Comfort and Joy

by Sandra Madden

  Earlier this evening, in a last-minute decision before she left her rooms, Maeve decided for better or worse to be herself tonight. She had nothing to lose and meant to enjoy her last society appearance. She would speak quietly and correctly, but she would say whatever came to mind — as long as it was not unkind. She would not dance the Irish jig but she would fill her dance card.

  Charles escorted his mother on his arm as they entered the main ballroom. Fearing association with riffraff perhaps, Stella followed the Rycrofts, sailing out half a step ahead of Maeve.

  Lifting her chin and straightening her shoulders, Maeve assumed perfect posture, according to all the etiquette books, and made her own regal entrance into the glittering ballroom. She could see heads turn as she passed, feel eyes following her. Men’s eyes, women’s eyes, all eyes were upon her. The unexpected attention stirred a startling, uncomfortable feeling. Maeve attempted to ease her anxiety by reminding herself the ball was merely a large party, and no one knew how to enjoy a party more than the Irish.

  Still, she found it difficult to conceal her astonishment with the grandeur of the gilded ballroom.

  Beatrice Rycroft and Stella appeared unaffected by the surroundings. The women observed the dancing couples while whispering to one another behind their painted ivory fans. Maeve could only imagine their comments.

  Charles, in the role of gallant, supplied the ladies with crystal cups of thick, foamy eggnog spiced with fresh ground nutmeg. Maeve slowly sipped at her drink while taking stock of her luxurious surroundings in unabashed wonder.

  Blazing gold sconces adorned every wall. She could almost see her reflection in the gleaming marble floor. Hand-painted mythical figures floated on the ceiling above ornate, carved mahogany molding. Deep mulberry velvet drapes framed frosty, ten-foot windows which stretched along the entire length of one wall. Braided loops embellished with golden tassels held the rich window coverings back.

  An ensemble of musicians played from a balcony above. Recognizing the music of Mozart and Strauss for the first time gave Maeve great satisfaction. She was learning. She hummed along with The Blue Danube.

  Before she had time to finish her eggnog, Spencer Wellington was at her side requesting a dance. When she looked to Charles for approval, he dipped his head and flashed a toe-curling grin.

  One dance followed another. Maeve danced with men she knew slightly from the Rycrofts’ circle, and those she had never met. She danced with tall men, short men, young men, and those old enough to be her father. Each dance partner proved to be exceedingly polite and friendly as they whirled her beneath immense crystal chandeliers casting a golden shower of light.

  After over an hour of dancing, she repaired to the ladies’ powder room just to catch her breath. And there, to her delight, discovered Pansy.

  “You have set Boston society on its heels,” her red-haired friend announced gleefully, embracing Maeve. “Did I not tell you weeks ago that you would be the belle of the Snow Ball?”

  “But I hardly credited it.”

  “The women are jealous of you and the men want you. How perfect!”

  “Perfect?”

  ‘‘Your husband has not taken his eyes off of you all night. And I have seen his lips pressed tightly. With Charles, tight white lips are a certain sign that he is severely peeved.’’ With a wide grin, Pansy leaned toward Maeve and whispered confidentially, “I don’t think he enjoys having a room full of men coveting his wife.”

  “No one knows I am his wife.”

  “Charles knows. And he is the only one of importance in this room.”

  “Yes, but —”

  “There is something I must tell you,” Pansy interrupted. Excitement sparkled in her eyes as she seized both of Maeve’s hands in hers and led her to a small corner settee. “My mother is sending me to Europe.”

  “What?”

  With a grin as wide as the Charles River, Pansy giggled. “She feels I will benefit from a year on the continent”

  “And how do you feel?”

  “I think I shall have a wonderful time out from under mother’s eye!”

  Maeve breathed an inner sigh of relief. Although she would miss her friend dreadfully, there would be no unfortunate romance with Shea for Pansy.

  “Of course, the journey is just a ruse to remove me from your wicked influence!”

