Comfort and Joy (27 page)

The hard ache in Maeve’s chest took her breath away. She rasped out the words. “My...my husband has said nothing about a divorce.”

“He will. He promised Beatrice that after the first of the year he would free himself.”

Although her knees trembled and her stomach tossed, Maeve pushed herself up. “How do you know this?”

Stella started toward the door. “Beatrice confided in me from the first. Charles feels indebted to you because you saved his life. And, of course, he pities you for the poor life you’ve led.”

Maeve moved in a shrouded haze of pain. Her heart shattered like colored glass dispersing thousands of sharp, piercing shards to every part of her body. She rubbed her chest but the pain only intensified.

“No...”

“I have come to you in confidence, Maeve. The truth is difficult to face but you have a certain intelligence and I felt it was my duty as a woman. Do not betray me.”

With another forced smile, and a single yap from her insufferable dog, Stella turned and left.

Maeve fell back against the door, blinking back her tears until she heard Stella’s door close. And then she sobbed.

* * * *

Charles paced his office. Herbert Long had just left after reporting no progress. The private investigator insisted he’d scoured every art gallery and questioned every artist in the area without success. No one had seen anything or heard of the St. Nick sketch becoming suddenly available for sale. Charles was growing impatient. Not only had Long made no progress on finding his stolen sketch, the investigator had been dead wrong when he implied Martin might be involved in the theft

Pulling out his watch fob, Charles glanced at the time. He decided to leave the office early and pick up a gift for Maeve to acknowledge her triumph at last evening’s party.

In polite society, awkward questions were not asked and she continued to be known as one of his mother’s house guests, a mystery woman. But a new dimension had been added, the gossips suspected her of being an Irish princess.

Charles’s friends and acquaintances were charmed by her beauty and lyrical accent. Last night enough of his male friends had maneuvered Maeve beneath the mistletoe to set his blood to boiling.

But today she would be waiting at home just for him.

Charles called for his coach.

When he arrived home an hour later, he carried an armful of flowers, including a bouquet for Stella and one for his mother. The other four were for Maeve.

“How sweet, dear. Where did you find flowers in December?”

“The Rawlings greenhouse.” The Rawlings were thought to be eccentric when they’d constructed their greenhouse. The ability to provide flowers throughout the year eventually dispelled the notion.

Stella wrinkled her nose at him. “You are the sweetest man.”

Charles winced. He’d never been described as sweet, nor wanted to be.

His mother tucked her arm through his. “You must come with us to the ballet tonight, dear.”

During the journey home, Charles dreamed of spending the evening with Maeve curled beside the fire. “I really don’t feel up to it. Difficult day at the firm.”

“You have not accompanied your mother anywhere,” Beatrice cried. “I feel quite neglected.”

“I’ll see you before you leave,” he promised. “But now I must take Maeve her flowers.”

“Maeve is not here, my dear.”

The ricochet of sharp disappointment that shot through him took Charles by surprise. “Where is she?”

Beatrice wore a pained expression as she shrugged. “There’s no telling when the little Irish girl will return. She went to visit her father. She claimed he’s ill.”

Chapter Fifteen

“I’m a sick man,” Mick O’Malley groaned, rubbing his bloodshot eyes.

“Oh, Da. You just had a wee bit too much ale last night. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, drinkin’ all of your pay away.”

Maeve made her father comfortable on the Deakinses’ cast-off sofa and set the kettle to boil on the old iron stove.

“I felt all right at the time I was doin’ it. Must be a sickness goin’ round.”

“Aye, the leprechauns are playin’ with ye to be sure, Daddy,” she said with a chuckle. “It’s a good thing I happened by.”

It felt good to be home. This damp, cramped flat had been the center of Maeve’s world since coming to America. She felt safe and secure within its peeling walls. And on the streets of South Boston, everyone knew and respected Maeve O’Malley. She wielded influence in the immigrant Irish community. This is where she belonged. Or did she?

“And did ye just happen by now?” her ailing father asked.

“Aye. An sure’n it’s a good thing. You’ve got to stop your drinkin’, Dad. I can’t bear the thought of you bein’ as drunk as a piper and no one here to care for you.”

