Comfort and Joy (17 page)

“It’s a fine day for walking,” she bluffed. “A bit brisk but beautiful in the Common.”

“Yes. Exceedingly...beautiful.”

But Charles wasn’t looking at the Common across the street. He couldn’t see the public space from where he sat. His gaze was locked on hers, and Maeve could not drag her eyes away from his soft, smoky-gray contemplation. She swallowed, hoping to dislodge the lump that had risen in her throat, causing her to take only slight, shallow breaths.

Their waiter broke the impasse, serving a mouthwatering assortment of biscuits, cakes, marzipan candy, and steaming amber tea in delicate china cups.

Once alone again, Charles turned to Maeve. “I did not intend for Stella to ride with us last night”

“She did quite a bit of talking,” Maeve ventured, eyeing a cake that would add ten pounds to her hips if she contemplated the sweet much longer. Actually eating the chocolate confection was out of the question.

“The woman did not stop!” Charles exclaimed.

“Aye, still, the ride was fun.”

“We shall have our ride together. Tonight after dinner, you will slip out the back door and meet me.”

A clandestine meeting? With her own husband? Maeve did not know what to think. “I’m afraid not tonight. Your mother has asked me to attend her séance.”

With a quirk of his lips, Charles hiked a brow. “Going to meet my father, are you?”

To keep from grinning, Maeve bit down on her lip. “Your mother is...is graciously includin’ me in her activities.”

“Believe me, Maeve, my father will not be in attendance. Which is a good thing. You should probably not like him much if he were.”

“Will you be speaking ill of the dead now?”

“Are you shocked?”

“Yes.” Even when her father drank too much alcohol, Maeve respected and loved her dear dad with all her heart.

“Don’t be. I have good reason for feeling as I do.”

A darkening shadow, a faraway look, fell across Charles’s face. The muscles in his jaw tightened perceptibly.

“Yes?” Maeve inquired quietly.

“Do you know why I am so eager to recover the sketch of St. Nick?”

She shook her head. Anticipating an answer at last to the question she’d asked herself many times, Maeve’s pulse beat a little faster.

“Because the artist only created a total of twelve paintings and sketches in his lifetime,” Charles pronounced flatly.

“He must have lived a short life...or became an artist at an old age,” Maeve speculated.

Charles pushed his plate away but appeared to study the untouched biscuit. “The artist lived a short life. Too short a life.”

Without commenting, Maeve poured her husband more tea.

“Through the years I have been able to track down and purchase all of his work except the sketch of St. Nick,” Charles told her, his tone terse and laced with bitterness. “I’d almost given up when Edgar Dines, the art dealer I’ve been working through these past years, discovered the sketch at auction in Philadelphia.”

“You must admire this artist very much.”

“More than any other.”

“And what would his name be?”

“Barnabas. Conrad Barnabas Rycroft.”

“Barnabas Rycroft?”

Charles’s eyes met Maeve’s in a steady, unflinching gaze. “My brother.”

Maeve gasped in surprise. “I did not know you had a brother.”

“Barnabas is not spoken about. Mother only shakes her head if his name is mentioned.”

“Why?”

“He committed the worst sin of all. He disgraced the family.” Charles’s mouth twisted into a hard, sardonic smile. Drumming his knuckles softly on the table, he continued. “My brother was older than I by twelve years.

“I did not have the opportunity to really know him. Yet, I worshiped him. Odd?”

She didn’t think it odd at all. She worshiped her older brother. But she did not understand why he would not really know his brother. Maeve shook her head vigorously and felt a top curl fall.

“When my father decided it was time for Barnabas to join the firm, my brother rebelled. He considered himself an artist. He lived to sketch and paint. Instead of understanding, our father considered him simply lazy.”

“Saints above,” Maeve murmured.

“My father expected my brother to join him in the publishing firm, but Barnabas had other ideas. He would disappear for days to work at his art. A necessity because he was forbidden to sketch or paint at home.”

“The poor man,” Maeve whispered. Her heart tightened, touched by Barnabas’s plight and Charles’s obvious pain.

Charles clenched his jaw and nodded. For the first time, Maeve clearly perceived the deep sadness etched into the planes of his face.

