A Love by Any Measure, page 24
“Miss, this is a friend,” Mrs. MacDougal said in a light voice. “He’s traveled a very long distance to meet you.”
Augusta very carefully put her toy on the floor and stood. August was amazed at how tall she was. Last he had seen her, her arms would circle around his leg as she would kiss his knee. Now, her head reached the level of his hip, and her hair was long enough to be neatly pinned in a bun atop her head.
She took a few paces in his direction, a tenuous but not unpleasant look on her face. August schooled his instincts telling him to reach down and take her. Instead, he allowed his daughter to set the pace. She stopped and, to his surprise, curtsied.
“Very nice to meet you, sir. I’m Augusta Murphy.”
“God, child!” Mrs. MacDougal scolded, clicking her tongue and shaking her head. “How many times have we told you, your name is … ”
“Nothing but a name!” August interjected. His host cowered, and Augusta flinched.
“It’s all right,” he said as he kneeled down and rubbed his daughter’s arms in comfort. “Augusta, do you know of William Shakespeare?”
She shook her head as confusion spread across her face.
“He was an English playwright. He wrote once, ‘What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’ Murphy or not, you are still the same sweet child. It’s very nice to meet you. My name is Gus. Do you mind if I sit and play with you for a while?”
Augusta’s eyes flashed to Mrs. MacDougal, as though asking permission. The thick woman gave a curt nod, and then shot August a warning glare. August bobbed his head. With a spin of her heel, Mrs. MacDougal exited, closing the door behind her.
He assumed a seat on the floor and studied his daughter. She was so perfect, so divinely perfect. Her eyes were brilliantly blue and big — Amelia’s eyes, soft in their expression. Surprisingly, her demeanor was Maeve’s. She held herself tall and forthright, and even her smallest mannerisms and the tone of her muddled accent reflected an Irish influence.
August looked for a distraction to stop the tears from coming. He spotted her plaything on the floor and picked it up.
“Does she have a name?”
Augusta ran her fingers over the doll’s black, curly locks and pale ivory skin. “Alice.”
“Alice? What a fine name. Where did you learn of it?”
“My mother read me the book,” she said plainly. “Do you know it?”
August beamed at her. “Yes, I think I do. The one with the rabbit hole, yes? Alice runs away, doesn’t she? And has great adventures, before realizing that she misses home very, very much and tries to find her way back. Do you like that book?”
“It’s Ma’s favorite,” Augusta answered, a bit of joy coming in to her voice now, as she took the doll from him and smoothed out its blue dress. “But it makes her terribly sad, too.”
“Why?” Honestly, he could not understand.
Augusta shrugged. “I think she wants to go home, too. She just doesn’t know how. She can’t find the way.”
His heart ached in earnest. But still, he wondered. “Did your mother tell you where home is?”
She smirked, and as though she were conspiratorially letting him in on a secret, she answered. “It’s a beautiful house in a faraway land. Ma says my da was a sort of prince. Did you know he called her Cinderella?”
August’s breath hitched, but he refused to worry Augusta by crying; tears could only be afforded in solitude. He had adopted the pet name for Maeve a few months before their disappearance, after they had taken to telling Augusta bedtime stories. During a retelling of the little cinder girl story, Maeve had joked at how similar the tale was to her own fortune. ‘Then you must be the prince,’ she told him when he held her in his arms.
Did telling Augusta about this endearment mean that she still recalled their happiness?
The child’s questioning gaze led August to realize that he had been silent for some time. He smiled, and was overjoyed when the divine gesture was reflected twofold on her face.
“A prince? Wouldn’t that make you a princess? Princess Augusta!” he proclaimed with all due pomp as he held hands high in the air in exclamation.
She giggled, and it made him laugh, too. “I like you,” she said. “You’re funny.”
Without further delay, she ran to August and threw her arms around his neck, kissing him on the cheek. He could deny it no more. August wrapped his arms around her and held her petite frame close, taking in the scent of her hair, the smoothness of her face pressed against his.
“I’ve missed you so much, dear one,” he muttered as he pressed more kisses unto her chin, her forehead, anywhere. “I thought I might never see you again.”
“You are a prince, aren’t you?”
He laughed. “Right now, I feel like a king.”
“Did you come to rescue my mother?”
The stark comment threw him. August pulled back. Augusta’s face was full of hope. He felt his insides roll.
“I came to rescue you, dear heart.”
Her face screwed up in confusion. “Rescue me?” she asked, perplexed. “Rescue me from what?”
From what indeed, he wondered. August knew not what to say. The contemplation was cut short as she spoke again.
“You have my hands,” she said, running her fingers over his.
Augusta pulled his hands into hers as best she could, though tiny they were and not able to fully encircle her father’s. She turned them over several times, examining the length of each finger, the wrinkles of skin over his knuckles, tracing over the crease that fortune tellers in London called “the life line.” Then she splayed her fingers wide and held her hand next to his. For so young a child, August marveled at the realization on her face; he could almost see the thoughts running through her mind as she passed from disbelief to amusement to stark comprehension.
