Tears of Gold (38 page)

At the foot of the stairs Mara turned to Jenny and the Swede and held out her hands. “You’ve been so kind to us. I want you to know I’ll never forget it—never. I really don’t know how I’d have gotten through it all without you. I think I’d prefer to be alone for a little while now, if you don’t mind,” Mara said, her face as white as ivory with the black veil framing it.

“Can I stay down here with Paul and Gordie?” Paddy asked hopefully as he eyed Mara’s black-clad figure and grim expression with an apprehensive shudder of confusion. “I’ll be real quiet.”

“It’d do the little fellow good to forget for a while, Mara,” the Swede suggested. “I’ll be here to keep an eye on them.” He watched with concern as she sagged against the banister. “Go on up, Mara. You could use some sleep. Everything will be all right down here.”

He signaled to Jamie but her nose was buried in her handkerchief. She seemed incapable of even finding her own way upstairs, much less helping Mara.

But Jenny quickly and efficiently took charge. She hustled the Swede and the boys into the parlor with strict instructions not to make a sound, and then guided Mara and Jamie upstairs.

“See to Jamie, I’ll be fine,” Mara told Jenny as she headed for the quiet of her room.

Mara lay back against the pillows on her bed and gazed up at the ceiling. What was she going to do? Always, in the past, Brendan had been there. Or at least she had known he
would
be there in case she should need him. Now he was gone. It seemed impossible that he would never come striding through the door, a devilish grin on his face and some disastrous scheme lighting up his eyes. Brendan had always seemed indestructible. She’d never even imagined a life without him.

She felt such emptiness that it ached inside her. Mara wearily rubbed her eyes wishing she could put it all out of her mind. But she could not do that, for soon she would have to decide what to do. Mara smiled wryly. Brendan had, in his final and greatest scheme ever, left them wealthy. For once money would be no problem. She would just have to worry how to spend it, Mara thought drowsily as her head rolled on the pillow. She fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, the first she’d had in days.

Jenny backed out of Mara’s bedroom on tiptoe, closing the door silently behind her. She made her way back downstairs with the tray. The sleep Mara had found would be far more beneficial than food.

“Isn’t she well?” the Swede asked immediately on Jenny’s reappearance with the tray. “Should I send for a doctor?”

Jenny shook her red curls in exasperation. “No, that’s all I need is someone else to bump into on the stairs. She’s getting the best thing she can right now, and that’s sleep. Best cure I know for troubles of the spirit and the flesh.”

“I suppose you’re right, although she seemed a mite strange to me,” the Swede commented. “Aren’t women supposed to cry? I swear I never once saw a tear in her eye. I thought she and her brother were mighty close.”

Jenny sat down, pouring the tea out for them rather than waste it. Busying herself with stirring in a spoonful of sugar, she shrugged tolerantly. “People have different ways of grieving. Some fall to pieces, ranting and raving, until they’re not much better off than the dead. Other folks don’t show much emotion, which don’t mean they aren’t grieving inside. It hurts them real bad, and it’s worse for them since they can’t release the grief. I figure Mara O’Flynn is like that. Not that she can’t get in a rage about some things. Why, that look she gave the widow was enough to put her in the grave next to her husband. Something strange there. Funny her showing up now. Wasn’t she the woman we saw at Delmonico’s? They acted like she was a stranger or something. I don’t remember what they called her, but it sure wasn’t ‘Molly O’Flynn.’ And did you see, she didn’t even glance at her son once,” Jenny said, astonished.

“I gather this Molly O’Flynn ran off and left them, her son only a couple of months old at the time,” Jenny declared shaking her head in disgust. “Can you imagine that?”

“From what I know of the woman, it’s most likely true,” the Swede said, not feeling quite the same degree of outrage as Jenny did.

“Well, I think she’s horrible, and I just hope she doesn’t intend to cause trouble,” Jenny said worriedly as she handed the Swede the plate with several pieces of apple strudel on it that he’d been eyeing for the past minute and a half. “I don’t see what she can do,” the Swede said in unconcern as he bit into the freshly baked pastry. “Besides, I’m here to protect her, should the occasion arise.”

“Well, I just hope it doesn’t. Now, shssh,” she warned her sons as their voices were steadily rising, hiding a smile at the momentary look of surprise that had crossed the Swede’s face as he’d thought she’d meant him.