  “You have been the wicked influence on me!” Maeve protested. “Before I came to work as your maid I knew nothing about free love, wearing bloomers, or women like Elizabeth Cady Stanton.”

  “You have had the benefit of a liberal education,” Pansy boasted, obviously pleased with herself. But in the next instant she became serious, emitting a brief, sorrowful sigh. “I had looked forward to becoming more closely acquainted with your brother, but I shall write to him.”

  “I’m sure Shea will welcome your letters,” Maeve replied. Just as she had suspected, Pansy’s interest in Shea had been little more than a respite from boredom.

  “I hope he does. Now, let us go find your handsome husband before he sends his mother after us, or worse, my mother!”

  Maeve and Pansy were only midway to their destination when Pansy came to an abrupt halt and gasped. “Uh-oh. Martin Rycroft is headed our way. I think I shall be off to the refreshment area.”

  “Wait!”

  But Pansy had disappeared in the crowd and Maeve faced Charles’s stout, whiskered cousin by herself.

  Martin led her onto the dance floor. “I must say, Maeve, that you are the loveliest woman at the ball tonight.”

  “Thank you, Martin. I do hope your wife is feeling better.”

  “Sally is showing signs of recovery. She is only ill in the mornings now, but she’s still weak.”

  “I look forward to meeting her soon.”

  “Speaking of meetings, where again did Charles find you?”

  “A back alley in South Boston.”

  Martin gave a low, rumbling hoot. “No. Tell me true. Where did he find you?”

  “In a back alley. If you remember, I found Charles after he’d been robbed and beaten.”

  He nodded his head and stepped on her foot. Maeve bit her tongue to keep from yelping.

  Deep in thought, Martin seemed completely unaware of his misstep. “It’s a shame about the sketch being stolen.”

  “Hopefully it will be recovered.”

  “Yes. But I have come to think that rescuing him from freezing in the alley was just one of the ways in which you saved my cousin’s life.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s a different man. He’s not bound to his desk at the publishing house any longer.” Martin lowered his voice and whispered gravely in Maeve’s ear. “Between you and me, since you’ve been a guest in his home, Charles has given me more responsibility and an increase in salary.”

  “He must be pleased with you, Martin. Your good fortune does not have anything to do with me.”

  “I’m not so certain. I’ve witnessed definite changes in my cousin.”

  “Perhaps you are seeing the man he is and always was instead of the man his father wanted him to be?”

  Martin considered her question. “Maybe so,” he said at length. “Conrad could be quite terrifying. I kept my distance.”

  Before Maeve could reply, Spencer Wellington appeared behind Martin and tapped his shoulder.

  Martin regarded him with resignation. “I suppose I must relinquish the lady.”

  Spencer nodded.

  “Charles has always been a fortunate man,” Martin said, turning back to Maeve and bowing graciously. “No more so than now.”

  If he only knew.

  More than halfway through the evening, everyone but Charles had danced with his wife. It was difficult to dance with anyone else and keep an eye on Maeve. He was relieved to come upon her in the spacious hall adjoining the ballroom that was set aside for rest and refreshments.

  “I have not had a moment with you all evening,” he complained. “The next dance is mine.”<
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  Maeve peered at the dance card looped to her wrist and then raised a seemingly stricken gaze to his. “My dance card is filled, Charles. I am so sorry.”

  “How could you have forgotten to save a dance for me?”

  “I lost track.”

  “I’m your husband!” he protested, hissing in her ear.

  “Yes, Charles, but you have not approached me all evening.”

  “Because I have had to execute my obligations to my mother and Stella.”

  “They have kept you very busy.”

  “Tell one of these selfish men that you cannot dance with him.” He glanced at her dance card quickly. “Ah, look. Spencer. You have already danced with him twice.”

  “The rules of etiquette neglected to mention that I may be rude to another upon my husband’s bidding.”

  Before Charles could argue this point, a strapping blond fellow he recognized from Spencer’s law firm sidled up to them. “Miss O’Malley, I believe this dance is mine.”

