Demonwood

by Anne Stuart

  "And what has my sister told you about young Daniel?" he asked at one point, when I had given up thinking of entertaining and witless things to say.

  I swallowed the rich, sickeningly sweet dessert that I had taken far too much of, and cursed myself for a glutton. "She told me that Daniel was a very delicate boy. He should be kept out of drafts, protected from the rough climate, and overstimulation isn't good for him. That he is very high-strung and sensitive, and should be given unstinting love and approval, not criticism." I rattled this off like the lesson it had been, almost word perfect. It wasn't until I finished that I realized how like a parody of Lillian's nervous voice I sounded, and I threw a quick glance at my employer's stern face, wondering whether I had offended him.

  "And what did you think of that?" he asked me in even tones, his face impassive, his eyes on his glass of wine.

  I felt I was being tested, and for the life of me I couldn't guess what the right answer was. The only thing for it was to tell him the truth, as I had promised to do. "I thought it was probably a bag of moonshine, sir. And what he needs is some fresh air and a good fight with the local bully." I held my breath, waiting for the explosion. None came.

  His eyes met mine for a brief moment, then he went back to examining his wine glass. "I doubt there is a local bully, Mary." And he drained the pale liquid, his expression unreadable across the candle-lit, damask-covered table. The flickering, shimmering lights bounced off the highly polished silver, the Waterford crystal, the prisms flashing rainbows from the silver chandelier and the sconces, turning the formal dining room into a fairyland. But I was no fairy princess, and Connell Fitzgerald was no Prince Charming, for all he might look like one with his black curls tumbled rakishly across his high, tanned forehead, and those devilish blue eyes in a mockingly handsome face.

  "I'll ask one more thing of you, Mary Gallager," he said softly. "Don't believe everything that's said of me, girl." There was a curiously endearing note in his lovely voice, and I could feel my treacherous heart pounding against the thin, blue silk of my dress. Before I had a chance to respond, he signaled the butler that we were finished.

  Very politely he pulled my chair out for me, very politely he took my arm and led me to the hall. Murphy appeared from nowhere with my serviceable wool cloak over his arm, and with the grace of long practice, Connell took it from him and draped it around my shoulders. His hands seemed to linger for a moment longer than necessary, but that was probably wishful thinking on my part.

  "How did you come here tonight?" he asked abruptly.

  "By trolley, sir."

  "Stop calling me sir." He turned to Murphy, and something about his movements made me realize his problem. He was slightly, politely drunk, and he was obviously one of those men that drink made evil- tempered, rather than mellow. "Escort Miss Gallager home, Murphy."

  "Very good, sir," Murphy replied, all staunch correctness, and opened the wide front door for me. I stared at Connell's back for a moment, perplexed. Then, shrugging, I drew my cloak more closely around me and sailed out the door without a backward glance. If Connell Fitzgerald could be rude and enigmatic, why, then, so could I. What matter that I wouldn't see him again for long, long months— perhaps never? I had been more disturbed by his sudden gentleness at the table than his subsequent ill temper. If he stayed nasty I would have no trouble whatsoever fending off my sinful longings if and when he returned.

  The house was dark when I finally arrived home that night. I could have wished I'd had a more loquacious companion—Murphy was his usual lugubrious self, and the only advantage his company afforded was the paying of fares and protection from amorous young men. As I had received a substantial advance on my salary from an embarrassed Lillian, and had long ago learned to deal with amorous young men quite effectively, I couldn't say much for Murphy's assistance, but beggars cannot be choosers.

  With great correctness Murphy took the key from me and opened my door. "Could I offer you a cup of

  tea, Mr. Murphy?" I asked politely, hoping he wouldn't accept.

  I should have known the very correct Mr. Murphy would refuse to enter a lady's house unchaperoned. "No, thank you, miss. I will be here at seven o'clock tomorrow morning to escort you to the train."

  "All right," I replied, stifling my surprise. I had had no idea what arrangements had been made for my transportation, trusting in God and Mr. Fitzgerald. "I'll be ready then, Mr. Murphy."

  "I trust you will, miss," he said gloomily. "In the meantime I think your young man wants your attention."

