Bees in the Butterfly Garden (9 page)

Meg nearly smiled at yet another look of astonishment on Maguire’s handsome face, finding she enjoyed surprising him. Between his menacing tone and the fierce look in his eyes, Meg might once have stepped back. If someone—anyone—had treated her in such a way just last week, she’d have melted into a puddle of eager-to-please capitulation.

But everything had become so clear today. No wonder she’d resented each of her eighteen years of following rules, eighteen years of being forced to behave in a way that was never her first thought. Eighteen years of doing as
others
expected instead of pleasing herself. Knowing each of her forebears had very likely done exactly as
they
pleased, breaking whatever rules
they
wished, why shouldn’t she?

“And how long do you intend to stay with Kate?” Maguire’s voice was so steady that she marveled at his control.

“Indefinitely.”

His brows gathered. “That’s not in your best interest, Meggie. What of your place at school? Friends?”

“All of that is over. It must be. I couldn’t possibly jeopardize the school’s reputation more than I already have.”

“How can it matter now? Your father is dead, and you’ve never done anything wrong—”

“The school accepted funds that were illegally gained. Obviously there was not a glance at my heritage, even though it’s believed every girl admitted must withstand a rigorous investigation. I won’t risk the school further by adding so much as a day to my residence there.”

“You won’t find a suitable husband living with Kate.”

“Who said I was looking for one?”

“Every girl your age—”

“Not me.”

He raised a finger directly in her face. “Look, I’m not accustomed to being cut off midsentence. You’ll listen to me—” She opened her mouth again, but he was already shaking his head and raising his volume. “You’ll listen to me, and you’ll heed what I have to say. Even if Kate convinced you she knows what your father wanted for you, I have a pretty good idea of it myself. You have as much obligation to listen to me as you have to her.”

She crossed her arms. “Very well, Mr. Maguire. Had I shown up at his door while he was alive, what do you suppose he would have told me to do?”

Despite his own claim a moment ago, he appeared somewhat flummoxed. Definitely a good sign.

But his hesitation didn’t last long. “If marriage is out of the question—for the time being—he would have wanted you to continue schooling. If not at Madame Marisse’s, then elsewhere. He wanted you in school until you chose a husband.”

While Meg knew there were a handful of colleges that allowed women, and several finishing schools she might consider as well, all she saw now in such a choice was a life according to someone else’s rules. She would never be free to do as she pleased if she went from being a student to being a teacher.

Besides, no institution in the country would accept someone whose education thus far had been paid for by money gained as her father’s had been. Not any institution where reputations mattered, at any rate.

“No, Mr. Maguire. I’m finished with school. For good.” Meg unfolded her arms, brushed away the wrinkles in her sleeves that had formed while she’d clutched herself together, and attempted as conciliatory a smile as she could muster. “After the funeral, I’m going to Kate’s. As I said, for an indefinite period of time.”

Then she followed the same path from the room that both Kate and Pubjug had taken before.

10

It is socially imperative that a funeral not only honor your beloved deceased, but fittingly reflect the status of a life well lived.

Madame Marisse’s Letters to Young Wives
, No. 12

“. . . So let us remember we shall be reunited with John on that day when we, too, leave behind the burdens of the flesh and run into the arms of our Savior. The very Savior who offers abounding grace and unconditional love, who throws our sins away as far as the east is from the west. We commit the body of our brother John to the earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ. . . .”

It was over. Her father’s body was lowered into the ground, although the gravesite still awaited closure.

Meg walked away, twisting her handkerchief between tense fingers. She saw Kate stay even as others waited for her to go. It was the custom for only men to witness the final interment, but this was one rule Meg didn’t care to break. She didn’t belong there; Kate did.

Nearly everyone had cried except Meg. She saw Maguire’s eyes well up more than once. Even the older man, Mr. Brewster, had the sparkle of one tear make a path down his cheek while the minister spoke. And Kate’s constant sniffling bespoke her immeasurable grief.

Meg told herself she’d cried over her father last night; surely that was more than he deserved, having abandoned her since she was four years old.

