Comfort and Joy

by Sandra Madden

  “Father forgave you?”

  “Have you forgotten the séance?”

  “No.” Charles swallowed a great gulp of brandy, sacrificing enjoyment for expediency. “How could I?”

  “As you may recall, Conrad spoke through Helen Foster to reassure me.”

  “As I recall, Father’s strong suit was never reassurance.”

  “One changes in the spirit world,” Beatrice admonished.

  Charles could only hope.

  “Knowing that Conrad does not hold my words against me, words spoken in a moment of anger, I might add, frees me.”

  “Frees you?”

  Beatrice’s fingers skimmed over the silk roses bordering the neckline of her gown. “Without Conrad’s blessing I did not feel I should encourage Harold Van Zutoon’s suit.”

  “You have a gentlemen friend, Mother?”

  “He’s a Dutch merchant whom I met at the opera several months ago.”

  A wealthy Dutch merchant, if Charles didn’t miss his guess. “Father blessed your association with Mr. Van —?”

  “Zutoon.” Beatrice finished for him. “Yes, your father gave his approval. In a manner of speaking.”

  “I’m speechless.”

  His mother heaved another overwrought sigh as if dealing with Charles was a tiring ordeal. “But more than a companion of my own, I do so want grandchildren. I thought Stella might be a credible match for you but I was sadly mistaken. You need a more ... lively woman. Someone like Pansy Deakins.”

  “Did you know that Pansy believes in free love —”

  “Heavens!” Beatrice bolted upright.

  “And I have it from a reliable source that her mother is shipping her off to Europe.”

  “Poor Harriet.”

  “Pansy will be fine ... eventually.” Charles drained his snifter of brandy. “But I regret that you and I shall not be spending Christmas together.”

  “As do I, dear.” Beatrice rose, tilting her head, eyeing Charles as if to gauge his true feelings. “You won’t be too upset, will you?”

  “No, Mother,” he answered honestly.

  “It isn’t as if you haven’t spent other holidays by yourself,” she reminded him.

  “No, it isn’t.” Although he knew Beatrice loved him in her own way, he’d spent too little time with his mother through the years. Even when she was in residence in Boston. And his mother could not take all the blame. He had spent too much time by himself in the past, buried in his books, in his work, while life passed him by.

  “I shall make this holiday up to you,” she vowed as she had so many times before.

  “Mother, you have nothing to make up to me. I promise you I will not be upset, nor alone.”

  She arched a brow. “Maeve will celebrate with you?”

  “I will celebrate with Maeve.”

  Beatrice nodded and with a slight lift of her chin glided to the door. With her hand on the knob, she stopped and turned. His mother’s soft, pearly gray eyes met his with ominous intensity. “Do remember what your dear departed father always said, Charles A. Rycroft always does the right thing.”

  His tyrannical father had now become a saint!

  “How can I forget? Don’t be concerned, Mother. I fully intend to do o the thing right thing ... for me.”

  * * * *

  The morning following the Cabots’ Snow Ball, Edgar Dines opened his gallery on Warren Street and made ready for business as he did every morning, six days a week. In the privacy of his back office he sat in a worn leather chair beside the wood-burning stove and opened the Boston Globe. He hadn’t been reading long before he yelped and shot up from the comfortable old chair.

  Just as he had promised, Charles Rycroft offered an increased reward for Barnabas’s sketch of St. Nick. The full-page advertisement offered a reward three times more than what the sketch was worth, with no questions asked. No art dealer, Dines included, could ever hope to sell the sketch for more. The expenses Edgar would incur traveling to Europe to sell the sketch, as was his original plan, would only eat further into his profits. He immediately decided to abandon his original plan and claim the reward.

  When the other Boston and New York art dealers were buying Winslow Homer, Edgar had purchased the watercolors of Jonathan Box. When his colleagues raved about Turner, he saw more merit in the work of Ely Sykes. He’d spent a fortune buying the abstract oils of an unknown French artist with great promise, while eschewing Whistler. Not long ago the French artist jumped off a bridge.

