Song of Erin

by BJ Hoff

  “I’ll tell her you were pleased,” Jack said dryly, as if he knew very well how little attention she had actually given to the meal.

  Silence hung between them for a moment, until the housekeeper, Mrs. O’Meara—“Addy,” Jack called her—came back into the room, one of several appearances she’d made throughout the evening.

  “Didn’t I tell you we’d be well chaperoned?” Jack said under his breath.

  Samantha had to smile. The housekeeper’s intention had been almost amusingly obvious as she continued to come and go, even after the final course of the meal had been served.

  “Mrs. O’Meara would seem to take very good care of you,” Samantha said after the woman had again left the room.

  “Ha. ’Tis you the outrageous woman is looking after, you can be sure.”

  Samantha studied him. “You don’t fool me, you know. The two of you badger each other terribly, but I can tell that you’re actually quite fond of her.”

  His dark brows drew together in a mockery of a frown. “Yes, well, you so much as breathe a word of that to our Mrs. O’Meara, and my life will be pure misery from this night on.”

  “It strikes me that she already knows her position is safe.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know what I’d do without her, and that’s the truth. But she’d be at an utter loss if I didn’t give her a bit of grief on a daily basis.”

  Samantha laughed at his wry expression. “How long has she been with you?”

  “Forever,” he cracked, then added, “A long time, as it happens. In between ruling my life and running my household, she also helped to mother my brother and sister.”

  Samantha remembered that Jack’s sister, Rose, was a nun in New Jersey, while his younger brother, Brady, was still in Ireland, working on the immigrant series.

  “How long does your brother plan to stay in Ireland?” she asked him now.

  He made a sour face. “I’m beginning to think he means to take up permanent residence there.”

  “And you don’t like the idea?”

  “Troublesome rascal that he is, I find that I miss him. And Rose as well. But there was no dissuading either of them once they set their heads to what they wanted.”

  Samantha saw something in his eyes at that instant—a flash of regret or even sadness—that tugged at her heart. Not for the first time, she wondered how much Jack actually enjoyed the wealth he’d accumulated, the power and influence he wielded.

  What had motivated him to attain such heights? She knew he had emigrated from Ireland when he was still a boy. The rumors about his past claimed that he had launched his publishing empire by sweeping floors at a small print shop. Now he owned one of the country’s most powerful newspapers, as well as two large, prestigious publishing houses. Yet he couldn’t be much past forty, if that. His astonishing level of success had to have come in a relatively brief span of years. Either he had been incredibly fortunate in his dealings—or incredibly driven.

  How much of his ambition had been for himself, she wondered, as opposed to a desire to provide a better life for his younger siblings?

  Even the harshest of Jack’s critics were inclined to allow him a certain grudging admiration. He had, after all, achieved a stunning level of success with nothing more than his wits, a cavalier kind of courage, a great deal of hard work, and—according to Jack himself—a considerable amount of good luck. Yet in spite of his prosperity and power, Samantha had never sensed any measurable degree of happiness or contentment in him. To the contrary, she was beginning to believe that his success had gained him little more than a self-imposed loneliness and a deep, barely concealed anger.

  Almost from the first, she had sensed the quiet rage in him, the darkness that seemed to lie never far from the surface of his emotions—a darkness that could be explosive, Samantha suspected, even frightening. In fact, she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that there was a side to Jack’s nature that, once unleashed, could easily turn ugly. While she had never actually seen him lose control, had never been the recipient of his legendary temper or scathing sarcasm, she had heard more than she cared to about the verbal assaults that reputedly could be venomous, if not downright cruel.

  Yet she found it difficult—nearly impossible—to reconcile the rumors with the man who had been so exceedingly kind to her. In spite of the undeniable attraction between them—and the tension resulting from that attraction—they had managed to become friends. Good friends, as it happened, and at a time when Samantha needed a friend. Jack’s kindness to her, his consideration and encouragement, had been like a balm to her sorely wounded spirit.

