Comfort and Joy

by Sandra Madden

  The oafish man nervously shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Had to.”

  ‘‘No. You could have sent a message and I would have met you in the Common as we agreed. Or don’t you recall?” He was as impatient with himself as with the boxer. He should have known better than to hire a man who’d had his brain knocked about like Bill “Spit” O’Brien.

  “This couldn’t wait.”

  Hope leaped in his heart. “Has Charles Rycroft met with an accident?”

  The big man shook his head. “No. Ah’m needin’ more money.”

  Samson slapped the heel of his hand against his forehead. “You fool.”

  “I never did in a man before — on purpose,” O’Brien said.

  Speechless, Samson could only stare at the only human link to his crime. How had he, a respected businessman, been reduced to keeping such company? What began as a simple plan several weeks ago had taken on unforeseen complications. Now he felt as if he lived in another man’s body, and that body was quickly being pulled under by a sucking quagmire of quicksand.

  A shudder ripped through him and he shook the black thoughts away. If he could keep his head up for a few more weeks, he would be out of the country and all of this unpleasantness would be behind him. Everything would be fine.

  Stroking the waxed end of his mustache, he narrowed his eyes on the nervous hulk standing before him like a misbehaved child. “What do you want?”

  “Ten dollars.”

  “Ten dollars,” he repeated. Throwing his shoulders back, he tugged at his waistcoat. Unwilling to show his relief, he scowled. O’Brien could have demanded more and he would have had no choice but to pay. “Five.”

  “No, ten.”

  “Agreed then,” he said with a huff of annoyance. “But it’s the last money you will see from me. Do not think to blackmail me.”

  The big fellow nodded. “It’s a big job.”

  “What did you have in mind for Rycroft?”

  “A runaway sleigh.”

  This time it was he who nodded. “It happens. It’s common. A man can’t be too careful with all of the snow and ice we’ve been having. Do the job and report to me directly with your,” he paused, “success. I emphasize success. I shall walk in the public gardens every afternoon before tea.”

  “Aye.”

  “But I warn you, stay away from my place of business. Do not come here again.”

  “Aye.”

  He watched O’Brien lumber out the door and into the cold. After locking the door, he returned to the back office. The big lout revolted him, irritated him. Stroking his mustache, he deplored the state of the work force. It was impossible to find good help anymore.

  But he could hardly scuffle with Charles Rycroft himself, could he?

  He hadn’t the stomach for it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “That was a close call cousin.”

  Charles was shaken but not hurt as he walked through the doors of Rycroft Publishing with Martin the following morning. If it hadn’t been for Martin, the runaway coach that had veered off the street and toward the Rycroft building, most certainly would have hit him.

  After leaving his coach, Charles had sauntered across the street with his head in the clouds. Martin, who had been briskly approaching the Rycroft Building from the opposite direction, saw the coach bearing down on Charles and rushed to shove him aside.

  Apart from some bruises and dirt, neither of the men emerged the worse for wear. Although Martin’s favorite felt bowler was blown away.

  “You might have saved my life this morning,” Charles said as he led the way into his office.

  Downplaying his heroics, Martin undertook a rather pompous preening, straightening the bow of his narrow tie. “Of course I saved your life. Who would I argue with if you were gone?”

  “Rycroft Publishing would be yours,” Charles said flatly, falling into the leather chair behind his immense mahogany desk.

  “I have no desire to run the business by myself, Charles.”

  “But you have been campaigning relentlessly for a monthly magazine.”

  “A different matter entirely.” Martin finger-combed his hair and smoothed his beard and side whiskers as he spoke. “Rycroft Publishing must expand beyond books, and I see a monthly magazine as a viable, profitable way. You know very well that several of our competitors have already launched monthlies.”

  Charles knew. He also knew Rycroft profits had diminished over the past year. The idea of taking funds from the slim profit margin to invest in a risky venture had put him off from the first His father never would have taken such a risk.