Maeve could not yet bear to speak of it, to confess she’d come to mend her broken heart. If ever it would mend, if ever the pain would end. Instinct told her what Stella had said was true. Charles pitied Maeve and felt obligated to her for saving his life. He made love to her because he could, not because he loved Maeve. He’d never told her he loved her.

“Ye are a good daughter to come to yer old daddy, showin’ mercy and understandin’.”

“And listening to your blarney?” she asked, hands on hips. “I told you I would be comin’ by from time to time. It seems you cannot be trusted to refuse the second mug of ale. Or the third or fourth.”

“ ‘Tis a sad Irish affliction that a woman is not meant to understand. But I’ll not be goin’ to work at Rosie Grady’s tonight.”

“Oh, I understand all right about you and your ale. ‘Tis Shea I can’t understand.”

“Every boxin’ match yer brother wins brings him closer to ownin’ a fishin’ boat,” Mick said, quickly taking up his son’s defense.

“Even when Shea wins, he leaves the ring bloody and bruised.”

“Marks of honor to a pu...pugilist.”

“I think I shall stay the night,” Maeve said flatly. When her father defended her brother so readily, using a three-syllable word at that, it was a sure sign they were both in trouble. Besides she had no where else to go. This was her home.

“What?” Mick bolted upright on the sofa and immediately grabbed his head with both hands. “Ow!”

“Do not move too suddenly or your head will explode,” she warned him with a grin.

Her father settled back on the down pillow that Maeve had slipped beneath his head when she’d found him earlier. He opened one eye, regarding her warily. “Do ye mean to stay the night, or longer?”

“Longer.”

“Have ye had a lover’s spat with yer husband then?”

“I don’t belong on Beacon Hill, Da. I never will.”

“Aye, sure’n you’ve had a lover’s spat.”

“I speak softly now and I’ve learned to pronounce my words clearly and without a trace of County Armagh. I know the difference between a salad fork and a calling card, but it is not enough. A person must be born into Boston society to be accepted.”

“Are ye sayin’ you’re not happy?”

“I’m wretched.”

“And that fine upper-crust husband of yours doesn’t ease the way for ye with his people?”

“He pities me.”

“What?” Again Mick bolted upright, grabbed his head and fell back. “Holy — ow!”

For once, Maeve’s pain took precedence over her father’s as she struggled to hold back her tears. The empty space where her heart once had been, burned. “Charles has been kind to me because he feels obligated,” she explained. “He believes I saved his life and therefore he must be generous with me.”

“And what’s wrong with him bein’ generous with ye?”

“I want a husband who loves me.”

“Aye, and he will soon enough. You’re a loveable lass.”

“I thought he might come round, too, but ‘twas only wishful thinking. To this day, Charles has told none of his friends we are married — that’s how ashamed he is of me.”

“Society-born are peculiar ducks. Not all of ‘em right in the head. If yer husband was in his right mind, he would not be ashamed of ye, me cailin. Feel for ‘im. Yer a compassionate lass.”

“Not at the moment.”

“Ye can stay the night. One night. And do ye think I might have a wee bit of whisky in that tea yer makin’ for me?”

“No.”

“I feared not. One night and then ye must return to your husband.”

Maeve did not argue, but she had no intention of returning to the Rycroft residence. She went to the window and lit the candle. Traditionally, during Christmas a lighted candle remained in the window day and night to guide the way for travelers looking for shelter.

Folding her arms beneath her breasts, Maeve looked out over the weathered brick buildings and the tenement maze seemingly connected by a tangle of stiff, icy clotheslines. A dreary, gray blanket swept the sky. Cold air seeped through the windowsill. The dark afternoon matched her mood.

Maeve felt certain the sun would never again shine for her. A swift, cold shudder rocked her body. Her future looked as bleak as the back alleys. Harriet Deakins would never hire her back again. But perhaps she could find work in Rosie Grady’s Saloon. At least she’d be able to keep an eye on her father if she served in the saloon.

She fingered the lump beneath her dress. ‘Twas her mother’s wedding ring dangling over her heart. Ever since Maeve had married Charles, she’d worn the ring somewhere on her person. But now the legend of the Claddaugh mocked her. What a fool she’d been to believe someday her husband would come to love her. She would be a fool no more. With one swift tug, Maeve yanked the chain holding the precious ring from round her neck.

