A Love by Any Measure (21 page)

I am a man lost. I know that I should feel aggrieved and remorseful for leading her to this fate, and yet I find myself too euphoric in her presence that I find I do not care what fare she pays to walk this road with me. But what now? How can I honor her and keep her? I know she deserves better than what I can provide. I am in desperate need of your counsel.

I am en route to Cork, on my way home. Return post to the Lancer Inn, where I shall stay a fortnight before sailing for Yarmouth.

A.”

Maeve let the letter drop to her lap and stared blankly at the fire. “What advice did you give?”

“She told me to keep you, by whatever means possible.”

Maeve gasped as she heard August’s voice, and wondered how long he had been standing and watching. Perhaps the whole time. Maybe he had only gone around the corner, wary of what words would flow between the two women.

Maeve, for one, had certainly not expected that Amelia supported her husband in his efforts to win a mistress’ heart.

August continued as he strode into the room, each step equally measured and cautious. “She told me that she had endured the pain of losing her love, and that if you loved me as much as I loved you, you would forgive me if, in the end, we were still together. Maeve, please forgive me. I love you, and I never wanted to hurt you. I had to— “

“Not that I suggested keeping my existence a secret,” Amelia interjected under her breath.

“But, August,” Maeve countered, “a child. How can this work?”

He stopped in his place and looked to Amelia with pleading eyes.

“Maeve, take heed not to push too hard, too quickly,” she answered. “You may be surprised the extent to which arrangements just as these are made in many of England’s most noble homes. August has always sworn to me that if my love should ever return, he would make similar accommodation. There are ways. But now I am tired and must rest.”

“Of course, Mel,” August agreed, helping her to her feet. Had Maeve been pressed to tell the truth, it was a tender moment to witness. But as the lord and lady smiled at each other, a spike of guilt and shame warred with an overpowering sense of possession and jealousy. “Maeve, perhaps you could … ”

Whatever her feelings, it was not right to jeopardize the unborn child’s welfare because of them. Maeve circled an arm around Amelia as August led the way toward the staircase. They guided her slowly and left her reclined on her bed on the second floor. Maeve left as Amelia and August talked in hush tones a short space. Despite that she felt hardly better than August for doing so, Maeve lingered outside and listened.

“I can see even in the way you look at her, you love her dearly.”

“More than I ever thought possible. But can she still love me? Only once before has she looked at me with so much hate: the first time we encountered each other when I returned to Killarney.”

Maeve heard a soft, endearing giggle. “And yet, you won her heart. You will again. Besides, you did not see what I did.”

Maeve could almost picture August’s head tilted.

“When she remembered you, she smiled. The same smile you gave when you saw her wake. This may not be ideal, but when have you ever conformed to the path laid before you? She’ll come around. You’ll see.”

“Rest now. We’ll speak more after.”

“Of course.”

He closed the door softly behind him and stood, staring into emptiness before cautiously speaking.

“I’ll … show you to your room.”

Maeve nodded as he turned and led her down the darkening hall. Some ways on, he turned into another corridor and opened a maple door to a room decorated in a style even she recognized as dated.

“This was my mother’s room, after my father turned her out from his,” he informed her.

As she passed through the door and surveyed from left to right, Maeve was not too surprised to see a small Comtoise clock. It appeared dead, not a single tick or tock echoing from its mechanical housing.

“Maeve, I–”

“No.” She cut him off, halting his attempt to embrace her and pushing him away. “I need time. Too many thoughts now to make sense of them all.”

“As much time as you need, my love.” Tentatively, he closed the space between them and took her hands into his, raising them slowly to his lips and pressing the most tender of kisses. “If you should ask for forever, then I will be here waiting until the day after forever ends.”

His eyes were so stark, so sincere, so true. “I love you, Maeve.”

She withdrew slowly her hands from his, determined to keep her heart from melting.

Tears did not stop that night. She hated everyone, and loved everyone. But of those for whom she felt grief, felt some horrid fault of hearts wounded and dreams desecrated, no other’s grief did she understand better than that of poor Owen Murphy.

