A Love by Any Measure (13 page)

She turned to leave, but August took her hand to hold her back a moment still. “I don’t love you.”

Her eyes fluttered shut, the bitterness of his words a dull sting to her heart. Trying to conceal the wound, she made her tone as dismissive as his. “You don’t love me as much as I don’t love you. And it needs to stay that way.”

“Yes, you have much more serious difficulties to worry over.”

Maeve paused and turned her head over her shoulder. “I would hardly call having a fiancé a difficulty.”

“That’s not what I mean.” When she didn’t respond, he elaborated. “If Rory’s willing to tell you, ask who shot him.”

Shepherd’s Bluff

“Shot? Saints preserve us, Maeve. I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”

That was all Rory had to say on the matter. Some said, “as stubborn as a mule,” but Maeve had never met a mule who could out-stubborn Rory O’Connor.

The suggestion of foul play from August vexed her, however, and for certain, more had happened than her da was going to admit. She could tell from the stiffening of his expression, the snap of his chin into rigidity, and how he folded his arms across his chest like a petulant child that there was more to it. His energy was sucked dry; he spent nearly all the day and well into the next sleeping. Maeve would take time to sit by him, but mostly left him to rest. She also saw August steal in to his room here and there, but given the way he emerged with grinding teeth and a crease between his eyes led her to believe that he made no better with her da than did she.

Maeve woke with a start before dawn on Saturday morning. No matter the circumstances, she was due to be at the bakery, but couldn’t deduce how she would get there. Gone was the option to hop on the back of Jared Boyle’s cart as he drove his goods into town for market. Walking from the cottage was not impossible, but now she was a mile further out and would no doubt be late if she went on foot.

As Maeve took proper shop clothes from the sack stuffed at the cottage the day before, she was surprised to hear footsteps outside the door. Cracking it open, she saw August walking past, dressed to go into town. At the top of the stairs stood Captain Schand and Caroline, who was bidding her farewells. By overhearing their conversation, it became clear the gentlemen were indeed heading into Killarney. When Maeve asked if she might join them, August looked — as much as he was able under the oddly suspicious gaze of Captain Schand — pleased with the prospect.

She spent most of the ride staring out the open window. Occasionally, the weight of eyes upon her grew heavy, and Maeve would catch August looking in her direction. Their eyes would meet briefly, making her blush fervently. She only prayed Captain Schand took no notice.

The day otherwise passed much as usual; a shift in the bakery, broken in half by a midday stroll with Owen. The only difference came after the bakery closing, when August was there to chaperon her back to Middle Lake. Owen, upon learning of the arrangement, was not pleased with his fiancé staying at Shepherd’s Bluff, but relented in his objection. As Maeve reminded him, since her da was also there, nothing prone to start malicious gossip could be occurring.

Secretly, she found herself wishing that something improper would occur.

Life at Shepherd’s Bluff quickly developed a rhythm, much to her surprise. Rory’s state prevented him from getting up and down the stairs easily, so he agreed to let August move him to the servants’ quarters. Maeve remained upstairs in a bedroom next to August’s, a placement she was quite certain was not accidental, though August made no attempt to take advantage of her proximity.

Miss Grayson, or Caroline in the familiar as she demanded to be called, became Maeve’s companion. Despite the differences in upbringing and station, the two grew instantly inseparable. Maeve sensed that perhaps Caroline’s life in England had been one of loneliness, that she was somehow attempting to make up for years of such an existence. Caroline, having known something of the mischievous Irish girl whom her brother had spoken of through the years, saw Maeve as a mythic creature brought to life.

After breakfast and a morning walk down to the lake, sometimes accompanied by August, Caroline would retreat to her room and August, to his library. Often, the temptation to sneak in was daunting. As staff were always likely to be about, she kept away at the fear of being discovered in a compromised position should such temptation manifest.

In the evenings, Rory would sit with the others in the parlor after supper, sometimes spinning old Irish tales that delighted both August and Caroline to no end. Caroline was apt to take a book or collection of poetry from the library and recite a short concert, acting out Canterbury Tales with such witticism she had them busting their stitches.

But at night, Maeve remained sleepless for hours, kept awake by the steady ticking of August’s clock in the adjacent room. Her thoughts returned to moments spent in front of that clock. The absence of August’s touch only made her yearn for it the more. Sometimes, when he came too close in passing, or lightly brushed her hand with his finger while handing something across the table, the proximity had too noticeable an effect. August, however, remained true to his word, never pressing her to act.

But when another Friday night came, she heard the clock again.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Maeve knew the rhythm of the house – the adagio that was the night. Caroline would be asleep at this hour, and the servants and Rory were slumbering in the far wing. Still, she could not convince herself to be so bold as to go to him. What would he think if she burst into his room, demanding that he take the time he was owed? She thought instead of all the things she still needed to talk about with Owen. The tediousness of such matters quickly made her find sleep.

