In reaction to his stare, the girl huddled back against the wall and put a protective hand on her belly. She was clearly wary of him. But in truth, she was the one scaring the hell out of him.
“Damn, damn, damn!” Eagan ground out, punching his hand into his palm. He looked up at the hole in the elevator ceiling and called, “Billy! Goddammit! Come back here!”
It had been over an hour since the attendant disappeared. The girl had finally sat down, and she rested her head against the etched glass, tracing the Greek key pattern with her finger.
“Goddammit, somebody answer me!” Eagan shouted at the dark endless hole that neither could fit through.
Still no answer. He slumped to the tufted bench, tapping his shoe. The girl was frightened, but she was tired too, so tired that her fatigue seemed to numb her fear.
It didn’t numb his. He thought of himself as a rather brave man. But every time his gaze slid to that girl’s belly, he could feel the blood drain from his head. What if she needed something? Water, for example. How would he get that for her? Billy was the only one who could fit through that bloody hole. And where the hell was that puny little bastard anyway?
He ran his hand through his hair, unwilling to think of Billy never coming back. He’d come back, all right, or Lord and Taylor’s store was going to have its butt kicked with the biggest lawsuit it’d ever seen. Eagan stole a glance at the girl. She was rubbing her belly in a strange, pensive way, as if she were comforting the baby within. He felt that he should do something for her, but the best thing he could do was get them out of there.
He stood to shout through the hole again. Suddenly a tinny voice came down through the hole, sounding far away. “Mr. Sheridan? Mr. Sheridan?”
“We’re down here! Billy?”
“No,” the voice sounded back, “Name’s Harper.”
“Where the hell did Billy go?”
There was a long pause. “Mr. Sheridan, you must not lose patience. We are doing everything we possibly can.”
“Where did Billy go?” Eagan demanded.
“He went to find Mr. Otis,” the voice answered, obviously trying to stay calm.
“Mr. Otis!” Eagan struck his forehead. “Are you telling me we’re that stuck?”
“We’ve been working on it, but the thing’s got us confounded. Mr. Otis understands this newfangled contraption. He designed it. He’ll know how to fix it.”
Eagan glanced at the girl. His agitation was frightening her more than Harper was. He made a heroic attempt to cool his temper. “Fine. We’ll wait, then. After all, how long can this take?”
“That’s right, Mr. Sheridan,” Harper soothed. “It won’t take long. In the meantime, we’re lowering you a basket of necessities.”
“Why don’t you come down here and serve us yourself?” Eagan snorted. “Better yet, tell Mr. Lord and Mr. Taylor to come down here. I’d like to talk to them.”
“I’m afraid Billy’s the only one who’s going to fit through that hatch.” The voice chuckled. “The wife’s cooking, you know.”
Eagan groaned. “Well, you can lose a few pounds chasing after Billy. I want me and this girl out of this cage in an hour, understood?”
“I understand, and the management relays their regrets, sir.”
Eagan rolled his eyes.
Fifteen minutes passed with absolute silence between them. Eagan stared at the girl, and she stared at the carpet, her face a mask of worry.
“What’s your name?” he finally asked, wanting to know. She’d been so quiet through this whole thing. It wasn’t natural. He knew a girl in her position was forced to defer to her “betters” and keep her mouth shut. But in this situation he wanted her to talk to him.
She looked up, her blue eyes questioning.
“Your name?”
She said something in a soft, melodic, vaguely familiar tongue. Then she said, “I cannot be speakin’ moch English.”
She looked at him. “Ochone,” she whispered, and then he knew where she was from. His knowledge of Gaelic was limited, but that word meant “Oh dear.”
“You’re from Ireland?” he whispered.
She looked at him, her expression wary. “Aye.”
He wished to God he’d taken more interest in his brother’s Gaelic. If anything should happen, he could at least speak in her native tongue and reassure her. As it was, the best he could do was sing “Bridget O’Malley,” and a fat lot of good that would do for either one of them. “My family’s originally from Connacht. You?” He looked at her.