  I jumped, startled, as Michael Flynn appeared from the dark corridor of my house. The situation was extremely compromising, what with him being in his shirtsleeves at close to midnight, red hair tousled around his handsome, bovine face, and I turned to make some sort of fumbled explanation to my disapproving companion. But he had vanished into the night, no doubt full of salacious tales to bear to his cynical master about the sluttish tendencies of the new tutor, and I turned to Michael with a sharp annoyance not untouched by fear at the thought of losing my position.

  "And what are you doing here at this hour, Michael Flynn?" I demanded, shutting the door behind me. "And who let you into my house? One of my matchmaking brothers, no doubt. I'd be pleased if you'd find your coat and hat and take yourself off before I have to summon assistance."

  "Ah, Mary," he said woefully, and my hard heart softened a bit. He was a handsome boy, with shoulders twice as broad as any man I knew, a kind handsome face, and a good, loving heart. That his heart was filled with love for me brought me as much pain as satisfaction, for, good man though Michael was, he simply woke none of the tender feelings in my breast. Indeed, when he looked at me with such a lovesick, hangdog expression on his simple face it made me irritable. Since I was six and he was eight I had been able to wind him around my little finger, and I didn't fancy ruling the roost for the rest of my life. Unfortunately Michael Flynn was the kind of man who'd enjoy just that sort of relationship, with a few cuffs to my head thrown in to make him feel he was a man after a night at the tavern.

  "And what're you doing here?" I repeated.

  "I came to say good-bye," he announced with great dignity, having visited that tavern already. "Seamus told me you were leaving tomorrow. You couldn't even tell me yourself, Mary!" he reproached me, and I noticed with weary annoyance that he was drunk too. I seemed to have more than my share of drunken men that night.

  "Michael Flynn, you've been drinking," I said severely, if needlessly. "Come into the kitchen and I'll make you some nice strong coffee to take the edge off you. Your mother would die of shame if she knew you were wandering around in a state like that."

  "I don't want anything, Mary. I just want you!" he wailed mournfully, shambling after me. "And you, you cold-hearted jezebel, you offer me coffee!" He sank into my rocker in disgust, the old chair creaking in protest against his sturdy weight, and proceeded to fall sound asleep.

  I stared at him for a moment, filled with a sudden sense of loss. The chair and the man in it were closely identified with my whole life up to that point, and tomorrow morning I would leave them both behind; the chair sold along with the other furnishings to the nice young baker who was buying my parents' house, and Michael to whatever clever young lady might snap him up. I couldn't resist a sigh, wondering if I were as great a fool as I suspected I might be.

  A snore emerged from his sleeping form. "Michael," I said sharply, to cover my momentary indecision. There was no response. I poked him in his ribs, always a highly effective action with the lad. He snored on. I tugged at his massive body, and only managed to pull him out of the chair and onto the floor.

  "Michael!" I cried in disgust. "Wake up, curse your black Irish heart. You can't stay here!" He curled up on the rough brick floor like a little baby, deaf to my cries. As a desperate last resort I went to the pump and filled a bucket with icy water and proceeded to throw it on his head. And still he slept.

  "Well, all I can say, Michael Flynn, is that you must
have drunk a snootful, and it's a sorry man you'll be if any of my brothers catch wind that you spent the night here." And giving up in disgust, I went in search of some blankets to make the poor drunk comfortable before retiring to my little bedroom on the first floor, for the last time in my life.

  Chapter Three

  I was awakened early the next morning, before the first light, by the sound of voices below me in the kitchen. My first reaction was blind panic, which was swiftly replaced by anger and relief when I remembered my sodden suitor. Throwing a blanket around me, I made my way downstairs to the basement to see what visitors Michael Flynn was entertaining in my absence.

  I expected to see Mr. Murphy standing there, as disapproving as a Calvinist minister. It came as a horrid shock to recognize Connell Fitzgerald there in my homey little kitchen, a saturnine expression on his face, while Michael, shirtless, barefoot, and amazingly cheerful for one with a hangover like he deserved to have, stirred the fire and casually outlined our wedding plans.

