Comfort and Joy

by Sandra Madden

  Maeve could not yet bear to speak of it, to confess she’d come to mend her broken heart. If ever it would mend, if ever the pain would end. Instinct told her what Stella had said was true. Charles pitied Maeve and felt obligated to her for saving his life. He made love to her because he could, not because he loved Maeve. He’d never told her he loved her.

  “Ye are a good daughter to come to yer old daddy, showin’ mercy and understandin’.”

  “And listening to your blarney?” she asked, hands on hips. “I told you I would be comin’ by from time to time. It seems you cannot be trusted to refuse the second mug of ale. Or the third or fourth.”

  “ ‘Tis a sad Irish affliction that a woman is not meant to understand. But I’ll not be goin’ to work at Rosie Grady’s tonight.”

  “Oh, I understand all right about you and your ale. ‘Tis Shea I can’t understand.”

  “Every boxin’ match yer brother wins brings him closer to ownin’ a fishin’ boat,” Mick said, quickly taking up his son’s defense.

  “Even when Shea wins, he leaves the ring bloody and bruised.”

  “Marks of honor to a pu...pugilist.”

  “I think I shall stay the night,” Maeve said flatly. When her father defended her brother so readily, using a three-syllable word at that, it was a sure sign they were both in trouble. Besides she had no where else to go. This was her home.

  “What?” Mick bolted upright on the sofa and immediately grabbed his head with both hands. “Ow!”

  “Do not move too suddenly or your head will explode,” she warned him with a grin.

  Her father settled back on the down pillow that Maeve had slipped beneath his head when she’d found him earlier. He opened one eye, regarding her warily. “Do ye mean to stay the night, or longer?”

  “Longer.”

  “Have ye had a lover’s spat with yer husband then?”

  “I don’t belong on Beacon Hill, Da. I never will.”

  “Aye, sure’n you’ve had a lover’s spat.”

  “I speak softly now and I’ve learned to pronounce my words clearly and without a trace of County Armagh. I know the difference between a salad fork and a calling card, but it is not enough. A person must be born into Boston society to be accepted.”

  “Are ye sayin’ you’re not happy?”

  “I’m wretched.”

  “And that fine upper-crust husband of yours doesn’t ease the way for ye with his people?”

  “He pities me.”

  “What?” Again Mick bolted upright, grabbed his head and fell back. “Holy — ow!”

  For once, Maeve’s pain took precedence over her father’s as she struggled to hold back her tears. The empty space where her heart once had been, burned. “Charles has been kind to me because he feels obligated,” she explained. “He believes I saved his life and therefore he must be generous with me.”

  “And what’s wrong with him bein’ generous with ye?”

  “I want a husband who loves me.”

  “Aye, and he will soon enough. You’re a loveable lass.”

  “I thought he might come round, too, but ‘twas only wishful thinking. To this day, Charles has told none of his friends we are married — that’s how ashamed he is of me.”

  “Society-born are peculiar ducks. Not all of ‘em right in the head. If yer husband was in his right mind, he would not be ashamed of ye, me cailin. Feel for ‘im. Yer a compassionate lass.”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Ye can stay the night. One night. And do ye think I might have a wee bit of whisky in that tea yer makin’ for me?”

  “No.”

  “I feared not. One night and then ye must return to your husband.”

  Maeve did not argue, but she had no intention of returning to the Rycroft residence. She went to the window and lit the candle. Traditionally, during Christmas a lighted candle remained in the window day and night to guide the way for travelers looking for shelter.

  Folding her arms beneath her breasts, Maeve looked out over the weathered brick buildings and the tenement maze seemingly connected by a tangle of stiff, icy clotheslines. A dreary, gray blanket swept the sky. Cold air seeped through the windowsill. The dark afternoon matched her mood.

  Maeve felt certain the sun would never again shine for her. A swift, cold shudder rocked her body. Her future looked as bleak as the back alleys. Harriet Deakins would never hire her back again. But perhaps she could find work in Rosie Grady’s Saloon. At least she’d be able to keep an eye on her father if she served in the saloon.