  Maeve gave the young man a bright smile, handed Charles her empty goblet, and bestowed a dainty wave before being swept out onto the dance floor once more.

  Charles strode directly to Spencer’s side and went straight to the point. “You are scheduled on Maeve’s dance card for the last dance.”

  “Yes. I’m looking forward to another waltz round the floor. She is wonderful, as light as the proverbial feather in my arms.”

  “I have yet to dance with Maeve. And her dance card is full.”

  Spencer smiled and shrugged. “Sorry, old man.”

  Charles scowled. It was not the answer he’d expected from his friend. “I would like to have your dance.”

  “No.” Spencer swiped an unruly black lock from his forehead.

  “What?” The shock stunned Charles. It was as if he had been doused with a bucket of icy ocean water. “But you’re my best friend,” he blurted.

  “I am. But I’m not giving up my dance.”

  “Damn it, Spencer. She’s my wife!”

  Dear God, what had he said?

  This time it was Spencer’s turn to be shocked. “I beg your pardon?”

  Charles could hardly believe he’d lost his composure and barked the truth without thinking. “My wife,” he repeated softly.

  Spencer’s amber eyes were as round and large and bright as Charles had ever seen them. “You lucky dog!”

  Charles wasn’t sure that he’d heard correctly.

  “For God’s sake,” Spencer went on. “How did you win the Irish beauty? And when? And why the secret?”

  “She’s not one of us.”

  “Hell no, Maeve’s a hundred times more interesting.”

  “Yes,” Charles agreed. “She is rather fascinating.”

  “Our proper Boston women are the most boring beings on earth.”

  “Which is why I remained a bachelor for so long,” Charles interrupted, suddenly feeling righteous and wishing to make a point.

  “Does Maeve have any sisters?”

  “No. And if you will not give me your dance, Spencer, I will take it.”

  “You sound like a desperate man.” His friend gave him a lopsided grin.

  “I am not desperate.”

  “Equally incredulous then — you are a man in love with his wife.”

  Dear God! Love?

  “Spencer, I would appreciate it if you would keep our little secret to yourself until I am able to...to make the formal announcement of my betrothal to Maeve.”

  “Your secret is safe with me.” Spencer winked in a plainly conspiratorial manner. “And now that I fully understand the extent of your infatuation with your wife, I will give you the last dance with her.”

  As the evening neared its end, the dance floor was less crowded, the music sweet and mellow. The excited buzz of the ball guests heard at the beginning of the evening had given way to a soft murmur of sound.

  When Charles came to Maeve in Spencer’s place, her heart flew beyond all bounds. No one held her just as Charles did, no one looked quite as splendid in his formal black suit with bow tie and pearly white shirt

  Maeve came alive in her husband’s arms, in the lusty power radiating from the length and breadth of him. A fresh surge of energy infused her body and her feet floated above the dance floor as if they had wings.

  There was no need for small talk. An unspoken harmony flowed between Maeve and Charles, too delicate to disturb with unimportant observations. They danced as one, moving in unison as if they’d been dancing together all of their lives. Maeve felt as if even their hearts beat as one.

  Charles held her inches apart from him. To her amazement, pride shone in his eyes as he gazed down upon her... and something else. But she wasn’t certain what.

  Maeve had observed Charles watching her throughout the night, scrutinizing each of her dance partners. Could it be that Charles Rycroft was jealous? The idea stunned her, sent warm tingling sensations skipping down her spine.

  When she was back in the flat with Dad and Shea, she would remember this night as the most glorious of her life.

  “I am going to pluck the mistletoe from your hair when we get home,” Charles whispered in her ear.

  “And then what?”

  “I shall kiss you soundly.”

  “If you are dangling mistletoe above my head, I suppose I must allow a kiss,” Maeve replied with a feigned sigh as her body warmed.

  ‘‘If you are not careful, I will dangle the mistletoe above you through the night,” Charles warned in a raspy, seductive tone.

  Her heart careened wildly. “I shall not be careful then.”

