“My father expected my brother to join him in the publishing firm, but Barnabas had other ideas. He would disappear for days to work at his art. A necessity because he was forbidden to sketch or paint at home.”
“The poor man,” Maeve whispered. Her heart tightened, touched by Barnabas’s plight and Charles’s obvious pain.
Charles clenched his jaw and nodded. For the first time, Maeve clearly perceived the deep sadness etched into the planes of his face.
“Running off only made matters worse. My father committed Barnabas to an asylum in New Hampshire where the wealthy hide their deranged, or disobedient, sons and daughters. My brother didn’t belong there. He might have been rebellious but he was not insane.”
Maeve could not hold back the trail of slow, hot tears that seared her cheeks. “Sure’n I’m sorry.”
But Charles did not see her tears. He gazed over her shoulder into space, a dark place where painful memories were locked away. Out of sight. But not out of mind. “Barnabas tried to escape one night and was shot and killed. In the dark, one of the guards mistook him for a prowler.”
“Oh, no!” Maeve cried. A painful spasm, sharp as a knife, slashed through her heart. She reached across the table and squeezed Charles’s hand.
Charles looked anew at the woman sitting across from him. She understood. Sweet compassion filled her wide blue eyes to the brim. He had never told this story to anyone before. It remained his family’s secret, buried more deeply through the years. Charles didn’t really know why he had shared the secret and his sorrow with Maeve. Perhaps he knew instinctively that she would understand what so many in his family, and in their social sphere, seemed unable to comprehend. His brother existed for his art. Barnabas could not breathe, could not live without his canvases, brushes, and pencils.
Although only a young boy at the time, Charles had understood. But his father never had, nor his mother. The rest of the family, including Martin, were baffled by Barnabas’s refusal to conform.
And after his brother died, it was as if he had never lived. The family never spoke of him. Barnabas lived only through his paintings and sketches, legacies Charles treasured as remarkable evidence of his brother’s life.
“My brother risked death for his art.”
“Oh, how difficult it must have been for you.”
Charles nodded. With time, the pain had eased, but a hollowness remained in his heart. A heart he had guarded zealously since Barnabas’s death. A heart that had been shattered with the loss of the big brother he had loved and admired.
Enfolding Maeve’s small, rough hand in his, he forced a smile. “Little Bit, I did not mean to sadden you. Rycrofts are expected to do the right thing. My brother simply could not.”
“He did what was right for him,” she said quietly.
Charles took a deep breath and swiped a hand through his hair. “At a dear price.”
“Aye, but one your dear brother must have been willing to pay.”
“Perhaps.’’ The acid gnawing in the pit of his stomach ebbed away. She was right. Unlike his older brother, Charles had never loved anything or anyone with such intensity that he willingly would sacrifice his life.
“You shall recover the sketch. I know you shall, Charles.”
“I hope so. It was one of the few whimsical pieces my brother created. His mood was not often light.”
“My eye will be open and I will be looking—”
Charles raised a hand and gave her a stern warning. “Don’t even think about getting involved. You found me and you healed my bruises. So you know better than anyone that the ruffian who stole the sketch is not to be taken lightly.”
“But…”
“No buts.”
Maeve lowered her eyes without comment. Charles took her evasion as an ominous sign. But he had no time to press his argument further. Glancing at his pocket watch, he pushed back his chair. “We must leave now. I have an appointment in my office shortly.”
She raised her soulful blue eyes to his. “Thank you for the tea and cakes. And for telling me about Barnabas.”
During the past hour Charles lost some of the restless, edgy feeling plaguing him of late. Plainly, Maeve proved superior to fencing as a method of easing his disquiet. “It’s fortunate that I came upon you,” he said. “You would still be walking, frozen through and through.”
She acknowledged his insight with a small, captivating smile.
“I would be forced to warm you.”
“You have done that very well in the past,” she declared. The impish sparkle in her eyes suggested intimacies between them that teased Charles’s mind and tested his patience.