  "As soon as we've made enough money, Cousin Connell, Mary and I are going to tie the knot." A nice blast of heat rose from the old cast-iron stove to meet the nice blast of heat rising from my temper. "So I wanted to make that clear to you and any boy-o who happens to be around. She's promised to me," he said, one large thumb thumping his hairy chest, "and I won't be having you forgetting that."

  "My man Murphy has already apprised me of the situation," he answered smoothly, with far more courtesy than my loutish suitor deserved.

  I'll just bet he did, I thought hopelessly. Aloud I said, "What are you doing here, Michael? And Mr. Fitzgerald. I wasn't expecting you this morning."

  Michael jumped, and had the grace to look abashed; something that didn't escape Connell Fitzgerald's seemingly indolent attention. Only for a minute though. With foolhardy courage I couldn't help but admire, Michael sped across the room and drew me into his hairy embrace.

  Now I'd been kissed before, and by Michael Flynn for that matter, but I had never been half-strangled by a passionate embrace designed to show a man's ownership of me. And not by a half-naked, hairy bear of a man with his breath reeking of stale whiskey. I struggled ineffectually, but I'm afraid it merely made the embrace appear more passionate. Wishing to God I had thought to put on nice, heavy shoes so that I could trample on his bare feet, I held still and waited until he finished pawing me about. When he finally drew back with an expression of glazed satisfaction, I leaned back and slapped him as hard as I could across his oafish face.

  "How dare you?" I demanded, and proceeded, verbally, to march up one side of him and down the other, all the time aware of my cut lip and the distant, amused interest on Connell Fitzgerald's face. So much for any fantasies I'd allowed myself last night, I thought grimly.

  The problem with Michael Flynn, and the problem with most of the possible suitors I had met in my twenty-three years of life, is that they're none of them man enough for the likes of me. I need a strong hand and a worthy opponent in the battle of life, not a sweet, lovesick young law clerk.

  "And you can leave now," I finished, thrusting his shirt, boots, and jacket against his unprotesting body. "And you can be sure it'll be a long time before I forgive you for this drunken display. You're just lucky Seamus and the others don't get wind of it."

  "But, Mary," Michael protested, "this was Seamus's idea."

  I stared at him, dumbfounded. Then I picked up his teacup full of freshly made tea and hurled it at his head. The coward left at a dead run.

  I turned to the other occupant of the kitchen and smiled demurely. "I'll be with you in a few minutes, Mr. Fitzgerald. Help yourself to some tea."

  "Thank you, Mary," he replied with a ripple of laughter in his lovely voice.

  The trip to the train station was made in total silence. Connell Fitzgerald sat opposite me in his elegant plush-lined carriage, his cynical blue eyes staring moodily out of the window. And I sat primly in the corner of the luxurious vehicle, my eyes demurely downcast, except when I thought he wasn't looking. Every now and then I would sneak a glance at his distant, handsome profile, and wonder why in the world he had come to see me off on the north-bound train instead of his dour dogsbody, Murphy. He hadn't even objected to my one stop at the house in Clarence Street, for one last tumultuous farewell with my oversized family.

  It had been all I could do to bid a polite farewell to Seamus with the memory of his perfidy still fresh in my mind. The sooner I was away from my matchmaking kin the better, I thought, my eyes drifting upward to meet the clear blue ones of my employer. Quickly I lowered my own, feeling a flush mounting my pale cheeks.

  "Your family will miss you," he said suddenly, and I jumped nervously.

  "I suppose so," I agreed. "But they should have enough family around to keep them busy while I'm gone."

  "I would think so," he said drily, returning to his contemplation of the dirty city streets as the carriage made its slow but steady way through the early-morning traffic. But from then on, every time I tried to sneak a subtle little look at him, just to make sure his face was set in my memory, I found him watching me with a curiously quizzical expression that made my stomach contract in the most alarming fashion. And once more I was glad that I was going three hundred miles away from temptation.

  Our arrival at the train station was a lesson to me in the advantages of being rich. Casually Connell Fitzgerald helped me out of the carriage, casually he nodded to a porter who dropped an irate lady's bag and rushed to do his bidding, casually he put one strong hand under my slightly trembling arm and guided me across the crowded platforms. I glanced at the large clock over our heads and jumped.