Her eyes cleared, and she said something in Gaelic, but he shook his head. Smiling, he said, “Sorry. I guess I’ve been here too long. I only know English.”
She nodded. “I can’t be speakin’ moch English.”
He’d gathered that. The girl must come from the far western regions of Ireland. Despairing, he glanced up at that black hole in the ceiling.
“The time?” she asked.
“You mean, how long have we been here?”
She nodded.
He opened his gold pocketwatch and grimaced. “Over two hours.” A thought occurred to him, and he paled. “Is anything wrong? Do you need anything? Should I do something for you?”
She didn’t quite understand him, perhaps because he was speaking so fast and his accent was unfamiliar.
“Is someone coming for you? Your husband?”
This last word she seemed to understand. She stiffened and slowly drew her right hand over her left, trying to hide the fact that she had no wedding band on her fourth finger.
But Eagan noticed. He met her gaze, astonished by the hurt and betrayal he found there.
Falling silent once more, they let the minutes tick by, unmarred by conversation.
Another hour went by, and there was no news from above. Eagan was just beginning to wonder how he could punch out the hatch to make it big enough to accommodate him when a familiar voice rang down.
Eagan grimaced. “What is it now, Harper?”
Harper paused, and Eagan swore that when he got out of the elevator, he was personally going to wring the man’s chubby neck.
“Sir, we’re going to get you out of there. It just may take a bit longer. Billy couldn’t find Mr. Otis. It seems he’s gone to New Jersey. Billy just sent a messenger from the ferry. He’s going to fetch him, so have a little of the supper I sent down, and—”
“New Jersey!” Eagan ran his hand down his face. “Christ, we’ll be here all night!”
“We’ll get you out at the first possible moment! As soon as Mr. Otis—”
“Make him fly, Harper. Do you hear me? Put wings on that bastard and get him here because I’ve taken all I’m going to take!”
“Yes, Mr. Sheridan. And again, on behalf of the management, sir, we apologize for the inconvenience.”
Eagan released an exasperated sigh. He went to take his seat again, but he noticed the girl was glancing at the basket that had been sent down, her eyes large with hunger. Ashamed, he handed her the basket and motioned for her to take whatever she wanted. He watched her timidly take a roll, leaving the silver dish of caviar, the pastel-colored petits fours tucked in white linen, and the Dom Perignon for him. It was obvious that he was the only reason the basket had been sent down, and it angered him to think that if she had been stuck in this vertical railway by herself, they probably wouldn’t have sent a thing to her.
She ate her bread, clearly embarrassed that her condition left her a slave to physical needs. He continued to look at her, her vulnerability touching him. She really was a pretty girl. Her skin was Irish skin, like a child’s—soft, pink, and flawless.
Misunderstanding the reasons for his stare, she nervously handed him the basket. He put it aside and thought about having a drink. He had a flask with him, but for some reason he just wasn’t interested. He was much more interested in her. He couldn’t come to terms with the fact that some man had taken this pretty girl to his bed, done what he’d done to her, and abandoned her without a fare-
thee-well. He was no saint, he’d had his share of women, but if one of them had come to him in trouble, he would have worked to the bone to see the mother of his child taken care of, not let her out in the world scrubbing endless marble floors nine months pregnant—like his own mother had.
Of course, the girl’s lover might have died before he’d gotten her to the altar. He’d heard of things like that happening. But that wasn’t the case here. Though they hadn’t communicated much in words, she’d told him all he needed to know. He’d looked into those breathtaking eyes and seen the betrayal.
“What’s your name? Mine’s Eagan Sheridan,” he tried again.
Recognizing an Irish name, she looked as if she trusted him a bit more. She answered in English with a little difficulty, “Me name’s Caitlín O’Roarke.”
“Kathleen. That’s a beautiful name.”
She just stared at him.
“Somebody must be worried about you, Caitlín,” he said softly. “Where’s your family?”
She looked away. “T’ere’s no one worryin’ about me.”
