her hands.
“Tell them to go ahead.” She rose to her feet and shook out her skirts. “I have some thinking to do.”
“But—”
She walked out of the dining room without responding.
It had been a simple matter to dispose of two husbands of her own. It should be equally simple to dispose of someone’s wife.
Chapter 11
Tom and George were up early the next morning. They went to the stable where they boarded Sunrise, Nightfall, and Sancho Panza, saddled the horses, and harnessed the mule.
Hudson, Tom’s employer, had given Tom the day off. “It’s not every day a man gets married,” he’d said. “And you’ll want to spend some time with your new missus.”
He probably thought they’d spend the day in bed making sweet love, but that would have to wait until Olivia was more comfortable being married to him.
Hudson also let Tom borrow a dogcart. Tom and George had managed to find an armful of colorful ribbons, and they set to work decorating it.
“You sure you don’t want to sell those horses to me?” Hudson asked as he watched Tom thread some of the ribbons in the mule’s stubby mane. “I’ll give you a good price.”
“No. They’re the last ties we have to George’s Mama.”
Hudson nodded. “Well, if you ever change your mind…”
Tom gave a slight grin. “Not likely.” He hitched Sancho Panza to the dogcart.
“
A man can hope,” Hudson said. “Get going, now. And remember, I need you here bright and early tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll be here.” Tom shook his hand and climbed into the dogcart. He waited for George to swing into Nightfall’s saddle and take Sunrise’s reins, then gave a whistle between his teeth that got Sancho Panza moving.
They returned to the hotel and learned a copper tub had been brought to Olivia’s room, as well as her breakfast, which she’d declined. Tom and George ate a hasty breakfast in the hotel’s dining room, then hurried up to their room, where a tub filled with steaming water awaited them.
“You first, Georgie. I’ll lay out our clothes and then shave.”
“Okay, Papa.” He sat on the bed and pulled off his boots, then stripped off his shirt, trousers, and drawers before stepping into the tub. “When will I be able to shave?”
“In a few years, I reckon.” Although hair had started to grow around George’s prick earlier in the year, Tom was certain that, like him, his son wouldn’t have much body hair until he was in his late teens, if then. Tom himself hadn’t had to shave until he’d reached his twenties, and his Pa had assured him it had been the same with him.
Tom worked up a lather in his shaving mug with his brush and smeared a bit of the lather over his son’s cheek. They’d done this before, and now George held still while Tom gently ran the back of the straight razor over it.
“There you go. All set to meet your best gal.”
George giggled and brought up a handful of water to wash away the remains of the soap. He began singing “Green Grow the Lilacs,” and Tom hummed along while he finished shaving.
* * * *
After bathing and dressing in attire suitable for a wedding, Tom sent his son down to wait with the mule and the horses, crossed the hallway, and tapped on Olivia’s door.
“Yes?”
“It’s Tom.”
“I’m ready,” she called, but there was a quaver in her voice. Was she having second thoughts?
She opened the door, and Tom felt his breath catch in his throat. She looked…lovely. If she no longer wanted to marry him, it was going to break his heart.
It struck him that her complexion was a little green.
“Tom?” A frown furrowed her brow. “Are you disappointed? Should I change my dress?”
“I’m not disappointed.”
“You didn’t say anything.”
“You took my breath away. I don’t know how I came to be so fortunate.” He offered her his arm.
“Thank you. I’m sorry. I know I must look a fright. I’ve been sick all morning, and I wasn’t even sure if I’d be able to make it to my own wedding.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. You didn’t do this to me.”
“Did you want to put the wedding off for a time?”
“No. I just wish I knew how long this will continue.”
“Probably about another four weeks.” Parents did their children a disservice trying to shelter them from things they really needed to know.
“Another month? Oh God, I don’t think I can do this.”
“You’ll do fine. I’ll make sure you have someone with you during the day.”
“That will help.” She sighed in relief.
“All right, then. Shall we get married?”
“Yes.” She blushed and closed her fingers around his arm. “Where’s George?”
“He’s outside, waiting.”
Tom escorted her down the stairs, through the lobby, and out onto the street.
“Oh!”
“Do you like it?”
“It looks…Oh, Tom, I have no words. Thank you.”
Tom sent his son a grin, amused when George bounced on his toes. Olivia’s reaction made the task of decorating the cart and winding the ribbons through Sancho Panza’s harness worthwhile.
“And what beautiful horses! May I pet them?” Olivia asked, staring at them raptly.
Sunrise and Nightfall stood beside the mule, stamping a placid hoof or flicking a tail.
“Sure. They’re good-tempered. As a matter of fact, Nightfall used to belong to Analeigh. I trained him for her.” Tom watched as his bride removed a glove and held out her hand. Nightfall lowered his head and lipped her palm, and she giggled and grinned at Tom over her shoulder.
“That tickles!”
Tom returned her grin and handed her a clean handkerchief to dry her palm. “Shall we get married now?”