  Steepling his fingers, Charles studied his tall, heavyset cousin, who now brushed unseen lint from his tweed jacket. “If you undertook such a major project, Martin, you would certainly be entitled to a substantial increase in salary.”

  Martin raised both bushy eyebrows. “A substantial increase would be welcome. With a new home and a baby on the way, I find myself forced to practice a certain frugality for the first time in my life.”

  “Quite understandable.” Charles leaned back in his chair, folding one long leg across the other. If Martin had been behind the theft of his St Nick sketch, his cousin would not be experiencing financial difficulties.

  And if the big man really wished to take over Rycroft Publishing, he would not have saved Charles moments ago from what easily might have been a fatal accident. While Martin often drove Charles to distraction with his overbearing ways, he was not a criminal.

  Charles had to ask himself why he had been resisting launching a monthly magazine. Was it simply because the venture had been Martin’s idea and not his? Or was it because after years of his father insisting Charles had neither the creative nor business head to lead Rycroft Publishing into a new era, he had to prove his father wrong by succeeding alone? Charles had committed himself to single-handed success even if it meant he had no life other than publishing.

  The thought struck painfully — he was leading his father’s life.

  He still allowed his father to influence him; a man who had been dead for three years. Maeve was right. As all thoughts eventually did of late, his thoughts had led to Maeve.

  If Martin were given more responsibility in the business, Charles would have time for other things. He and Maeve could spend time at Ashton Pond. He and Maeve would have more time together — until the day came when they would go their separate ways.

  Soon it would be Christmas and the New Year. Charles had promised his mother he would provide Maeve with a generous settlement and quietly set her free after the first of the year. He found it interesting that Beatrice would rather brave the scandal of divorce than see Charles married to a woman she considered beneath him.

  “Charles?”

  Charles started. Absorbed in his thoughts, he had forgotten Martin.

  From across the desk, his cousin engaged in a frowning examination of him, apparently searching for head or facial bumps. “When I knocked you down, did your head hit the ground?”

  “No, Martin. No, I’m fine. Just thinking. As you know, I don’t come to decisions easily. It’s not in my nature to be impulsive.” He smiled then, knowing that in the last several days he had acted impulsively a number of times.

  Martin’s eyes fastened on the half-empty inkwell sitting on Charles’s desk. “As much as I am loath to admit it, Rycroft Publishing has done well under your...thoughtful...direction,” he said.

  Amused at his cousin’s attempt at diplomacy, Charles chuckled. He stood up. “At the first of the new year I would like you to begin the planning and production of a Rycroft monthly publication.”

  Martin’s gaze shot up to Charles, even as his brow deepened into a dark, skeptical frown. He pulled at his ear as if his hearing may have deceived him. “Do you mean it?”

  Charles arched a brow. “Do I ever jest about the business?”

  “Never.”

  “Congratulations, Martin,” he said, extending his hand to his cousin.
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  Martin vigorously pumped Charles’s hand. “I’ll make you proud.”

  How many times had Charles said that same thing to his father? How many times had his father laughed in response? Innumerable.

  “I know you will, Martin. We’ll set up regular weekly meetings. I’ll expect to be informed every step of the way.” With his hand on Martin’s shoulder, Charles walked him to the door.

  “You will know every move I make, Charles. And I, ah, I might get started before the new year.”

  Laughing, Charles closed the door after his cousin. They might have just shared their finest moment together.

  But from that point on, Martin popped into his office on an hourly basis. Apparently, ideas for a monthly had been stewing for months in Martin’s brain and his cousin meant to share all of them in one day.

  Charles did not even look up when his door opened for what must have been the thirteenth time. Until he heard the swish of silk and the delicate sigh.

  “Mother!” Charles jumped to his feet. “What are you doing here?”

  She gave him a withering look.

  “Have a seat.” He rushed to hold a chair for Beatrice.

