A Love by Any Measure (28 page)

Metallic clacking followed as the gate to August’s cell slowly creaked open. Maeve, always a careful examiner of words, wondered at the plurality of “gentlemen.” She tried to crane her neck to see who else had come in, but her view was regulated by the angle of their position.

“Don’t break anything. I don’t want the hassle.”

Jefferson chuckled. “Don’t worry, he’ll heal. In time.”

Lone footsteps paced back up the hall, followed by a cracking of the door and subsequent latching of the lock. In her cell, Maeve began to piece together the basics of their idea, but still couldn’t conceive how it would work. August’s cell might be open, and Jefferson may be here, but how were they planning to get …

“Maeve!”

She jolted as the voice called out to her and a most unexpected face came into view. Maeve took shelter against the back wall as her nerves jumped to full attention.

“Owen!”

He made to hush her, his eyes darting to the door to assure that the outburst wasn’t bringing any attention from the outside.

“Owen, what in the name of Kingdom Come are you doing here?”

His smile almost unnerved her with its vague self-assuredness.

“Doing what I should have done a long time ago,” he declared as he fished out from his pocket some scrap of cloth. His hands worked with alarming speed unrolling it, before he leaned against the bars of the cell. A scratch and tinkle of metal upon metal confused her, until a moment later when, to her shock and amazement, the lock of her cell disengaged, and the gate swung on its hinges.

Owen, wearing a smirk of confidence, took two steps in, backing Maeve into a corner. “Now, take off your clothes.”

As August rounded the corner, he was distressed by the look on Maeve’s face, her expression one of utter confusion and misunderstanding. If there had been time, August could have expounded upon the events leading to this moment at great length: how Murphy and he had agreed to set aside everything and focus on freeing her from jail; how Jefferson’s military experience allowed them to craft the covert mission with the best chance of success; how a hurried stop at their temporary residence had alerted Caroline, who had aided the effort by letting out hems and waistlines of the necessary clothing to better allow the interchange of attire.

And how it was all for her.

If there was one thing of which August was certain, it was that he could not live with himself if any ill befell her again. His foolhardy decisions had already cost her too much: her father, her friends, her home.

“Maeve, quickly!” Owen insisted as he began to peel off the clothes August had exchanged with him only an hour before. In wearing the fine dress of the aristocracy, if August had not known better himself, he would have sworn the Irishman to be any well-bred gentlemen on the street.

August came to the sudden realization that he stood motionless, gaping at his Maeve, her face full of doubt. Owen snapped his fingers with an echoing click at his face, bringing August from his reverie.

“Grayson, we haven’t time for tea. Jefferson, how’s it coming?”

The blacksmith was right. With a nod, August too began to peel off the outer layer of his garments, Owen’s commoner garb, and hand them to Jefferson.

“What … ?”

As Maeve looked at all three disrobing, August saw understanding begin to dawn in her tear-drought eyes.

In rushed words, he tried to explain. “Murphy will dress as you, Jefferson as the pickpocket and they’ll both stay behind in the jail. In the meantime, you and I will escape disguised as the victimized two gentlemen.”

“Escape?” she repeated, but still made no motion to comply. “But if you help me escape, you’ll be an accomplice.”

No longer could he let his or her heart doubt the veracity of his dedication. In this hour, at this moment, the clock was ticking away, every second pulling an opportunity to flee. She needed to know, to trust that he would protect her, and that he was sincere. She needed to trust that he was prepared to lose everything he ever had to gain back the only thing that would ever matter.

Without further hesitation, August closed the distance between them and crushed her body to his, pushing her head to his shoulder.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry … ”

His apologies became his breath, the steady ebb and flow by which he maintained life. Maeve’s face heated against the thin cotton of Owen’s borrowed shirt, but the tears had stopped. Her frame shook.

“August, you cannot do this.”

He pulled away and looked longingly into her eyes, begging with his gaze for explanation.

“Goosie!” she cried suddenly. Her brow hardened as she stiffened in his arms. “I could even go to the gallows with my head held high, but only if I know that Augusta will be all right. If you are caught … ”

He took her face between his hands, running his thumb over her cheeks. “Don’t you dare, Maeve O’Connor. Everything you have done, you have done for Goosie or me. Don’t you think for a second that I’m about to let all that be for nothing.” A gentle kiss on her lips broke her tension. She pulled away, eyes closed, breathing easy. “Our daughter needs us both.”