In the dream that followed, she found herself chained to the very clock which teased her waking hours. August sat by the fire in his usual chair, wearing nothing more than a smile. Maeve was clad only in a corset, which nearly fell off her from the pull of his lusty stare alone.

“Are you ready to play, May?” he snickered, his body shimmering like a mirage. When he spoke, the words echoed about the room.

“Aye, if it suits you.”

He stood and approached, running one finger lightly over her cheek when they stood face to face. Maeve turned and took the finger into her mouth, pulling it hard over her tongue, drawing a moan and a plotting smile from August.

“Such intelligence for so virtuous a girl. Are you sure you’ve never ... Ah, Maeve, you ... ”

She suckled the finger slowly, turning her lips over the tip.

“Never yet,” she purred as his wet finger traced a line down her throat. “I want you to be ... ”

His length pressed against her as he drew himself near.

“Say it.” His hot breath sent shivers down her frame like raindrops. Below, Maeve felt a slight nudge of pressure as he teased her entrance.

“You know already, August. You’ve always known how much I ... ”

Her lips parted to offer a confirming declaration, but her focus shifted to the door as a malevolent figure, bathed in shadow, burst in. The room was dark, and Maeve could not see his face. The silhouette of the gun, however, was all too clear.

Two shots fired in rapid succession. August collapsed to the floor dead, and Maeve toppled over him, suffering the same fate.

The scream pierced through the darkness as Maeve clutched her chest, trying to find where the shot had landed. August appeared at her side in a moment, wrapping her in his arms and smoothing her hair as she cried and trembled.

“Maeve, it’s only a dream. Don’t cry. Just a nightmare … ”

“He shot us!” she exclaimed in a near frenzy, hands flailing.

August clutched her wrists tightly to calm the shaking, drawing her hands to his mouth and brushing his lips across her fingers. “No one is going to shoot you. You’re safe here. As long as you’re in my home, no harm will come to you.”

With the moonlight streaming from the windows, the sincerity in his eyes shone, a slightly pacifying smile gracing his countenance. She steadied her breathing.

“Sleep, Maeve. All will prove right in the morning.”

Her bashful gaze met his. She could nary believe the thought she was entertaining. Then again, he would surely say no.

“Will you stay with me?” She swallowed her pride. “Please, when we used to lay together in the hay loft years ago, you always made me feel so … at ease.”

Suddenly, August’s face looked pained and contemplative. “Maeve, I ... I don’t know if ... Everyone’s away now, but if ... ”

She flashed him a pleading pout, and instantly saw his resolve melt. Silently, he drew himself around, leaning his back against the headboard. An arm encircled her, and Maeve leaned her head against his chest, hearing the steady drum beat of his heart playing like a lullaby.

“You named your horses Gwen and Arthur?”

“You approve?”

She nodded.

“Yes, well, what can I say?” he continued. “I’ve thought often about Arthur and Guinevere, wondering if they were to blame for their woes, or if it was all outside their control.”

“If their lives were not in their own hands, then whose?” Maeve pondered.

August shrugged. “Destiny? Fate? What could they do, given the times? Divorce? As unacceptable then as it is now. They had their roles to play, and they played them until their hearts would allow it no more. So, Arthur yields and Guinevere and Lancelot run off together.”

Maeve added, “To live their lives in sin.”

August tilted her chin up. “To live their lives in bliss,” he countered. “Where did the greater sin lie? In the lovers? They asked for no one’s acceptance, just that they be left to love. No, I believe the greater sin was expecting Arthur and Guinevere to remain loyal to their vows, which were taken to satisfy the crown, not their hearts. In the shadow of that, how can we call the rectifying of that wrong, a sin?”

A chill crept up her spine. She tucked her head into his shoulder and closed her eyes. “It’s only a story, August.”

A great sigh made his chest fall, after which his body eased down. He kissed the crown of her head. “I suppose it was, Maeve. I suppose it was.”

When Maeve awoke in the morning, August was gone. But on the table next to the bed was a vase of pale yellow roses — likely the last of the season — and a note.

I think that counts towards time.

Frowning, she sighed and was filled with confusion. He hadn’t even touched her, except to put his arm around her. Could he really have taken pleasure in nothing more than her presence?

Caroline and Maeve strolled by the lake one evening when Captain Schand had come for a visit. They had insisted on her presence, for propriety’s sake, but with every bat of Caroline’s eyelashes or blush of Captain Schand’s, Maeve felt her presence ever more superfluous. Excusing herself, she feigned fatigue and turned back to the house. From the corner of her eye, she caught their kiss.

