A Love by Any Measure (26 page)

The Pursuit of Happiness

T
he years had brought her beauty to full blossom, her cheeks still rose red and her skin as milky as Owen’s every memory could recall. But she was sad, manifested in the loss of her glow.

Still, it was Maeve.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, can it really be?”

Nary could the blacksmith believe the love that had slipped through his fingers three years before was at his door. The very door she had closed behind her, never looking back, as he cursed her name to the Heavens. Maeve’s scent, floral and feminine and full, hit him, and Owen knew. This was no ghost of his ain true love; this was she for whom his heart had starved.

“Owen,” she said softly, simply.

Of course she was at a loss for words. Though she avoided his gaze, it was all too apparent that she stumbled for what to say, some place to go beyond the mere invocation of a name. His hand reached for her, brushing delicately along her cheek, confirming to his still-doubting mind that she stood before him once more.

So entranced momentarily had he been with her visage that he hadn’t seen that on to which she held, nothing less than the tender limb of a weary child with radiant blue eyes and raven locks.

The child, hardly more than a toddler, looked warily past the blacksmith and into the flat. Dripping with beauty, Owen instinctively wanted to pick her up and pinch her cheeks, but the question of exactly who she was cut him to the quick.

Had Maeve … Had she bore …

“No, Owen, she’s not yours,” Maeve stated quickly, and he thought he heard shame in her words. “Nor mine. At least, not by blood.”

Gulping, the anger that threatened to rise and overtake him was quelled.

“Grayson’s.” Owen spat it out through gritted teeth; an understanding, not a question.

Maeve nodded, wise enough not to deny what was so evident. “Her mother passed during the birth.”

Gnashing his teeth further, he pulled back his hand in disgust. “So now you’re not only his whore, but you’re also his child’s slave. And this is what you left me for?”

She looked neither offended nor apologetic, choosing to remain silent instead.

“What do you want? Why are you here?”

She guided her ward in and closed the door behind her, not bothering to wait for an invitation. She took little time to make herself at ease as she knelt in front of the child and began unbuttoning her opulent cloak.

“I didn’t know what else to do, so we came in with the post last night. No one saw us.”

The words were fast, as though trying to convince herself of her own lie. Dismissive. Suddenly, the thought crossed Owen’s mind.

“What the hell did he do to you?” the blacksmith demanded, anger rising red with the flush of his cheeks. The child trembled and flinched, but Owen’s rage was too well justified to be so easily tamed. “Did he hurt you? Did he hit you?”

“Never!” Maeve gasped as she stood and started taking off her cloak. “He just … Whatever we had, it’s over.”

“What sand!” Owen barked, trying nonetheless to dampen his tone as he could see the child shake with fear. “What sand have you, Maeve O’Connor, to show up on my doorstep after leaving me with your broken promises and your broken house! And with the bastard’s child!? Your father would turn over in his grave if he could see the sorry excuse of a daughter you’ve become.”

Legendary Irish rage showed itself as her rosy cheeks flushed crimson and her brown eyes stormed. “How dare you! I’ll remind you that I got into the crazy situation by trying to protect my father!”

Oh, but this girl still knew no bounds when it came to driving him mad. Owen pulled her to the only window the little flat could boast and pointed out, over the rooftops of the surrounding buildings, to the cemetery.

“And yet, there he lies — cold, dead, and forgotten. Slain by English arms. And here you stand, clothed in his enemy’s best governess gown.”

The slap she landed broke the child’s resolve as the little one began to cry full out. Maeve’s body shrank with guilt as she hastened to her side.

“There, there now, Goosie. I’m sorry, love. Mummy just got a little angry. I promise, it won’t happen again.”

“Mummy?”

Maeve grimaced at Owen. “The only she has ever — or will ever — know. Now, Mr. Murphy,” she grabbed the child’s cloak and hand, and began moving toward the door, “if we’re not welcome, we will most certainly—”

Panic sobered him. “No, Maeve, don’t go!”

Owen knew in the moment he saw her turn that, no matter how determined he told himself to be, he couldn’t deny truth. He knew to the very reaches of his soul that he could not stand to see her go a second time. Even if he didn’t own her heart, even if it would kill him in the end and make him neighbors with Rory, he needed to keep her.

Owen sighed, letting out all his frustration with a shrug. “Just … tell me. What do you need?”

“A place to hide for a few weeks,” she said plainly, “until I figure out what to do.”

The blacksmith looked around the one-room flat, knowing the one thing for which she asked, he could not give her. Perhaps her, but not her and a child, and in the midst of town.

“This won’t do,” he said, motioning to the wider room. Owen looked the child, her tears drying over-reddened cheeks. “Too small, and too dirty for your leanaí.”