  Because of this, perhaps she tended to dismiss the sordid stories about him too easily. But she simply did not care as much about his past, about the man he might have been, as she did about the man he was with her—the man who had befriended her and who seemed so quick and willing to tolerate in her even what he could not hope to understand.

  How, then, could she do less for him?

  Besides, who knew better than she about the darkness of the human soul, the shadows lurking in the secret places too deeply hidden for the world to ever see? And who was she to judge Jack for what he was rumored to be when she had learned firsthand how appearances could deceive, how easily darkness could conceal itself behind a mask of goodness and light?

  He still could scarcely believe she was here. When he’d extended the invitation he had literally held his breath, anticipating her refusal. Then, when she astonished him by accepting, there was no describing the wave of unreasonable pleasure that had washed over him.

  Watching her now, Jack was acutely mindful of the conflicting emotions Samantha set off in him. Her very presence seemed to turn him from a badly jaded forty-year-old man into an awkward, inarticulate schoolboy. Surely the pleasure he took from simply being with her bordered on foolishness, if not utter lunacy. Why, every time he was with the woman, he had to fight back a grin as idiotic as that of the village simpleton!

  But even as he struggled to control this annoying streak of boyish eagerness, he was almost painfully aware of the same strange, uneasy sensation that invariably gripped him when he was with her: the feeling that by simply coming too close to her, he might somehow tarnish her.

  She had a light about her, Samantha did, a soft light of loveliness and goodness of which she seemed entirely unaware. It was a quality that both endeared her to Jack and at the same time served to restrain him from acting on his growing desire for her.

  With Samantha he felt as if he had been somehow openly tarred with every mean, reprehensible thing he had ever done, for her and all the world to see. At times his very skin seemed to crawl with the awareness of the dark that lurked within him, the mire that had attached itself to him, and he wished he could physically peel away the layers of contamination so that he might be more acceptable, more decent, more worthy of her.

  They moved to the study for coffee, and here Samantha found yet another marked contrast in decor. Immediately she was more comfortable with her surroundings, for there could be no mistaking Jack’s influence. Spacious, but not so cavernous and oppressive as the dining room, the study seemed more a retreat. It was a peaceful room, she decided: restful, like a kind of sanctuary, with its green damask-covered walls, its fine, sturdy furniture of rosewood and leather, and the aged, honey-rich paneling.

  Every wall but one held bookshelves crammed with volumes that appeared well used. On the single plain wall hung an assortment of opera and theater posters, many of which, Samantha noticed, had been signed by some of the leading performers of the day.

  They sat by the fire, at opposite ends of a somewhat worn sofa, a small table in front of them. Jack watched her as he drained the last of his coffee. “You still haven’t told me whether you think I should publish Poe,” he said, setting his cup on the table.

  Samantha gave him a quizzical look. “I’m hardly qualified to offer an opinion on whom you publish, Jack.”

  “In truth, Samantha, you�
��re probably more qualified than I on that very subject. Now, tell me what you think. I’ve come to trust your instincts.”

  Samantha took a sip of her tea, trying to ignore the flush of pleasure his words stirred in her. “I thought you’d already decided to publish Mr. Poe’s latest work.”

  He shrugged. “I may try to strike a deal with him. Once I’m certain I want to.” He traced the line of his mustache for a moment. “I’d not be the one to argue Poe’s genius. But genius or not, I find his work almost too—” He stopped, as if the word he wanted eluded him.

  “Dark?” Samantha supplied.

  He looked at her, nodding slowly. “Aye, there’s that. I’d take him for a very sad fellow, even troubled. Have you read him?”

  Samantha had, and although she appreciated Poe’s formidable skill, for the most part she found his work too dreary for her liking. “I’ve read his poetry, mostly. And a few pieces of his shorter fiction.”

  “What about the novella?”

  Samantha set her cup on the table, shaking her head. “I think even Mr. Poe must not have taken that particular effort too seriously. Frankly, I thought it a bit silly.”

