Determined to leave her father and brother well stocked with food, Maeve had spent the better part of the morning mixing, boiling, and baking.
She’d brought decorations as well as food. She “borrowed” two fragrant green garlands from last night’s party. Now draped over the flat’s two windows, the garlands added a bit of color and life to the drab atmosphere. It didn’t seem right that Maeve should be living in such splendor while her father and brother remained trapped in the cold, smelly tenement.
While she did not expect Charles to take her father and Shea into his Beacon Hill brownstone, he could afford to see them situated under a far better roof. Maeve hoped she could persuade him.
“Society stiffs like the Rycrofts don’t hold with little people like us,” Mick O’Malley grumbled, scratching a snowy, three-day growth of beard. His fringe of uncombed, wispy hair shot off in several directions. “Don’t let ‘im hold his station over ye.”
“There are no little people, Da. Unless by little people you’re meaning the leprechauns,” Maeve replied. “Charles can certainly see that I’m not a leprechaun.”
“If he does anything to harm me girl, I’ll send Shea’s boxer friends after him.”
“Please, Dad. Charles is a good man.”
“If I’d known he lived on Louisburg Square, I might not ‘ave been so quick to see ye married to ‘im.”
“But ye did and it’s done.”
“The air we breathe, ‘tis not good enough for the likes of him.”
“Nonsense.”
“Sean Casey is still askin’ about you.”
Maeve never cared for Sean although he’d courted her stubbornly for the past three years. He’d fancied himself a gift to ladies, but the young Irish lad had never inspired any fire in Maeve. “Have ye told him I’m a married woman?”
When Mick did not answer, she knew her father had not broken the news to the man he’d long hoped would be his son-in-law one day. “Sean’s a police officer now, you know. The whole neighborhood is lookin’ up to him.”
“I’m happy for him then. Please tell Sean that Mrs. Charles Rycroft sends her best wishes.”
Except for the faint bubbling of the soup, the flat fell silent.
“Yer losin’ your brogue, me cailin.” Her father’s soft comment was laced with the unshed tears of an expatriate’s regrets.
“Saints above!” Maeve dropped the spoon and whirled around in a swish of silk to face her father. “I’m not.”
Mick woefully disagreed.’ ‘Yer soundin’ more like one of them.”
“Da, I’ll always be one with you,” she insisted. Kneeling by his side, she took one of his heavily veined hands in both of hers. Maeve loved her father too much to hear the pain in his voice without aching for him. “You’re me own dear Dad and I’m proud of bein’ an Irish lass.”
After working so hard to lose her Gaelic accent, it had never occurred to Maeve that her more proper speech would be cause for criticism. She would rather be mute than hurt her father.
“Yer frownin’, lass.”
“Do not ever think I’m not proud to be an O’Malley.”
He squeezed her hand. “Mind yer husband knows it as well.”
With a wry smile, Maeve pushed herself up. “Sure’n I’m convinced there’s not a minute goes by that Charles doesn’t remember who he is married to.”
After serving Mick soup and soda bread fresh from the oven, Maeve watched with satisfaction as he attacked his meal like a starving man. After filling his bowl a second time, she reached for her coat.
“Where are ye goin’?” Mick barked.
“I must be on my way. I have much to do.”
The old man’s eyes almost disappeared beneath the weight of his dark scowl. “Like what?”
“For one, I haven’t finished my knitting for the Essex Orphanage.”
Located on Essex Street, the orphanage housed over fifty immigrant children from several European countries. Some had lost their parents on the crossing to America; others had been abandoned by mothers and fathers who could not afford to feed and clothe them. Every year, all year, Maeve knitted mittens and caps for the children at Essex. Not only was she behind this year, but Elsie Dunn, who ran the shelter, must think she’d fallen off the face of the earth. She was used to helping at the orphanage at least twice a week on her way home from work. But Maeve hadn’t visited in more than ten days since moving into the Rycroft residence.
“Ye don’t have to knit for ‘em now. Charles Rycroft is a rich stiff. He can buy mittens for the whole of New England. Let yer husband take care of the matter.”
“It wouldn’t be the same, Da. If it comes from me hands, it comes from me heart. It’s about more than just mittens. Besides, there are Christmas cakes to bake and berries to string for the tree.”