Chuckling, he held the Irish vixen’s coat. “No more walking in the winter.”
“I shall do my best to remember.”
A disconcerting thought struck him. “Do you have money to hire a coach?”
Angling her head, she gave him a rueful smile. “Money is not something I think of often and I am not accustomed to riding.”
“Never leave home without proper funds. I shall see to it that you have enough to hire a carriage when needed and for any Christmas shopping you might like to do.”
“I am used to making Christmas gifts.”
“This year I urge you to shop for them. You might like it. My mother and Stella seem to be keeping themselves happily occupied with shopping.”
She replied with a brilliant smile.
The glow of Maeve’s smile set Charles’s blood afire. But he knew enough not to be misled by wondrous blue eyes and an enchanting smile.
Would the strong-willed Irish lass heed his warning? Would she put to rest any ideas of searching for Barnabas’s sketch of St. Nick? He took her home.
At last Maeve understood the somber, rigid demeanor of her husband. He had lost the brother he loved under horrible circumstances. His father, disappointed in his firstborn son, then settled on his second son, driving and belittling Charles at every turn. It was clear to Maeve that even now, several years after his father’s death, Charles still attempted to prove his worth as a son and as a businessman.
His overbearing and arrogant manner had been cultivated to please his father. Charles strove to be the son his father wanted him to be. But Maeve knew the Charles behind the stiff facade. She’d had a glimpse of him during his brief bout with amnesia. He was the carefree, laughing man she’d called Charlie. Her heart ached for Charlie. She resolved then and there to free her husband from the ghost of his father.
Maeve left the Rycroft residence shortly after Charles dropped her there. Pansy had been waiting in Maeve’s rooms to help with her elocution and had begged to go along to the docks. Why a highborn miss like Pansy wanted to do such a thing was beyond Maeve, but her friend courted scandal on a regular basis. Harriet Deakins would serve Maeve’s head on a platter if she ever discovered this afternoon’s adventure.
For the first time in her life, Maeve carried a considerable amount of money in her pocket. But money wouldn’t buy what she wanted most, Barnabas’s sketch of St. Nicholas. This time, with Pansy close on her heels, she did not intend to leave the docks until she found her brother.
She was vastly relieved when she found Shea on pier four. Even though her brother possessed the strength of two men, the day work was grueling. However, it was good work for an Irish immigrant and Shea never complained. Each day he went to the docks looking for a job. It was a good day when he was hired. Maeve fancied her brother dreamed of stowing away as he loaded the ships sailing east and south on the Atlantic. But he would never leave da to fend for himself.
Maeve waved both arms in the air and when Shea spotted her, he handed over the barrel in his arms to another stevedore.
“Is that your brother?” Pansy whispered.
Maeve adored her older brother. “‘Tis Shea Michael O’Malley, himself,” she declared proudly.
Taking long, confident strides, Shea quickly reached Maeve and Pansy. The beginning depressions of a frown wrinkled his broad, sun-darkened forehea
d. For years she’d known her older brother worried first and asked questions later. From the time of their mother’s death, he’d taken on more responsibility for Maeve’s health and welfare than their father.
With a brief, curious glance at Pansy, he removed his cap. His frown grew deeper as he focused on Maeve with a hard squint. “What brings ye here, Maeve?”
“I’ve been trying to talk to you for days now.”
“But ye know ye shouldn’t come down to the docks.”
“If you are never at home, what should I do?’’ Without waiting for his reply, Maeve turned to Pansy. “This is my friend, Pansy Deakins. My brother, Shea.”
Pansy extended her hand, gazing up at Shea with a soft, sweet smile. Maeve had never seen her friend smile that way before, like a simpering miss.
“I am exceedingly pleased to meet you, Shea.”
Shea shot Pansy a disarming Irish grin, the one he usually saved for the girls at Rosie’s Saloon. “The pleasure is all mine. Me sister has talked of you often enough. I thank you for yer many kindnesses to her.”