“Do ye think you could put more coal in the stove?” Mick asked.

“Aye.” But first Maeve slipped the Claddaugh ring into her coat pocket. Her beautiful new coat hanging on the kitchen peg. She wouldn’t be wearing the ring again, and in all conscience should not wear the coat either.

“With the little money she had left over after purchasing a coat for her father’s Christmas and toys for the orphans, Maeve had bought coal for the flat’s stove, its sole heat source. She’d also purchased food for her father and brother’s stomachs and a small fir Christmas tree for their souls. Broken heart or no, she and her family would celebrate the season of love.

After scooping coal into the stove and pouring Mick his tea, Maeve sat down to string cranberries. The O’Malley tree would not boast beaded pink ornaments and silver bows like the Rycrofts’ tall pine. But it would be the finest the O’Malleys had ever had. Maeve planned to drape the green needle branches with garlands of cranberry and popcorn and tie bright red bows on every limb. She would clip small candles to the boughs and hang colorful penny candy.

Was it just last night that she had trimmed the Rycroft tree, danced a jig, and made what she thought at the time were new friends? Hours ago, she had been giddy and lighthearted. Now, she felt like an empty shell in which her thoughts echoed. Now, she knew the new friends she’d thought she made had only humored her. In all likelihood they snickered behind her back. But she could not think of it. Thinking of it brought tears.

The knock on the door jolted Maeve from her reverie and woke her snoring father. Putting the half-strung garland aside, she crossed the small room. Only Stella and Beatrice knew she was here and Maeve expected they would keep her whereabouts to themselves. She assumed when she opened the door she would find no one she knew. But she did.

“Pansy?” she blinked in surprise.

“Maeve?” Pansy’s eyes rounded.

“What are you doing here?”

“I might ask the same,” her redhead friend replied with a grin. Bundled up in a fur-lined navy cloak with matching hat and muff, Pansy’s freckled cheeks glowed crimson from the cold. “What brings you home?”

“I...my da’s sick.”

“No, I ain’t.”

Pansy looked from Mick to Maeve.

Maeve turned up her palms. ‘‘You can see for yourself.”

Their unexpected guest nodded knowingly.

“And what brings you to South Boston?”

“I brought a plum pudding.” Pansy held out a box to Maeve.

“You made a plum pudding?” Maeve took the box, regarding it as if it sprouted wings.

“Several, in fact. This one appears to have turned out better than the others. So I expect it’s eatable.”

“Come in.”

“Who is it?” Mick groaned, peering at the newcomer through narrowed eyes.

“ ‘Tis a friend of mine, Pansy Deakins.”

“Not one of your uppity friends?”

“No, one of my mad friends!” Maeve dragged Pansy into the room which used to be hers but now belonged to Shea. Signs of him were scattered about the room. The rumpled bed, a torn shirt and hole-ridden socks tossed aside.

Apparently fascinated, Pansy surveyed the room slowly.

“May I ask why you brought a plum pudding to my father and Shea? You hardly know them.”

“It’s the season of giving.”

“And?”

“I hoped to find Shea at home. Frankly, Maeve, you are the last person I expected to see.”

Shaking her head, Maeve took her friend by the forearms. “Pansy, you must not see Shea. Not today, not ever. Your mother would disown you if she found out you’d come to South Boston in search of an Irish boxer.

“And that would be nothing compared to what she would do to me,” Maeve added.

“It’s none of her affair.”

Maeve’s stomach somersaulted, several times. “But ‘tis mine. Shea is my brother and I forbid you to chase after him like some dreamy, wanton adolescent.”

“I am not a dreamy adolescent, only a woman who has been looking for a real man for some time and never thought to find him. I was prepared to devote myself to the women’s rights cause until I met Shea.”

“But it’s Spencer Wellington who looks at you as if you were the Queen of Beacon Hill.”

“Spencer is a good friend, but tell me what is exciting about him?”

“There are many ways a man can be exciting, not all of them evident at first.”

“Shea’s very presence lends excitement to a room.”

Not in Maeve’s experience. Heaving a sigh of frustration, she took her friend’s hands in hers. “Oh, Pansy. Does Shea know you are interested in him?”

“I don’t think so. That’s why I decided to take matters into my own hands.”