‘‘And baked for the first time in your life?”
Pansy’s hazel eyes twinkled. ‘‘They say a way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”
“Saints above! You might kill him first.” Pansy barely knew salt from pepper. To Maeve’s knowledge she’d never stepped inside the Deakins kitchen. Until now, if she indeed had cooked the plum pudding.
“Maeve, let me stay until Shea comes home and then you and I will hire a coach and return to Beacon Hill. We’ll say we were shopping together.”
“It’s not right.” Maeve knew that what Pansy wanted could only lead to a broken heart. Suffering keenly from a broken heart herself, she could not knowingly inflict such pain on her friend.
“Please, Maeve.”
“No.”
“Just an hour. We’ll have tea.”
In the light of Pansy’s beseeching eyes, Maeve felt her resistance give way. Her rebellious friend had done much to help and protect her over the past few weeks. And more than likely this infatuation with Shea was just another small act of rebellion. “All right,” Maeve said, relenting. “We shall stay for dinner.”
* * * *
The doorbell jangled, an odd, echoing sound, when Charles entered the stark gallery. With Maeve off visiting her father, he’d decided to take advantage of the unexpected time to pay a visit himself to Edgar Dines, the art dealer. If he’d stayed at home, his mother would have badgered him into accompanying her and Stella to the ballet later, the last thing he wished to do.
He hadn’t visited the gallery since the purchase of Barnabas’s sketch and the subsequent beating and theft. The place felt eerie.
Charles had dealt with Dines for a number of years. Edgar had found several of Barnabas’s sketches for him before the St. Nick, which he’d charged a pretty penny for. As Charles studied a new, quite interesting oil painting on the wall, Dines bustled from the back office.
A small man with sloping shoulders, he reminded Charles of a feeding bird by the way he carried his head forward. Round spectacles perched on the bridge of Dines’s rather broad nose. He parted his thin, brown hair down the center and always dressed in dark, well-pressed trousers and jacket.
“Mr. Rycroft.” Dines flashed his quick, birdlike smile. “To what do I owe this honor?”
“Just in the neighborhood, Edgar.” Charles extended his hand in greeting. “So I thought I would stop in.”
“It’s always a pleasure to see you.” Dines nodded his head and stroked the wax tip of his mustache.
Charles gestured to the wall behind him. “I see you have acquired some interesting new art since I was in last.”
Dines nodded. “Every week I add to my gallery.”
“Have you heard anything further about the St. Nick sketch?”
The little man frowned and adjusted his spectacles. “No, I am sorry to say. I would have sent word to you immediately if I had.”
“Of course.”
“However, I did have another inquiry last week.”
“The private investigator I hired?”
“I shall tell you what I told him. If the thieves knew what a valuable piece of art they had in their possession, it’s long gone. I believe Barnabas’s sketch of St. Nick has made its way to San Francisco, or possibly Chicago by now.”
“Then I will broaden my search.”
“On the other hand, the sketch may be hanging in a South Boston tenement. Though I shudder to think.”
Charles was getting nowhere with Dines and could hardly conceal his disappointment that the art dealer had no better news. “You are saying that the sketch could be anywhere from South Boston to San Francisco?”
“Anywhere.”
“Then it might be overseas as well. London or Paris?”
“Anything is possible with a fine work of art,” the dealer allowed.
“Do you suppose increasing the reward would help recover my sketch?”
“If the thieves know its value and the reward is enough. How much were you thinking?”
“Twenty-five thousand dollars.”
Edgar Dines’s eyes bulged. “But that’s more than the sketch is worth.”
“Not considering the sentimental factor, Dines. My brother’s only holiday sketch is priceless to me. I mean to recover St. Nick at any cost.”
“No questions asked?”
“Oh, there may be a few questions.” Charles said. “But I may keep them to myself if that’s what it takes to recover St. Nick.”
“Of course,” Dines replied. “I shall be happy to post a notice for you if you decide to increase the reward.”
Charles pulled on his gloves. “Thank you.”
“And if I should hear anything, I will contact you at once.’’ The small sparrow of an art dealer accompanied Charles to the door, once again stroking the tip of his mustache. “Let me know what you decide to do — about the reward, I mean.”
