Comfort and Joy

by Sandra Madden

  She was stunning.

  A striking vision in blue silk, Charles regarded Maeve as if he were seeing her for the first time. The pleated ruching about the gown’s low neck could not hide an abundant and delicious display of creamy cleavage. A natural deep blush colored Maeve’s cheeks and her midnight mane cascaded in an enchanting tumble of curls. Her large jewel eyes sparkled in the gaslight.

  Time and place ceased to exist. For the first time in his life Charles was mesmerized.

  “Da, what are ye doin’ here?”

  Before Mick could answer, Charles heard a rustle of skirts and looked to see Beatrice scurry to his side.

  “Do we have visitors?” His mother looked from the men on the doorstep to Maeve still poised on the stairs. She zeroed in on Maeve. “May I ask who are you, young lady?”

  Maeve lifted her chin. “I am Mrs. Charles Ashton Rycroft.”

  Beatrice’s gasp was quite audible.

  Chapter Four

  “Smelling salts! I need my smelling salts!” Beatrice cried, sinking against her son.

  “We brought ye yer things, me cailin,” Mick barked using the Gaelic for girl, a word he used as an endearment of sorts. With eyes only for Maeve, he ignored Beatrice Rycroft’s distress. Waving a paper sack in the air, his mouth turned up in a silly, broad grin.

  Maeve’s gaze flashed from her father to Charles. Her eyes narrowed on her husband as her little hands balled to fists at her hips and her fair complexion took on an ominous crimson flush.

  “Ye haven’t even told yer own mother!” she bristled. Her dark, arched brows burrowed into a furious frown.

  Dear God, what next?

  A single man living alone was unused to this…this pandemonium. Up until the moment he’d awakened to find himself in bed with Maeve O’Malley, Charles had lived in quiet contentment. He’d been satisfied with his well-ordered life and the gracious predictability of his days. From dawn until dusk he’d known exactly what to expect.

  Although little more than skin and bones, Beatrice weighed heavily against him. Charles eased his mother into the only vestibule chair just as Stella Hampton rushed in to join the melee. She carried her poor excuse for a dog under one arm. The miniature canine’s high-pitched yapping proved immensely irritating.

  The last drop of color drained from Stella’s face as her gaze flitted from one person to the next. “What’s happened? Who screamed?”

  “That was Mother.”

  “Oh, dear!”

  Charles felt Maeve’s blistering gaze upon him as he turned to Stella. But the young widow had become an innocent victim of this disturbance and she deserved an explanation. A Rycroft always did the right thing — even when in danger of losing his life, as Charles was now if the look in Maeve’s eyes was any indication.

  “There’s been a misunderstanding,” he told Stella with a forced, but hopefully reassuring, smile.

  “What ‘ave ye done to me girl?” Mick O’Malley growled, attempting to brush by the butler.

  Beatrice reared back as if she were being attacked by a mad dog. “Who is this man?”

  “Me name is Mick O’Malley an’ who would ye be?”

  “Oh!” Beatrice gasped.

  Unaccustomed to rudeness of any kind, Charles’s mother appeared to be on the verge of swooning.

  “Hush, Baby, hush,” Stella crooned to her detestable, pointy little dog as she hurried to Beatrice’s side.

  Charles drew in a deep breath. Dear God, let this madness end.

  Stuart remained at the door, steadfast and stoic, blocking the O’Malley men from entering. The cold winter wind swept in, an icy intrusion of an uninvited caller, but the group gathered in the gleaming marble foyer took no heed.

  “Close the door,” Dolly ordered as she bustled into the increasingly crowded entryway. After one bewildered look, the housekeeper made her way to Charles’s mother.

  “Have you brought my smelling salts?” Beatrice asked in a small, pathetic voice.

  “In my pocket, Mrs. Rycroft. Don’t you worry.”

  As Dolly gathered up Beatrice, Stella slanted a distrustful glance toward Mick and Shea before turning her attention to Maeve. The Irish beauty stood as still and proud as a Michelangelo sculpture while Stella blatantly scrutinized her from head to toe. At length the chalky complexioned widow raised an eyebrow and lifted her chin in a haughty cut. Without a word, she turned on her heel to follow Dolly and Beatrice up the stairs, cradling her bared-teeth, growling dog.