“Running off only made matters worse. My father committed Barnabas to an asylum in New Hampshire where the wealthy hide their deranged, or disobedient, sons and daughters. My brother didn’t belong there. He might have been rebellious but he was not insane.”

Maeve could not hold back the trail of slow, hot tears that seared her cheeks. “Sure’n I’m sorry.”

But Charles did not see her tears. He gazed over her shoulder into space, a dark place where painful memories were locked away. Out of sight. But not out of mind. “Barnabas tried to escape one night and was shot and killed. In the dark, one of the guards mistook him for a prowler.”

“Oh, no!” Maeve cried. A painful spasm, sharp as a knife, slashed through her heart. She reached across the table and squeezed Charles’s hand.

Charles looked anew at the woman sitting across from him. She understood. Sweet compassion filled her wide blue eyes to the brim. He had never told this story to anyone before. It remained his family’s secret, buried more deeply through the years. Charles didn’t really know why he had shared the secret and his sorrow with Maeve. Perhaps he knew instinctively that she would understand what so many in his family, and in their social sphere, seemed unable to comprehend. His brother existed for his art. Barnabas could not breathe, could not live without his canvases, brushes, and pencils.

Although only a young boy at the time, Charles had understood. But his father never had, nor his mother. The rest of the family, including Martin, were baffled by Barnabas’s refusal to conform.

And after his brother died, it was as if he had never lived. The family never spoke of him. Barnabas lived only through his paintings and sketches, legacies Charles treasured as remarkable evidence of his brother’s life.

“My brother risked death for his art.”

“Oh, how difficult it must have been for you.”

Charles nodded. With time, the pain had eased, but a hollowness remained in his heart. A heart he had guarded zealously since Barnabas’s death. A heart that had been shattered with the loss of the big brother he had loved and admired.

Enfolding Maeve’s small, rough hand in his, he forced a smile. “Little Bit, I did not mean to sadden you. Rycrofts are expected to do the right thing. My brother simply could not.”

“He did what was right for him,” she said quietly.

Charles took a deep breath and swiped a hand through his hair. “At a dear price.”

“Aye, but one your dear brother must have been willing to pay.”

“Perhaps.’’ The acid gnawing in the pit of his stomach ebbed away. She was right. Unlike his older brother, Charles had never loved anything or anyone with such intensity that he willingly would sacrifice his life.

“You shall recover the sketch. I know you shall, Charles.”

“I hope so. It was one of the few whimsical pieces my brother created. His mood was not often light.”

“My eye will be open and I will be looking—”

Charles raised a hand and gave her a stern warning. “Don’t even think about getting involved. You found me and you healed my bruises. So you know better than anyone that the ruffian who stole the sketch is not to be taken lightly.”

“But…”

“No buts.”

Maeve lowered her eyes without comment. Charles took her evasion as an ominous sign. But he had no time to press his argument further. Glancing at his pocket watch, he pushed back his chair. “We must leave now. I have an appointment in my office shortly.”

She raised her soulful blue eyes to his. “Thank you for the tea and cakes. And for telling me about Barnabas.”

During the past hour Charles lost some of the restless, edgy feeling plaguing him of late. Plainly, Maeve proved superior to fencing as a method of easing his disquiet. “It’s fortunate that I came upon you,” he said. “You would still be walking, frozen through and through.”

She acknowledged his insight with a small, captivating smile.

“I would be forced to warm you.”

“You have done that very well in the past,” she declared. The impish sparkle in her eyes suggested intimacies between them that teased Charles’s mind and tested his patience.

Chuckling, he held the Irish vixen’s coat. “No more walking in the winter.”

“I shall do my best to remember.”

A disconcerting thought struck him. “Do you have money to hire a coach?”

Angling her head, she gave him a rueful smile. “Money is not something I think of often and I am not accustomed to riding.”

“Never leave home without proper funds. I shall see to it that you have enough to hire a carriage when needed and for any Christmas shopping you might like to do.”

“I am used to making Christmas gifts.”

“This year I urge you to shop for them. You might like it. My mother and Stella seem to be keeping themselves happily occupied with shopping.”

She replied with a brilliant smile.

The glow of Maeve’s smile set Charles’s blood afire. But he knew enough not to be misled by wondrous blue eyes and an enchanting smile.