“My ma says I have my father’s hands. Are you … ”
He didn’t have to say anything. The truth was there to be seen, even by a child. August felt pride swell within as his daughter found him out for who he was. She squealed as her arms tried to wrap about him.
“Oh, it is you! You’ve come! You’ve come for us at last, to take us back to your castle!”
Images of father and daughter sitting in the gardens of Meadowlark flashed through his mind — beautiful, but incomplete. Then the vision shifted, and August saw his daughter sitting in Maeve’s lap, with him seated on the ground behind them, his arms circling around Maeve’s waist, and only in the possibility of that vision would he be content.
August felt warmth unlike any he had ever known. It was folly to suppose, however, that the wounds between them could be so easily mended. He needed to know so much; so very much was still a mystery. At the very least, how had his daughter come to be called Augusta Murphy? Maeve left Owen and Killarney years ago. Was it really so beyond belief that August may have gotten his just desserts, that the intervening force of providence had delivered her back into Murphy’s arms, that perhaps they had even wed? But if Owen loved Maeve one-one thousandth of how much August had, how could he have betrayed her? Allowed her to move to the Americas alone, and with a small child in tow?
August needed answers. He knew he would believe whatever Maeve may offer — truth or lie. He was too willing, too eager to believe anything that would allow forgiveness without further delay, to just pick up and carry on. If she loved him, why would she leave? The question kept nagging at him. August needed to hear it from him. He needed to hear the words from the Fenian Furrier of Killarney.
Three days passed in bliss as father and daughter reacquainted. Caroline and Jefferson arrived, little Charles at their side. Augusta delighted in her cousin’s company, even when the three-year-old climbed onto her lap and pulled at her hair. Jefferson canvassed town, using his few contacts amongst the Irish to track down Owen. Finally one night they found him, half drunk, seated at the bar of a Quincy pub.
“Another whiskey!” he shouted to the barman as August sauntered up from behind and sat down several stools away. Owen didn’t notice his presence, for which August was glad. He wanted to observe him first, aided by the dim light offered in the pub.
“Must be a woman,” August said in perfectly toned Irish, and luckily the alcohol and false tongue didn’t rouse suspicion as Owen turned and took in the partially-lit profile.
“Aye, that is part of it,” he answered back groggily. “And that I’m a right bastard who’ll burn in hell, and won’t the whiskey make my burning easier for the devil?”
August played along, desperate to learn what loose lips may betray. “Here to drink your guilt away, then? Tussle some tart?”
“Worse. Took a mother from her child for my own selfish ends,” he spat back. “Somewhere in Boston, there’s a girl who doesn’t know what became of her ma. Doesn’t know she’s in jail because of me, because of what I convinced her to do.”
It hardly answered his question, but August couldn’t think of how to broach the subject without rousing suspicion. Instead, he decided to play sympathetic.
“I’m sure it’s not that bad. Everyone’s on their own card, in the end.”
Owen turned to him, a rue smile on his face. “Not her, sir. Wasn’t her idea to go so far, to leave him forever. I convinced her,” he assured, poking himself in the chest with his thumb. “Told her it was best for the child. But how could it be? That child lost her ma and … Hey, don’t I … Do I know you?”
“Do you know the funny thing about this, Murphy?” August no longer felt need to continue the ruse. “The last time you and I sat in a pub, it didn’t end so well for you either. I have a feeling that history is about to repeat.”
August leapt from the stool and seized Owen by the collar, lapels twisting in his hands as he pushed him back over the bar, sending the whiskey glass shattering on the floor.
“If you knew where Maeve was, why the hell didn’t you tell me? Everyone in Killarney knew I would have done anything to find them. I could have found her out on my own and kept this tragedy from happening.”
“Calmer heads and cooler manners can solve this, now!”
But August’s ire would not yield. “You have taken away the love of my life!” he bellowed. “You’ve denied my daughter the only mother she has ever known.”
“She made me promise not to tell you!” Owen pled. “Turning Maeve in was the only card I had to play when the redcoats came for me, so I took it. Not like you would marry her. Not like I ever would have let her linger in shame the way you did.”
August snarled, and before he knew it, the meeting of his fist to Owen’s face had set them both back a step.
“You’re right,” August growled. “You never would have. Nor would you have ever loved her the way I did. The way I … ” His voice broke as he struggled, wondering if he could admit it to himself, let alone Murphy. “The way I do. Just tell me one thing. Did you marry her?”
Owen’s head sunk in shame, muttering, “No, she wouldn’t have me. Still loved you too much, even after what you did.”
His words stuck like a poker into August’s heart. “What? What did I do? Why did she leave?”
Owen’s half-smile was mocking, even as a stream of blood dripped from his nose and over his lips. He understood as clearly as August did; what August was really asking was, ‘Why did she come to you?’
He gave a low chuckle. “Tell me, Grayson, what wouldn’t you do for the woman you loved? Rather,” he leaned forward and spoke in a leading tone, “what didn’t you do?”