But the truth was those tears had been shed not for her father, but for herself. Perhaps he’d believed that by not allowing her in his life he’d spared her from the less than noble truth about him, but the end result was that she’d never known him. And now she never would.

She could have walked along the edge of the hill, toward Maguire’s house and away from this newly designated plot. Instead she descended that hill, away from the house, away from the others. Let the rest of them take comfort in one another; she didn’t know them and didn’t need their company. She didn’t belong with them in their grief.

Her father’s death meant certain change for her, more than she’d ever expected. If he were here, she might have asked him what he thought she should do, just as she’d put Maguire to the test earlier. Why had her father deposited her into a social circle that would never, ever accept her if the truth about him were uncovered?

The water rippled in the early-afternoon breeze, and she crossed her arms, reminding herself she was used to being alone. Her father’s death might have changed her future, but it hadn’t changed her past—a past that had taught her solitude.

“I wish it could have been different.”

Meg didn’t have to look behind her to know the voice was Maguire’s.

She didn’t turn from the water. “So do I.”

“Look, Meggie—” He drew in a breath as if to stop himself. “I want to apologize for last night. For all of yesterday, actually. I’ve been less than pleasant to you, and I didn’t mean to be that way. It’s part of grief, I suppose, being a bully to someone who doesn’t deserve it. I never meant to be that way, especially with you.”

He stepped beside her, and she glanced up at him, thinking she’d been somewhat of a bully herself—though she couldn’t attribute it to grief.

“If he were still here, alive and able to speak to you,” Maguire whispered, as if he supposed her thoughts were like his, unable to consider anything but her father, “he would tell you that he always loved you.”

Meg wanted to trust his words—how she wanted to—but everything she’d believed of her father wouldn’t let her. “I want to grieve him, but I realized during the service that I don’t know how. I never knew him.” She faced Maguire. “But you did. You knew him as I should have.”

He nodded, but the look on his face was wary at best. She wasn’t surprised; she resented him and made no secret of that. But for the moment she put that aside. “You might be the only one who can help me to grieve for him, Mr. Maguire. What was he like—as a father, I mean? Will you tell me?”

He studied her, as if trying to figure out if she were laying a trap for him. Then, evidently deciding to take her at her word, he took a step closer and gently wrapped her arm through his to stand beside her as if they were a couple, staring out at the river together.

“Your father put a roof over my head when I was twelve years old. He made sure I went to school and that I learned everything I ought to have learned.” He tilted his head toward her and grinned. “He helped me to lose me brogue, don’t you know. And he saw that I dressed and behaved in a way that didn’t leave me open to ridicule or mark me as a target. I tended to be on the scrawny side when I was younger.”

She smiled because though he was considerably taller than she was, he wasn’t much more than average height for a man. And anything but bulky.

“Being Irish and scrawny is a dangerous combination in New York, but your father taught me how to read others—to understand them enough to know when to keep my distance or to trust a friend.”

“Or . . . take advantage of a mark?”

He frowned. “Yes. But he was a good man despite some of the things he did. He was generous with what he had, protected me when I needed it, told me I was wrong when I needed to know that too. He wasn’t a model of virtue in the way you would define it, but he wasn’t without virtue, either. He loved well, and believe it or not, he lived generously. Everything he earned, he gave to you, or to me, to Kate, or to countless others he knew in need.”

“Like Robin Hood.” She hadn’t meant to sound snide, but she wasn’t as devoid of that tone as she would have liked. For a moment she wondered what it would have been like for the children of a real Robin Hood. Would they have welcomed knowing their father robbed from the rich to give it all away, especially if they never had his company because he had to hide himself from them? Would it have consoled them to lose him to a greater cause?

“I know your relationship with him wasn’t ideal, Meggie, but he arranged for you to be raised better than he could have done himself. He wanted you to have the best choices and to make a better life for yourself.”

“Better than yours?”

He stopped, facing her with an all-too-serious look on his face. “Most definitely.”

Meg sighed, knowing she would have to believe that or she would never know peace. “Thank you, Mr. Maguire.”