The Arraignment

Boston, MA, October 1872

“M
aeve O’Connor?”

“Aye, sir.”

“From Killarney?”

“Aye.”

Judge Donegal looked over the stack of papers, his bifocals resting at the end of his nose. At the second confirmation, he leaned over and continued in very hushed tones, “Any relation to Rory O’Connor?”

“My father, sir.”

A grimace flitted across his face as he sat back. “Read about him in the papers. Died with honor, he did. A mercy he didn’t live to see what you’ve sunk to.”

Maeve felt the teardrops tease the corners of her eyes.

The Boston courtroom teemed. The fact that the trial garnered so much attention was beyond belief, but then Tara had told her on a visit to the jail that the papers were heralding the case as a warning to mother’s everywhere: don’t trust anyone, least of all the Irish. “The Nefarious Nanny of Norwich,” that’s what the newsies barked when they tried to hock their papers. In public, Maeve was accused of everything from bribery to arson to murder.

A month had passed since the arrest as the horridness of her reputation grew. Maeve put little faith in the trial; she understood without delusion that she would be condemned for the one crime of which she actually was guilty: kidnapping.

Only her concern for Augusta kept her grasping at fraying threads of hope. Tara had kept the child before their location was discovered. Despite Maeve’s treatment by the Anglican-sympathetic press, the Irish of Boston held tight and kept the bizzies occupied on a wild goose chase for a few days. After, she was left with a well-to-do merchant family, acquaintances of Judge Donegal. That was, until a member of her “real family” could arrive to take her.

But now, as the trial loomed before her and she found herself standing before justice, Maeve felt all courage evaporate as the severity of the likely punishment weighed upon her.

“Maeve O’Connor,” Donegal continued in a loud booming voice that filled the room. “You are charged with the kidnapping of Augusta Amelia Grayson from the house of her father, Lord August Grayson, Norwich, England, on or about April 18, 1870. How do you plead?”

“Not guilty, sir,” Maeve proclaimed through a faltering tone. Her heart knew otherwise, but for Augusta’s sake, she would stand firm.

Donegal scribbled his notes before looking up. “Very well. Miss O’Connor, it is acknowledged and recorded that you have claimed innocence. So that you may prepare your defense, this court will recess for three days and resume session Thursday morning at nine o’clock.”

The gavel pounded thrice. The only kindness the bailiff paid Maeve was not overly manhandling her as he led her from the courtroom, a sea of eyes following; some sympathetic, some incredulous, some accusatory.

Maeve expected to be thrown immediately back in to her cell, but was surprised when instead she was guided to a small sitting room on the second floor of the court. Her representative, a docile man with wire-rim glasses and a combed-over head of graying brown hair, followed wordlessly. Maeve had come not to expect much assistance from Mr. Kroner. He had said as much on their first meeting that, as she did not deny being guilty in private, he wouldn’t “make an ass” of himself by attempting to argue her innocence, but act only in as much capacity as necessary to maintain her right to counsel.

In other words, insofar as preparing a defense, Maeve was on her own.

Mr. Kroner closed the door as the bailiff exited. He eyed her with a disdain often reserved for street walkers.

“Well, that’s that,” he stated indifferently. “Wondering why we’re waiting here, O’Connor?” Maeve looked up at him with loathing. “You have a visitor who wishes to see you in private.”

“I told you, I have nothing more to say to Owen Murphy.”

Owen had made several foolhardy attempts to visit since she’d been in jail. He even found someone to write a letter, begging her forgiveness, claiming he regretted turning her in. She had ripped it to pieces and refused to face him.

Kroner’s mouth curled into a malicious sneer. “Not Murphy.”

He turned away with a spring in his step as he pulled the door open and called out into the hall. “Sir, she’s ready for you. The judge asks I limit your visit to five minutes. If you like, I can have the bailiff inform you when—”

“Don’t bother,” came the voice that sent an instant chill down her spine and made Maeve sit straighter than a man hanging from the gallows. “She and I are quite practiced in measuring time.”