  "We're late," I said nervously. "I'll miss the train."

  The look he cast me was coolly amused. "The train won't leave without you," he stated with bored conviction, and indeed, I believed him. No train company would dare to antagonize Connell Fitzgerald of the far-flung Fitzgerald enterprises. And I was to find out later that he owned the railroad, or at least a goodly part of it.

  "Just in time, sir." Murphy appeared from out of the milling crowd. "Miss Gallager's bags are in her room. I'll see her the rest of the way." The man seemed uncommonly eager to rid Connell of his burden, and it was with surprise that I watched him wave his secretary away.

  "Meet me in the. carriage, Murphy," he ordered abruptly, and pushed onward through the crowds of arrivals and departures, his hand still under my willing elbow, seeming to my romantic mind to burn through the thin cloth.

  And finally I was handed over to another smartly dressed porter, along with a sizable sum of money, if I could judge by the affable expression on the man's face. "He'll take care of you," Connell said in a suddenly harsh voice. "I wish I could be as sure . . ."

  I stared up at him, bewildered, and noted for the first time how very tall he was. I was a tall woman, yet he seemed to tower over me. "What do you mean?" I demanded, suddenly frightened. "What could possibly go wrong?"

  Whatever he replied was lost in the sudden blast of the train whistle, and the sound of the conductor roaring, "All aboard." All around us couples were embracing, bidding each other a teary farewell.

  "Take care of yourself, my darling," a young husband said into his wife's plumed hat beside us. A look of devilish amusement passed over Connell's usually impassive features, and a moment later I found myself swept into his strong arms.

  "Good-bye, darling," he murmured, and his mouth came clown on mine in a kiss that was both light- hearted and yet totally devastating to one in my already precarious state of emotions. And the next thing I knew I was placed gently but forcibly on the train while it moved slowly down the platform, and I stared out the open door at Connell's quickly receding figure with dazed eyes.

  "This way, ma'am." The porter grinned, and with a great effort of will I pulled myself together, following his sturdy figure down the narrow hallways.

  I had many long, long hours to remember that kiss. The train ride from Boston to the tiny Vermont town of Lyman'
s Gore took a full seven hours—seven hours to wonder what had prompted Connell to kiss me like that, seven hours to wonder how I was going to bear being so far away from the only life I had ever known. At least I wouldn't have to worry about my guilty passion. A flowery-scented note from Lillian had reassured me on that head. She and her brother were off to Europe in the next few days, he for a round of business meetings and no doubt to trace his errant wife, with Lillian as his unwilling companion. She doubted they'd see me before the spring. And it was with both relief and admitted regret that I watched the barren trees fly by my window and knew that it was the end of November and spring was far, far away.

  I put Pride and Prejudice down on the seat beside me and stared out at the bleak landscape. It was admittedly comfortable in my luxurious private room, but I was getting a little uneasy, alone with my thoughts and the memory of Connell's quixotic farewell. So it was with relief that I greeted the tentative knocking on my door.

  "Do you mind if I join you?" A voice broke through my reveries, and I looked up in surprise at my fellow passenger. Warm brown eyes smiled down at me, set in a face that was so handsome it might even be called effeminate. Wavy brown hair curled over his brow, his body was clothed in a suit of Irish tweed, and his smile revealed a row of even white teeth. He wasn't quite as tall as Connell Fitzgerald, and his build was slighter and more delicate. After a long, considering moment I smiled in return. I had read Miss Austen's masterpiece seven times in my short life, and I decided that Mr. Darcy could wait till later.

  "Thank God, you smiled," he said ingratiatingly, seating himself opposite me and holding out a strong, well-manicured hand. "I'm not usually this forward, you know, but I couldn't resist. I knew you'd be traveling up today, Miss Gallager, and decided it was my duty to keep an eye on you. I'm Peter Riordan. I'm going to be your neighbor, you know."

  "Are you?" I inquired somewhat coolly, not sure if I enjoyed brash young men.