Then a thought, brief but strong and persistent as a bull, crossed his mind. “But I think I might know a place.”

“Maeve?”

Owen knew she was there; he could see the wispy but ever-present smoke emanating from the chimney, rising towards the darkening sky. Maeve was reckless this way, burning fires all times of the day. Anyone who may have made their way from the overgrown and unkempt path to Shepherd’s Bluff would see clearly that squatters had taken up in the middleman’s abandoned cottage.

Still, Maeve cooked. She could not weep, she could not go to market, she could not sew, but she could cook. And by cooking whatever meager scrap the blacksmith was able to bring her from town in the evening or find in the forest at morn, she kept herself occupied so as not to dwell.

So as not to think of him.

In the two weeks since she had arrived, Owen still hadn’t figured out exactly what it was that had happened in England. It was obvious he wasn’t the pull. She had been searching for a sympathetic friend, despite his initial reticence. For now, if that was what she needed, that was what Owen would be.

Maybe, just maybe, if enough time passed, and he allowed her some space, her heart would find its way back to him as well.

“Back here, Owen!”

In the bedroom, he found her sitting next to the child, the sleeping figure’s chest keeping a slow rhythm of rise and fall.

Owen mused at the image before him, thinking that, but for the lack of such fine, ebony hair in either of their families, this may have been the reception he had come home to every day. Though, in his fantasies, there was more than one child: two strapping boys, and one tender lass.

“She really is quite lovely, isn’t she?”

Maeve beamed in her pride, as though she had something to do with the fact. “Yes, she’s beautiful. She looks so very much like her fa … ”

Her words died as the memory was resurrected. How many times had Owen witnessed since her return the way her body would seize up at the mere recollection of Grayson? Maeve had settled into the temporary arrangement with a mellow spirit outwardly that still surprised him. Still, whenever the English bastard entered her mind, her face clouded over in sorrow and her brow became heavy with doubt.

Crossing the threshold, Owen took her hand and led her out of the bed chamber. He closed the door and guided Maeve to a chair next to the hearth, pushing her down and kneeling before her.

“You have to tell me what happened,” he began, his voice firm. “What made you leave? Can’t it … ” Owen couldn’t even believe he was making the suggestion, but every unspoken whisper in the air told him she loved Grayson still. “Can’t it be mended somehow?”

Maeve shook her head vehemently. “No. He didn’t do anything to me, and that is exactly why I left – he didn’t do anything to me. He loved me, protected me, cherished me, but always as though I was a secret plaything he kept hidden in his closet. I let it go for so long; I didn’t mind because I knew every moment he loved me. But he didn’t love me enough to … ” She trailed off, her eyes filling with tears.

“Go on,” Owen encouraged. “Not enough to … ”

Letting out a shaky sigh, she let go the tension. “Well, not enough to give me anything more than nothing.”

What she said next threw the unsuspecting blacksmith for a loop.

“We have to go back.”

He nearly choked on his own tongue.

“Go back?” Owen stammered, shooting to his feet. “You can’t be serious!”

“No matter his offense, it was wrong for me to take Goosie from her father.”

“But, Maeve!” he protested further, pacing. “I have seen you with this child. She loves you, as true as her own mother you were.”

“It’s still wrong. She asks about August constantly. Caroline and Jefferson as well. I can’t keep finding excuses. I can’t keep lying to her, Owen. If August wants me to … ” A throaty gulp swallowed more than tears. “If he wants me just as her nanny, then at least I don’t lose Augusta, too. At least I can still make good my promise to Amelia for her daughter.”

“What in the hell do you care about Amelia Grayson? Was she ready to step aside so you could take her place?” She would not answer. “Think about this for a moment. Grayson loved you. As much as it pains me to say that, it must be true. Took you from the only home you’d ever known and all the others you have ever loved.
And then he … did whatever he’s done. What makes you think he won’t do his own daughter the same?”

“Don’t be silly. August would never do that to Goosie.”

“Really?” Licking his lips, Owen dared her. “Then why is she here, Maeve? What were you protecting her from? Can you still protect her from it if you take her back now?”

“No, no I couldn’t.”

Realization dawned on her face, and he could see he had won. Maeve looked … blank. Owen mused that this was good; finally, she would have a fresh perspective not clouded over with her unfounded feelings for the English dog.

Her empty eyes turned to him. “What do I do, Owen? I can’t raise her hiding out in a middleman’s cottage, and least of all at Middle Lake. He’ll come here eventually, looking for me. I have to go … somewhere. And soon.”

Owen smiled, knowing well that this was the time to tell her, to make her believe this was right.