  Swathed in yards of mink, his mother’s tall, thin frame appeared especially fragile. She wore a tall, boxy mink hat and carried a mink muff the size of Rhode Island. Beatrice looked as if she’d been swallowed whole by a mammoth mink.

  She perched primly on the edge of the chair. “Thank you, dear.”

  Her exceedingly formal demeanor told Charles he was in trouble. “You’ve taken me by surprise, Mother. To what do I owe this honor?”

  “I so seldom see you at home,” she said, giving a limp flick of her wrist. “After coming all this way to spend the holiday season with you, I find you are rarely available to me and our guest.”

  “It has been unusually busy at the firm.”

  “You do not appear busy, all alone in this great big office.”

  “I’m figuring the Christmas bonus for our employees — which does not require a great deal of physical activity,” he said, retreating behind his desk.

  Her charcoal eyes met his in cold accusation. “Your father spent a great deal of time here too.”

  Charles could not deny it. His father had spent most of his waking hours at the publishing house, albeit for different reasons. “Speaking of Father, how did your meeting go with him the other night?”

  “He did not appear.”

  “No!” Charles could not help feigning shock.

  “But he did appear to Helen Foster and told her quite clearly that I should follow my own desires.”

  “Do you have proof that father appeared to your medium?”

  “Of course.” Beatrice pressed a hand over her heart. “I saw the drapes move. And both Stella and I felt the table shake.”

  “Definite signs.”

  But his caustic comment was lost on his mother as she warmed to her tale. “Conrad asked Helen to convey his message to me. Your father wanted me to know that he always considered me an intelligent woman.” A tear sprung to her eye and she fished in her muff for a handkerchief.

  “Father said all that, did he?”

  “What’s more, he conveyed his regrets that he had rather ignored me during his lifetime.” Beatrice dabbed at her eyes with the lacy cloth.

  It was all Charles could do to suppress his laughter. “So Conrad came to all this understanding in the afterlife, did he?”

  “Apparently your father has found happiness in the spirit world.”

  “Good. Did he give any other messages to Helen?”

  “No.” His mother sighed and tucked her hanky away. “Although he did tell Helen that I should not feel guilty for any untoward remark I might have made to him...or about him just before he passed away.”

  “Then all is forgiven. You must feel much better.”

  “Oh yes, I do, dear. But your father requested that I allow him to rest in peace. So I shall no longer be attempting to reach him in the spirit world.”

  “Just as well, Mother.”

  “But now my own dear mother is to make contact with me through Helen.”

  “Apparently Helen is well connected in the spirit world.”

  “I daresay! And all she asks in return is a small donation for her efforts.”

  In an effort to suppress his frustration, Charles closed his eyes. “Mother, the dead do not return.”

  Beatrice raised her head in a most regal manner. “I did not come here to discuss the spiritual world with you,” she replied in a clipped, frosty tone. “You brought it up.”

  “So I did.” He opened his eyes. “What is it you wish to speak to me about?”

  “That woman.”

  She could only mean one. “Maeve?”

  His mother launched into her scold mode. “You are spending entirely too much time with a woman you shall discard soon enough, and hardly any time with Stella.”

  “In your opinion.”

  “And my opinion should be important to you,” she snapped, and then sat back in her chair, regaining her composure. “Stella feels slighted. When I tore her away from family and friends in New York, I promised her a festive holiday.”

  “I believe Stella has been included in all of our holiday activities.”

  “Not in the manner I had anticipated. Charles, I expect you to perform as Stella’s escort at the Cabots’ Snow Ball.”

  “Mother, I shall do my best, but dividing my attention between two women is not always easy.”

  “That is what concerns me. You have yet to divide your attention equally. Your eye is always on the Irish maid.”

  “Maeve is my wife, no longer a maid.”

  “She is only a novelty. A novelty you will weary of and be sending on her way. And then what?”

  “And then I shall concentrate on business. While I appreciate your efforts to find me a bride, Mother, I already have one.”

  Giving a small, shrill hoot, Beatrice bounced in her chair. “You don’t mean to keep her!”

