Irish Linen

by Candace McCarthy

  Meghan stared at the folded paper. “I wouldn’t want to take all of your medicine,” she said.

  The woman brushed off Meghan’s concern with a wave of her hand. “I know the receipt. I can make more when I need to.”

  “Thank ye,” Meghan said, warming to the woman. In a moment of a shared experience, the animosity between the two eased.

  Miss Doddleberry moved to the door. “I’ll tell Mrs. Pridgly you’ll be down shortly.”

  Murmuring her thanks, Meghan set down the powder to be taken downstairs at breakfast and dressed. She suspected that Lucas Ridgely was actually the cause of her recent headaches. The man had done nothing but disturb her sense of well-being from the first moment she’d looked up in his ship’s cabin and met his gaze. Well, she didn’t know how she was going to solve matters. The confrontations between them weren’t over yet. She needed the mill job, but she wouldn’t suffer a loss of self-respect to keep it. The throbbing in her head intensified. She didn’t want to deal with Lucas Ridgely, but circumstances were forcing her, and she’d just have to make the best of things.

  By the time she joined the others at the table, her head hurt so badly, she could barely tolerate noise.

  “Meghan, what took ye so long?” Rafferty asked.

  “You poor dear!” Mrs. Pridgly exclaimed, causing Meghan to wince. “You look terrible.”

  Meghan tried to smile, but the effort made her feel worse.

  The women at the dining table began to fuss, rising to pull out a chair for her while scolding the men for not taking the initiative, and pouring Meghan a cup of tea.

  “Did you take the powder?” Miss Doddleberry asked.

  “No,” she whispered. She pulled the folded paper out of her pocket and poured some into her tea. She could sense Rafferty’s irritation mingled with concern as she tentatively took a sip of the medicine-laced tea, but she didn’t care. She had enough to worry about without her fiancé.

  “Please,” Meghan pleaded when the others continued to fuss over her. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

  The diners settled back to finish their breakfast; and although Meghan didn’t feel like eating, she took two of Mrs. Pridgly’s hot cinnamon buns.

  She sipped her tea and nibbled on a bun, listening to the conversation at the table, and soon the pain in her head began to diminish.

  Rafferty turned to her when they’d finished eating. “Are ye feeling better now?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Aye. The pain has lessened some.”

  He frowned as he seemed to study her more carefully. “What brought it on, do ye think?”

  Meghan shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know,” she lied. It was the long night in the chair with little sleep, her thoughts troubled by her anger toward— and her attraction to—Lucas Ridgely.

  “I’m glad ye’re feeling better,” her fiancé said, placing his arm about her shoulder.

  She had to force herself not to pull away. Rafferty had been touching her more and more lately, and she was uncomfortable with his change of behavior.

  But you’re going to marry him, an inner voice reminded her.

  But it doesn’t feel right, she thought, disturbed by the revelation and the knowledge that as her husband Rafferty would have the right to touch her whenever he desired … and more intimately.

  She swallowed hard. The idea had never bothered her before. Why did it now?

  Lucas.

  Meghan experienced a shaft of pain. She’d never experienced passion until Lucas had kissed and touched her. She hadn’t known what she’d been missing.

  It wasn’t that she was ignorant of a man’s lust, but she’d never really thought of it in connection with Rafferty. He was solid, dependable … like Da, she thought. And what she’d once shared with Lucas hadn’t been just lust, it was more, she thought, recalling their shared moments eating “stolen” food. She’d enjoyed the simple pleasure of just being with Lucas … until she’d learned what a misguided cretin he was.

  Rafferty escorted her into the parlor where the residents of the house had gathered to exchange gifts. Meghan glanced at the man beside her and was uneasy with the thought of becoming his wife.

  But what choice did she have? She had promised to marry Rafferty. He had worked hard to send for her. She owed him a lot, and she was grateful.

  But was marriage too high a price to pay?

  She’d become betrothed to Rafferty because she had wanted a safe and solid husband. Her decision hadn’t been based on any gratitude or sense of loyalty. It had been a wise one, she’d thought at the time.