  She fingered the lump beneath her dress. ‘Twas her mother’s wedding ring dangling over her heart. Ever since Maeve had married Charles, she’d worn the ring somewhere on her person. But now the legend of the Claddaugh mocked her. What a fool she’d been to believe someday her husband would come to love her. She would be a fool no more. With one swift tug, Maeve yanked the chain holding the precious ring from round her neck.

  “Do ye think you could put more coal in the stove?” Mick asked.

  “Aye.” But first Maeve slipped the Claddaugh ring into her coat pocket. Her beautiful new coat hanging on the kitchen peg. She wouldn’t be wearing the ring again, and in all conscience should not wear the coat either.

  “With the little money she had left over after purchasing a coat for her father’s Christmas and toys for the orphans, Maeve had bought coal for the flat’s stove, its sole heat source. She’d also purchased food for her father and brother’s stomachs and a small fir Christmas tree for their souls. Broken heart or no, she and her family would celebrate the season of love.

  After scooping coal into the stove and pouring Mick his tea, Maeve sat down to string cranberries. The O’Malley tree would not boast beaded pink ornaments and silver bows like the Rycrofts’ tall pine. But it would be the finest the O’Malleys had ever had. Maeve planned to drape the green needle branches with garlands of cranberry and popcorn and tie bright red bows on every limb. She would clip small candles to the boughs and hang colorful penny candy.

  Was it just last night that she had trimmed the Rycroft tree, danced a jig, and made what she thought at the time were new friends? Hours ago, she had been giddy and lighthearted. Now, she felt like an empty shell in which her thoughts echoed. Now, she knew the new friends she’d thought she made had only humored her. In all likelihood they snickered behind her back. But she could not think of it. Thinking of it brought tears.

  The knock on the door jolted Maeve from her reverie and woke her snoring father. Putting the half-strung garland aside, she crossed the small room. Only Stella and Beatrice knew she was here and Maeve expected they would keep her whereabouts to themselves. She assumed when she opened the door she would find no one she knew. But she did.

  “Pansy?” she blinked in surprise.

  “Maeve?” Pansy’s eyes rounded.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I might ask the same,” her redhead friend replied with a grin. Bundled up in a fur-lined navy cloak with matching hat and muff, Pansy’s freckled cheeks glowed crimson from the cold. “What brings you home?”

  “I...my da’s sick.”

  “No, I ain’t.”

  Pansy looked from Mick to Maeve.

  Maeve turned up her palms. ‘‘You can see for yourself.”

  Their unexpected guest nodded knowingly.

  “And what brings you to South Boston?”

  “I brought a plum pudding.” Pansy held out a box to Maeve.

  “You made a plum pudding?” Maeve took the box, regarding it as if it sprouted wings.

  “Several, in fact. This one appears to have turned out better than the others. So I expect it’s eatable.”

  “Come in.”

  “Who is it?” Mick groaned, peering at the newcomer through narrowed eyes.

  “ ‘Tis a friend of mine, Pansy Deakins.”

  “Not one of your uppity friends?”

  “No, one of my mad friends!” Maeve dragged Pansy into the room which us
ed to be hers but now belonged to Shea. Signs of him were scattered about the room. The rumpled bed, a torn shirt and hole-ridden socks tossed aside.

  Apparently fascinated, Pansy surveyed the room slowly.

  “May I ask why you brought a plum pudding to my father and Shea? You hardly know them.”

  “It’s the season of giving.”

  “And?”

  “I hoped to find Shea at home. Frankly, Maeve, you are the last person I expected to see.”

  Shaking her head, Maeve took her friend by the forearms. “Pansy, you must not see Shea. Not today, not ever. Your mother would disown you if she found out you’d come to South Boston in search of an Irish boxer.

  “And that would be nothing compared to what she would do to me,” Maeve added.

  “It’s none of her affair.”

  Maeve’s stomach somersaulted, several times. “But ‘tis mine. Shea is my brother and I forbid you to chase after him like some dreamy, wanton adolescent.”