  Edgar had failed bitterly in his attempts to establish himself in the art world as a dealer of great repute. He had not been a particularly successful art dealer, nor as a crook. Now, with this one sketch by Barnabas, he could recoup the monies he’d lost in the past. He would not have to risk a journey abroad, nor deal with the underworld.

  All he had to do was send the Irish boxer to Charles Rycroft. O’Brien would tell Rycroft he had found the sketch of St. Nick and arrange to exchange the sketch for the reward in a public place. The Old North Church would do. Edgar could wait across the street in the Symthe’s Olde Book Store until the exchange had been made. O’Brien would bring him the reward. Edgar would give the Irishman a bill for his trouble and send him on his way.

  The simple scheme gave Edgar more happiness than he’d experienced in weeks. His mirthless laughter echoed in the gallery. Light headed and muttering with relief, he danced by himself around the sputtering stove. Not only would he have more money than he bargained for by collecting the reward, he would retain Charles Rycroft as a loyal client! He felt like Samson after all, a man to be reckoned with, strong and powerful.

  Edgar dashed to his desk. Trembling with excitement, he stroked the tip of his mustache with the fingers of one hand while scribbling a hurried note with the other. The whole messy business would be concluded by Christmas. There was no longer a reason for Charles Rycroft to meet with an accident. Within the hour a runner had been dispatched with Edgar’s simple message: Come at once.

  On Beacon Hill Maeve awoke to the sounds of doors slamming, high-pitched, nonstop doggie yapping, footsteps running on the stairs, and servants whispering in the corridor. The floor creaked and groaned as if shifting beneath great weight.

  What now? Leaving the warmth of her bed, she padded quickly across the cold floor. Opening the door a crack, she peeked out Stuart and Charles’s coach driver carried a sizable and obviously heavy trunk from Stella’s rooms.

  Maeve closed the door and leaned back against it. The pale widow and pointy-nosed dog were departing! It was too much to hope for. Scolding herself for indulging in wishful thinking, she quickly dressed and ventured across the hall. Stella’s door was ajar. Maeve pushed it opened and strolled inside. The merry widow was nowhere in sight, but her maid was busy packing.

  “Is Miss Hampton leaving?” Maeve asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. Miss Hampton and Mrs. Rycroft are returning to New York on the morning train.”

  Both ladies were leaving! Maeve’s heart drummed with excitement until another thought occurred. She would soon be alone in the house with Charles.

  If it hadn’t been for Beatrice’s intervention last night, Maeve certainly would have surrendered to her husband’s plentiful charms and welcomed him to her bed for one last time. Alone in the house with Charles, she faced a severe test of her resolve. Could she hold fast?

  Maeve paced in her rooms, humming fiercely. Instead of embarking on her pursuit of St. Nick as she had meant to do, she was forced to wait until Beatrice and Stella departed. When the time arrived, she joined the widows in the foyer and expressed her regret that they were leaving. Giving each a polite, light embrace, Maeve bid the ladies a safe journey.

  Stella’s cold lips pressed against Maeve’s cheek before the tall, pale woman stood back and softly issued a final warning. “Remember what I told you. Do not think because I am leaving for a richer hunting ground your marriage will continue. It is quite impossible. Quite unacceptable. Think of Charles.”

 
; “I always think of Charles.”

  Babe, the wee Pomeranian, bared her teeth and growled.

  Maeve was thankful she had no reason to accompany the ladies to the railway station. Although Charles had gone to his office early, she learned from Beatrice that he’d made plans to meet her and Stella before their departure for a final farewell.

  Just before leaving the brownstone, Beatrice drew Maeve aside. “I must apologize if I have offended you, Maeve O’Malley. You are an intelligent and beautiful young woman. Nevertheless, you are not one of us. And although you have much to recommend you, a woman of your background does not belong here.”

  Maeve tilted her chin and attempted to smile, even as tears gathered behind her eyes and a landslide of fieldstones rained down inside her body, crushing her, pushing the air from her lungs.

  The lean widow leveled a gaze as cold and flat as winter storm clouds. “I warn you not to mistake my son’s gratitude for love.”

  All Maeve could manage was a slight dip of her head. Swallowing the hurt she’d been handed, she raised her head proudly, defiantly. And hummed the national anthem.