A Posteriori,
Norwich, England, March 1867
Women never ceased to amaze August. That his wife and his lover would somehow form so tight a bond was unfathomable. In the weeks that followed the odd return to Meadowlark, the generous nature of both those fair creatures overrode whatever discontent they had felt with him. In passing one day, Caroline mentioned that she was even somewhat jealous of Maeve’s kinship with her. Amelia was quite curious of Ireland, the land her husband had pined for and dreamed of for so long, and took advantage of Maeve’s vivid descriptions. At the same time, Maeve tried to decipher August’s past and what kind of man he truly was by querying Amelia. In coming to know more of August from each other, they came to know even more so about themselves.
Though often the air was tense and the mood pensive when all three were together, the two ladies passed most days in languid repose and in each other’s company. August, of course, had matters of business to which he needed to attend, and Caroline had been in a tizzy of wedding planning.
The circumstances being what they were, often the men of Meadowlark found themselves sanctioned to the library or stables, particularly when matters of a matrimonial nature were on the slate. Caroline had always been a superstitious soul, and not only did she think it would bring bad fortune for Jefferson to chance a look at her wedding gown before the blessed day, but also that his seeing anything inappropriate would rain disaster upon their good fortune. August scoffed at the notion, of course, asking why not make the journey when one’s already read the map.
“Caroline, by your admission, he’s already seen the most precious thing you could reveal to him,” August snickered at her one night as all lounged, individually occupied, in the sitting room.
Amelia rolled her eyes. “Tut tut, August. It’s hardly gentlemanly to say such things of your little sister.”
Caroline’s cheeks stained red, but always his equal, she wasn’t about to stand down. “I am sorry that not all of us wish to be such prudes to wait for our wedding night as did you, dear brother.”
Maeve, quietly reading next to the fire place, smacked her book shut and shot up.
“Well, I’ll be off to bed, then. Caroline, Amelia, Jefferson.” She turned only a burning gaze to August before spinning on heel and marching from the room.
August ground his teeth in frustration, and Caroline’s accompanying look indeed conveyed some sense of apology and regret. She had been conflicted about which way to advise Maeve. Surely, as August’s sister, she wanted to see her brother happy, but she loved Maeve and Amelia nearly as much. Still, she had never actively sought to rally one way or the other, choosing instead to stay uninvolved in the matter. Reminding the present company, however, that he and Amelia had consecrated their marriage as recently as within the last year was hardly aligned with that neutral posture.
August put aside his correspondence, took one of the lamps from atop the fireplace mantel, and pursued Maeve. He squeezed Caroline’s shoulder in passing to let her know he held no ill feelings. He caught Maeve at the top of the stairs as she turned down the hall toward her room.
“Maeve, please wait … ”
Her eyes were afire and if it had been possible, August was certain he could have burst into flames from that look alone.
“Why must you constantly remind me of my shame?”
“Your … Your shame? If anyone should feel ashamed, it’s me,” he pled in tones mixed with embarrassment and abhorrence.
In the light of the lamp’s glow, August saw her face soften. He knew better than to let go the opportunity.
“Rest assured, I am not proud of what I’ve done. To know that I’ve caused you such pain and torment, to know that you trusted me and, perhaps, hoped for that which I knew fair well I could not give you … Well, I know I am not worthy of you. I have never been and could never be. But I cannot change what has happened. I cannot undo—”
“How many times?”
Her question came out of the blue and took him off guard. August cocked his head to the side.
“How many times have you lain with Amelia?”
Should he answer? Was it really any of Maeve’s affair to know, no matter her place in his heart? Would she hate him more if she knew the truth?
“The occasions were few.”
Maeve nodded, but the look on her face was hardly affirming. “Mel said you laid with her every night after you were married, until you were certain she was with child, at least for two months.”
Dryness parched his throat. “She … She told you? I was only trying not to hurt your feelings. I didn’t mean to—”
“Did you like being with her?”
Her eyes sharpened, a warning not to be so imprecise again. August decided it would be of no use to try. Clearly anything she was asking now was solely for verification.
“Yes, I did.” His tone was sincere but remorseful. August lowered his eyes, staring into dark nothingness beyond reach of the lantern’s light.
She seemed somewhat assured. “There, that’s the truth. Now, tell me truly, and don’t be trying my patience with beating around the bush. After your child is born, and sufficient time is passed, will you lay with her again?”
His eyes widened in horror and shot up to her most stern of expressions. Was this what she feared? Was this what tormented her?
“Never,” he pledged. “Maeve, it was necessary, and I will not deny that I enjoyed her. Amelia is beautiful. But that pleasure was only skin deep, and the action only a means to an end. There was no purpose in my intent other than to have her taken with child. And Mel was conflicted as well in liking it, which you will have known if you’ve discussed this with her.”
Maeve seemed as though she was debating acceptance or disgust. “And yet you continued to bed her.”
“If we failed to produce a child quickly, Caroline would have been disinherited,” he reminded her. “There is not benevolence without bane to be found in this. We are all victims of our best intent.”
From her distracted expression, he could see that the thoughts were turning over in her mind.
“Then you and Amelia … ”
“Wife and husband, as deemed by the church and law and, as need be, in the eyes of English men,” he answered. “But in my heart and at the gates of Heaven or Hell, I am yours completely.”
A smile fluttered across her face.
“August … ”
He held the lantern high to better illuminate the space between their bodies.