  Charles felt as if he were locked in a nightmare from which there was no escape.

  Scowling impatiently, Mick O’Malley pushed Stuart aside. Nonplussed, Charles’s butler simply stared as Mick strode through the door trailed by his son.

  With a curt nod, Charles dismissed Stuart. Obviously vexed, the tight-lipped butler took his leave.

  Old man O’Malley smelled faintly of whisky as he took another menacing step toward Charles. “What ‘ave ye done to me Maeve?”

  “I have done nothing to hurt your daughter. As you can see, she looks...” Charles voice trailed off as he dared another glance to where Maeve stood on the stairs.

  His heart lurched, a soft leap that took him by surprise.

  Maeve looked like a princess stepped from the pages of a fairy tale. She was the same girl she had been moments ago but somehow not the same. With head held high, she clutched the banister with one hand. Despite the murderous look still flashing in her eyes, she was startlingly beautiful. The flush of her cheeks contrasted against her delicate porcelain complexion put Charles in mind of rose blossoms drifting on a blanket of snow.

  His rather uncommon poetic thought was quickly followed by another. Her soft colors were in marked contrast to Maeve’s headstrong nature. And she was humming, a characteristic Charles had come to recognize as manifesting itself when she was nervous. And when Maeve was nervous, anything could happen.

  “Your daughter looks splendid in her new dress, don’t you agree?”

  Maeve’s father grunted.

  “He is ashamed of me, Dad!”

  “No!”

  “Aye.”

  “I am not —”

  But Mick O’Malley cut Charles off, speaking about him as if he were invisible. “The man’s damn lucky to have ye!”

  “Damn right,” Shea agreed.

  Charles rubbed his forehead. Torture was too good for the culprit who robbed and beat him and left him at the mercy of the O’Malleys. The villain should be forced to spend eternity with Mick O’Malley in particular. Nothing seemed cruel enough for the thief or thieves who had stolen his prized sketch and left him with an Irish shrew and her contentious family.

  Nevertheless, a Rycroft must do the right thing. If only he knew what that might be in a situation like this.

  Shea stepped forward to stand beside Mick. Maeve’s brother was a big, broad man, almost as tall as Charles. His shabby jacket did nothing to hide his brawn. The young, handsome Irishman possessed the same coal black curls as Maeve’s but his eyes were a blue-gray shade.

  “Me sister is a good woman and deserves the best,” Shea said, aiming a cool gaze at Charles. “If ye don’t treat her with respect, sir, ye’ll be answerin’ to me.”

  “I assure you, Maeve will be accorded all due respect,’’ Charles replied. To his relief, Shea spoke softly and appeared more levelheaded than either his cantankerous father or spirited sister.

  A movement above shifted Charles’s attention.

  Holding her dress up so that her ankles showed in a most indecent manner — Charles overlooked her breach of etiquette to admire their slim turn —Maeve skipped down the steps to join the small circle of men.

  She lashed into her father and brother.

  “Saints above! Now tell me true, what are ye doin’ here?”

  “We wanted to make sure ye were all right,” Shea replied.

  Mick held up the sack he carried. “And we brought some things ye might be needin’.”

  “Like what?” Her hands went to
her hips.

  “Yer knittin’ an’ nightshirt, most important.”

  Maeve’s stomach knotted with an unpleasant blend of tension and frustration. Her father would be her undoing yet. Maeve slept in a man’s nightshirt, a secret she did not take kindly to having shared with her high society husband.

  In the hopes Charles hadn’t heard the nightshirt announcement, she took up another evil. “Me knittin’?”

  Blue-blooded Boston ladies did not knit.

  “The cranberries and ribbon, too.” Mick lowered his voice. “Ye’ll still make the decorations for our Christmas, won’t ye?”

  Her father was in his cups. Maeve turned on Shea. “What was ye thinkin’, bringing his own here after he’s been drinkin’?”

  “I thought it was better than him comin’ without me.”

  Swallowing her embarrassment, Maeve looked to Charles for his reaction, knowing she would be mortified if she found disdain in his expression.