The momentary comfort was brought to an end when a pile of clothes landed on the back of August’s head, and he turned to see Murphy’s impatient scowl, the Irishman standing in nothing but his undergarments.

“For the love of Mary, will you two get on with it?”

At last, Maeve complied. Tossing aside her wrap, she pulled her frock over her head. Luckily, despite the difference in her feminine frame and the blacksmith’s sturdy physique, the loose cut of prison attire allowed Owen to don the woman’s garb without too odd an outcome. With a quick bend, he retrieved the woolen, gray wrap and threw it over his head, hiding and absence of long chestnut hair.

Jefferson and August had also finished their exchange of clothes when Jefferson retrieved the set-aside lantern and held it aloft. What beheld August’s eyes as he turned stopped him at the quick: Maeve was staring at Murphy, eyes wide and watering, as he leaned patiently against the back wall of her cell, waiting for the gate to seal him in. Owen returned a sheepish smile, beaming right back at her. Realizing they both needed this moment, August placed his hand on the small of Maeve’s back, now covered by coat tails, and nudged her forward.

Leaning in, August whispered into her ear. “It’s all right. I understand.”

One measured step, then a second, and with two more purposeful strides, she reached the blacksmith and wrapped her arms around his neck. Owen bent over and returned the gesture, placing the most tender of kisses on her cheek.

“Tá mo chroí istigh ionat,” he said to her, inhaling deeply her scent as she all but cut off his breathing with her grasp.

“I will remember you for this always, Owen.” Maeve turned her head and returned his chaste kiss.

Though the scene might have driven August to the edge of mad jealousy before, he felt nothing in its wake but gratitude.

With one more lung full, Owen exhaled and kind-heartedly eased Maeve away. “Go now, before it’s too late.”

“Yes, Hume is likely to return any moment to assure that we haven’t seriously injured the prisoner,” Jefferson agreed. “You two should make haste.”

Taking Maeve’s hand in his own, August led her out of the cell. Her eyes remained fixed on Owen. Jefferson made to close the gate, but Owen stepped forward, wrapping his hands around the bars and pressing his face through the cracks as the lock clicked into place.

“Grayson!” 

August looked away from Maeve, trying to help her gather her hair into the crown of the tall black hat.

Owen smiled at August for perhaps the first time. “You make sure you remember that she chose you above all. Don’t you ever make her regret that again.”

He acknowledged the demand with a gracious nod. “I shan’t. Never again. I swear.”

The agreement was sealed in a silent gaze. Finally, Owen broke the moment.

“You should get in, Jefferson. Keep to the shadows if you can.”

“This is ridiculous!” Maeve barked suddenly. “Even if I hide my hair in this hat, they’re going to notice that two blonds walked in and two brownies are walking out. “

“It was dark, he’ll just suppose he didn’t see us well enough,” August tried to assure her.

“And what about the fact that I’m a whole head shorter than all of you?”

“Jefferson made sure to slouch when he was coming in.”

“And my body is so much smaller than—”

“Mo chroi!” August snapped, cutting her off abruptly. She jolted, but only eyed him with curiosity. “Did Guinevere dissuade Lancelot with all the why-nots? Are you so opposed to being swept off your feet and made deliriously happy?”

“No, I suppose not,” she playfully returned, her cheeks blushing over.

And though her skin was covered in the grime of her imprisonment, though her face was now streaked with lines left by tears, her smile was the most beautiful thing in all creation. Even after all, August could see in that smile that she loved him.

He pulled her close without thought of consequence or circumstance. The rim of her hat pushed against his forehead as he lowered his lips. It fell to the side and to the floor. As Maeve’s hair spilled down over her shoulders and his lips caressed hers, August felt her body go stiff. In the distance, outside the jail and from the tower of the adjacent court house, the ringing of a clock echoed through the night.

He pulled away only long enough to take in her terrified and rigid shock before looking over his shoulder.

Hume held the lantern high overhead, illuminating the entire scene all too well: August, hands on Maeve; Maeve, dressed in a man’s long-tail coat and wrapped in another “man’s” arms; Owen, scowling like a billy goat behind bars; and Jefferson, still outside the cell and dressed in a poor man’s garb, holding their own lantern aloft.