  Maeve waved from the porch as Beatrice and Stella departed in a parade of coaches. She wished the ladies well, but wished them their wellness as far away as possible. Although Maeve knew she would not be a part of Charles’s life much longer, she also knew he would do extremely well without the interference of his mother or Stella.

  With the ladies away, the time had come for Maeve to put her plan into action. She intended to leave Charles with something he would always remember her by — St. Nick by Barnabas.

  Her plan began with following Bill “Spit” O’Brien until he led her to his home or to whoever his thieving boss might be. He might work alone, or he might be working under the direction of another nefarious character. There was much she didn’t know and little time to find answers. Once Maeve discovered where the boxer lived, she would contrive to “visit” while O’Brien was away from home. With any luck, she would then find the precious sketch of St. Nick and return it to its rightful owner.

  If, however, the brute led her to a mastermind who directed his villainy, Maeve would report the scoundrel to the authorities, who would take him prisoner and restore the sketch to Charles. It all seemed quite simple.

  Fancying that a woman could be as keen a private investigator as the fellow Charles had hired, Maeve set out on foot. A mottled gray sky, holding promise of more snow, greeted her. Thin, crusty layers of soot settled over melting snowdrifts. Stepping around mounds of slush, she walked briskly to ward off the biting cold that wrapped about the city like an icy muffler.

  Less than an hour later, Maeve marched into the A Street Gymnasium. On the pretext of searching for her brother, she looked for Bill “Spit” O’Brien. She’d tracked Shea down so often, the regulars were used to seeing Maeve in the boxing hall and paid no mind to her presence. But neither her brother nor the suspect boxer were at the hall.

  Refusing to give up, Maeve decided to bide her time. Leaving the gymnasium, she hurried to the flat in hopes of finding her father. But no one was home. Exasperated, Maeve’s tension mounted. Her insides felt fluttery one moment and tighter than a fiddle string the next. In a vain effort to calm herself, Maeve stopped at Mrs. Gilhooly’s for a spot of tea before returning to the boxing hall. The withered old widow confided in Maeve that she’d taken a shine to Mick O’Malley. Not knowing whether she should laugh or cry, Maeve returned to the boxing hall.

  It was late in the afternoon when she took a seat in a corner of the A Street Gymnasium. Pretending impatience while waiting for her brother, she studied the sparring boxers in each ring. New fighters had arrived during her absence and it did not take long to spot O’Brien, the man Shea had pointed out to her.

  The Irishman boxed in the middle ring with a young fighter who was not quite as tall or beefy. O’Brien’s alarming countenance caused Maeve to reconsider her plan for a moment. Should “Spit” suspect her interest in him and waylay her as he had Charles, she could find herself in a world of trouble. Maeve considered alternative plans as she watched.

  Bill “Spit” O’Brien did not do well in the sparring match. After boxing thirty minutes or so, his young opponent landed a blow that knocked O’Brien to the canvas. Maeve winced and covered her eyes. After being splashed with a bucket of water, the big, lumbering man dragged himself up and staggered about the ring for another thirty minutes before the young fighter called an end to the practice match.

  A sweating O’Brien shrugged into his sweater and jacket, withdrew a scrap of paper from his jacket pocket, and stuffed it back inside. Drawing a knit cap over his addled head, he ambled out of the gymnasium.

  Maeve followed.

  He headed back to Boston on foot. Maeve thought it highly unlikely the giant boxer lived in the city, nor was it probable he had friends there. For all she knew he could be up to no good, like picking pockets or some other notorious activity. She followed at what seemed a safe distance.

  O’Brien did not appear to be in any hurry as Maeve trailed him down narrow streets. The gray light of day deepened to a purple haze. She jumped and stopped in her tracks when from the corner of her eye she caught the flash of a dark shadow across a dirty snowdrift. The downy hairs on the nape of her neck stood on end. She took several deep breaths before pressing on. Humming softly.

  In the past, Maeve had always avoided being out alone after dark, but on this day she had little choice. Maeve offered up a silent request to the wee people who granted wishes. She did not care to be on a wild goose chase. Please, let O’Brien be the one who was even now leading her to the stolen sketch of St. Nick.