Would the strong-willed Irish lass heed his warning? Would she put to rest any ideas of searching for Barnabas’s sketch of St. Nick? He took her home.

At last Maeve understood the somber, rigid demeanor of her husband. He had lost the brother he loved under horrible circumstances. His father, disappointed in his firstborn son, then settled on his second son, driving and belittling Charles at every turn. It was clear to Maeve that even now, several years after his father’s death, Charles still attempted to prove his worth as a son and as a businessman.

His overbearing and arrogant manner had been cultivated to please his father. Charles strove to be the son his father wanted him to be. But Maeve knew the Charles behind the stiff facade. She’d had a glimpse of him during his brief bout with amnesia. He was the carefree, laughing man she’d called Charlie. Her heart ached for Charlie. She resolved then and there to free her husband from the ghost of his father.

Maeve left the Rycroft residence shortly after Charles dropped her there. Pansy had been waiting in Maeve’s rooms to help with her elocution and had begged to go along to the docks. Why a highborn miss like Pansy wanted to do such a thing was beyond Maeve, but her friend courted scandal on a regular basis. Harriet Deakins would serve Maeve’s head on a platter if she ever discovered this afternoon’s adventure.

For the first time in her life, Maeve carried a considerable amount of money in her pocket. But money wouldn’t buy what she wanted most, Barnabas’s sketch of St. Nicholas. This time, with Pansy close on her heels, she did not intend to leave the docks until she found her brother.

She was vastly relieved when she found Shea on pier four. Even though her brother possessed the strength of two men, the day work was grueling. However, it was good work for an Irish immigrant and Shea never complained. Each day he went to the docks looking for a job. It was a good day when he was hired. Maeve fancied her brother dreamed of stowing away as he loaded the ships sailing east and south on the Atlantic. But he would never leave da to fend for himself.

Maeve waved both arms in the air and when Shea spotted her, he handed over the barrel in his arms to another stevedore.

“Is that your brother?” Pansy whispered.

Maeve adored her older brother. “‘Tis Shea Michael O’Malley, himself,” she declared proudly.

Taking long, confident strides, Shea quickly reached Maeve and Pansy. The beginning depressions of a frown wrinkled his broad, sun-darkened forehead. For years she’d known her older brother worried first and asked questions later. From the time of their mother’s death, he’d taken on more responsibility for Maeve’s health and welfare than their father.

With a brief, curious glance at Pansy, he removed his cap. His frown grew deeper as he focused on Maeve with a hard squint. “What brings ye here, Maeve?”

“I’ve been trying to talk to you for days now.”

“But ye know ye shouldn’t come down to the docks.”

“If you are never at home, what should I do?’’ Without waiting for his reply, Maeve turned to Pansy. “This is my friend, Pansy Deakins. My brother, Shea.”

Pansy extended her hand, gazing up at Shea with a soft, sweet smile. Maeve had never seen her friend smile that way before, like a simpering miss.

“I am exceedingly pleased to meet you, Shea.”

Shea shot Pansy a disarming Irish grin, the one he usually saved for the girls at Rosie’s Saloon. “The pleasure is all mine. Me sister has talked of you often enough. I thank you for yer many kindnesses to her.”

To Maeve’s horror, Pansy’s eyes grew dewy, locking on Shea’s steady, twinkling gaze. She watched with mounting apprehension as Shea and Pansy regarded each other in silent admiration. Her brother and best friend no longer knew Maeve existed. It was as if the faeries had raised a Fefiada around her, rendering her invisible to mortals.

Pansy finally spoke. “Your sister has become a dear friend,” she said in a breathless tone.

“Which is the only reason Pansy is with me today,” Maeve explained hastily. “She insisted that I bring her along.”

“Aye, I see she has a weapon aimed at your back.”

“Don’t be teasin’ now, Shea. I’m here on serious business.”

Shea did not take his eyes from Pansy as he asked Maeve, “Is your husband mistreatin’ you?”

“No. As a matter of fact, I think I may be growing on him.”

“Charles is a good man,” Pansy offered. “He would never knowingly harm Maeve, or anyone for that matter. His only sin is stuffiness.”

Shea laughed at that, and Pansy as well.