Comfort and Joy (18 page)

But Maeve took umbrage. She dug her fists into her hips, a difficult maneuver when one is couched in a muff. “My husband is misunderstood!”

“Don’t turn your temper on me,” Shea chuckled. “I believe you. And as much as I’d like to spend the day chatting, if I don’t get back to work, I’ll lose me job.”

“Wait. I’m bound to find the sketch stolen from Charles the night we found him.”

“How do you suppose to do that?” her brother asked, giving Maeve his full attention at last.

“You said at the time he appeared to have been beaten by a professional. I’d like you to look for someone among your boxer friends who may have more money than he should.”

“Do you think me friends go round beating and stealing from innocent men?”

“No, but it may be that your acquaintances do. If you will just look around when you’re sparring or such.”

Shea took a step back, narrowing his eyes. “What makes ye think I’m sparring?”

“Da says you’re not home much of late. And you’re not drinkin’ at Rosie’s either. That says to me you’re getting ready to box.”

“Yer dreamin’, sister o’ mine.”

“You promised me you wouldn’t box any more after I left,” she reminded him. “You said with one less mouth to feed, fightin’ wouldn’t be necessary.”

Shea inclined his head. “Darlin”, I can’t for the life of me recall sayin’ such a thing.”

Her fists returned to her hips. “Shea!” she cried in a warning tone.

“I’ve got to get back to work. If I hear anything, I’ll let ye know.”

Maeve gave an annoyed puff. But it was all she could ask for now.

“Miss Pansy...” Shea’s voice trailed off as if he would say more but thought better of it. Instead he winked and cocked his head. “Good day to you.”

“I hope we meet again, Shea O’Malley,” Pansy blurted.

Maeve nudged her red-haired companion with her elbow.

Shea just grinned. Jamming his cap back atop his curls, he strode away whistling.

Pansy spun on Maeve. “You never told me your brother was such a handsome man.”

“You never asked. And it matters not.” Maeve had a new worry now.

Something had passed between Shea and Pansy. It was nothing Maeve could put her finger on, but she knew something had happened. Her earlier misgiving about allowing Pansy to accompany her to the docks had been correct. A woman who believed in Victoria Woodhull’s philosophy of free love did not belong anywhere near Shea O’Malley.

Maeve hustled her friend away from the docks and hired a coach to take them into the heart of Boston.

She did have some shopping to do and Pansy’s opinion would help.

* * * *

Charles met in his office with Herbert Lynch. The private investigator he’d hired to find his brother’s sketch of St. Nick was a small, dour man who smelled of stale tobacco. His fingers were yellow from constantly holding a cigar, lit or unlit.

“What have you to report, Mr. Lynch?”

Lynch pointed the ragged, unlit stub of his cigar at Charles. “Very little. The trail is cold.”

“You mentioned that when I hired you.”

“I’m doing my best.”

The tension that had drained from Charles while having tea with Maeve snaked through him again; a spiraling, squeezing sensation that caused his whole body to become as rigid as a walking stick. “Are you telling me you have nothing to report?”

“No. I’ve something. Something. Did you know your cousin, Martin Rycroft, is in financial straits? Bad financial straits?”

“I did not.”

“His wife is expecting their first child and the house she made him buy a few months ago is more than he can manage. More than he can manage.”

“Are you suggesting Martin is the thief?”

“Does he know the value of your sketch?”

“Yes.” Charles wondered if Martin’s unceasing proposal for a monthly magazine could be attributed to his cousin’s poor financial status. Martin would win an increase in his salary if he were to head such a project. “My cousin would never steal from me.”

“In most cases it’s someone close, someone who you’d never suspect. Never suspect. Someone close.”

The investigator’s habit of repeating himself aggravated Charles’s gut-wrenching tension. “Mr. Lynch, I advise you to dig deeper. Report back when you have more.”

Lynch shook his head and shuffled to the door.

An hour later, Charles still battled his consuming tension. He could send a message to Spencer and arrange another fencing match or he could do something quite out of character, something quite impulsive. Against all accounting, he did the latter.

Charles strode past his startled assistant’s desk. “I’m leaving for the day.”