“You came to America alone?”
“Here’s better for the babe.” She put a hand to her belly. Still she wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Eagan leaned back on the tufted bench and thought again about his mother. Trevor had seen her suffer. Trevor remembered much more than he did. Now he remembered too. Caitlín was living proof that their mother’s plight continued to be repeated too often.
“The child’s father—is he an American?” Eagan knew he was prying, but he had the irrational urge to look this fellow up and make him sorry for what he’d done.
She stared at the carpet and looked as if she were making her confession to the priest. “He’s Ascendency.”
So the girl had been seduced by one of the British landholders. Trevor’s hatred of the British suddenly became Eagan’s hatred too.
“Did you ever tell him?” he asked gently, becoming desperate to find a solution to this girl’s wretched fate.
Caitlín closed her eyes. “He was marryin’ another. A lady from London.” Her voice lowered and grew thick with unshed tears. “He gave me ten pounds to come to Americker. An’ so here I am.”
Eagan grew quiet and let her collect herself. He didn’t know what he could do, but if they ever got out of this bloody elevator, he was going to try to help this girl. He could place her with the other servants in the mansion. The Sheridans were good employers. She would be better off under their wing than here, out in the world, mopping floors until she dropped from exhaustion.
“Where do you live?” he asked, this time without hesitating.
“Baxter Street,” she whispered.
He inwardly cringed. In the heart of New York’s worst slums. He didn’t need to ask more. “Would you like—” He was about to ask if she would like to come work for him when she took a deep breath and held it, as if she were in pain. “Caitlín?” he whispered, afraid to articulate the rest of his thoughts.
The moment passed, and she turned to him. She must have seen the panic in his eyes because she said, “It’s noothin’. Me back’s sore today.”
Desperate to believe her, he looked up into the hole. He shouted for Harper to get an update on the situation, but Harper wasn’t at his station. Anxious to do something, he handed her the basket. “You must be hungry. Eat. Go ahead.”
She took the basket, but then her knuckles went white on the handle. Eagan watched her, the pit of his stomach falling to the first floor of the building.
“Ochone,” Caitlín whispered, and gripped her stomach. She tried to get into a better position, obviously believing that might relieve the pain, but when she tried to stand, her water broke and seeped into her skirt.
Eagan noted her sopping skirt and knowing nothing about the birth process, believed she had embarrassed herself, being confined to the elevator with no water closet. He felt for her, but at the same time he couldn’t squelch the rush of relief that her behavior had nothing to do with her enormous belly. Until she reached out and put a viselike grip on his arm. She said something in Gaelic, then, “Mr. Sheridan, the babe’s comin’, and t’ere not much I can do about it.”
“How do you know?” he asked stupidly, his face ghost-white.
“Me water’s broke. Me water’s broke,” she whispered, again fighting off a spasm of pain.
Eagan stared at the wet skirt. Her baby was being born. Everything he feared was coming true. His hand swept back her hair, and he tried to soothe her, fighting his own panic. Mechanically, he removed his jacket and put it over her shoulders. Then he screamed for Harper.
“Yes, Mr. Sheridan?” came the blessed voice from above, and Eagan knew God had a sense of humor.
“Get a doctor down here immediately. I want a doctor and Charles Otis here on the double!”
“We’re doing what we can. Billy isn’t back from New Jersey.”
“I need a doctor! This girl’s going to have her baby. Now!”
Silence followed these words. Then Harper gasped, “Yes, sir. Right away, sir. I’ll send someone for a doctor this minute.” Harper walked away so quickly, he stumbled into something and cursed.
When there were no more footsteps, Eagan turned his gaze to Caitlín. She was in the throes of another spasm, her features screwed up tight, her hands gripping her belly.
“Everything will be all right,” he whispered. But there was no reaching her. Slowly he looked down at his shaking hands. He had lived his entire life from one dissolute moment to another. His biggest complaint had been a vague sense of annoyance that he was rarely if ever needed. But now this girl needed him, her baby needed him, and there was nowhere to run, no way to find help. It was up to him and him alone. If he had any heroic qualities, now was the time to prove them.