  “Not one of his better efforts,” Jack agreed. “He has a rather odd background, doesn’t he? For a writer, that is. He was actually at West Point for a time, did you know that?”

  “He was court-martialed at the Academy,” Samantha pointed out. “And it’s rumored that he brought it on himself deliberately, to spite his godfather, or some such foolishness.”

  Jack shot her a look of surprise. “How on earth would you know that?”

  Samantha shrugged. “Mr. Poe’s life hasn’t exactly been a closed book.”

  Jack slanted a look of pained disbelief at her unintentional pun. “That was awful, Samantha. So, then, what else do you know about him? Apart from the scandalous stuff, I mean. I’ve already heard that business about his marrying his thirteen-year-old cousin.”

  “Actually, she was almost fourteen, I believe.” Samantha hesitated, reluctant to further the gossip she’d heard, yet understanding Jack’s need to know as much as possible about a prospective writer. “It’s said that he drinks. To excess, though for Poe that might not be all that much. Apparently, he’s of a rather delicate constitution.”

  Jack turned, settling himself against the arm of the sofa as she went on.

  “It’s not that he drinks all the time,” she explained. “In fact, he seems to have long periods of sobriety.”

  “Let us hope that this is one of them,” Jack said dryly, crossing his arms over his chest.

  Because of Jack’s own past, Samantha was hesitant to mention the next piece of information. She chose her words carefully. “I’ve heard that he also gambles rather a lot. But either he’s not very good at it or not very lucky.” She paused. “So I’ve been told.”

  Jack leaned back as if he were starting to enjoy this. “Samantha, you never cease to amaze me. Where do you get your information, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “My mother,” Samantha said matter-of-factly. “She’s a veritable treasure trove of gossip.”

  Jack grinned. “Perhaps I should offer her a job.”

  Samantha couldn’t help but smile at the thought. The very mention of Jack’s name was enough to strain Angela Pilcher’s strait-laces to the breaking point. Her mother tended to relegate Jack to the same level as foreign sailors and opium eaters.

  He poured himself another cup of coffee from the pot on the table. “Incidentally, I haven’t forgotten the appointment with your Mrs. Shanahan and Avery Foxworth. We’ll get that taken care of after I return.” He paused. “I suppose you’re still set on being there?”

  Samantha nodded. “I think Maura will be more at ease if I’m with her.”

  “I expect you’re right. But I’m still not sure why you want me there.”

  Samantha hesitated, then said carefully, “I hope you don’t mind too much. But I suppose in this case it’s I who would be more comfortable if you were there. I don’t know Mr. Foxworth at all.”

  Jack arched an eyebrow. “Really? I was under the impression the two of you had met. He knows who you are.”

  “I can’t think how,” Samantha said, frowning.

  Jack gave a thin smile. “Well, you may have forgotten, but Foxworth hasn’t. In any event, he thinks you’re exceptionally attractive. I gave him no argument on that score, of course.”

  Flustered, Samantha avoided his gaze while trying to think of a way to return the subject to Maura Shanahan. Back in the summer, the woman had shot and killed her husband, who had apparently been beating her and threatening the children. Samantha had good reason to believe that Mrs. Shanahan had acted in self-defense and out of fear for her children.

  One of those children was a little newsboy for whom Jack seemed to hold a particular fondness. To Samantha’s surprise, he had not only supported her interest in the matter but had gone so far as to retain his own attorney for the court case.

  “I know it’s presumptuous of me,” she said, “asking you to take time out for something like this, especially as busy as you are. Maura Shanahan is just another immigrant in trouble, after all—a common enough occurrence. But with the trial about to begin—”

  “Samantha—” Jack leaned toward her, his eyes glinting with faint amusement. “You needn’t apologize. I don’t mind in the least. You seem to forget that I’m just ‘another immigrant’ myself.” He moved a little closer to her and took her hand. “Besides, if it’s important to you, it’s important to me.”

