A Love by Any Measure (20 page)

Our Lady of Mercy

T
he multihued glare blinded. A small cushion sat behind her head. Other than the dizziness of disorientation, she was comfortable, laying on a bed, or perhaps a sofa. The fire crackled across the room, and the delicate smell of lavender permeated her senses.

“She’s coming to!”

August’s voice was an equal balance of joy and relief. He sat beside her, leaned over, a smile beaming. As her eyes labored to adjust, Maeve again reveled in just how beautiful he was; his ebony hair was tousled and his eyes looked weary and red. He had been crying, but why?

She smiled back, growing more curious with each moment, a sense of unease bubbling up within.

“Did I swoon?”

A delicate and melodious English woman spoke in reply. “Yes, she’ll be fine now. Truly, August, under the circumstances, I wouldn’t be so—”

“Ow! Good Lord!”

August landed on the floor with a thud as Maeve’s clenched fist made contact with that no-longer-so-beautiful face. Her temples pounded as she sat up much too quickly and recalled arriving to Meadowlark only to find …

“Lady Grayson,” Maeve hissed, sitting up and folding her arms over her chest as she took in the astonished face of a woman seeing her husband flat on the floor.

She looked past the blanched wife and took in her surroundings. It was a parlor, its pomp and décor not so unlike that of Shepherd’s Bluff in temperament, but multiplied in multitudes. She had apparently been deposited on a burgundy chaise, and a matching sofa was across the way on which the English Lady sat eying the Irish lass warily.

Amelia gave Maeve a quick nod before resuming her contemplative study. Finally, she muttered meekly, “It’s very nice to meet you, Miss O’Connor, though I’m certain you do not think the same.”

“Hardly seems it,” August agreed as he finally collected himself off the floor. He looked to Maeve with the most sympathetic and pained expression she had ever witnessed on him. For a moment, her love for him overrode her rage, and Maeve felt herself weaken. Then, foolishly he added, “Though one could hardly blame her,” and her fury raged anew.

“You damnable bastard!” Maeve yelled. “Is this what you meant? Is this why you couldn’t give me my all!? Not because I’m poor and you’re rich, or I’m Irish and you’re English, but because you’re already married!? May you burn in hell, August Grayson.”

“Mo chroi,” he invoked, “I’ve tried to tell you so many times, but all I could think was that you would leave me if you knew.”

Her eyes flashed down. “Or worse!”

August reached for her, and despite Maeve’s best efforts to try and stay civilized, her foot flew out from under her skirt and cracked into his shin. Doubling over, hopping on one foot and nursing the afflicted limb with his hands, he babbled incoherently, and she wondered as to where she should wallop him next.

“August!” Amelia broke in.

He turned to her, brow furrowed like a puppy who had been abashed.

“Perhaps Miss O’Connor would understand best if I explained everything to her. In any course, I don’t believe I’m as likely to suffer as many blows.”

August looked unsure. “I don’t think she’s in a mood to talk, Mel.”

Amelia scoffed and grunted as she slowly rolled herself off the sofa, her defined bump becoming more pronounced under her loose-fitted dress.

“She’s giving you no less than you deserve, and you well know it. It is a fault most grievous you have shown with disregard to Miss O’Connor. You went to Ireland in part to prove to yourself that you were not your father, and proved only that you are too truly his progeny.”

August’s face turned bright red as he struggled to keep himself contained. He hissed back at her through gritted teeth, “This is nothing like that; I never wooed her with false promises of acceptance. I made it clear that we could never be together as man and wife.”

“Yes, August,” she concurred. “That may be true, but nor did you tell her why. Now, let me try to make good this mess that you’ve created. Jefferson is seeing to Caroline in the library. Perhaps you may be of assistance there.”

With a great huff, he bobbed his head quickly in a show of deference to his wife. Then he looked to Maeve once again, as though that mere look offered every apology for his misdeeds, and pleaded that she should consider thoroughly the argument about to be set before her, before leaving the room.

Amelia sauntered across the way, giving Maeve a full sweep of her eyes from tip to toe, and circling about in careful observance.

“August failed to convey to me the greatness of your beauty,” she said simply. “You are, indeed, quite lovely.”