  “I may.”

  With a glare that would freeze the sun, Beatrice rose stiffly from her chair. “I expect to see the last of Maeve O’Malley by the new year. If I don’t, I will feel compelled to take matters into my own hands.”

  “Don’t fret, Mother. I will take care of Maeve.”

  “See that you do.” Beatrice sailed to the door and stopped. She glanced back over her shoulder at Charles. “I’ve arranged for a small group of family and close friends to join us tomorrow evening for a light supper and the trimming of our Christmas tree. I expect you to be there, Charles.”

  “I believe I’m free.”

  “And I expect you to be attentive to Stella. Remember, she’s one of us.”

  * * * *

  The following afternoon Maeve arrived at Rycroft Publishing on a mission. She carried a large package and hummed a new tune. The fact that Charles came to her rooms every night and made love to her with great enthusiasm encouraged Maeve to believe he would help her.

  She pleaded and cajoled, smiled and batted her lashes in mock flirtation until finally Charles agreed to leave the building wearing the outfit she’d brought for him.

  A hush fell over the first floor offices of Rycroft Publishing as Charles’s employees stared in dumfounded disbelief.

  “I’ve never played Santa Claus before,” he grumbled beneath his breath.

  “ ‘Tis a shame, “Maeve said cheerily. “You look splendid in your Santa suit.”

  “I don’t look splendid. The pillows that form my stomach feel awkward and the beard itches.”

  “Bah humbug!” she laughed.

  “How did you talk me into this?” he demanded as he helped her into the coach.

  “You’re doing it for the children,” she said, settling back on the bench opposite him. “Santa Claus has never paid a visit to the Essex Orphanage before.”

  Charles plopped down across from Maeve. “What must I do again?”

  “You will wish ever
y child a Merry Christmas and give each boy and girl a toy from the sack I have brought. And try to be jolly,” she added as an afterthought.

  “Jolly?”

  “Laugh if you can.” She demonstrated for him. “Ho ho ho.”

  “Where have the toys come from that I shall be distributing?”

  “You.”

  “Me?”

  “The funds you gave me for Christmas shopping enabled me to buy many wonderful toys. You’ll find dolls and toy trains in your bag along with tops and wagons —”

  “You bought toys for orphans?”

  “Yes. Thanks to your generosity.”

  “Did you not purchase anything for yourself?”

  “Well, yes. I bought a lovely warm jacket for my da and a lovely fringed parasol for Pansy. Too much sun darkens her freckles, you know.”

  Charles leaned forward as much as his newly acquired girth would allow. “I repeat, did you not purchase anything for yourself?”

  “Christmas is about giving, Charles.”

  “I know, and my gift to you seems — “

  “You’ll see how wonderful you feel when you give out the toys.”

  Maeve felt as if she would burst with excitement. She could hardly wait to see the expressions on the children’s faces. No matter how embarrassed Charles might feel about his appearance, she knew he would be warmed by playing the part of Santa Claus.

  As they pulled up to the orphanage, Maeve squeezed into the space beside Charles and plumped the pillows beneath his red velvet jacket. “I wonder if I could give Santa Claus a kiss?”

  “If you don’t, Santa isn’t getting out of the coach.”

  Maeve raised her lips to his. A gentle buss became a fierce, warming kiss. Charles ground his mouth against hers, sending sparks shooting though Maeve’s every limb. She moaned softly.

  “Have you ever made love in a coach?” Charles whispered.

  “Never. But I should enjoy the challenge,” Maeve replied breathlessly. “At another time.”

  When his driver opened the door, Maeve swallowed hard and did her best to collect herself. Slanting Charles what she hoped was a dazzling smile, she took his hand and led him into the Essex Orphanage.

  The children waited in the hall where they took their meals. Immediately as Maeve and Charles entered the large, unadorned room, Elsie Dunn led the children in singing We Wish You a Merry Christmas. Pansy played the brand-new piano she’d donated.