“I shall.”
A cold blast of air hit Charles as he left the gallery, adding to his irritation. He’d hoped for some encouraging news from Dines and had heard none. Further, Charles realized he should have increased the reward much earlier. His annoyance extended to himself.
He directed Stuart to take him home. Maeve would have returned by now. A quiet dinner with his spirited wife would soothe his distress. And after dinner, he would curl up with Maeve by the fire and make love to her. His plans worked to cause Charles to feel a great deal better by the time he reached Louisburg Square.
But the house was unusually quiet.
Stella and his mother were busy dressing for the ballet and Dolly reported that Maeve had not returned.
Once again, Charles felt the crushing weight of disappointment bearing down upon him. But this was worse than what he felt leaving Edgar Dines’s establishment. The spark of anticipation, the light-headed excitement he’d felt as he bounded up the steps moments ago, drained away.
He wandered lethargically into his study and poured himself a brandy. Sinking into a chair by the fireplace, Charles gazed into the low-burning fire.
Although he’d spent many nights sipping brandy by the fire in his study, he’d enjoyed the solitude. He’d never required companionship as he read or indulged in idle speculation. Charles had never experienced the bone-deep ache of loneliness... as he did now.
As the grandfather clock in the corner struck eight, Charles searched his mind for reasons why his unsuitable but exceedingly desirable wife hadn’t yet returned. Perhaps Mick O’Malley was dying. Unlikely. Maeve’s father struck him as a tough old bird. The old Irishman would never die. He was pickled.
More likely, Maeve had forgotten to take money along with her again. The charming little bit of a woman might even now be walking from her father’s flat in South Boston back to Beacon Hill in the cold, dark night. She would freeze before she made it home.
Charles shot up from his chair, splashing brandy about. Striding to the door, he called for Stuart to have the coach brought round. He would either meet Maeve along the way or find her at her father’s flat. Either way, he meant to bring his wife home.
As soon as his town coach pulled up at the South Boston address, Charles jumped out and took the rickety stairs of the neglected building two at a time until he reached the O’Malleys’ fifth-floor flat.
Mick answered the door. The old man held his head with one hand. He looked like hell.
“Good evening, Mr. O’Malley.”
Mick squinted his eyes as if he couldn’t clearly see Charles. “Rycroft?”
“Is Maeve here?”
The grizzly old man with a bright red bulb of a nose smiled and opened the door for Charles. “Aye.”
Charles quickly scanned the small area that served as both kitchen and parlor. Signs of Christmas were evident. A garland of holly swagged above the window and a straggly, three-foot fir tree bedecked with a string of cranberries nestled in one corner. Along with a smattering of candles, a single oil lantern lit the small room.
Charles’s stomach growled in response to the pungent aroma of corned beef and cabbage issuing from a large pot simmering on the stove. But his attention was diverted as the opposite doorway opened and Maeve peeked out. Pansy’s head bobbed up behind her.
Taken by surprise, Charles momentarily forgot his manners. Harriet Deakins would fall into a dangerous swoon if she knew her daughter was in a South Boston tenement. “Pansy! What are you doing here?”
“I came to visit...Maeve.”
“Who came by to visit her old sick dad,” Mick put in.
Charles turned to the old man. “My deepest sympathies on your illness.”
“Sure’n I nipped a bit too much whisky,” Mick explained without shame as he scratched the back of his head.
“I see.” Charles cleared his throat. Maeve still stood behind the door to the room he recognized as being the one he had shared with her. The room where he had been Charlie. The room where he had regained his memory. “Are you ready to come home, Maeve?”
She shook her head. Her eyes looked misty.
“When shall you be ready?”
She shook her head again.
Charles’s stomach rolled over. His spine stiffened. He had a bad, bad feeling.
Apparently, Pansy did as well. The Deakins girl slipped out from behind Maeve and marched into the small living area. She wore a forced, over-bright smile. “I believe I’ll join you for tea, Mr. O’Malley.”
Mick O’Malley grimaced as if Pansy had promised him castor oil.
Charles slowly crossed the room toward Maeve. “Is there something wrong?”
Maeve nodded her head and silently stepped back for him to pass.