* * * *

Was there anything better than a shopping spree? Although Maeve had never enjoyed one before this afternoon, now that she had, she could not imagine anything more pleasant. Pansy guided her with the skill of a practiced shopper. At times, they giggled like schoolgirls, marveling at their purchases.

They had just emerged from the toy shoppe when Maeve heard Charles shout.

“Maeve!”

She spun around. “Charles!”

He’d come upon her twice in the same day. Was her husband following her?

“Get in the sleigh. You’re coming with me. We shall take you home, Pansy.”

Maeve would have felt better about complying if Charles had been smiling.

Chapter Ten      

A little dazed and more than a bit wary, Maeve settled into the sleigh and pulled the warm carriage blanket over her. She’d only been on the docks a short time. No one that she knew of had seen her. She didn’t deserve to be banished from the city of Boston, if that’s what Charles had in mind.

Except for exchanging pleasantries with Pansy, her husband said little until he and Maeve were alone.

Maeve’s uneasiness mounted.

“You did not remain at home for long,” he remarked. “I hadn’t expected to find you so easily.”

“I had no idea ye…you would be looking for me. Where are we going?”

“To the country, to Sycamore Falls.”

Maeve had never heard of Sycamore Falls. But she knew there was a town west of Boston where they’d burned witches at the stake in bygone days. Her doubts resurfaced. She knew last evening would come back to haunt her.

While Charles had been a gentleman at tea earlier and not mentioned her indiscretion, he knew as well as she that Maeve had not been especially judicious with the dinner wine. Each time she turned away, her goblet had been refilled, causing Maeve to sorely misjudge the amount she drank. If truth be faced, she might have been a trifle intoxicated during the sleigh ride.

Perhaps Charles had mentioned this trip to the country while Maeve’s mind was not functioning as well as it should.

“How far away is Sycamore Falls?” she asked.

“About an hour’s ride. Our country house is there, Ashton Pond.”

“A country house?”

“If it were possible, I’d live at Ashton Pond all year long. It’s where my mother was raised. I suppose that’s why she prefers city life today. She is ill-suited to the isolation of the country. Beatrice hasn’t been to Ashton Pond since I was a boy.”

“I see.” But she didn’t. For the life of her, Maeve could not understand why anyone would prefer noisy, crowded city life to the peaceful serenity of the country. “Will we be back in Boston in time for your mother’s séance?”

“If we act swiftly.”

Act swiftly ? Maeve had no patience for mystery. She had been encouraged when Charles confided in her over tea this morning. Her hope of forming a true love match with him had been rekindled. But now…now, she was leery. Had it all been a ploy?

Could Charles have decided to become a single man again by some notorious manner? Maeve was not entirely an innocent. She’d heard stories, listened to rumors. Wives had been known to disappear, or worse, die in terrible accidents at the hands of their husbands. Was Maeve about to have an accident on a lonely country road?

“What, what are your plans?” she asked as casually as possible. If Charles’s scheme sounded the least bit suspicious, she planned to leap from the carriage before losing sight of Boston.

“I require your help to select our Christmas tree.

“Mother has charged me with this grave responsibility. And you know what a difficult woman she is to please.”

“Charles, you make momentous decisions every day at business. Why do you need my help to select a Christmas tree?”

“There are a great many trees on the farm. I require a woman’s opinion.”

Maeve’s pulse spurted into an unsettling beat even as her heart swelled to twice its normal size. Charles valued her opinion — over Stella’s, the merry widow. How silly Maeve had been to think for one moment Charles would harm her. She couldn’t have wished for anything better. Alone with Charles, she would have the opportunity to win his heart.

The journey took over an hour through winding country roads lined by thick evergreen forests dusted with snow. Maeve worried as the sky grew darker, threatening a storm. Would they have time to find the perfect tree and return to Beacon Hill before nightfall? They certainly couldn’t traverse dark country roads during a blizzard. As Charles did not appear worried, Maeve took heart

She huddled beside her laconic husband, content to bask in the warmth of his solid heat. To stave off boredom, she launched into a rousing, slightly off-key rendition of We Wish You a Merry Christmas. To Maeve’s surprise, Charles soon joined in, adding his deep baritone voice. When the song ended he started another, Hark the Herald Angels Sing.