Maeve couldn’t determine if she aimed to demean her by sarcasm or was being sincere. In any case, she did not appreciate being sized as though she were a purchased rug.

“I’m glad I meet the lady’s approval,” she returned gruffly. “I did not know her husband had spoken of me. He did me no equal favor.”

“Hmm, you must have spent much time together. You speak like him. Yes, August wrote me of you, and I’ve known of you for far longer, though I had no idea you were coming with him to Norwich until I received a message this morning. Luckily, I’ve had time to make arrangements for you, though now I wonder if you’ll want to sleep in the same suite with him or not.”

Maeve could barely believe what she was hearing. “The sa … You planned that August and I should … ” She looked around the room and then back to where Amelia stood. “I admit that I am fairly confused.”

“Good heavens, I simply cannot stand anymore,” she answered despite the inquiry. “Maeve — may I call you Maeve? — won’t you please sit? This may take some time to explain.”

She worked with as much effort to sit as she had to stand. Fearing no more the truth of the moment, Maeve asked the simple question which had been most pressing to her sense of ease.

“Is it August’s?”

Amelia smiled and smoothed her hand over her tummy. “Yes, the child is August’s. But let’s not get ahead. Well, you clearly knew nothing of me. I am surprised Caroline did not tell you, but I assure you she is quite beside herself at the moment. She trusted August, but didn’t see it her place to try to explain. Tell me how much do you know of Emmanuel and Eliza Grayson?”

Maeve was thoroughly confused. “August’s father and mother?” Amelia nodded. “Emmanuel was a right disagreeable man. I know August loved his mother dearly, but she died when he was young.”

“More than that,” Amelia added. “His mother was Irish as well, you know. August’s grandfather, Ezekiel, purchased the land at Middle Lake from Eliza’s family. He took August’s father, then a young man, to survey it. It was on that journey that he met Eliza. She was from Belfast, and Anglican, though Ezekiel ultimately did not object to the union. August’s father loved her dearly in the early days, I’ve heard. He was convinced that their love would endure, and that even though she was Irish, his society would come to accept her.”

“They didn’t though, did they?” Maeve asked with a bit of snipe in her tone. She was trying not to hate, trying not to loathe and despise Amelia, who, given their odd introduction, was being more than hospitable. “In English eyes, difference between an Irish Catholic and an Irish Protestant is like the difference between a dirty rat and a clean one.”

“Indeed,” Amelia said simply. “Well, Eliza eventually couldn’t take it anymore. After Caroline was born, she decided that she was going back to Ireland. That’s when August’s father had the house at Middle Lake built, a last ditch effort to appease her, my mother supposed. Secretly, I think he was planning on stashing her there, out of the way. But it was the famine, and finding Irish labor strong enough to carry out such a project was difficult. Eliza tried to keep up hope. She even taught August to speak Irish. But this all went on at the height of the anti-Irish movement, and Eliza and Emmanuel came down on opposite sides. When it became clear that Eliza wasn’t much longer for the world, however, he took her home to die. Caroline was left here behind; she was so young. But August went along. And that is where August met you.”

“Aye, that part I know,” Maeve interrupted, feeling her temper receding. She recalled the day Eliza had died, the day August ran into the forest.

The day they first had kissed.

Amelia looked at a now-beaming Maeve knowingly. The smug expression struck Maeve’s nerve anew, and she quickly vanquished the grin from her face.

“He never forgot you, Maeve.”

All the air had left the room, leaving Maeve gasping.

“August and I have known each other since we were children,” Amelia continued. “He has dreamt of you from time to time. You may not believe it, but there was a time when I was quite jealous of you.”

“Jealous? Of me?” Such a thing hardly seemed possible, and nary of use. After all, Amelia had wed the man Maeve loved, and was carrying his child to boot.

Amelia leaned in. “For my part. But I wasn’t the only one who knew of you. August’s father knew it, too. And after watching Eliza go through such torment, he swore that no son of his would ever make the same mistake. He spent years trying to make August hate the Irish, but it didn’t take. August was one of the most desired bachelors in Norwich, in all of England. But he never entertained a romance with another, much to Emmanuel’s frustration. Even when wed, it was still your name I heard him call in his sleep.”

