A Love by Any Measure, page 29
Augusta’s voice rang to the rafters, “Ma” echoing in a seemingly endless loop. August turned to Maeve, and was shocked by her crimson flush. They might have stood a chance if only the Irish lass had remained dismissive or, better yet, had chastised her charge for the mistake. Under the pressure of so many watchful eyes, Maeve panicked. With a scurry only achievable by one fearing for her life, she fled.
Every eye of Norwich society turned immediately to August. The time had long since passed since he cared what the ninnies thought of him; Caroline was long since wed and that concern had weakened. What they thought of Maeve, however, concerned him a great deal. If he had carried on an affair with any other “proper” lady of British society, it would have been frowned upon, but dismissed as a gentleman’s dalliance. Even if the matter had just involved Maeve, it likely would have been seen as tawdry but no less abhorrent for a man of his status and particular marital situation. Or rather, lack of marital situation.
But what had just happened was so much worse. His young daughter had just called her “nanny” Ma in front of the whole of slew of them. Their eyes demanded explanation. More so, some had condemned him with the weight of their stares alone.
August turned to Caroline and found a smile both perplexing and oddly comforting; the very warmth of that expression told August things could not be nearly as bad as they seemed. He gave a small dismissive laugh, thinking that a cavalier attitude would serve to confuse, and turned back, seating himself without further deliberation.
The next twenty minutes found August motionless, his eyes transfixed on Reverend Rathmore. When at last the service concluded, he arose. The only errand on his mind was finding Maeve, letting her know it was all right. August was a little surprised, however, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“A word in private, Lord Grayson?”
Rathmore’s face displayed both concern and urgency. August noticed his eyes darting around and followed them, taking in the multiple queues forming flanks down the aisles. It was then that August realized Rathmore’s protective intentions.
He remained calm and coolly turned to his sister. “Caroline, would you mind tracking down Miss O’Connor and letting her know I’ve been detained, but that I will see to her shortly? Please also let her know that I am not upset with her for … Goosie’s outburst.”
Caroline nodded gently, not wishing to wake Charles, who still kept silent in his father’s arms. Jefferson passed without a word, only giving a reassuring smile.
A few minutes later, August found himself seated across from the clergyman in the silence of his chambers. He kept office in a small annex at the side of the church. They had successfully sequestered themselves without having been accosted. Rathmore was quiet, contemplative. Finally, after nearly all August’s patience had left him, he spoke.
“The Bible says, ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone,’” he mused. “I’m not about to attempt to call you out. I think you know perfectly well the church’s position on adultery.”
A sharp intake of air prefaced his retort. “I think the church knows perfectly well my family’s generosity,” August boldly declared.
To August’s surprise, Rathmore’s face lit up. “I have offended you. It was not my intention.”
Giving him a less than kind glare, August asked, “What precisely was your intention?”
“Everybody knows,” Rathmore stated succinctly, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Your relationship with Miss O’Connor has been presumed for quite some time. Within Meadowlark, few care how you carry on. However, once you brought that into public at Prideux’s—”
“He was trying to manhandle her!” August broke in. “I was … concerned. She looked so frightened, and I just wanted to assure her that all would be well.”
“Wanted to assure her?” The Reverend leaned forward, one eyebrow cocked. “Lord Grayson … August,” his gaze narrowed suspiciously, “how long have you been in love with Miss O’Connor?”
August could not bring himself to lie to a man of God. Nor did he wish to. He tired of the denial, of Maeve playing a part to keep by his side only for the sake of saving him the scandal.
“Since I first saw her when I was hardly more than a child,” August admitted, and found himself jovial despite the gravity of the moment. “She was meant for me, as though God had crafted us, the one for the other. But we are from two different worlds. She and I could never … ”
“Why ever not, August?”
The familiar voice of his past jolted him. He had not heard the door open, or the lady walk in. Both Rathmore and he turned to see the impressive visage of …
“Duchess Hannover.” Rathmore completed August’s thought. He gave a slight nod of his head in welcome. “I apologize, but we did not hear you come in.”
Alexandra had always been catty, and August still recalled vividly her headstrong fashion and presumption to know best of other’s affairs. It puzzled him that Amelia, so genteel and compassionate in nature, had been such a confidante of hers.
“As I intended it,” she returned, a smug smile gracing her face as she turned and closed the door gently behind her. “Please, gentlemen, don’t let my presence deter you.”
Rathmore shifted uncomfortably. “Duchess, if you seek counsel, might I offer to make an appointment another time? Lord Grayson and I are … ”
Alexandra removed her silken gloves and slapped them in a flustered manner into her left hand. “If women left all concerns to men, there would be a great slighting in the matters of the sexes,” she huffed. “Now, August, you just said that you love this O’Cabbage woman, did you not?”
“O’Connor,” he corrected, though wondering what business it was of the Duchess’ to meddle. “And yes, with all my heart. But I don’t see why you—”
“Amelia was my dearest friend,” she said, cutting him off. “Perhaps the closest I have ever had, though that may not count toward much. She and I continued writing to each other, even after your marriage. Were you aware of that?”
“Not in the slightest.”
