A Love by Any Measure, page 4
If not for the situation as it stood, Sine and half of Killarney would have thought it quite a scandal. Here was her daughter, of meager means and aspiration, running to and fro with the son of the landlord. Sine had very little problem with August himself; he was not entirely unpleasant a guest, and he rarely behaved in a manner that could be considered anything less than cordial. It wasn’t clear that August’s father was entirely aware of his son’s daily regimen of general tomfoolery, but it was likely he had little ability to mind. Everyone knew why they were spending their summer at Middle Lake, except perhaps August.
Eliza Grayson had been brought back to Ireland to die.
Sine laid her hand gently on Maeve’s shoulder.
“Darling, Lady Grayson … ” she trailed off. Maeve’s gaze grew heavy with concern. “Lady Grayson passed last night.”
Maeve’s hand flew over her mouth, stifling her gasp.
“August has gone missing. It seems he ran out of the house, and no one’s seen him all day. Lord Grayson is very concerned. Do you know where he might have gone?”
Maeve shook her head as her attention was drawn to her father reemerging from their cottage, a rifle in hand. As a yeoman of the Grayson lands, he was allowed this privilege. Maeve wondered what would require such measure in the hills around Middle Lake.
“I best to be goin’,” he said plainly as he loaded the ammunition. “The riders are going north towards town. We should check down in the abbey and lakeside.”
Sine smoothed the palm of her hand over Maeve’s cheek. “Stay inside. August may try to make his way here, after all. If he comes, you keep him safe until the Englishmen ride by again. Can you do that, sweet?”
Maeve nodded, still in shock. Sine leaned over, kissed her daughter’s forehead, and departed.
Maeve was not without suspicion, however, as to August’s probable whereabouts. They had dreamily talked of running away on several occasions. She wanted to go somewhere where she wouldn’t be thought foolish simply because she was poor and a girl. August wanted to go anywhere where his father wouldn’t find him. Maeve had suggested the mountains.
There was a stream that meandered through the woods in the hills. Billy Boyle’s son, Jared, had told Maeve that if you followed the stream up the mountain, you would come to a pond where fairies danced at night. Maeve thought Jared was a right liar and didn’t hesitate to tell him so. When Jared insisted, Maeve had lopped him square on the chin.
Nonetheless, August seemed intrigued when she passed along the tall tale. Not that he supposed there were fairies, but perhaps there were other wonders to behold. Maeve and he agreed that when they were older, they would follow that stream and find that pond, maybe even build a little cottage there. She didn’t understand why, but Maeve liked the idea of sharing a cottage with August. True, sometimes he could be a downright spoiled brute, but most of the time he was sweet and sincere.
They were best friends, when it came down to it.
As the day carried on with only the occasional thundering of hooves over the road marking time, Maeve paced about her cottage in contemplation. As the sun began to set and twilight grew near, she grew more and more convinced that they would not find August. They didn’t know where to look.
She threw on her cloak, said a quick prayer to Mother Mary for guidance, and grabbed one of her da’s lanterns from the hook on the porch.
The woods and the hillside turned out to be terribly frightening at night, eerily basked only in the light of the moon and her lantern’s humble flame. As she climbed higher into the hills, the trees became thicker and the lantern’s light more valuable. After an hour or so of traipsing over fallen trees and scattered rocks, she heard the rushing of water.
The stream continued uphill as she occasionally called out fruitlessly. With every step she took, the terrain was less familiar, less distinguished. She began to wonder if she’d be able to find her way back down, and what would happen if she couldn’t.
Maeve’s mind wandered too much for her own good. The rain as of late had surged the flow of the waters for a short spell. Now it had receded and the soft, billowy banks were too slippery to cover in the dark. An unfocused mind led to a lazy eye; she did not land in the water, but she did slip on the muddy shore.
Maeve brushed herself off as best she could and let a few words slip from her mouth that were probably inadvisable for a girl of her tender years. No one would hear her, she thought dismissively.
Except for August, who stared at her from just a few steps away.
His skin had been made pale by the coolness in the air, and even in the faint flicker of lantern light it was obvious that he had been crying, though his face for the moment was dry. His tufts of ebony hair were chaotic, a few spots of mud dotted his temple and clothing, and his green eyes were utterly blood shot.
He looked at Maeve as though she was a specter, not sure whether to be afraid or intrigued.