Love was blooming there, amid the dying leaves of autumn and the fading light of day. It gave her a queer, jealous pang in her heart.

Soon, the week’s end again arrived. This time, Maeve found herself alone in the coach with August. They sat in silence as he seemed deep in contemplation and Maeve was reluctant to disturb him. Surely, Lord Grayson had many affairs on which to dote.

A short distance from town, his mouth contorted into a mischievous, knowing grin, forcing a smile onto Maeve’s face in reflection, though for reasons she did not quite understand.

“Can I ask you a question, Maeve? What’s wrong with the bakery?”

The inquiry threw her. To be sure, the business was sound enough, if somewhat inconsistent. Few city-dwellers had kitchens or hearths that would allow them to bake their own bread. Still, she had been considering the matter as of late when she saw Katey scowling over receipts at the end of the day.

“Our clientele is changing,” Maeve finally offered, “and we don’t change with it. Our Irish bread is the best in Killarney, County Kerry even, but Killarney is being over run by Americans, Frenchmen, and the English. They don’t care for our bread, and we don’t bake nearly enough varieties to change that. We keep our current customers for sure, but we don’t pull in many of the newcomers. Crusty ryes, fruited wet bread, that sour tack that the Yanks like so much ... We need to make those, too. At least ... ” She hesitated in realization of the exceedingly long length of her reply, “ ... I am of that opinion.”

His devious smile grew ten-fold as the coach pulled to a stop outside the bakery. “That’s exactly what I needed to hear. This shall be perfection. Quickly, then.”

He hopped down from the coach platform and offered a hand. Maeve felt a near Judas as she strode into the shop at six in the morning, dressed in a suit clearly too well tailored and cut for someone of her station. For reasons only known to him, August had insisted that she wear this particular suit this morning. The pale yellow material perfectly accentuated her eyes, he had said. Now she wished she had thrown on the same shop clothes as each weekend. The other workers, six in total, were staring at her loathsomely, and as August followed her into the shop, something he had never done, she read the unspoken accusation in each of their glares.

“Ah, Mr. Woodrow,” August called to a pudgy man with bloodshot eyes and a forehead as grimy as it was flawed, standing in the far corner. Either he had been up all night, or he was simply unacquainted with consciousness this early in the day. “Is everything in place?”

Woodrow nodded slowly, though his disorientation was evident. “Yes, Lord Grayson. I was explaining about the change in ownership.”

“Change in ownership?” Maeve muttered through her confusion. Was this the cause of August’s contemplation? Had he bought the bakery and was looking for business advice from someone with an inside perspective?

Only, what possible reason would he have to buy the bakery? Katey had daydreamed of selling, but she didn’t seem that determined to …

No, he wouldn’t have ...

Woodrow nodded, thumbing through a collection of papers in his grip. “Yes, Miss. Lord Grayson has been the owner as of Thursday.”

“Yes, and may I make an announcement, please.” August beckoned to the room. “Ladies, gentlemen, please allow me to be frank. This bakery was once renowned as the best of Killarney, I’m told. But in recent years a sagging clientele and increased competition from the new arrivals in town has taken its toll. To survive, there needs be a shift in strategy.”

August, whether with purpose or unconsciously, reached out to Maeve, laying his hand on her shoulder and bringing her forward.

God, no. Please, no, she thought.

“When one steers a ship in a new direction, it is best to have a wise and intelligent captain at the helm.”

Internally, she cowered. They’re going to see right through this.

“And to that end, I have compensated Miss O’Toole, and have decided to turn over management to ... ” — his kept woman — “Miss Maeve O’Connor.”

Acidic scowls and accusatory eyes burned her as Maeve smoldered and her sins bubbled to the surface for all to see. She had decided that she would not lose ground if ever the accusation was made in public; she had vowed to herself to stand by her decision and deal with the consequences they entailed. However, she hardly wished to have the banner thrown upon her by the show of such favoritism. She had to flee, to escape the stifling air of the shop with the ovens baking full blast. Perhaps she could crawl inside one now for a preview of what awaited her in the hereafter.

Maeve turned to August with a hardened expression and clenched teeth. “We need to talk.”

“Of course, Miss O’Connor,” he answered, almost giddy with his own doing and clearly not seeing the reality that was laid before him — their secret was suspected, if not confirmed. “We can speak in your office, if you like.”

Maeve’s expression must have given away her confusion.

“Your office, Miss O’Connor,” he confirmed. “As manager, you have an office and a flat on the second floor. You’ll have to share it with some of the paper work and supplies. It’s stocked near half up with surplus bags of flour I was able to secure. You are content sharing your flat, aren’t you?”