  But Rafferty was a different man than the one she’d known and felt affection for back in Ireland. He was often preoccupied and angry. That quick flash of fury she’d glimpsed when he’d learned she’d lost her employment at the Somertons had upset her. It still disturbed her, more than she’d previously allowed herself to admit.

  Rafferty left her side to search under the sofa, rising within moments with a small trinket box and a boyish grin.

  Meghan couldn’t help smiling. His grin belonged to the man she’d once known. Perhaps the real Rafferty was still there, only weighed down by his worries.

  He came to her and led her to sit on the sofa. Then, with an expectant look in his green eyes, he handed her the wooden box.

  “Merry Christmas, Meggie,” he whispered, leaning to kiss her cheek.

  She was overcome with a rush of emotion. “Thank ye, Rafferty,” she said huskily.

  “Open it,” he urged.

  His excitement transmitted itself to Meghan, raising her level of anticipation. She studied the box and then opened the carved lid. As she stared at the box’s contents, tension coiled inside her, and she couldn’t speak. There, nestled within a bed of velvet, was a ring, a circle of emerald stones that glistened with green fire.

  “ ‘Tis your betrothal ring,” he said, sounding uncertain. “I couldn’t give one to ye before now.”

  She met his gaze and saw a vulnerability in him she’d not seen before.

  “Try it on,” he urged.

  No, her mind cried. This isn’t right. Ye don’t really want to marry him. “Where did ye get this?” she breathed.

  A look of anger entered Rafferty’s gaze. “I came by it honestly, if that’s what ye’re asking.”

  “No, no, I didn’t mean that,” she said quickly. “It’s just that it’s so … beautiful …” In a gesture of apology, Meghan lifted the ring from the box and reluctantly placed it on a finger of her right hand. The coil in her chest tightened as she studied its effect. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Tell him you’ll not marry him.

  Tell him he’ll always be a good friend, and for that you’ll always love him, but that there needs to be more between a husband and wife.

  Meghan was surprised by her thoughts. From her— someone who never believed in romance and passionate love.

  “A simple thank ye will do,” Rafferty said with mild irritation.

  She forced a smile that she hoped appeared genuine. “Thank ye, Mr. O’Connor.”

  She must have sounded sincere, because his expression lightened. “Ye’re more than welcome to it, Miss McBride,” he said, and then he kissed her … on the mouth … in a room full of people.

  Meghan wanted to protest, to pull away, but she submitted because he was her fiancé, and she’d yet to make a final decision about their relationship.

  The kiss was quick and without feeling for Meghan. When he bent his head a second time, Meghan stifled a shiver of revulsion brought on by the moist, insistent clumsiness of Rafferty’s mouth.

  As he pulled away, Rafferty looked happier than she’d seen him since she’d come to America, and she suffered misgivings. Murmuring that she had to retrieve Rafferty’s gift, she stumbled upstairs to her bedchamber and rummaged through the bottom drawer of the dresser.

  Tears pricked her eyes as she pulled out Rafferty’s gift, for her mind was filled with Lucas’s—not Raf- ferty’s —imag
e. She couldn’t forget how glorious it had been to be kissed by Lucas. Rafferty’s kiss failed miserably by comparison.

  Oh, Lucas, why did ye have to come back?

  She blamed her seeing him again for her discontent with Rafferty. If Lucas had not reentered her world, she’d have been happy to marry Rafferty, she told herself.

  Or would she?

  She had found one excuse after another to put off her wedding. She’d been honest in her feelings when she’d asked for time to get over her father’s death, and Rafferty had understood. But with his gift of the ring, Rafferty was reminding her of their commitment. He’d given her time, and she had a dreaded feeling that he was getting impatient.

  Dear God, what am I going to do?

  Rafferty offered marriage.

  Lucas had offered her shame as his kept woman.

  Rafferty’s kisses were lifeless.

  Lucas had promised passion and ecstasy beyond her wildest dreams.

  Rafferty loved her.

  Lucas only desired her.