  Samantha felt the heat rush to her face. “I don’t want you to do this for me, Jack!” she blurted out, keenly aware of the warm strength of his hand covering hers.

  He pulled back a little but didn’t release her hand. “And don’t I know that well enough?” he said with a long sigh. “It would be a terrible thing entirely if you should somehow feel beholden to me.”

  “It’s not that—”

  “It’s exactly that,” he said bluntly. “And we both know it. Our…‘friendship’—” Samantha winced at the sardonic edge he gave the word—“would never survive your feeling obligated to me. Nor would I want you to feel put upon. But, woman, you do make it devilishly difficult sometimes for me to supply a bit of help.”

  “I’m sorry, Jack,” Samantha said, meaning it. “I suppose I’ve been so intent on making my own way that I’m not always as gracious as I ought to be when a friend does me a favor.”

  He was watching her closely, an expression on his face that she couldn’t quite identify. Whatever it was, it made her uncomfortable.

  With his hand still holding hers securely, he closed the remaining distance between them on the sofa. “The thing is, Samantha,” he said, his voice much lower than before, “I don’t want to be your friend. I want to be your husband.”

  Samantha stared at him in total shock. The firelight flickered, dappling his face and softening his strong features. He was smiling a little, clearly aware that he had stunned her, yet obviously expecting a reply.

  Samantha forced herself to meet his gaze. “You’re joking, of course.”

  He gave a slight shake of his head and lifted his eyebrows. “You know I’m not, Samantha. I think you also know I’m in love with you and have been for some time.”

  Samantha glanced away. “Then I think you’re just trying to rattle me,” she said, trying hard for a lighter tone. “You do seem to enjoy doing that, I’ve noticed.”

  “Samantha, look at me,” he said, increasing the pressure on her hand.

  She heard the slight hoarseness in his voice. Somehow she managed to drag her gaze back to him, and when she did, she saw that he was not teasing her at all, that he was deadly serious. Her heart slammed against her ribs, and she couldn’t seem to get her breath. “Jack, I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  She was aware that she had edged as far away from him as she could and was now pressing against the arm of the sofa.

  “I should think that w
ould be fairly obvious. What I want you to say is yes.” The searching look he gave her seemed to arrow right to her soul. “Samantha,” he said softly, “don’t draw away from me. Not this time.”

  His grip on her hand tightened even more, and slowly, with great gentleness, he began to pull her toward him, bringing her as close…no, closer…than she had ever been to him before. She could see the unyielding line of his jaw, the faint silvering of his black hair, and the reflection of the fire in his dark eyes. She could actually feel his breath on her face, tinged with the faint scent of clove she had come to associate with him when he hadn’t been smoking one of his cigars.

  She thought that he would surely kiss her, but other than holding her hand, he made no move to touch her. He simply sat there, his eyes going over her face, then capturing and holding her gaze. “Marry me, Samantha.”

  A surge of panic shot through Samantha, but only for an instant. As she watched him, she could see nothing in his eyes to be afraid of. To the contrary, she sensed that the only threat to her at this moment was her melting heart.

  “Jack, please don’t do this—”

  “Look at me and tell me you feel nothing for me but friendship.”

  It took everything she had to look away from him. In the end it was the intensity of his gaze, the sheer, almost overwhelming force of the look in his eyes—the power that virtually hummed from him—that enabled her to resist him. Jack was a man used to getting anything he wanted, she reminded herself as she tugged her hand free of his grasp. It wouldn’t do to let him believe, even for a minute, that just because he wanted her, anything could come of it.

  “Jack—please!”

  The look of surprise that now went over his face only confirmed that he had not really expected her to resist him.

  It occurred to Samantha, with some sense of irony, that the very aspects of Jack’s personality that most likely enabled him to achieve whatever he fixed his sights on were the very traits that served to turn her away from him. If she wasn’t exactly afraid of his strength, the force of his will, his driving self-confidence that made him believe he could bend any situation—perhaps any person—to his control, she was at least intimidated enough by it all to back away from him.