“But then, why would he … ” Maeve couldn’t fathom why August would put such stock in his father’s wishes. Then she realized that while he may not care of his own affair, there was still one for whom his socially-unacceptable actions could have had malicious impact. “Caroline.”

Amelia seemed pleased at the quick summation. “Precisely, Caroline. If August should have acted out, Caroline would have been marred by association. August’s father knew that once he passed, and after Caroline had wed, there would be no way to hold August back from finding you. So he gave August a choice. Marry someone ‘acceptable,’ or he’d disinherit Caroline. Then Emmanuel decided to foolproof his plan by making it binding. August would not inherit his estate, and Caroline her portion, unless we produced a child.”

Maeve’s eyes caught her furrowed brow, before Amelia sighed and added, “The doctor confirmed the pregnancy the day after Emmanuel died.”

Maeve sat in silence for some minutes and turned over all that she had heard. As it all began to sink in, she felt her anxiety ease a good deal. Still, one thing was missing, one critical piece of information.

“But why did you do this?” Maeve swallowed hard. “Do you love him?”

She smiled sweetly. “In my way, but not as you do. One reason August and I have always been close is because our fathers were born of the same litter. Like August, I too fell in love with someone who … Well, it never could have been.”

“He did not fight for you?” Maeve asked apprehensively.

“No, he wasn’t as strong as that. He ceded to my father’s threats,” Amelia answered with great sadness. “It crushed me. So when my father told me I would wed August whether I wished it or not, I couldn’t find it in my heart to care. I often think August agreed because of that, in part. I was so broken, so wounded, he could not bear to reject our engagement when our fathers announced it without first consulting us. August understood, too, that the engagement ended the maligning of my character at the rumors, mostly true, of course, of my affair with a servant.”

It was then that Maeve realized that her and Amelia’s fortunes had both been milked from the same cow. Amelia was the cream, and Maeve was the whey, both swirling in the same pail. They were both bound to the same man, yet distanced from him in different ways.

August’s intentions or the nature of his marriage were not the sole misjudgment for which he must be held to account, however. He had provided a falsehood so scathing Maeve wasn’t certain forgiveness would ever be possible.

“I want you to read something,” Amelia said, pulling Maeve from her thoughts.

She pointed to a wooden box on the table next to the chaise. Maeve pulled it to her lap and opened it.

“The one on top. Read it. That is the last post I received from August from Ireland. You might be interested in what it says.”

“Irish can’t read,” Maeve countered.

Amelia smirked. “But you can.” She folded her hands and set them atop her belly. “August taught you.”

Atop a stack of envelopes lay one of ivory tone, its lettering distinctively in fine blank ink and made out to Lady Amelia Grayson, Meadowlark, Norwich, England. Maeve turned to her questioningly, but Amelia gave an insistent nod. Delicately, as if she were handling something sacrosanct, Maeve removed the folded pages from within and set the envelope aside.

“Dear Amelia,

I hope that this letter finds you in good spirits and good health. I am sad to say that I
cannot render
the same unto you, as I find myself in dire need of your consult and good judgment. I was very taken aback to learn of the engagement of Miss O’Connor to one of the blacksmiths of Killarney. Of his nature and good character, I have heard from the townspeople no fault or slight that would lead me to believe he is anything less than honorable, faithful, and a man of good intent. I do not doubt that he would spend his life in the pursuit of her welfare and comfort. However, I cannot deny that I find myself hating this man, and consequently cursing his very name and wishing him ill. Upon reflection, I understand that the reason I detest him so is that he was to take away forever my darling Maeve. Though she turned me away when I presented her the bakery (as you know, Mel, I did so only in the honest hope that by it she may find the funds necessary to provide for her father and herself without feeling obliged to marry), I had hoped that time would see her heart soften yet to mine. What I must admit to you now is shameful. On the very night that Miss O’Connor and the blacksmith announced their engagement, I escorted her back to her flat from a celebration at the pub. My intent, I assure you, was only to ensure her safe deliverance. We had both imbibed, and surely were not in our clear senses. I will not inscribe details, but you have said to me before that you should not fault me if I should love another, so long as the matter was kept silent. I gave myself to her in full. In the heat of passion, I declared my love, and asked her to renounce her fiancé. I fear that my selfish desire for her has damned her to a life of bitterness and shame.