He slid his arm from hers only to catch both her hands in his. “If I learn to call you Meg instead of Meggie, can you learn to call me Ian instead of Mr. Maguire?”

“That, Ian, is acceptable.”

He led her away from where they stood, releasing one of her hands but keeping the other securely inside his own. Surprisingly, she had no desire to pull away, even if she did warn herself not to think too much of such contact.

They walked along the water’s edge, which seemed far away from the house and all the visitors in it. Meg found herself wanting to stay where she was instead of joining anyone else, and not only because she didn’t want to be with the others. She didn’t want Ian to leave her alone.

“Why did my father take you in? Where were your parents?”

“We’d come over on one of the immigrant ships, the five of us. My parents, two brothers, and me.” With his free hand he rubbed the back of his neck. “My parents were all that was left of their family after the hunger, but they did all right for us. My father was willing to leave it behind, though, to partner in a mission he’d been invited to join. He wanted to be a preacher, and New York City was to be the mission field for all the Irish who’d come before us.”

“You didn’t want to talk about such things when Kate brought it up last night.”

His brows drew together. “Because it was all some kind of hoax conjured up by a God with a twisted sense of humor, if you ask me. My father left Ireland to do God’s work and died before he could offer a single day’s effort. The God my father wanted to serve took my father, my mother, and my brothers and left me behind. The scrawniest, most useless and irreligious of the bunch.”

“I’m sorry, Ian,” Meg whispered. She’d been raised to believe God was sovereign and good and wanted only the best for everyone. But that same God had never answered any of her prayers about letting her know a real family, so she had nothing to offer Ian as comfort. “When did your family . . . die?”

“On the boat. Typhus. Half the people on that boat died, and they almost didn’t let the rest of us land. We were shipped to a holding cell for months, to make sure we weren’t bringing in the sickness.” He sighed, facing the water again. “I would have been shipped back, being an orphan, but I was healthy and old enough to work, and a stranger vouched for me so I could work in a sugar refinery. Only I hated it, so I ran away. Straight into your father.”

“And he took you in . . . like some kind of Fagin, turning you into his Artful Dodger?” She recalled the novels she wasn’t allowed to read, consumed late at night after the school staff had long gone to sleep.

“I was already stealing—I tried stealing his wallet, in fact. He made me stop pickpocketing altogether, until Pubjug . . . well, let’s just say I know Pubjug is capable of teaching you what he taught me, too.”

“My father didn’t want you to steal?”

Ian offered a smile that appeared halfhearted. “He didn’t want me to get
caught
, and until I learned how to do it properly, that was a near certainty. Your father wanted to teach me other ways of doing business, too. Some honest, some not.”

She glanced back up the hill, at the large house few people could afford. “So your house—it’s all from money you stole?”

“Not all of it. I’m pretty good at gambling, and I’ve made an honest investment or two. Like your father.” Ian, too, looked back at the house. “I suppose we should join the others,” he said. Then he caught her gaze. “But I’m glad we were able to talk this way, Meg. Your father wanted all of us to hold you in a special esteem—you’ve been sort of our hope for everything good in the future. That’s why I want you to have a happy life.”

Was she to be some noble symbol of virtue—she who’d resented that whole good life? “Aren’t you happy?”

He looked around them. “When I’m away from the city, I am.”

They walked up the hill, and somewhere along the way Ian dropped her hand with an apologetic smile, as if he’d just realized he still held it. But as they approached the veranda, he took her arm again, leading her inside through the now-empty ballroom. Guests milled between the hallway in the center of the home and the dining room—where she assumed the table now laden with food was the same one that had held her father only that morning.

Kate greeted them.

“There you are.” She kissed Meg’s cheek. “I was wondering what happened to both of you.”

“We had a chat.” Meg offered a glance Ian’s way. Certainly there was nothing wrong in having had a private discussion about her father. And that’s all it had been.

“It appears to have been a truce talk.”

“That’s because we didn’t discuss what will happen after the guests leave this afternoon.” The pleasant look on Ian’s face disappeared with his words. “When I take Meg back to Connecticut.”

Then he walked away, and the truce seemed to be over.