August rounded the corner as he peeled one glove and then the other off before slapping them into the palm of his left hand. His eyes, the very ones which had looked at her once so lovingly, were now filled with rage and confusion. It had been less than three years, yet he had aged twice as much in that time. A smattering of gray mixed with his ebony locks, and a wrinkle ran across his forehead.

Kroner closed the door behind him as Maeve fought with her better instinct telling her to look away, not to acknowledge August. With a huff, he sat across from her, his gaze now fixed at the table, as though looking at her instead would cast him over as a pillar of salt. Maeve chanced a glance, however, and was surprised to see his expression shifting: one moment a scowl and the next a quivering lip.

He said nothing, and neither could Maeve conjure any word that might properly convey the swirling of every emotion she had ever felt in his presence compressed into one terrible instant.

“Did I … once, ever … Did I ever pose to you a threat?”

Her voice in answer was barely audible. “Never once.”

He nodded briefly, and spoke next through clenched teeth. “In all the times I confessed my love to you, did you once believe I was false? Were you, perhaps, harboring some secret fear of me you were too scared to mention?”

“I have never feared you, August.”

He pivoted in his chair, now trapping her line of sight to his own, and leaned over the table. “Was it revenge? Was the life we built together just some sort of façade, concocted so that you might give me a comeuppance? Is that why … ” His voice broke and he turned away. “Is that why you stole her? To avenge yourself?”

“No, August.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Did you truly love me?”

His eyes bore into hers with the weight of the world, as though the sanctity of all humanity and the very key to heaven lay in the beseeched truth of his inquiry.

“I love you still.”

His expression softened, and he reached across the table, his fingertips running across the inside of Maeve’s wrists delicately.

“God help me, Maeve, I … I don’t know … ”

He trailed off again, his brow furrowed. Had she not known better, she would have sworn her presence was ripping his heart from his chest. His face screwed up in confusion as he bit his upper lip and winced. Maeve felt herself melt, wanting to do something — anything — to soothe him. Her head lilted sideways and her eyes began to tear.

“August, I’m ... ”

Her rock of conviction was crumbling. For so many years, actions had been justified — as drastic as they were — certain that what she did had to be done. She had left, yes, but was there any other way? She had made a vow, and in the service of the vow, all else that she held dear was forsaken.

“I’m so sorry, August,” Maeve said sincerely, pulling her hands back into her lap.

The withdrawal was met by his equal retreat as August rose. Maeve chanced to continue, not knowing if perhaps this would be the last occasion on which they might ever speak.

“It was never my intention to hurt you. Or your wife.”

He paused at the door, his hand lingering on the handle. He turned his body and spoke over his shoulder.

“Wife? After what you’ve done, why should I marry any one?”

He left, taking with him the last semblance of righteousness Maeve possessed.

Augusta’s Hands

“I
’m so sorry, August.”

For one passing instant, one brief flicker of time, August forgot all that had happened and wanted Maeve beside him. But as he watched her hands retreat from his and fall out of view beneath the table, he recalled the place and hour. They were in the Boston courthouse, and Maeve O’Connor was on trial for kidnapping his daughter.

Their Goosie.

Had not Maeve raised Augusta as her own? Had they not been blissful? Within the grounds of Meadowlark, they were a family, no matter the lack of acknowledgement from church and state.

Why did she leave?

The coldness descended upon his heart again as he finding them gone without explanation, without cause, without warning. Yes, she deserved this now. She deserved to be ripped of her liberty and thrown in jail. Not for taking Augusta; Maeve loved her as much as she loved him, if not more. She would never endanger her, no matter the circumstance. No, she deserved this because of what she had done to him. August had loved twice unconditionally: first with the girl who had kissed him by an Irish waterfall, and second with the gift from heaven that was his own flesh and blood. In one fell swoop, Maeve had denied his love twice over.

But her tone, her regret … It sounded so sincere. Perhaps, whatever the reason for her departure, there was a chance she truly loved him still. But did August have it in him to forgive her?

No, absolutely not, and if he stayed in the room any longer, his resolve would break. He could not deny his love for Maeve any more than he could deny his lungs breath. Standing to leave, he vowed not to say another word to her, ever.