  And why did she have feelings for a man who doubted her word? She was physically attracted to Lucas Ridgely, despite her anger.

  Was she mad?

  Could she marry Rafferty knowing how she felt about Lucas?

  She was a fool for being tempted by physical lust. She’d lose her reputation as Lucas’s mistress. Despite her desire for him, she could never take up such an offer from a man.

  She needed to forget Lucas and marry. As Rafferty’s wife, she’d have her self-respect as well as the children and family home she’d always hoped to have.

  But at what price?

  Meghan sobbed into the silence of the room. I don’t know what to do!

  Wouldn’t it be better if she remained alone?

  She wiped her eyes and straightened her appearance. For someone who had vowed not to cry, she seemed to be doing a lot of it lately, she thought.

  With Rafferty’s gift clutched in her hand, Meghan left to rejoin the others.

  She couldn’t decide today. She was still Rafferty’s fiancée and she would play the part as if it had been destined for her all along.

  She’d allow nothing to wipe away the smile from Rafferty’s face or to ruin her first Christmas in America, her new home.

  Eighteen

  The Gibbons Mill weavers returned to their looms, buzzing with excitement over the last days’ holiday celebration. Meghan smiled and made all the right replies to her fellow workers, but her cheerfulness was forced. Her holiday had been disturbing, not joyful, to her.

  She turned on her looms and kept herself busy working, while her mind replayed the events of Christmas day. She’d tried hard to enjoy her time with Rafferty; and for a while, in the afternoon, she actually had. Henry had an old fiddle, which to Meghan’s surprise, he played with amazing ability. Rafferty, buoyed by the music and the holiday spirit, had gotten up and danced like he and Meghan’s father had done in the early days … before the potato crops had failed and brought poverty, hunger, and disease.

  Henry, apparently having learned an Irish ditty or two from one of the Irish mill workers, played a jig to which Rafferty not only danced but sang the words. Meghan had laughed and clapped her hands with the others until Rafferty had pulled her to her feet; she’d stumbled through the steps that she’d never quite been able to master as a young child.

  Pleasantly winded, Meghan and the others had then shared a Christmas supper that, Meghan had to admit, rivaled any meal that had been cooked by Patty.

  That Christmas night, Meghan had fallen asleep in the chair immediately, pleasantly exhausted by the dancing and revelry. But hours later she’d been awakened in the early hours by a disturbing dream.

  She’d been too keyed up with her reaction to the dream to go back to sleep. Miss Doddleberry’s snores hadn’t helped matters. Restless, Meghan had risen and moved her chair closer to the window to stare out into the night. The sky was clear and star-studded. A light blanket of snow had fallen since she’d retired for the evening, and she caught her breath at the beauty of the winter night. The moon glistened on the white-kissed tree branches and on the snow-laden roadway.

  At first glance, it had been difficult to tell where the yard ended and the road began, until she saw the dip in the land that outlined the edge of the dirt carriage path. And as she’d studied the night, she’d trembled with the feelings brought on by the dream, for her sleep visions had been filled with Lucas … and how he’d come to her after she’d married Rafferty, begging, pleading with her to be his wife.

  His declaration of love had been all the more disturbing to her upon awakening, for Meghan knew that in reality Lucas would never care enough, want her enough to make such a claim. And certainly not on bent knee!

  In her dream, Meghan had consented to leave Rafferty for Lucas. She’d braved the scandal of leaving her husband to be with Lucas, but after enjoying her in his bed, Lucas had tired of her quickly. Pregnant with Lucas’s child, Meghan had found herself alone in Philadelphia, struggling to survive, but no one would hire a woman big with child—especially an Irishwoman. Rafferty, heartbroken at Meghan’s betrayal, heard about Lucas’s abandonment of her, and he came searching for his wife. He found Meghan in a ramshackle old house, working as a housemaid for a man of questionable character. Rafferty rescued Meghan and took her back to Somerville to live with him. But while she shared his bed, she no longer had his respect or affection … a matter Rafferty had no intention of rectifying, as punishment for leaving him.