  But her taciturn husband did not evidence displeasure, nor hesitate. “I’ll have Stuart take Maeve’s things to her rooms.”

  Lowering her voice, Maeve spoke to her father in soft, gentle tones. “Da, go now. I’ll come by and visit with ye soon.”

  “Yer a good cailin.”

  She turned to Shea then. “Are you stayin’ out of the ring?”

  Her brother gave a wag of his head. “There’s a big bout bein’ scheduled. The pot is growin’ so heavy that it might make a man rich enough to buy his own boat.”

  “My brother wants to get off the docks and become a fisherman,” Maeve explained to Charles. “He yearns to work for himself.”

  “Someday I’ll have me own fleet,” Shea declared with a confident grin.

  “If ye live,” Maeve scoffed. “I’m not one for grown men fightin’ in the ring — or anywhere else for that matter.”

  “I have never met a lady yet who is fond of the sport,” Charles said.

  Maeve embraced her father. She worried at being away from him. She loved him dearly, this small curmudgeon of a man who was both her father and her child.

  Although Maeve had only been a ten-year-old lass when her mam died, Dad and Shea depended on her to take care of them. She’d done the mending and cooking, the cleaning and all that needed doing. For the past four years she’d brought home a steady income as well.

  “I’ll be cailin’ on ye before the week is out, Dad,” Maeve promised.

  Holding her father close, she kissed him lightly on the cheek, wishing he did not smell like Jamison’s. Essence of alcohol had clung to him for years. He wore it like some men wore cologne. While her father had always raised a few in celebration, the serious drinking began after Maeve’s mother died. Kathleen O’Malley’s death changed her dad forever and had everything to do with his decision to take his children to America before they starved. To this day, Maeve knew her father pined for his darlin’ Kathleen something fierce.

  On long, lonely nights, Maeve had yearned for a man to love her in the way Mick loved his Kathleen. Now she meant for that man to be Charles.

  Reluctantly releasing her father, she turned to Shea. Standing on tiptoe, she wrapped her arms around him. A strong and gentle giant, her older brother had always offered protection and comfort. To the end of her life, Maeve knew she would do anything in the world for him.

  The first time she’d seen Shea bruised, with his knuckles swollen following one of his professional boxing matches, she’d cried. Although Shea won more bouts than he lost, the results of his time in the ring always showed. As she wondered who would soak her brother’s big hands and rub ointment on his bruises now that she would not be there to do it, a lump as large as Faneuil Hall lodged in her throat. Maeve would sell her soul not to have Shea box again.

  “Thank you for bringin’ me things. If you need me, ye know where to find me now you’ve been here. And feel free to knock on Mrs. Gilhooly’s door. She’ll help you with Dad if I cannot be there,” Maeve added to Shea quietly. Mrs. Gilhooly lived in the rear of their South Boston building.

  “If yer fancy husband does anything to make ye unhappy, just say the word,” Shea whispered gruffly in her ear. “And I’ll be takin’ care of him for ye.”

  “Ye’11 be the first to know,” Maeve said with a wink as she stepped out of his arms.

  Taking each in hand, Maeve walked her father and brother to the door. She tugged at her father’s worn jacket and buttoned him up snugly against the cold. He’d gained weight round the middle and needed a new jacket.

  Mick pulled his black knit cap down over his ears as Maeve gave a yank to Shea’s bright red scarf. She would miss her O’Malley men dearly, every day.

  “Stay safe,” she said, blinking back tears as she pushed her family closer to the door.

  “Make sure ye keep yer promise, me darlin’. I expect to see ye before the week is out,” her father called over his shoulder as he and Shea started down the steps toward the street.

  Maeve watched silently until the figures of her father and brother disappeared into the silent, icy night.

  A shiver tore through her as she stood in the open door. Maeve felt rather than saw Charles move up to stand beside her. The heat of his body warmed her. The masculine, woodsy scent of him eased her emptiness.

  “I’ll be apologizin’ for the interruption,” she said, still gazing into the black night.

  “There’s no need to apologize. They were worried about you. It is a blessing to have a family who cares so much about you,” he said with what sounded to be a wistful tone. He closed the door.

  “ ‘Tis indeed,” she said quietly.