Year after year Maeve stretched her imagination to brighten up the cramped, barren flat in order to bestow a sense of cheer. Last Christmas Shea brought home a small, broken pine tree he’d found on his way from the docks. Despite its dry, prickly branches and scraggly appearance, Maeve had been overjoyed with the sad little tree.
She’d always taken great pleasure in the Christmas season and the spirit of good will that prevailed for however short a period of time. Maeve loved the Yuletide music, the carols, the festive decorations, and colorful ornaments. The shades of the holiday gave her great pleasure, the deep green holly, bright scarlet ribbon and silver-capped snow.
The mistletoe.
Santa Claus. Though the jolly fellow had never yet paid her a personal visit, she knew that someday he would.
Nothing gave Maeve more happiness than giving gifts she’d made either in the kitchen or with her knitting needles. Invigorated by the icy bite in the air and dazzled by the beauty of ice needles dangling from the eaves, Maeve even enjoyed the cold and snow during the holiday. Nothing had ever managed to dampen her spirits for long during the month of December.
Mick O’Malley screwed up his face. “Christmas will be different this year,” he said, as if he was in mourning.
“It shall be better.”
“I remember ye put one candle atop our tree last year. ‘T’was all the poor dead fir could hold. And ye sang all day about figgy pudding.”
“It was wonderful!” Maeve recalled with enthusiasm. “But this year you and Shea shall have a tree ablaze with candles and a feast to celebrate.”
She would make certain of it.
“We’ll see,” he said, sounding doubtful.
“Da, what do ye suppose you give a man like Charles for Christmas?” Maeve asked, seeking to turn her father’s thoughts in a different direction. “A man who has everything.”
“And how would I be knowin’?” he asked peevishly. “Yer askin’ a man who never had anything.”
Maeve slanted her father a teasing smile. “What are ye talkin’ about. Ye have always had the best. You have Shea and me.”
After a moment Mick’s surly frown collapsed into a grin. “Aye. That I have.”
“I know what I would like to give Charles for Christmas,” she said, warming to the idea as she shrugged on her new winter coat.
“You wouldn’t be knittin’ Rycroft mittens, would ye?”
“No, Dad.”
“Ye still know how to cook a good soup,” he said, turning back to his meal. He slurped as if to emphasize the fact
“I’ve not been gone but a few days. Why would I be forgettin’ how to cook?”
“Seems longer.”
Maeve’s heart swelled painfully tight against her chest. Though he never said the words, Maeve knew her father loved her. His way of saying he missed her was indeed roundabout. Still, she knew since her mother died, no one had ever loved her more.
“I know. It seems longer for me too.”
Batting back tears, she looked up at the only picture on the wall, a print of Currier and Ives that Pansy had given her the year before.
“That’s it,” she breathed.
“What?” Soup dripped from her father’s spoon as he held it midway to his mouth.
“When Charles was robbed and beaten, the thieves took a sketch he holds dear. A sketch of St. Nick.”
“St. Nick? Santa Claus?”
“Aye. ‘Twas a sketch he’d just purchased.”
“Sure’n you can tell me what a full-grown man wants with a drawing of St. Nick?”
“I don’t know. But I would like to find it for him. What a grand gift that would be!” And surely, if Maeve recovered Charles’s stolen treasure, he would understand how much she cared for him, how her heart beat only for him. In time he might even come to love her.
“And how are ye thinkin’ to track down hooligans?” her father demanded.
“I’m not certain. But at the time, I remember Shea sayin’ Charles appeared to have been beaten by a professional. It’s a boxer I’d be lookin’ for.”
“An’ what would a boxer want with a picture of St. Nick?”
Maeve shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“Boxers don’t believe in Santa Claus. That much I’ll be knowin’.”
But Maeve had a thought. “Maybe the thief took the sketch just because it was there. Maybe he robbed Charles out of desperation. If a man is out of work and has a family to feed, he often resorts to criminal ways. Perhaps this thief took the sketch only because he thought it a pretty gift to give to his woman or a little girl or boy.”
“Ye don’t know any of that. Where do ye come by yer imagination, Maeve? From the Red Man?”
Legend had it that the Red Man was a creative fairy fond of playing practical jokes.
“It’s possible,” Maeve grinned.
“Get any idea of findin’ the hooligan who done it out of yer head. Yer just a lass. I don’t want me cailin to get hurt over some St. Nick foolishness.”