And, although it tore at him to do so, he had reason to leave: his second love was nearby, waiting.

August had nearly succeeded in fleeing without falter, his hand on the door knob, when he heard her mutter, “It was never my intention to hurt you. Or your wife.”

His body stiffened, and he was relieved she could not see the pain in his twisting expression, could not see how he bit his own bottom lip to keep from speaking. How dare she suppose that he would wed another, that she had meant so little to him.

August took in a slow, deliberate breath and turned that she may hear clearly. “Wife? After what you’ve done, why should I marry any one?”

Quick steps carried him. He took refuge in the awaiting coach. As soon as the door closed, August drew the curtains as the sting of the tears burned his eyes. Such a swirl of emotions — he loved her, he hated her, he hated her for letting him love her, he hated himself that he could hate her and love her still.

But then a small ounce of reason seeped into the churning seas of August’s soul: He loved her. He had always and would always love Maeve. He only hated that she left, hated not knowing what had transpired to make her go, hated that he spent so much time thinking she did not love him as he loved her. But to forgive such a transgression? August hated most that he was left lurching in that contemplation.

Augusta. His darling child, his sweetest angel. She was the reward for all the pain and sacrifice and struggle, perhaps the one tribute of divine grace wrought from Emmanuel’s misguided attempts to assure his children’s recovery from his own social gaffe. God blessed them with Augusta.

Through his tears, August found his heart racing with anticipation and a smile surfaced across his face. Would she remember him, he wondered. Had Maeve told her anything of him? If so, what? And why did she think he was not with her? Had Maeve told her that he died, or whether she had ever loved him?

So many questions, but today, August just wanted to see her face and hold her in his arms to prove to himself that she was real and not a figment of his imagination. As the coach pulled up in front of the brown-brick row house, his disappointment and hurt momentarily receded, replaced by joy. He practically leapt from the carriage and knocked at the door, not even allowing the coachman opportunity to assist. A few moments later, August was greeted by Mrs. MacDougal and led up the stairs to the nursery.

“We’re quite taken with Goosie, Lord Grayson,” she said in a thick, Bostonian tone. “She’s such a generous child, and so well mannered. Clearly good breeding. Though no great compensation for being separated from her by that vile woman, at least she was miraculously well-minded.”

August felt himself instinctively cringe at the defaming of Maeve’s character. Defending her seemed the most natural posture to assume, but he could not think of a convincing argument to be made. What did it matter what this woman thought of Maeve, anyhow? Had it ever mattered to him what anyone had ever thought of her?

“Miss O’Connor was always a superb governess,” was all he could manage as they rounded the top of the stairs and started down a narrow hall, the floorboards beneath moaning with each step.

They came at last to a white-washed door, and August could hear the sounds of a child singing just beyond. His stomach tied into knots; anxious, quivering knots at the realization that his daughter sat within, only the round matron before him barring entrance.

“Remember,” she warned, her eyes stern and her tone certain, “with all the time passed, and considering how young the dear heart was when she last saw you, you may be no more than a stranger to her. Let her warm to you at her own pace. With all she’s been through these last few weeks, don’t unsettle her by running into the room and scaring her half way to kingdom come by swooping her up like a puppy.”

August swallowed his pride and his intent, nodding stiffly. “Yes, of course.”

Mrs. MacDougal gave a little half grin and cracked the door. With a slight sweep of her hand, she gestured him forward.

Augusta, the perfect specimen of youthful resilience to the realities of circumstance, sat on the floor, playing. Did this look like a child who had been stolen in the night and kept unwillingly from her ancestral home? Was this the image of a neglected Cosette, bartered away for her own safe keeping only to be met with disdain and indifference? Could this child have possibly suffered a day of depravity in her small number of years?

No, she was happy and perfect, and a bestowment of grace on earth.

The hinges creaked as the door opened wholly. Augusta paused in her tending of a small, porcelain-faced doll to turn around.

“Miss, this is a friend,” Mrs. MacDougal said in a light voice. “He’s traveled a very long distance to meet you.”