  Maeve wanted her husband tonight. She had done her best to stay apart from him but their time together was swiftly running out. One more night. Tonight. A sultry heat sparked deep inside her and slowly spread silky fingers of warmth until Maeve’s entire body was afire.

  Beatrice and Stella left the ball at midnight, Cinderella widows. Stella claimed she was not feeling at all well. Although it appeared the pale New Yorker had captivated more than one older man, she seemed to be in a constant snit. Beatrice had worn the cloak of a martyr as she left Boston’s social event of the winter season with her guest.

  It was almost two o’clock in the morning when Maeve and Charles arrived back at the Rycroft brownstone. Intoxicated with her success, she’d made not one breach of etiquette, Maeve felt as if she could have danced until dawn. Charles obviously entertained better ideas.

  Helping Maeve out of her coat, Charles cautioned his radiant wife to be quiet. He hoped his mother and Stella were fast asleep but if not he did not care to risk an unwanted encounter. It had been a tortuous night for him and he intended to end the evening quite differently.

  Charles contrived to slip into Maeve’s chamber, take down her hair, and put the sprig of mistletoe to good use. After what seemed like endless nights of having her door closed to him, she’d not protested his suggestion that he come to her tonight.

  Beatrice called to him just as he started up the steps with Maeve.

  “Charles, dear. May I have a word with you in the drawing room?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Charles recognized an invitation he could not refuse.

  Beatrice beckoned from the drawing room doorway.

  His heart sank. What was his mother doing up at this hour?

  Maeve gave him a melancholy smile. “Good night, Charles.”

  “Good night, Maeve.”

  Charles watched as his clearly disappointed wife climbed the stairs alone, her hips gently swaying beneath the bustle of her red gown, a seductive summons. His spirits sank lower than the tidal flats. He’d had such high expectations.

  Resigned to a fate only slightly better than death by discussion, Charles followed his mother into the drawing room. Settling into the elegant Queen Anne sofa, Beatrice smoothed her skirts. “I would so much enjoy a sherry, dear.”

  Charles poured a small amount of sherry for his mother and a goodly quantity of brandy for himse
lf.

  “Maeve afforded a tolerable accounting of herself tonight,” Beatrice noted begrudgingly. “Observing her from a distance, no one would guess she was not society-born.”

  “Maeve triumphed. She was an unqualified success, Mother.”

  “In her own way, perhaps.” Beatrice gave a dismissive flick of her wrist. “But I have a matter of more importance to discuss with you.”

  Nothing could be more important than Maeve. The unexpected thought startled Charles.

  He sauntered to the fireplace. Picking up the poker, he attempted to stir a fire from the low-glowing embers. “What is it, Mother?”

  ‘‘ Stella has not felt quite herself for the past few days.’’

  “I’m not surprised,” he replied rather smartly. “She’s extremely pale. I thought so from the first.”

  Charles could barely disguise his annoyance. It was ridiculous — no, it was sinful to be discussing the state of Stella’s health when he could be tasting Maeve’s warm, moist lips, dipping his tongue into the sweet secret valley between her full, lush breasts.

  “Stella is always pale, dear.” The deep lines in his mother’s forehead folded into a disapproving frown. “As most intelligent women do, Stella uses vinegar to whiten her complexion.”

  “Really? She does so on purpose?” He could not imagine Maeve applying vinegar to her face.

  His mother exhaled wearily. “I’m afraid you know so little about women. My fault, to be sure.

  “Stella wishes to return home at once.”

  “Now?” he asked, unable to hide his surprise. “Christmas is but days away.”

  “We will take the train to New York in the morning.”

  “We? Are you going as well, Mother?” Charles could barely suppress the swirl of excitement that warmed his blood and lifted the clouds of his distress. To be alone with Maeve on Christmas was more than he dared hope.

  “Well, yes. After all, I brought Stella to Boston as my guest. I can hardly send her on her way alone. And now that your father has forgiven me, I may spend the holiday with Mr. Van Zutoon.”