Maeve and Charles sang in unison to the hoary sky, to the majestic snow-tipped trees and to the winding road. Charles sang out loudly, with twinkling eyes and a wide happy grin. He was Charlie again, at ease and content. She kept their duet alive with one song after another until at last the sleigh passed through the gates of Ashton Pond.

On either side of the long, curving drive, the branches of pine and elm dipped with the weight of snow. The snowy sentinels appeared to be bowing as the carriage passed. They passed a fair-sized pond iced over and empty. Ashton Pond sprawled in the front acre of Charles’s country house.

At first sight of the spacious gingerbread house, Maeve caught her breath. Icicles resembling long, knobby fingers dripped from beneath the eaves. With its dark green shutters and gabled second floor windows, the charming home on Ashton Pond appeared to be a storybook illustration. Snow drifted against the porch steps and the welcoming glow of candlelight shone in every window. Here was a real home, a haven that instantly captured Maeve’s heart.

“Do you see the wooded area behind the house?” Charles asked. “It’s the Rycrofts’ own Christmas tree farm.”

“It’s lovely,” she replied, marveling.

“Let’s choose our tree first and then we’ll head for the house and get warm.”

“Sure’n we’ll find a grand tree,” she said as Charles helped her from the carriage.

Maeve took in her surroundings with lightheaded wonder. This was another whole new world, one promising comfort, one where she might feel a sense of belonging.

The snow-encrusted ground crunched beneath their feet as Charles took Maeve’s gloved hand and led her out into the woods. In order to keep up with her tall, long-legged husband, she took three steps for every one of his.

A soft snowfall began as they reached the edge of the woods. But Maeve didn’t mind. Nothing could dampen her spirits. She breathed deeply, inhaling with relish the thick fir scent of the small forest. Her body buzzed with anticipation. A vague sense of unbridled joy washed through her. With only the slightest encouragement, Maeve would have danced a jig right then and there in the snow.

She meant to treasure each moment alone with Charles in this glorious place. He seemed less intense, even playful. Somewhere along the way, Charles had undergone a transformation. He’d truly become Charlie again, the man she had married. The man she loved with all her heart.

He led Maeve deeper into the copse. Fragrant pine and fir trees shared space with ancient oak, sycamore, old maples, and elm. There were any number of trees to choose from, for almost any purpose.

Pursing his lips and studying several candidates, Charles made a great show of the tree selection. “Remember, we must bring the perfect tree back to Boston.”

Maeve shook the snow from a branch on a large fir to her right. “This one is full and green.”

“Too short”

“This one?”

“Too tall. But what do you think of this?” he asked, gesturing to the tree just ahead.

Listing precariously and misshapen about its bottom, the pine stood well over twelve feet. Maeve had never seen Charles dwarfed before. But no tree could diminish her husband’s towering form, the striking silver gleam in his eye. His strong, broad shoulders were wide enough to carry the entire Emerald Isle. Sheer masculine power shimmered from his compelling figure.

A hard, hot shudder swept through Maeve.

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she shook her head. “Much too skinny.”

“Are you an expert?’’ he asked. His normally unreadable silver gray eyes shone with amusement.

“I’ve had but one Christmas tree and Shea found it,” she laughed. “The poor scrawny fir had been discarded.”

“If you’ve had but only one tree, we must make this year’s tree the largest possible.”

“Like this?” she asked. Maeve stared up at the fullest, greenest, tallest tree in the forest.

“Perfect.”

“Then let it stay. We can not chop down such a beautiful tree.”

“What?” he winced.

“We’ll take the skinny, misshapen one back to Boston and tell Beatrice it was the best of the lot. We shall claim that it’s a very bad year for trees. How will she know?”

A grin spread slowly across his face. “She won’t.”

“We’ll cover the tree’s — slight imperfections — with decorations.”

“You are an extremely clever woman. Has anyone ever told you so before?”

“Yes, many times,” she teased. “But never by you.”

Standing not three feet away, Charles’s gaze fixed on hers. He cast a spell Maeve could not readily break free from. She felt certain his smoky eyes carried a silent message meant for her heart. What Charles could not put into words was reflected in his eyes. Was it love?