  “I am not a dreamy adolescent, only a woman who has been looking for a real man for some time and never thought to find him. I was prepared to devote myself to the women’s rights cause until I met Shea.”

  “But it’s Spencer Wellington who looks at you as if you were the Queen of Beacon Hill.”

  “Spencer is a good friend, but tell me what is exciting about him?”

  “There are many ways a man can be exciting, not all of them evident at first.”

  “Shea’s very presence lends excitement to a room.”

  Not in Maeve’s experience. Heaving a sigh of frustration, she took her friend’s hands in hers. “Oh, Pansy. Does Shea know you are interested in him?”

  “I don’t think so. That’s why I decided to take matters into my own hands.”

  ‘‘And baked for the first time in your life?”

  Pansy’s hazel eyes twinkled. ‘‘They say a way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

  “Saints above! You might kill him first.” Pansy barely knew salt from pepper. To Maeve’s knowledge she’d never stepped inside the Deakins kitchen. Until now, if she indeed had cooked the plum pudding.

  “Maeve, let me stay until Shea comes home and then you and I will hire a coach and return to Beacon Hill. We’ll say we were shopping together.”

  “It’s not right.” Maeve knew that what Pansy wanted could only lead to a broken heart. Suffering keenly from a broken heart herself, she could not knowingly inflict such pain on her friend.

  “Please, Maeve.”

  “No.”

  “Just an hour. We’ll have tea.”

  In the light of Pansy’s beseeching eyes, Maeve felt her resistance give way. Her rebellious friend had done much to help and protect her over the past few weeks. And more than likely this infatuation with Shea was just another small act of rebellion. “All right,” Maeve said, relenting. “We shall stay for dinner.”

  * * * *

  The doorbell jangled, an odd, echoing sound, when Charles entered the stark gallery. With Maeve off visiting her father, he’d decided to take advantage of the unexpected time to pay a visit himself to Edgar Dines, the art dealer. If he’d stayed at home, his mother would have badgered him into accompanying her and Stella to the ballet later, the last thing he wished to do.

  He hadn’t visited the gallery since the purchase of Barnabas’s sketch and the subsequent beating and theft. The place felt eerie.

  Charles had dealt with Dines for a number of years. Edgar had found several of Barnabas’s sketches for him before the St. Nick, which he’d charged a pretty penny for. As Charles studied a new, quite interesting oil painting on the wall, Dines bustled from the back office.

  A small man with sloping shoulders, he reminded Charles of a feeding bird by the way he carried his head forward. Round spectacles perched on the bridge of Dines’s rather broad nose. He parted his thin, brown hair down the center and always dressed in dark, well-pressed trousers and jacket.

  “Mr. Rycroft.” Dines flashed his quick, birdlike smile. “To what do I owe this honor?”

  “Just in the neighborhood, Edgar.” Charles extended his hand in greeting. “So I thought I would stop in.”

  “It’s always a pleasure to see you.” Dines nodded his head and stroked the wax tip of his mustache.

  Charles gestured to the wall behind him. “I see you have acquired some interesting new art since I was in last.”

  Dines nodded. “Every week I add to my gallery.”

  “Have you heard anything further about the St. Nick sketch?”

  The little man frowned and adjusted his spectacles. “No, I am sorry to say. I would have sent word to you immediately if I had.”

  “Of course.”

  “However, I did have another inquiry last week.”

  “The private investigator I hired?”

  “I shall tell you what I told him. If the thieves knew what a valuable piece of art they had in their possession, it’s long gone. I believe Barnabas’s sketch of St. Nick has made its way to San Francisco, or possibly Chicago by now.”

  “Then I will broaden my search.”

  “On the other hand, the sketch may be hanging in a South Boston tenement. Though I shudder to think.”

  Charles was getting nowhere with Dines and could hardly conceal his disappointment that the art dealer had no better news. “You are saying that the sketch could be anywhere from South Boston to San Francisco?”

  “Anywhere.”

  “Then it might be overseas as well. London or Paris?”

  “Anything is possible with a fine work of art,” the dealer allowed.

  “Do you suppose increasing the reward would help recover my sketch?”