  With her gaze glued to the fighter and her fearful heart thudding against her chest, Maeve was not aware of the man keeping to the shadows, following her every move.

  O’Brien turned on Warren Street. Maeve’s heart began to beat a bit faster. The chill that swept through her had more to do with fright than the weather. She had never been particularly courageous.

  Although she’d never had reason to be on the street, Maeve knew it boasted many exclusive shoppes. Perhaps Bill O’Brien had come to rob one! Only a handful of shoppers bustled along the street against the cold. There was not a coach in sight. If need be, who would she call upon for help?

  The big boxer stopped.

  Maeve ducked into the small portico of a fabric shoppe and peered around the edge of the building. Her quarry had paused, looking both ways down the street. To determine if he’d been followed? If that wasn’t the sign of a guilty man, she didn’t know what was. Afraid to be seen, she ducked back and counted to ten. When she next dared peek, O’Brien had disappeared.

  Her pulse raced at an alarming speed. Tension gnawed at the pit of her stomach. She could taste the bitter bile of her fear. Saints above! She must be out of her mind.

  Calming and collecting herself, Maeve headed to the spot where she’d last seen O’Brien. She walked slowly, spine stiff, head high, fearing she might lose Mrs. Gilhooly’s tea and cakes at any minute.

  Maeve stopped at the shoppe approximate to where she had last seen the Irish fighter. And sucked in her breath. The lettering painted on the glass door read:

  EDGAR DINES ART GALLERY.

  How odd.

  She stepped up to the glass door and peered inside. The gallery was dark. She was afraid of the dark. Only one low-burning lantern shed any light. Her belly constricted into a tight little burning ball. It felt as if her legs were bound in lead gaiters. She couldn’t go into the darkened gallery. Her feet refused to move.

  Maeve knew she had come too far to go back now. She was too close to recovering the sketch. Spit O’Brien’s presence at Mr. Dines’s gallery meant only one thing. For whatever reason, Edgar Dines had sold Charles the sketch of St. Nick and then had the fighter steal it back. O’Brien obviously worked for the art dealer. Why else would the muddle-headed boxer come to a business like this? Maeve felt safe in assuming the big man was no art connoisseur.


  Another thought occurred to her. If she had guessed their scheme, perhaps Edgar Dines hoped to sell the sketch again to someone else. Or already had!

  The fear she might be too late to recover the sketch of St. Nick temporarily overpowered her fear of the dark. Maeve opened the door and hurried inside the gallery. The jangle of the doorbell gave her a start that resulted in a squeak, a sound she’d never made before. Her throat felt as dry as her daddy’s empty flask. With wobbling knees, she closed the door behind her.

  “Hello!”

  No one returned her greeting.

  “Merry Christmas,” she called out cheerily.

  A rather high-pitched man’s voice came from the back, beyond a black velvet curtain. “Patience. I will be with you momentarily.”

  Maeve waited. She tapped her toe and entertained truly alarming thoughts and grave doubts. Perhaps she shouldn’t have come by herself. Perhaps she should have asked Shea to accompany her or told Charles what she’d learned about O’Brien. One dire thought led to another as she shivered in the gallery, barely aware of the art

  Would Charles mourn her if she died here? Would he miss her at all? Would he know why she’d come? Would he understand how deeply she loved him?

  She hummed.

  At last a small man wearing round spectacles and an annoyed frown scurried from the back room. He seemed unduly disturbed to have a customer.

  “How may I help you, Miss?”

  Maeve’s lips quivered as she forced a smile. “I’m looking for a special gift.”

  “I do not mean to be rude but it’s late and I was just about to close the gallery. Come back tomorrow.”

  “But I should like to purchase a painting or sketch of St. Nick.”

  The man frowned, peering at her over his round spectacles. ‘‘Look around you. Do you see such a thing?’’

  “No, but it is Christmas and I thought you might have one. Perhaps in the back?”

  “No,” he replied with a fierce scowl. “I do not.”

  Maeve played the little witless woman. “I am certain I once saw a sketch of Santa Claus in your gallery.”