Augusta very carefully put her toy on the floor and stood. August was amazed at how tall she was. Last he had seen her, her arms would circle around his leg as she would kiss his knee. Now, her head reached the level of his hip, and her hair was long enough to be neatly pinned in a bun atop her head.

She took a few paces in his direction, a tenuous but not unpleasant look on her face. August schooled his instincts telling him to reach down and take her. Instead, he allowed his daughter to set the pace. She stopped and, to his surprise, curtsied.

“Very nice to meet you, sir. I’m Augusta Murphy.”

“God, child!” Mrs. MacDougal scolded, clicking her tongue and shaking her head. “How many times have we told you, your name is … ”

“Nothing but a name!” August interjected. His host cowered, and Augusta flinched.

“It’s all right,” he said as he kneeled down and rubbed his daughter’s arms in comfort. “Augusta, do you know of William Shakespeare?”

She shook her head as confusion spread across her face.

“He was an English playwright. He wrote once, ‘What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’ Murphy or not, you are still the same sweet child. It’s very nice to meet you. My name is Gus. Do you mind if I sit and play with you for a while?”

Augusta’s eyes flashed to Mrs. MacDougal, as though asking permission. The thick woman gave a curt nod, and then shot August a warning glare. August bobbed his head. With a spin of her heel, Mrs. MacDougal exited, closing the door behind her.

He assumed a seat on the floor and studied his daughter. She was so perfect, so divinely perfect. Her eyes were brilliantly blue and big — Amelia’s eyes, soft in their expression. Surprisingly, her demeanor was Maeve’s. She held herself tall and forthright, and even her smallest mannerisms and the tone of her muddled accent reflected an Irish influence.

August looked for a distraction to stop the tears from coming. He spotted her plaything on the floor and picked it up.

“Does she have a name?”

Augusta ran her fingers over the doll’s black, curly locks and pale ivory skin. “Alice.”

“Alice? What a fine name. Where did you learn of it?”

“My mother read me the book,” she said plainly. “Do you know it?”

August beamed at her. “Yes, I think I do. The one with the rabbit hole, yes? Alice runs away, doesn’t she? And has great adventures, before realizing that she misses home very, very much and tries to find her way back. Do you like that book?”

“It’s Ma’s favorite,” Augusta answered, a bit of joy coming in to her voice now, as she took the doll from him and smoothed out its blue dress. “But it makes her terribly sad, too.”

“Why?” Honestly, he could not understand.

Augusta shrugged. “I think she wants to go home, too. She just doesn’t know how. She can’t find the way.”

His heart ached in earnest. But still, he wondered. “Did your mother tell you where home is?”

She smirked, and as though she were conspiratorially letting him in on a secret, she answered. “It’s a beautiful house in a faraway land. Ma says my da was a sort of prince. Did you know he called her Cinderella?”

August’s breath hitched, but he refused to worry Augusta by crying; tears could only be afforded in solitude. He had adopted the pet name for Maeve a few months before their disappearance, after they had taken to telling Augusta bedtime stories. During a retelling of the little cinder girl story, Maeve had joked at how similar the tale was to her own fortune. ‘Then you must be the prince,’ she told him when he held her in his arms.

Did telling Augusta about this endearment mean that she still recalled their happiness?

The child’s questioning gaze led August to realize that he had been silent for some time. He smiled, and was overjoyed when the divine gesture was reflected twofold on her face.

“A prince? Wouldn’t that make you a princess? Princess Augusta!” he proclaimed with all due pomp as he held hands high in the air in exclamation.

She giggled, and it made him laugh, too. “I like you,” she said. “You’re funny.”

Without further delay, she ran to August and threw her arms around his neck, kissing him on the cheek. He could deny it no more. August wrapped his arms around her and held her petite frame close, taking in the scent of her hair, the smoothness of her face pressed against his.

“I’ve missed you so much, dear one,” he muttered as he pressed more kisses unto her chin, her forehead, anywhere. “I thought I might never see you again.”

“You are a prince, aren’t you?”