  “If the thieves know its value and the reward is enough. How much were you thinking?”

  “Twenty-five thousand dollars.”

  Edgar Dines’s eyes bulged. “But that’s more than the sketch is worth.”

  “Not considering the sentimental factor, Dines. My brother’s only holiday sketch is priceless to me. I mean to recover St. Nick at any cost.”

  “No questions asked?”

  “Oh, there may be a few questions.” Charles said. “But I may keep them to myself if that’s what it takes to recover St. Nick.”

  “Of course,” Dines replied. “I shall be happy to post a notice for you if you decide to increase the reward.”

  Charles pulled on his gloves. “Thank you.”

  “And if I should hear anything, I will contact you at once.’’ The small sparrow of an art dealer accompanied Charles to the door, once again stroking the tip of his mustache. “Let me know what you decide to do — about the reward, I mean.”

  “I shall.”

  A cold blast of air hit Charles as he left the gallery, adding to his irritation. He’d hoped for some encouraging news from Dines and had heard none. Further, Charles realized he should have increased the reward much earlier. His annoyance extended to himself.

  He directed Stuart to take him home. Maeve would have returned by now. A quiet dinner with his spirited wife would soothe his distress. And after dinner, he would curl up with Maeve by the fire and make love to her. His plans worked to cause Charles to feel a great deal better by the time he reached Louisburg Square.

  But the house was unusually quiet.

  Stella and his mother were busy dressing for the ballet and Dolly reported that Maeve had not returned.

  Once again, Charles felt the crushing weight of disappointment bearing down upon him. But this was worse than what he felt leaving Edgar Dines’s establishment. The spark of anticipation, the light-headed excitement he’d felt as he bounded up the steps moments ago, drained away.

  He wandered lethargically into his study and poured himself a brandy. Sinking into a chair by the fireplace, Charles gazed into the low-burning fire.

  Although he’d spent many nights sipping brandy by the fire in his study, he’d enjoyed the solitude. He’d never required companionship as he read or indulged in idle spec
ulation. Charles had never experienced the bone-deep ache of loneliness... as he did now.

  As the grandfather clock in the corner struck eight, Charles searched his mind for reasons why his unsuitable but exceedingly desirable wife hadn’t yet returned. Perhaps Mick O’Malley was dying. Unlikely. Maeve’s father struck him as a tough old bird. The old Irishman would never die. He was pickled.

  More likely, Maeve had forgotten to take money along with her again. The charming little bit of a woman might even now be walking from her father’s flat in South Boston back to Beacon Hill in the cold, dark night. She would freeze before she made it home.

  Charles shot up from his chair, splashing brandy about. Striding to the door, he called for Stuart to have the coach brought round. He would either meet Maeve along the way or find her at her father’s flat. Either way, he meant to bring his wife home.

  As soon as his town coach pulled up at the South Boston address, Charles jumped out and took the rickety stairs of the neglected building two at a time until he reached the O’Malleys’ fifth-floor flat.

  Mick answered the door. The old man held his head with one hand. He looked like hell.

  “Good evening, Mr. O’Malley.”

  Mick squinted his eyes as if he couldn’t clearly see Charles. “Rycroft?”

  “Is Maeve here?”

  The grizzly old man with a bright red bulb of a nose smiled and opened the door for Charles. “Aye.”

  Charles quickly scanned the small area that served as both kitchen and parlor. Signs of Christmas were evident. A garland of holly swagged above the window and a straggly, three-foot fir tree bedecked with a string of cranberries nestled in one corner. Along with a smattering of candles, a single oil lantern lit the small room.

  Charles’s stomach growled in response to the pungent aroma of corned beef and cabbage issuing from a large pot simmering on the stove. But his attention was diverted as the opposite doorway opened and Maeve peeked out. Pansy’s head bobbed up behind her.

  Taken by surprise, Charles momentarily forgot his manners. Harriet Deakins would fall into a dangerous swoon if she knew her daughter was in a South Boston tenement. “Pansy! What are you doing here?”

  “I came to visit...Maeve.”