Once an idea took hold, Maeve didn’t give up on it easily. “Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”
“Ye’d best be thinkin’ of somethin’ else to give yer upper-crust husband.”
But she refused to consider anything else until she’d made every effort to find the only thing Charles wanted.
Shea would help her. He knew and had fought most of the boxers in the area. While Maeve understood Shea might have been wrong and the man who attacked Charles wasn’t a boxer, she had to start somewhere. There wasn’t much time.
* * * *
Dinner promised to be a trial, but one Charles could hardly avoid. His mother insisted this might be the only evening to become acquainted with Maeve. The holiday social season — which is what she and Stella had come to Boston to enjoy — was about to launch into full swing.
Charles experienced an especially deep sense of foreboding when Beatrice lamented the fact that she’d been unable to greet Maeve properly. The girl had saved her son’s life. If dinner could not be managed, his mother suggested she might enjoy a woman-to-woman talk with Maeve over tea.
Chills ran down his spine just thinking about Maeve and Beatrice alone. He envisioned an innocent lamb devoured by an old lioness. He had not the heart to embroil Maeve in such a situation without being close at hand.
Charles approached Maeve’s rooms, prepared to coax her to dinner. At least he would be at the table to protect her and his presence might subdue his mother.
When Maeve didn’t answer his knock and Charles hesitated only a moment before entering the apartment. He was her husband, after all. He found her in the sitting room. A pile of pale blue yarn and knitting needles heaped upon the upholstered rococo side chair nearest the secretary had been abandoned.
Maeve stood before the mirror with a book precariously balanced upon her head. Her small, lushly curved body listed at a rather ungraceful angle. Holding another book in her hand, she attempted to read from its open page without lowering her head. Apparently frustrated by this effort, she looked up and addressed the mirror.
“How do you do, Mr. Smith? I am sooooo pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Charles could not help but grin. Maeve’s exaggerated demeanor might have offended his mother if she’d witnessed this scene but he found it amusing.
“Is there a foul fragrance in the air, Mr. Smith?” she asked the mirror. “Is that why you hold your nose so high?”
Swallowing a chuckle, Charles knew he should make his presence known, but he rather enjoyed eavesdropping. Obviously, Maeve had learned a thing or two about Boston society while employed by the Deakinses. Just as obviously, she didn’t like what she’d learned.
Charles leaned back on the door frame, folded his arms, and studied his wife. The stubborn tilt of Maeve’s chin reflected a strong will and saucy attitude ... traits he found challenging and rather captivating. It might be wit, or intelligence, or the devil behind the sparkle in her remarkable eyes. A man could lose himself in those deep blue depths before realizing the danger. When Charles looked into Maeve’s eyes, he saw the enticing shade of a siren sea.
And he could not deny that her softly rounded figure, displayed so neatly in a dark blue day gown, would turn any man’s head, shanty Irish or Beacon Hill bred. Silky tendrils of shining onyx hair had escaped from her thick topknot to fall in charming disarray, framing her fair, heart-shaped face. The face of an angel.
An untoward impulse to loosen the pins of Maeve’s topknot took hold of Charles. At the moment he would give his publishing empire just to run his fingers through the temptress’s glossy mane. Temptress?
The temptress was his wife!
But he never bowed to impulse.
Charles was entitled to do much more than run his fingers through Maeve’s hair, but he refused to take advantage of a woman he would soon part from. No matter how much she made him ache. A Rycroft always did the right thing.
“Oh, sir, no,” Maeve declared to the mirror. “I could not possibly flee to the garden with you! Whatever would my husband say? Yes, I know ‘tis done. Affairs are common, but not by a woman who fancies her husband. Not I. Not me.”
Biting her lip, Maeve fell silent, apparently deep in thought “I? Me?”
The knowledge that she “fancied” him warmed Charles, caused an unexpected spurt in the beat of his pulse. Smiling, he watched in silent fascination as his Irish wife’s softly arched brows bunched in an irritated frown.
“Oh! What is it?” she cried in frustration. “Should I say me or I?”
Before he could step forward and offer help, Maeve heaved the book at the wall.
Startled but amused, Charles came close to choking and revealing his presence. Maeve’s determination to overcome her lack of education in certain areas was admirable. Although she might struggle with the language, he’d quickly come to realize his wife possessed a quick, intelligent mind. If she could just control her temper, Charles would feel better about her future.