To Maeve’s horror, Pansy’s eyes grew dewy, locking on Shea’s steady, twinkling gaze. She watched with mounting apprehension as Shea and Pansy regarded each other in silent admiration. Her brother and best friend no longer knew Maeve existed. It was as if the faeries had raised a Fefiada around her, rendering her invisible to mortals.
Pansy finally spoke. “Your sister has become a dear friend,” she said in a breathless tone.
“Which is the only reason Pansy is with me today,” Maeve explained hastily. “She insisted that I bring her along.”
“Aye, I see she has a weapon aimed at your back.”
“Don’t be teasin’ now, Shea. I’m here on serious business.”
Shea did not take his eyes from Pansy as he asked Maeve, “Is your husband mistreatin’ you?”
“No. As a matter of fact, I think I may be growing on him.”
“Charles is a good man,” Pansy offered. “He would never knowingly harm Maeve, or anyone for that matter. His only sin is stuffiness.”
Shea laughed at that, and Pansy as well.
But Maeve took umbrage. She dug her fists into her hips, a difficult maneuver when one is couched in a muff. “My husband is misunderstood!”
“Don’t turn your temper on me,” Shea chuckled. “I believe you. And as much as I’d like to spend the day chatting, if I don’t get back to work, I’ll lose me job.”
“Wait. I’m bound to find the sketch stolen from Charles the night we found him.”
“How do you suppose to do that?” her brother asked, giving Maeve his full attention at last.
“You said at the time he appeared to have been beaten by a professional. I’d like you to look for someone among your boxer friends who may have more money than he should.”
“Do you think me friends go round beating and stealing from innocent men?”
“No, but it may be that your acquaintances do. If you will just look around when you’re sparring or such.”
Shea took a step back, narrowing his eyes. “What makes ye think I’m sparring?”
“Da says you’re not home much of late. And you’re not drinkin’ at Rosie’s either. That says to me you’re getting ready to box.”
“Yer dreamin’, sister o’ mine.”
“You promised me you wouldn’t box any more after I left,” she reminded him. “You said with one less mouth to feed, fightin’ wouldn’t be necessary.”
Shea inclined his head. “Darlin”, I can’t for the life of me recall sayin’ such a thing.”
Her fists returned to her hips. “Shea!” she cried in a warning tone.
“I’ve got to get back to work. If I hear anything, I’ll let ye know.”
Maeve gave an annoyed puff. But it was all she could ask for now.
“Miss Pansy...” Shea’s voice trailed off as if he would say more but thought better of it. Instead he winked and cocked his head. “Good day to you.”
“I hope we meet again, Shea O’Malley,” Pansy blurted.
Maeve nudged her red-haired companion with her elbow.
Shea just grinned. Jamming his cap back atop his curls, he strode away whistling.
Pansy spun on Maeve. “You never told me your brother was such a handsome man.”
“You never asked. And it matters not.” Maeve had a new worry now.
Something had passed between Shea and Pansy. It was nothing Maeve could put her finger on, but she knew something had happened. Her earlier misgiving about allowing Pansy to accompany her to the docks had been correct. A woman who believed in Victoria Woodhull’s philosophy of free love did not belong anywhere near Shea O’Malley.
Maeve hustled her friend away from the docks and hired a coach to take them into the heart of Boston.
She did have some shopping to do and Pansy’s opinion would help.
* * * *
Charles met in his office with Herbert Lynch. The private investigator he’d hired to find his brother’s sketch of St. Nick was a small, dour man who smelled of stale tobacco. His fingers were yellow from constantly holding a cigar, lit or unlit.
“What have you to report, Mr. Lynch?”
Lynch pointed the ragged, unlit stub of his cigar at Charles. “Very little. The trail is cold.”
“You mentioned that when I hired you.”
“I’m doing my best.”
The tension that had drained from Charles while having tea with Maeve snaked through him again; a spiraling, squeezing sensation that caused his whole body to become as rigid as a walking stick. “Are you telling me you have nothing to report?”