Alexandra grinned amusedly. “Yes, well no doubt she recalled your distaste for my company. Mel wrote me about your O’Connor, told me you seemed quite taken with her. Oh, she did not mention her by name, but you look to that Irishwoman the way Mel described, I can only assume it is her. And I can see it. In the very air that sparked between the two of you despite your best efforts, I can see it.”
August stared at Alexandra, unable to believe that Amelia had shared so intimate a confession. Then again, he mused, Amelia must have been very alone during his time in Ireland. Was it not possible she would have reached out to her bosom friend, a woman who, like herself, had agreed to a match benefiting her social role but leaving her heart bereft? And, perhaps, in the echo of bitter choices, a champion for romance?
The Duchess continued. “I miss my friend, and I know you two treasured each other as well, in your way. Mel and I always understood you were not like us. You were not meant to live your life in the service of your title. In memory of my friend, please, do what is right and marry Miss O’Connor.”
He could scarcely believe his ears. The two in conjunction were telling him everything he longed to hear, and nothing to which he could stand to listen.
“I cannot,” he proclaimed, shaking his head in denial. “I would not do that to her. The way it would change her, what would be expected of her ... And I don’t think she’d …. ”
“You actually think she’d deny your proposal?” Alexandra posited, a clear tone of chide and disbelief inking into her words. “Fine, do not ask her. Tell her. Tell her you are marrying her. Of course, I will be willing to lend my hand to the effort, as far as gossip is concerned. If the Duchess of Hannover accepts you, what can the ninnies of Norwich argue in defense? Really, August, it is fortunate that I’ve arrived to Norwich when I did. It is an utter mess you’ve made of yourself. You should be thankful I’m so understanding of your plight as to offer my assistance.”
“Alex, it was always my intention to marry.” And he did hold that as a distant dream to be fulfilled someday — when Augusta was grown and wed, when her place in society could no longer be jeopardized by her father’s questionable relations. But not now.
Still, August grew desperate to free Maeve from the prison in which his decisions and life had trapped her. In that moment, he knew it was useless. He couldn’t cause her the grief any longer. For all the things she had given him, the least he could do was offer her legitimacy.
The wisdom of following the sage, though unsolicited advice of the Reverend and the Duchess was suddenly all too clear.
“Of course, you’re right. I’ve never been so embarrassed in all my life. The look on Maeve’s face… It was…”
“Embarrassing, just like you said,” Alexandra concurred, and August felt his stomach twist into a knot.
Oh God, how would Maeve ever forgive him?
“Well, August, you know what must be done.”
“I have to agree,” Rathmore interjected. “The Duchess is most correct. And I must say, offering you her hand is a blessing you should not at all take lightly. Your child needs a proper mother, not a nanny.”
Maeve had never been just a nanny, but how could they understand that? But that had not been what the Reverend intended.
“Yes, of course,” August finally returned. “You’re both right. Thank you. I’ll announce our engagement tomorrow. But I’m woefully unprepared. I don’t even have a proper ring to offer.”
“We’ll ride into London tonight and select something that will be divine,” Alexandra offered. “I have exquisite taste, August. You needn’t worry.”
“But Maeve … ” he protested.
She was a simple woman, and likely anything a duchess selected would be far too excessive for her tastes. It would be likely to overwhelm her, and perhaps she’d realize the mistake in becoming the next Lady Grayson.
“Don’t worry about Maeve,” Alexandra insisted, seemingly reading his thoughts. “Really, August, I’m sure she’s expecting it. After the trick you tried to pull today, she’ll know you had to do something to ensure Augusta’s good name.”
“I hope so.”
He wanted to go to his love. They had been so certain that marriage would be impractical, it had never been brought up as anything more than a passing imagine if ...
But Maeve needed to know that he was sincere, that August wanted this not only to legitimize Augusta’s place in society or shield himself from further gossip. He was doing it because he wanted her.
Yes, she would need a ring. Something simple. Something sincere. Something …
Something completely Maeve.
He sighed, knowing truth for truth and acknowledging its name.
“Best just to wait to tell her tomorrow.”
The Pursuit of Happiness
The years had brought her beauty to full blossom, her cheeks still rose red and her skin as milky as Owen’s every memory could recall. But she was sad, manifested in the loss of her glow.
Still, it was Maeve.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, can it really be?”
Nary could the blacksmith believe the love that had slipped through his fingers three years before was at his door. The very door she had closed behind her, never looking back, as he cursed her name to the Heavens. Maeve’s scent, floral and feminine and full, hit him, and Owen knew. This was no ghost of his ain true love; this was she for whom his heart had starved.
“Owen,” she said softly, simply.
Of course she was at a loss for words. Though she avoided his gaze, it was all too apparent that she stumbled for what to say, some place to go beyond the mere invocation of a name. His hand reached for her, brushing delicately along her cheek, confirming to his still-doubting mind that she stood before him once more.
So entranced momentarily had he been with her visage that he hadn’t seen that on to which she held, nothing less than the tender limb of a weary child with radiant blue eyes and raven locks.
The child, hardly more than a toddler, looked warily past the blacksmith and into the flat. Dripping with beauty, Owen instinctively wanted to pick her up and pinch her cheeks, but the question of exactly who she was cut him to the quick.