He laughed. “Right now, I feel like a king.”

“Did you come to rescue my mother?”

The stark comment threw him. August pulled back. Augusta’s face was full of hope. He felt his insides roll.

“I came to rescue you, dear heart.”

Her face screwed up in confusion. “Rescue me?” she asked, perplexed. “Rescue me from what?”

From what indeed, he wondered. August knew not what to say. The contemplation was cut short as she spoke again.

“You have my hands,” she said, running her fingers over his.

Augusta pulled his hands into hers as best she could, though tiny they were and not able to fully encircle her father’s. She turned them over several times, examining the length of each finger, the wrinkles of skin over his knuckles, tracing over the crease that fortune tellers in London called “the life line.” Then she splayed her fingers wide and held her hand next to his. For so young a child, August marveled at the realization on her face; he could almost see the thoughts running through her mind as she passed from disbelief to amusement to stark comprehension.

“My ma says I have my father’s hands. Are you … ”

He didn’t have to say anything. The truth was there to be seen, even by a child. August felt pride swell within as his daughter found him out for who he was. She squealed as her arms tried to wrap about him.

“Oh, it is you! You’ve come! You’ve come for us at last, to take us back to your castle!”

Images of father and daughter sitting in the gardens of Meadowlark flashed through his mind — beautiful, but incomplete. Then the vision shifted, and August saw his daughter sitting in Maeve’s lap, with him seated on the ground behind them, his arms circling around Maeve’s waist, and only in the possibility of that vision would he be content.

August felt warmth unlike any he had ever known. It was folly to suppose, however, that the wounds between them could be so easily mended. He needed to know so much; so very much was still a mystery. At the very least, how had his daughter come to be called Augusta Murphy? Maeve left Owen and Killarney years ago. Was it really so beyond belief that August may have gotten his just desserts, that the intervening force of providence had delivered her back into Murphy’s arms, that perhaps they had even wed? But if Owen loved Maeve one-one thousandth of how much August had, how could he have betrayed her? Allowed her to move to the Americas alone, and with a small child in tow?

August needed answers. He knew he would believe whatever Maeve may offer — truth or lie. He was too willing, too eager to believe anything that would allow forgiveness without further delay, to just pick up and carry on. If she loved him, why would she leave? The question kept nagging at him. August needed to hear it from him. He needed to hear the words from the Fenian Furrier of Killarney.

Three days passed in bliss as father and daughter reacquainted. Caroline and Jefferson arrived, little Charles at their side. Augusta delighted in her cousin’s company, even when the three-year-old climbed onto her lap and pulled at her hair. Jefferson canvassed town, using his few contacts amongst the Irish to track down Owen. Finally one night they found him, half drunk, seated at the bar of a Quincy pub.

“Another whiskey!” he shouted to the barman as August sauntered up from behind and sat down several stools away. Owen didn’t notice his presence, for which August was glad. He wanted to observe him first, aided by the dim light offered in the pub.

“Must be a woman,” August said in perfectly toned Irish, and luckily the alcohol and false tongue didn’t rouse suspicion as Owen turned and took in the partially-lit profile.

“Aye, that is part of it,” he answered back groggily. “And that I’m a right bastard who’ll burn in hell, and won’t the whiskey make my burning easier for the devil?”

August played along, desperate to learn what loose lips may betray. “Here to drink your guilt away, then? Tussle some tart?”

“Worse. Took a mother from her child for my own selfish ends,” he spat back. “Somewhere in Boston, there’s a girl who doesn’t know what became of her ma. Doesn’t know she’s in jail because of me, because of what I convinced her to do.”

It hardly answered his question, but August couldn’t think of how to broach the subject without rousing suspicion. Instead, he decided to play sympathetic.

“I’m sure it’s not that bad. Everyone’s on their own card, in the end.”

Owen turned to him, a rue smile on his face. “Not her, sir. Wasn’t her idea to go so far, to leave him forever. I convinced her,” he assured, poking himself in the chest with his thumb. “Told her it was best for the child. But how could it be? That child lost her ma and … Hey, don’t I … Do I know you?”