Mara slept undisturbed through the afternoon and night and awakened the following morning feeling more of a mind to make decisions. She felt a momentary twinge of guilt over the neglected Paddy, until she heard laughing voices and sighed in relief, for that was definitely Paddy’s giggle.

Mara was halfway down the stairs when Jenny came from the dining room and, glancing up, stopped in surprise. Mara continued down, pulling on her gloves as she reached the last step.

“I have to see to Brendan’s business affairs—see what needs to be taken care of,” Mara explained.

“Are you sure you feel up to it? I know the Swede was going to pay a call today to see if he could assist you,” Jenny offered helpfully.

“I can handle it. And I’d just as soon get it over with.”

Her business was, in fact, concluded far more quickly than she could possibly have imagined. But then, there was very little to see to, and very little money to worry about. Brendan had only a couple of thousand dollars left of the huge fortune he’d discovered. And there were some personal possessions, which she collected.

What had happened to it all? Mara made her way back to the boardinghouse, stunned. She began to remember the clothes, dinners, parties, and the nights spent gambling. Well, she shouldn’t really be angry. It’d been Brendan’s money, and he’d had a right to spend it as he pleased. She was glad that he’d lived his last days like a king, and had not died a pauper’s death. No, she didn’t begrudge him those last weeks.

Mara paused for a moment on the edge of the sidewalk, waiting for a loaded wagon to be pulled slowly past before she could cross to the other side. Suddenly her attention was caught by a familiar figure striding along the street on the far side. Nicholas, Mara whispered, her eyes clinging to his broad back as he stopped and bought a paper, one of many for sale on each street corner and only a few months old, having been brought in one of the mail steamers. Mara watched as his figure moved along the walk. He didn’t even glance her way. As Mara felt the people crowding her closer to the edge of the sidewalk, she stepped back to avoid being knocked into the muddy street. They pushed rudely against her. Mara disdainfully glanced around her, then brought down the heel of her boot on the instep of the man standing next to her, smiling apologetically at his groan of surprised pain. He’d not take another liberty too soon, Mara thought in satisfaction as he limped away.

The street was clear of traffic now and the people started to pick their way carefully across. Mara started forward but was halted by an arm sliding around her back, the hand biting painfully into her waist. Mara turned a look of outrage on the person. It was Jacques D’Arcy.

He leered down, undaunted by her anger. His grip tightened and he said warningly, “You wouldn’t deal so harshly with Jacques, would you, ma chérie? I am not so careless as your unfortunate admirer of a moment ago, so do not anger me. Accompany me without making a scene, and I promise you will not be hurt,” Jacques told her with a broad smile. His eyes glinted in malicious anticipation. “A certain person only wishes to have a word with you—that is all. You have my word as a gentleman,” he promised with a grin.

“How many dead men believed that?” Mara asked as she tried to hide her fear and revulsion.

“Ah, ma chérie, you are so cruel to poor Jacques, who only desires to be kind to you. Now come, we have talked too long. The Count grows impatient.” He drew her attention to the elegant figure of the Count, who stood watching them a few feet away. He eyed Mara coldly.

“And, ma chérie, a small word of advice, don’t let the Count’s broken hand lull you into thinking he cannot do his job. He is just as efficient with his left hand, and already he is most displeased with you—and with your big friend.”

Mara had little choice. The crowd of people had scattered, and should she try to call out to a passerby, Jacques would find some way of circumventing her. Even now she could feel the painful pressure of his hand beneath her rib cage and knew he’d not hesitate to use the knife she now saw gleaming in his other hand.

Jacques nodded to the Count who closed in on the other side of her. They moved swiftly along the sidewalk. They had walked only a short distance when they turned off the main street and into an alley, Jacques quickly leading her to a door in the side of one of the buildings, a key from his pocket soundlessly opening the door. Mara faltered as she stepped inside, her eyes adjusting slowly to the dimness of the narrow hallway. The Count pushed her and she stumbled against the wall, reaching out to save herself from falling. Mara cursed beneath her breath as she straightened, rubbing her arm where it had come into painful contact with the wall.

“Let me guide you, ma chérie,” Jacques offered gallantly as he put his arm around her waist and guided Mara to the stairs, holding her closer than was necessary as they climbed. His hot breath brushed against her cheek as he smiled down into her face. “We are here, ma chérie,” he said with a low laugh, and grandly swung open the door.