“No. I’ve something. Something. Did you know your cousin, Martin Rycroft, is in financial straits? Bad financial straits?”
“I did not.”
“His wife is expecting their first child and the house she made him buy a few months ago is more than he can manage. More than he can manage.”
“Are you suggesting Martin is the thief?”
“Does he know the value of your sketch?”
“Yes.” Charles wondered if Martin’s unceasing proposal for a monthly magazine could be attributed to his cousin’s poor financial status. Martin would win an increase in his salary if he were to head such a project. “My cousin would never steal from me.”
“In most cases it’s someone close, someone who you’d never suspect. Never suspect. Someone close.”
The investigator’s habit of repeating himself aggravated Charles’s gut-wrenching tension. “Mr. Lynch, I advise you to dig deeper. Report back when you have more.”
Lynch shook his head and shuffled to the door.
An hour later, Charles still battled his consuming tension. He could send a message to Spencer and arrange another fencing match or he could do something quite out of character, something quite impulsive. Against all accounting, he did the latter.
Charles strode past his startled assistant’s desk. “I’m leaving for the day.”
* * * *
Was there anything better than a shopping spree? Although Maeve had never enjoyed one before this afternoon, now that she had, she could not imagine anything more pleasant. Pansy guided her with the skill of a practiced shopper. At times, they giggled like schoolgirls, marveling at their purchases.
They had just emerged from the toy shoppe when Maeve heard Charles shout.
“Maeve!”
She spun around. “Charles!”
He’d come upon her twice in the same day. Was her husband following her?
“Get in the sleigh. You’re coming with me. We shall take you home, Pansy.”
Maeve would have felt better about complying if Charles had been smiling.
Chapter Ten
A little dazed and more than a bit wary, Maeve settled into the sleigh and pulled the warm carriage blanket over her. She’d only been on the docks a short time. No one that she knew of had seen her. She didn’t deserve to be banished from the city of Boston, if that’s what Charl
es had in mind.
Except for exchanging pleasantries with Pansy, her husband said little until he and Maeve were alone.
Maeve’s uneasiness mounted.
“You did not remain at home for long,” he remarked. “I hadn’t expected to find you so easily.”
“I had no idea ye…you would be looking for me. Where are we going?”
“To the country, to Sycamore Falls.”
Maeve had never heard of Sycamore Falls. But she knew there was a town west of Boston where they’d burned witches at the stake in bygone days. Her doubts resurfaced. She knew last evening would come back to haunt her.
While Charles had been a gentleman at tea earlier and not mentioned her indiscretion, he knew as well as she that Maeve had not been especially judicious with the dinner wine. Each time she turned away, her goblet had been refilled, causing Maeve to sorely misjudge the amount she drank. If truth be faced, she might have been a trifle intoxicated during the sleigh ride.
Perhaps Charles had mentioned this trip to the country while Maeve’s mind was not functioning as well as it should.
“How far away is Sycamore Falls?” she asked.
“About an hour’s ride. Our country house is there, Ashton Pond.”
“A country house?”
“If it were possible, I’d live at Ashton Pond all year long. It’s where my mother was raised. I suppose that’s why she prefers city life today. She is ill-suited to the isolation of the country. Beatrice hasn’t been to Ashton Pond since I was a boy.”
“I see.” But she didn’t. For the life of her, Maeve could not understand why anyone would prefer noisy, crowded city life to the peaceful serenity of the country. “Will we be back in Boston in time for your mother’s séance?”
“If we act swiftly.”
Act swiftly ? Maeve had no patience for mystery. She had been encouraged when Charles confided in her over tea this morning. Her hope of forming a true love match with him had been rekindled. But now…now, she was leery. Had it all been a ploy?
Could Charles have decided to become a single man again by some notorious manner? Maeve was not entirely an innocent. She’d heard stories, listened to rumors. Wives had been known to disappear, or worse, die in terrible accidents at the hands of their husbands. Was Maeve about to have an accident on a lonely country road?
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