  “And now I must face Beatrice.” Charles straightened his shoulders and shot Maeve a wry smile. “I expect with the aid of her smelling salts that my mother has fully recovered. And I am certain she is waiting with great anticipation for a full explanation.”

  The unexpected, and quite enticing, twist of his mouth might have charmed Maeve at another time. But not at the moment. “And me as well,” she asserted. “Do ye not think I deserve an explanation? I did not even know your mother lived here.”

  “It seems I have much to answer for.” His eyes met hers, soft and silvery and sincere. “Can you forgive me?”

  How could she not, when with just one look, he’d managed to melt her heart?

  The fourth floor corridor of the Rycroft brownstone featured gilt portraits of deceased ancestors. The painting of Charles’s father, Conrad B. Rycroft, was by far the largest and most prominent in the gallery of rogues, as Charles thought of this display. The flattering portrait was mounted at the end of the long, narrow hall and from this particular spot it seemed the elder Rycroft’s eyes followed every move. Charles felt his father’s critical gaze upon him now as he approached his mother’s bedchamber and sitting room.

  Beatrice’s suite was on the same floor as Charles’s. Since she was rarely in residence, he thought himself the beneficiary of the utmost privacy, a privacy he’d enjoyed. Up until now.

  Every muscle in his body felt as tightly wound as a clock mainspring run amuck. For the first time in memory, he experienced the angst of a tormented man, a man caught in the grip of circumstances quickly spiraling out of his control. As he walked the chilled corridor, beads of sweat broke out on Charles’s forehead. Clearing his throat, he knocked on his mother’s door.

  Beatrice answered with a faint bid to enter. Alone in her sitting room, she reclined on a pink-and-white striped satin chaise. Only the ornately carved rosewood furniture offered the eye a respite from the many shades of pink used with abandon in his mother’s rooms. Wall and bed coverings, drapes, and upholstered furniture had been swathed in varying shades of Beatrice’s favorite color. She made no secret of feeling that pink was the only color that truly flattered an aging woman.

  Charles pulled one of the uncomfortable, dusty-rose, tufted chairs close to his mother’s chaise and sat gingerly on the edge of the seat. He always expected the balloon-back gilt chairs to give way under his weight


  “How are you feeling, Mother?”

  She raised the back of her hand to her forehead. “I am quite undone.”

  “I am sorry tha —”

  “What have you done?” Beatrice snapped.

  “I fear it is a long —”

  “Surely you make some cruel jest,” she interrupted impatiently.

  “No, Mother, it’s no joke.”

  “But you cannot be married.”

  “My thought exactly when I was first informed.”

  “How could you let such a dreadful thing happen?” Beatrice wailed. More dramatically than necessary, Charles thought.

  “I was under the impression that you wished me to marry, Mother.”

  “Yes but to a suitable woman like Stella.”

  “Of course.”

  Tears brimmed in Beatrice’s eyes as she extended a limp hand toward him. “Did the vixen hoax you, son?”

  Charles took his mother’s cool hand. “No. Not really.” He could think of no easy way to explain. “It is, rather it was an extraordinary situation.”

  “I don’t think I can bear to hear it.” Beatrice closed her eyes, in a bid, Charles supposed, to shut out reality. “But do go on.”

  What choice did he have? “Last week, I paid a call to Edgar Dines’s establishment in order to purchase a sketch I’d heard —”

  “Oh, no. Another?”

  His mother’s disapproval did not trouble Charles. Someday, he would bring Beatrice around to his way of thinking. Someday she would understand. “The sketch of St. Nick is the best of the lot, I believe.”

  “Go on.”

  “On my way to the carriage, I was accosted. Ambushed. The sketch was stolen.”

  Dropping his hand, Beatrice bolted upright. “My dear boy! Were you hurt?”

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, I was.”

  “Oh!” She reached for her smelling salts.

  “Maeve —”

  “Maeve?”

  “Maeve O’Malley, the young woman you met earlier.”

  “Oh Lord, is she Irish?”

  He nodded slowly. “Yes.”

  “Oh, no.” Beatrice rapidly fanned the bottle of smelling salts under her nose and then proceeded to choke.