  Meghan had a home and a child, but she’d lost Rafferty’s affection and her own self-respect. She had to be content with only Rafferty’s lust and a child who resembled his father—the man she’d lost and sacrificed everything for.

  “Lucas,” she murmured, feeling her old longing for him overwhelm her as she moved to check the smooth running of each loom. “I must forget ye.”

  In the early darkened hours of the day following Christmas, Meghan had made the decision to marry Rafferty. It was the right and only thing to do, she’d realized, to keep her self-respect and her heart intact.

  Her heart intact? Love? Was that why she couldn’t stop wanting Lucas Ridgely? Because she loved him? No! She couldn’t be that insane!

  She knew she’d made the best decision about Rafferty. She needed to get on with her life, forget such foolish girlish fancies.

  Yet, why did she feel so disheartened?

  “Meghan.” Mari Bright interrupted Meghan’s painful musings. “You’re quiet this day. Did you not enjoy your holiday in Somerville?”

  Meghan realized that she must go on and be happy with her decision and her life. “It was a fine time,” she said. She held up her hand to display her new ring. “Rafferty gave me this.”

  Mari gasped. “It’s lovely!”

  “ ‘Tis my betrothal ring,” Meghan said. She was still uncomfortable with the obvious excessive expense of the ring, and where Rafferty had gotten it.

  The woman called out to the other workers to come and see Meghan’s ring; and as the day progressed, each one drifted over to admire the ring as their time and work load permitted.

  “Mother of God!” one girl exclaimed. “ Tis beautiful beyond all. I wish me intended had such riches to spend.”

  The young woman’s comment only made Meghan feel more uneasy about the ring. Where did Rafferty purchase it? Surely, such jewelry wasn’t available at the Somerville store? He’d said he’d come by the ring honestly, and she had tried to believe it, but couldn’t Yet, she realized how little she knew about Rafferty’s finances. She’d assumed he’d made modest wages; he’d been so adamant to see her employed. It had taken him two years to save the cost of her and her father’s passage to America. Could Rafferty have earned enough money to buy her an expensive betrothal ring since?

  Immediately after that thought came guilt. She had no reason to doubt Rafferty. He’d given her so much. Besides paying for her voyage, he’d outfitted her with two new gowns. If she knew so little of hi
s finances, it was her own fault. Had she asked him about money? Perhaps he was still paying for the ring? She was his fiancé; she had a right to know and to work to help him.

  Rafferty had pretended to be pleased when she’d given him his Christmas gift, but she could see in his expression that he wasn’t. And she hadn’t asked him why until he’d taken her home last night. She’d learned then that he’d sold his father’s watch after he’d come to America. He’d needed the money enough to sell something precious.

  Disturbed by her thoughts, Meghan shut off her machines, gathered her cloak, and went out into the night without waiting for Susan or one of Patty’s other girls. She’d gone only a few yards when she felt someone grab her arm. Heart thumping, she turned and faced Catherine Brown, the spinner who’d been watching her and Lucas in the weaving room on Christmas Eve.

  “Catherine.” At first, she’d been afraid that it was Phelps, perhaps furious with her for stirring up a fuss at the mill. The man had been absent from work all day, and the rumor about the floor was that the man had been suspended from the floor until his behavior had been investigated. But none of the workers had been called into Mr. Simmons’s office to be questioned. Her relief that it wasn’t Phelps made her smile at the woman.

  “You think you’re better than the rest of us,” the woman said with a snarl. “I saw you talking with Lucas Ridgely. If you think you’ll get an increase in pay by playing up to him, you’re mistaken.”

  The smile left Meghan’s face and she stared at Catherine in shock. “I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

  “What did you say to him, McBride?” Catherine said angrily. “When you left him, the man couldn’t keep his eyes off you. You must have said something!”

  “He asked me about me work is all.” She could feel her face drain of all color.

  The other woman laughed harshly. “I’m sure,” she said. “Don’t think you’ll keep the man’s interest, Irish. Lucas Ridgely is an attractive man. He can have any woman he wants in his own class. You’ll never be rich or woman enough for him.”