Had Maeve … Had she bore …
“No, Owen, she’s not yours,” Maeve stated quickly, and he thought he heard shame in her words. “Nor mine. At least, not by blood.”
Gulping, the anger that threatened to rise and overtake him was quelled.
“Grayson’s.” Owen spat it out through gritted teeth; an understanding, not a question.
Maeve nodded, wise enough not to deny what was so evident. “Her mother passed during the birth.”
Gnashing his teeth further, he pulled back his hand in disgust. “So now you’re not only his whore, but you’re also his child’s slave. And this is what you left me for?”
She looked neither offended nor apologetic, choosing to remain silent instead.
“What do you want? Why are you here?”
She guided her ward in and closed the door behind her, not bothering to wait for an invitation. She took little time to make herself at ease as she knelt in front of the child and began unbuttoning her opulent cloak.
“I didn’t know what else to do, so we came in with the post last night. No one saw us.”
The words were fast, as though trying to convince herself of her own lie. Dismissive. Suddenly, the thought crossed Owen’s mind.
“What the hell did he do to you?” the blacksmith demanded, anger rising red with the flush of his cheeks. The child trembled and flinched, but Owen’s rage was too well justified to be so easily tamed. “Did he hurt you? Did he hit you?”
“Never!” Maeve gasped as she stood and started taking off her cloak. “He just … Whatever we had, it’s over.”
“What sand!” Owen barked, trying nonetheless to dampen his tone as he could see the child shake with fear. “What sand have you, Maeve O’Connor, to show up on my doorstep after leaving me with your broken promises and your broken house! And with the bastard’s child!? Your father would turn over in his grave if he could see the sorry excuse of a daughter you’ve become.”
Legendary Irish rage showed itself as her rosy cheeks flushed crimson and her brown eyes stormed. “How dare you! I’ll remind you that I got into the crazy situation by trying to protect my father!”
Oh, but this girl still knew no bounds when it came to driving him mad. Owen pulled her to the only window the little flat could boast and pointed out, over the rooftops of the surrounding buildings, to the cemetery.
“And yet, there he lies — cold, dead, and forgotten. Slain by English arms. And here you stand, clothed in his enemy’s best governess gown.”
The slap she landed broke the child’s resolve as the little one began to cry full out. Maeve’s body shrank with guilt as she hastened to her side.
“There, there now, Goosie. I’m sorry, love. Mummy just got a little angry. I promise, it won’t happen again.”
“Mummy?”
Maeve grimaced at Owen. “The only she has ever — or will ever — know. Now, Mr. Murphy,” she grabbed the child’s cloak and hand, and began moving toward the door, “if we’re not welcome, we will most certainly—”
Panic sobered him. “No, Maeve, don’t go!”
Owen knew in the moment he saw her turn that, no matter how determined he told himself to be, he couldn’t deny truth. He knew to the very reaches of his soul that he could not stand to see her go a second time. Even if he didn’t own her heart, even if it would kill him in the end and make him neighbors with Rory, he needed to keep her.
Owen sighed, letting out all his frustration with a shrug. “Just … tell me. What do you need?”
“A place to hide for a few weeks,” she said plainly, “until I figure out what to do.”
The blacksmith looked around the one-room flat, knowing the one thing for which she asked, he could not give her. Perhaps her, but not her and a child, and in the midst of town.
“This won’t do,” he said, motioning to the wider room. Owen looked the child, her tears drying over-reddened cheeks. “Too small, and too dirty for your leanaí.”
Then a thought, brief but strong and persistent as a bull, crossed his mind. “But I think I might know a place.”
“Maeve?”
Owen knew she was there; he could see the wispy but ever-present smoke emanating from the chimney, rising towards the darkening sky. Maeve was reckless this way, burning fires all times of the day. Anyone who may have made their way from the overgrown and unkempt path to Shepherd’s Bluff would see clearly that squatters had taken up in the middleman’s abandoned cottage.
Still, Maeve cooked. She could not weep, she could not go to market, she could not sew, but she could cook. And by cooking whatever meager scrap the blacksmith was able to bring her from town in the evening or find in the forest at morn, she kept herself occupied so as not to dwell.
So as not to think of him.
In the two weeks since she had arrived, Owen still hadn’t figured out exactly what it was that had happened in England. It was obvious he wasn’t the pull. She had been searching for a sympathetic friend, despite his initial reticence. For now, if that was what she needed, that was what Owen would be.
Maybe, just maybe, if enough time passed, and he allowed her some space, her heart would find its way back to him as well.
“Back here, Owen!”
In the bedroom, he found her sitting next to the child, the sleeping figure’s chest keeping a slow rhythm of rise and fall.
Owen mused at the image before him, thinking that, but for the lack of such fine, ebony hair in either of their families, this may have been the reception he had come home to every day. Though, in his fantasies, there was more than one child: two strapping boys, and one tender lass.
“She really is quite lovely, isn’t she?”
Maeve beamed in her pride, as though she had something to do with the fact. “Yes, she’s beautiful. She looks so very much like her fa … ”