“I know,” he said, taking her hand in his and kissing it. She flinched for a moment, as though she might pull back, before allowing him to run his fingers over hers. “Don’t worry, I have a plan. But we’ll need some money.”

His eyes tracked to the corner of the room and the few items of clothing and small bag that Maeve had brought with her from England.

“How much do you think we can get for your things?”

“Uncle Owen!” the child squealed, bouncing up and down. “Houses! Houses!”

Maeve smiled, stroking the child’s hair into place. “Yes, Goosie, houses. Ever so many. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, how many! It’s just like London, isn’t it, sweet?”

Owen grimaced. “Aye, and just like London, they hate the Irish here, too.”

Maeve rolled her eyes. “This be the man who convinced me this would be a fresh start?”

He loved that her few weeks in Ireland had cleared her voice of the English overtones.

“Are you rescuing me from the lion’s den just to throw me back to the wolves?”

With a small chuckle, he shook his head. “No wolves here, Maeve. Just overfed fat cats.”

Castle Garden was stuffed to the rafters with every vagrant and riffraff from Europe and beyond. Augusta held Maeve’s hand, overwhelmed at the clutter of the clueless as they queued for processing in the steamy interior of the old military fort. For hours they waited. With each passing moment, Owen’s body and tolerance grew wearier. When he heard the child yelp as some passing brute knocked her down, reminding Owen that he was likely to be tossed right back on to a departing ship if got started, was the only way he calmed enough not to duck the oaf.

“I meant nothing, I didn’t see her,” the offender pleaded.

“Be lucky she didn’t break anything!” Owen barked back, shaking his fist. Maeve pulled Augusta, shaken but unhurt, back to her feet as Owen leaned over to inspect her. “Are you okay, Goosie?”

Maeve’s shocked eyes shot to him. “What did you say?”

“Are you okay, Goosie?” a confused Owen repeated.

Maeve’s mouth broke into a broad, beaming smile. “Owen Murphy, do you know that’s the first time you have ever called her by name?”

Owen retraced his memory and realized she was right. He had only thought of Augusta as Grayson’s child. Now a little pocket of his heart was expanding to embrace her.

“Guess so,” he returned, holding his hand out to Maeve. She took it readily, running her fingers in little circles over the back of his hand. As their eyes locked, he swore a spark of their former infatuation passed between them. He knew Maeve had never loved him, even before Grayson swept her away, but there had been camaraderie, a suggestion that one day she might.

“Next!”

The shouting officer brought Owen to attention.

“Remember, just let me do the talking.” He leaned over to Maeve and whispered.

“We haven’t all day, now. NEXT!”

Sheepishly, Owen approached the table, Maeve and Augusta following closely.

“Port of Origin?”

“Cork.”

“Town of Origin?” The officer looked up over half-moon spectacles, his eyes focusing on the Irishman expectantly.

“Killarney.”

He made a few quick scribbles. “Names?”

“Murphy: Owen, Maeve, and Augusta,” he answered, pointing to each in turn.

“Murphy: Owen. Wife, Maeve and daughter —” The officer eyed the child warily, noting no doubt that she did not look particularly like either her mother or father, “Augusta?”

Owen smiled and shook his head. “No, Maeve is my brother’s widow, sir. And little Goosie here is theirs. A great tragedy when her da died. A different sort of man from me, took after me mother’s side. Not a bit of—”

“All right, all right,” the officer grumbled dismissively, his pen scratching hard over the paper, venting his frustration. “Enough. Just give me what I ask for and no more, cotton? Murphy, Owen, the suffering widow, Maeve, and daughter, Augusta.”

Several other bits of information were collected before a physical inspection. Augusta giggled when they thumbed through her hair, looking for bugs. Owen unabashedly smiled at the thought of Grayson’s child being treated like a true Irish commoner. Some part of him thought it served justice.

Finally cleared, Owen took Maeve by the hand, who in turn took Augusta. Outside of Castle Garden, Maeve’s eyes scanned the crowd.

“Are you certain they’ll be here?”

Owen shrugged. “He’s always been trustworthy, I wouldn’t expect him to—”

“Wouldn’t expect me to what, Murphy?”

A great shadow cast over them, engulfing Owen whole, as Maeve spun on heel and took in the grinning mug of –

“Patrick O’Keefe!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms around his muscular frame. He picked her up clear off the ground. “Praise be, I never thought I’d see you again. Where is Patty?”

“Back at the flat,” he answered as he set her down. “Clare and Pat are spiteful today. Owen.” He greeted the blacksmith, giving a quick tap on the shoulder. “Good of you to finally bring our Maeve back to us. And hello to you, little lass.”