Charles entered the room where he’d spent his wedding night with a bit of trepidation. His heart beat quickly, and out of time, skipping erratically. There seemed no place to sit except the unmade bed. Charles stood. Tension spiraled through the room as thick as mill smoke. He thought he might choke.
Maeve shut the door.
‘‘What’s wrong, Maeve?’’ he asked softly. He could see no sparkle in her lovely lapis eyes. Instead, her gaze appeared misty and as dark as night. Teasing her lip, she clasped her hands tightly together and lowered her head.
“I do not feel at home on Beacon Hill.”
“You will in good time.”
“I don’t think so.”
A nasty suspicion struck Charles. “Has my mother said something to offend you?”
“No. Though Beatrice has made no secret of her dislike for me.”
“My mother’s feelings have nothing to do with mine. You cannot blame me for something my mother has said or done.”
“I don’t.”
“In any event, Beatrice will be returning to New York with Stella after the first of the year. You shall not have to deal with her much longer.” He held out his hand. “Come home with me.”
Although Charles felt he had put Maeve’s mind at rest, she did not move. She still stared at the floor.
He dropped his hand. In one stride he was at her side. Gathering her small, warm body into his arms, he breathed in her sweet violet fragrance, rested his check against her silky curls.
“Come home with me now,” he pleaded in a voice strangely husky.
“I cannot,” she whispered. She stood as stiffly in his embrace as an ice-slicked lamppost.
If it wasn’t his mother who had hurt Maeve, it must have been Stella, he reasoned. “Has Stella wounded you?”
“No.”
Charles didn’t believe her. Clasping Maeve’s hands in his, he stepped back. She stubbornly refused to meet his gaze. “Tell me what has happened. I shall make it right, whatever it is.”
“You cannot make it right. ‘Tis an accident of birth.”
Charles bit back his rising panic. “What are you talking about? What do you mean?”
Maeve raised her eyes to his, eyes glistening with tears. “We are not suited.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Everything.”
“Everything?”
Pulling her hands from his, Maeve spun about, marching toward the door. “You were not in your right mind when you married me.”
Dear God, she was going to make him leave. She wasn’t going home with him.
Alarm charged through Charles like a rocky landslide, pain tore at his insides. He clenched his jaw to keep from crying out. “I have my wits about me now.”
While tears glistened in her eyes, Charles saw a flash of anger as well. Maeve’s little fists dug into her hips. “And I suppose you are going to say ye ardently wish to remain wed to the likes of me?”
“The likes of you?”
“An Irish maid.”
“I do.”
She rolled her eyes...to one of her saints above?
“I do,” he repeated resoundingly.
Charles thought for a moment Maeve might spit fire.
Instead, with her gaze glued to the floor, she took several deep, calming breaths.
When at last she raised her eyes to his and spoke, she made her request in a soft, resigned tone. “I want a divorce and I want it now.”
Chapter Sixteen
Maeve did not expect an argument from Charles. She’d used every ounce of strength to tell him she wanted a divorce. Her parched throat swelled, her voice broke on the word divorce.
Saints above, she was bound for Hell! She would be struck dead on the spot. Maeve raised her gaze to the ceiling, eyes swimming with hot tears.
If her dad knew what she’d asked for — a divorce — he’d be calling on Father Thorn for an exorcism.
To Maeve’s surprise, instead of being relieved, Charles appeared stunned. Stiff and unmoving, he stared at her as if she had spoken to him in a language he did not understand.
“What have I done to make you feel you need to be rid of me?” he asked quietly.
Unable to face him, look into his eyes, Maeve bowed her head, focusing on the hem of her dress. “ ‘Tis nothing you’ve done. You have been generous and kind to me.”
And when he made love to Maeve, Charles made her body sing and her spirits soar. He made her happier than a woman had a right to be.
“Then why do you wish a divorce?”
“ ‘Tis just the way of the matter. We come from two different worlds, we do. Look around you. This is my world, my life. I will never belong in yours. I will never be accepted or feel comfortable on Beacon Hill.”
“Pansy would be lost if you left. Spencer and Martin —”
“It has been weeks since we were married and no one except for Pansy knows I am your wife,” she interrupted a bit too sharply. “And your mother and Stella, who manage to keep the secret well for their own interests.”