August was certain, though he did not look himself, calculations of courses of action were screwing Jefferson’s appearance as the strategist nature overtook his sister’s husband.

Hume came back from his wordless shock. “What the … bloody … hell?”

A revolver was drawn. A lantern was thrown. Maeve screamed. Glass shattered. A figure shot past August. A struggle ensued. Another lantern clanked against the floor. More shattering glass. The sound of a scuffle. Jefferson’s fist flew. Hume ducked. Everything went black.

Then, light.

Terrifying, consuming, scorching, flickering light.

The woolly wood planks of the floor creaked as the oil of the lanterns flowed between the cracks, creating a myriad of pathways for the fire to follow. A small swirl of flame burgeoned into a chasm of blaze. The wood all around — dry, old and worn, framed inside the brick of the exterior walls — glowed briefly before any realized what had happened.

Hume did not waver. He waylaid into Jefferson full force, landing a fist in his stomach, causing the Captain to double over. Looking smug, the officer didn’t respect the fortitude of his opponent.

Jefferson gave one fury-filled glance as he looked up. The flames reflected in his eyes, adding to the veil of tyranny August feared had been many a Union soldier’s last view of this blessed world.

“Go.” Jefferson growled the order clearly. “August, get away. NOW!”

Wisely, August hesitated no more. Grabbing Maeve’s hand and pulling her through the door, he heard Jefferson’s body slam into Hume’s as the latter shrieked in agony.

Maeve’s feet were swift and her tongue still as August maneuvered them down the stairs and through the outer gate which, thankfully, Hume hadn’t had the opportunity to lock behind him. A gaggle of blue-cloaked officers eyed them suspiciously as they emerged into their presence.

“Fire!” August yelled to distract them from the woman dressed in men’s clothing hooked under his arm. “In the cells. Quickly!”

All jumped as August moved with determination in the opposite direction, for the door leading to the street. Behind them, he could hear the already-frantic police scramble. As Maeve and August plunged into the bitterly cold Boston night, a pang of anxiety overtook him. There was no need to worry about Jefferson; his skills in defense and escape were no doubt sufficient. As they ducked and scurried through the darkened Boston streets, August’s mind replayed the image of his final backward glance: Murphy, oddly serene in the flickering firelight, the shadow of the bars intersecting his face.

August couldn’t think about that now. It was only a matter of time before the fire would be put out and all would realize the truth: the Norwich Nanny had escaped. August felt Maeve tremble as they fled, trying to gain distance enough to reach the wharf where Caroline was stationed.

“August!”

He turned to see what alarmed her. On the far end of the street, three police pointed in their direction, turning to pursue.

“This way!”

He coaxed Maeve through an alleyway and into the recesses of a landing dock. It wasn’t far now. He could hear the lapping of water.

The police paused at the end of the alley as August tilted his head forward to observe while trapping Maeve against the wall with his arm. Their pursuers made a few paces up the alley. August held his breath and gave every prayer that their sight would not pierce the blanket of the shadows over him and Maeve.

“They’re over there!” someone shouted from beyond August’s scope of vision. He tensed and gasped, as did Maeve.

Instead, the officer, now just some ten feet away, whirled in a different direction and ran off. Easing his frame, August realized only too late that another took his place, stalking up the alley.

The clop-clop of his footfall kept time with the tap-tap of the night stick to his hand, at the ready. His pace was measured, deliberate, as if he all but knew they were there but refusing to pounce on his prey before he was good and ready.

In that moment, everything became clear. August knew what he had to do, and he knew what it would cost him. He knew that it would kill him, as well. Still, he would not see Maeve taken back into custody. He would not see her suffer anymore.

Gently pulling Maeve closer, August whispered so that, by the grace of God, only she could hear.

“When I make for him, you run. Meet Caroline at the wharf. She’s waiting there with Goosie.”

He could taste her tears on the breeze. “No, not without you.”

Shuddering with resolve, August pulled her hand to his lips and pressed a silent kiss to her fingers.

“Maeve, I’m sorry. For … Well, for not doing what I should have done.”

“August, don’t … ”

“No time to argue. Take our daughter and be safe. I love you, Maeve. I love you.”

As though words alone would be enough to see her through the years of loneliness that would follow. The book was written, and his sacrifice would be the seal. What a bittersweet tragedy, made whole only in a final scene in which the two women August loved most in the world — his Maeve and his Augusta — were safe and together.