Mara blinked, staring around her at the opulent gaudiness of the room. She was not really surprised to find Molly O’Flynn reclining on a chaise longue, clad only in a pale pink negligee. Molly indolently brushed a long strand of black hair. She glanced up, a welcoming smile parting her lips.

“My dear, how lovely of you to accept my invitation,” she said mockingly. Then, curling her legs under her, she patted the cushion invitingly. “Do sit down, Mara, for we must become reacquainted after so many years apart. My maid is bringing tea. You must be chilled. Do share a cup with me, I insist.”

Mara eyed Molly suspiciously, ignoring her request as she stayed where she was. “What do you want, Molly?”

Molly’s eyes narrowed, her smile now curving into a sneer of dislike as she laughed rudely in Mara’s face. “You never were one for sweet talk, eh, Mara? Once, at a snap of my fingers, you’d have come running, begging to be of some help. I used to think you were such a sweet child. What has happened to you, my dear?”

“I’ve grown up, Molly. I’ve seen the world,” Mara answered boldly, “and I’ve learned to tell the difference between rhinestones and diamonds.”

Molly’s lips tightened, her eyes flashing as she caught Jacques’s appreciative snicker. “You and Brendan always did have a certain caustic wit. A pity you don’t know how to use common sense as well. That’s why I left Brendan—he was a loser.”

“Yes, you were indeed wise, Molly. Brendan would surely have become bored with you after too much longer,” Mara said casually as she made a point of looking around the room, the distasteful look on her face hiding her purpose. She searched for a route of escape. “He never could abide a woman with little intelligence and no style.”

Molly swept her feet to the floor, her movement affording both the Count and Jacques an unrestricted view of her shapely thighs. Mara blushed as she realized Molly wore nothing beneath the negligee.

“Very well, Mara. Shall we forget any idea of becoming friends? You’re still one of the high and mighty O’Flynns, and better than me, aren’t you?” Molly spat as she moved to within a foot of Mara’s face. “Well, I’m an O’Flynn too. Or have you conveniently forgotten that? As the widow of Brendan O’Flynn I demand the right to his fortune.”

Mara didn’t bother to control her laugh.

“Damn you! You think it’s funny, do you? Nothing ever seems to pierce that damned arrogant O’Flynn pride. Always ridiculing your foe. Let’s see how hard you laugh when I reclaim my son, Mara O’Flynn,” she threw at Mara, a spiteful smile curving her mouth.

Mara stopped laughing. Shaking her head, she said, “I’m only laughing because, as usual, Molly, you’ve mistimed your entrance. You see,” she told her earnestly, “Brendan spent it all. I’ve just come from the bank. There is no fortune for you to claim.”

Molly’s mouth dropped open. “Liar!” she exclaimed, the disbelief in her eyes replaced now by ruthless determination as she said in a softer tone, “You must really think me a fool if you expect me to believe that.”

“It’s the truth,” Mara told her simply.

“He
was
spending a great deal of money, María,” Jacques said, the name he first met Molly under coming easier than her real one.

“Shut up! When I want your opinion I’ll ask for it,” she yelled as she turned on him wrathfully.

“You’d do well to listen to him, Molly,” Mara advised her, not intimidated by the other woman’s temper.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” Molly snarled, her face becoming mottled with anger. “To have me believing there was no money so you could have it all. He couldn’t have spent it all. They said he was worth hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

“There was never that much, and now there’s hardly more than a thousand dollars left,” Mara tried to tell her, only to have Molly reach out and grab her shoulders, her fingernails digging into Mara’s soft skin as she shook her.

“Damn it! Where is the money? If you don’t tell me where it is, I swear I’ll have the Count carve the information out of you,” Molly swore as she stared down into Mara’s pale face before pushing her against Jacques who was standing just behind Mara.

Mara jerked away from the contact and, her golden eyes full of hatred, fumbled with the drawstrings of her purse as she searched for the small bag belonging to Brendan that she’d just claimed from the bank.

Pulling it from her purse, she held it up to a curiously watching Molly and, with a bitter smile, opened it and threw gold dust into Molly’s face. It clung to her eyelashes and glittered on her cheeks.