She nodded, her excitement obvious, and she replaced her glove. Apparently she was feeling better, and Tom was relieved.
“Mount up, son.” He raised an eyebrow when George didn’t immediately obey him. “George?”
“Every lady getting married needs a bouquet.” He took his hands from behind his back to reveal the spray of white flowers he’d been holding. They were tinged with pink and looked like clusters of butterflies. “I found them in the garden behind the hotel. I asked the man who was working there if I could take a few for my mama’s wedding. I wouldn’t have taken them otherwise,” he assured Tom.
“I know.”
“Thank you, George!” Olivia pulled him into an embrace and kissed his cheek, then took the flowers. “Thank you.”
After Tom helped her into the dogcart, he drew his son aside. “I’m proud of you, Georgie.”
“For finding flowers?”
“For making your mama happy. For remembering them when I’d forgotten.” Tom turned George and gave him a gentle swat on his seat. “Now, mount up. We have a wedding to go to.”
Chapter 12
It was a simple ceremony, performed by the Reverend Newton Stephens, a friend of Tom’s who’d been a chaplain during the Mexican-American War and who now ran a small ministry on Houston Street. Tom had run into him when he’d been taking a fare to that part of town. Since they’d parted ways before Tom went to California and met Analeigh, Newt didn’t know anything about George, and Tom felt it was safe enough to renew their friendship.
Tom had gone to see him the night before, after making sure George and Olivia were safely tucked away in their hotel rooms.
“We need to get married,” Tom had told him. “Right away.”
“Like that, is it?” Newt raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask any questions. “Well, it’ll be my pleasure. Can you be here by midmorning?”
“Sure thing, Newt. Thank you.”
The next day, Tom made sure they were all ready, and by midmorning they were there. The ceremony only took a matter of minutes, but to Tom’s dismay, flowers weren’t the only thing he’d forgotten—he’d neglected to buy a wedding ring.
Newt chuckled. “You always were forgetful.”
George rolled his eyes and snorted when Tom cuffed the back of his head. “Here, Papa.” He held out his hand, and when Tom opened his palm, George dropped a green circle into it.
“What’s this?”
“A ring. I made it.”
“How?”
“I took a couple of leaves from Mama’s bouquet and wove them into a ring.”
“Clever boy.”
George grinned proudly.
“All right, Tom. Give me the ring.” Newt continued with the ceremony, then handed the ring back to Tom. “Here. Now put this on your lovely bride’s finger.”
“I wish I had something better for you,” Tom said as he took Olivia’s slender hand and slid the makeshift ring onto it.
“It’s all right, Tom. I don’t mind,” she whispered.
“I do. It was a knot-headed thing to do, and I’ll get you the finest ring I can find.” One day, Tom promised himself, I’ll do right by this woman who’s taken my name.
“You can kiss her now, Tom,” Newt said, a laugh in his voice.
Tom leaned down, prepared to kiss Olivia’s cheek, but she turned her head, and they shared their first kiss. It was gentle on his part and hesitant on hers—hadn’t that boy kissed her properly?
George clapped and gave a subdued cheer—they were
in a church, after all—and Newt patted Tom on the back.
Tom shook Newt’s hand, leaving a silver dollar in his palm, and they said goodbye and left.
People smiled and waved to see the mule in his own wedding finery. Tom tipped his hat, and George, who rode beside the dogcart, waved back.
“I’m sorry we couldn’t marry at Calvary Church,” he murmured as he drove Sancho Panza toward their cottage. He knew all the well-to-do people who lived in Gramercy went to the Episcopalian church.
“I don’t mind, truly. That was my old life, and you and George are my new life.”
“The Church of the Beloved Apostle isn’t too distant from our cottage. George and I will go with you every Sunday.”
“But you’re not Episcopalian.”
“No. I don’t have any religion, and George’s Mama was Catholic, but we’re a family now, and we’ll go to church with you.”
Her eyes welled with tears. “Thank you, Tom.” She kissed his cheek. Another kiss on the mouth would have been better, but he was a patient man.
Tom pulled up in front of the cottage he’d rented. “This is Lilac Cottage. What do you think?”
“It’s so tiny!” Olivia clutched his arm.
Tom remembered the house he’d driven her to and then taken her away from. This was indeed tiny in comparison.
Olivia continued. “Oh, but it’s so pretty!”
“Yes?”
“Oh, yes!”
There was leaded glass in the windows, and a flagstone walk led to the green door. Banks of flowers and masses of shrubs, including the bushes it was named for, framed the walk and circled the cottage.
Tom hopped down. “Leave the horses for now, George. We’ll put them up in a bit.”
George kicked free of his stirrups and slid to the ground. He hitched the horses and the mule to the little jockey that stood near the curb holding a ring for just that purpose.
Tom helped Olivia down, and they walked hand-in-hand to the front door. He pushed it open, then stooped and caught her up in his arms, laughing as she gave a breathless cry. She hardly weighed anything, and he liked the feel of her in his arms as he carried her across the threshold.