He cautiously removed his gold cufflinks etched with the Connacht shield and began rolling up his shirtsleeves, just in case the doctor didn’t arrive down the shaft in time. He watched Caitlín. She released a low guttural moan, and a tear slipped from the corner of her eye as she held back her pain.
Eagan Sheridan wasn’t the sort to pray. But he was praying now.
An hour later, the baby still had not come, and Eagan had hopes that a doctor might arrive in time. Caitlín lay on his frock coat, her brow beaded with sweat from her work, his handkerchief wadded in her small hand. He’d removed his silk vest now that her pains were coming so close together. They needed something to put the babe in when it came. He knew instinctively it was going to be soon.
“Caitlín,” he whispered, grasping her hand tightly. “You’re doing well, girl! You’re a brave lass. The father of this babe didn’t deserve you.”
Caitlín gave him a weak smile before her pains began mounting again. Taking long, deep breaths, she held fast to Eagan’s hand until the worst of it was over.
But what they considered the worst was fleeting. With each pain, the contractions grew closer and closer until there was no talking to Caitlín. She merely lay on the floor clutching his hand, whimpering like a suffering animal while Eagan ran his forearm over his brow, wiping away his sweat.
When he knew he could avoid it no longer, he carefully pulled up the girl’s skirts. He’d seen the anatomy of a woman before, but in this instance, he felt as if he were trespassing on holy ground. Caitlín was a mother about to give birth to her first child, and there was no place for a man at her side now. She needed other women who’d gone through the same, not some rake whose only function in life had been to get women into such trouble. Loathing himself at that moment, he pushed up her knees.
And gasped. The child’s head had appeared, and it had dark hair, obviously like its father’s. He squeezed Caitlín’s hand and crawled back to her head. “You’re gonna have to push, sweeting. Can you push?”
“Tá mé an t-uirseach. Tá mé an t-uirseach,” she mumbled.
He couldn’t understand her, but he knew she was exhausted. He had to get her moving again. “Caitlín!” he whispered sharply, “
I can see your baby. Your baby has dark hair. Not at all like yours. But I cannot tell you whether it’s a girl or boy unless you push.”
“Mo croi, dark hair,” she murmured.
“That’s right. Dark hair. Do you want to see?”
She nodded weakly.
“Then push, sweeting, push!” He squeezed her hand until he was afraid he might crush it. She did as she was told, using her last strength to bear down on the baby. And just when Eagan was sure the entire thing was impossible and that they were all doomed, her belly contracted. He grasped the baby by the shoulders. The baby slipped out and released a wail that nearly knocked Eagan onto his backside.
In wonder, he looked down at the life squirming in his hands. The baby was as slippery as a fish, but he held on to it as if he held the world in his hands. Counting every perfect finger and toe, he could hardly believe this tiny bloody creature had the power to make him feel utterly alive and utterly humble.
“What is it? What is it?” Caitlín gasped weakly, trying to ease herself up to see.
He looked down at her, her blond hair hanging in sweat-matted hanks, her clothes unspeakably soiled, her face drawn with fatigue and strain, but the joy in those glittering blue eyes made her the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
“It’s a girl, Caitlín—sweeting—she’s a beautiful girl,” he whispered, in awe of the bawling creature he held in his arms, in awe of the woman who had created it.
“A girl?” Caitlín whispered, too weak to prop herself up to see.
He carefully brushed the sticky tendrils of Caitlín’s hair out of her eyes so that she could better see her baby. He laid his vest on her belly and placed the baby within it, deciding to leave the cord for the doctor to cut. Caitlín was too weak to hold her, so he sat behind her and pulled her against his chest, wrapping his arms over her arms to cradle the newborn. They lay there for a long while, and Eagan felt the strain catch up to him. But sitting there holding both of them gave him such a deep satisfaction, he would have given his last breath to do it again.
Lions and Lace Page 30