“August!” She ran to him, the lantern left where it had fallen. The upward angle of the beaming shafts of light made each seem taller to the other. She threw her arms around him in the rush of her relief. It was the first time that she had ever done so, and she was surprised at how comforting it felt to lean her head against his shoulder. She hoped for August to embrace her — to make any movement, to let her know that he was all right.
He did nothing, only stood stiff as stone and cold as coal, so Maeve pulled back and eyed him warily. The momentary thrill faded as soon as she remembered that from which he had fled.
“Oh, August,” she sighed. “I’m so sorry. Your ma … ”
“She called for me,” August rebuked, though his voice became weaker and more cracked as he continued. “Before she … d … d … died. She called for me, but he wouldn’t let me see her. He kept me from telling her I … loved her.”
Maeve backed away in surprise. His face … she had never witnessed such horror, such anger, such bitter sadness as she did in August’s present expression.
“I’m sure she knew,” were the only words she could bring herself to say.
With August found, Maeve became suddenly aware of how cold it was getting. The wet mud covering her legs didn’t help.
“Come, half of County Kerry is looking for you. Everyone’s quite worried and —”
“Is my father?” His eyes were all at once frightened and full of hope.
“I don’t know.”
He chuckled ruefully. “Of course he isn’t. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t love me the way your mother and father love you. You’re so lucky. So very, very lucky.”
Maeve knew Emmanuel Grayson was a strict disciplinarian, but she couldn’t imagine a father not having his child’s best at heart, even if all she had heard of him from August was cruelty. Maeve understood he was grieving, but she had been raised differently.
“You bite your tongue, August Grayson!” she spat out, pulling away and snatching the forsaken lantern from the ground. “The Bible says that you shall honor thy father and mother!”
Immediately, Maeve felt sorry, for August looked devastated by her rebuke. What he said next, however, overwhelmed her.
“I do honor thy mother and father,” he nearly whispered, his eyes fixed on the ground. “And you.”
August lifted his head to meet her watery eyes, his gaze never faltering. Maeve didn’t know whether to back away or shorten the distance herself. She chose to do neither and so stood planted in her spot.
“You cared enough to find me.”
August’s fingers brushed over her cheek as he hesitated before slowly closing the distance between them. Maeve trembled when his breath misted over her lips, and shook from head to toe when his lips ever so lightly touched hers.
She knew of kissing, for she had seen her parents and others give each other quick pecks. But she had never considered that she too might one day experience kissing, and never with August.
No words could she find. She didn’t know what to do, or if she should do anything. What was he expecting? Was she supposed to kiss him back? Was she supposed to thank him?
No, it was best to say nothing at all. It was late and August was likely weary, she thought, having been away from home since morning. She herself could do with a cup of tea. Turning from his kiss, Maeve used the stream for guidance, making way down the hill.
When at last they emerged from the woods, a plume of smoke towered skyward from Shepherd’s Bluff’s chimney. August did not resist her coaxing, too tired from a day without food or shelter, as she led him to the front door without resistance.
Inside, the house was still and quiet. Maeve wondered if indeed anyone was at home. It didn’t seem likely that everyone would have gone off in the search. Surely, one person stayed behind.
Just as this thought crossed her mind, a very woeful looking Emmanuel Grayson, rounded the corner from the foyer into the vestibule.
“August!”
The son, being so touched by the display of reverent and sincere relief on his father’s face, of feeling of shared grief at the loss of a woman they both loved, ran into his embrace. Emmanuel’s arms encircled August, rocking him side to side.
“I was so worried. I was beginning to think I had lost you both on the same day.”
For the whole summer, Maeve couldn’t recall having heard of August getting more than a passing snipe from Emmanuel Grayson. Now his actions spoke otherwise. August melted into his father’s warmth, and Maeve hoped that this would finally prove to him that he was not only lovable, he was loved.
“No cause, sir,” Maeve ventured, drawing Emmanuel’s attention. “He’s right dandy. Found him up in the mountains. Just a bit dirty and knackered, is all.”
Immediately, Lord Grayson’s face transfigured into a disgusted scowl as he barked at Maeve. “And what was your business with my son up there, Missy? Think you’d get a ransom for him? Or try to help him run away?”
“Father, Maeve was only—”
Perplexed, Maeve fell back a step. “No, sir. I just … Everyone was looking for him, and I thought … ”
“Thought you’d take a chance on offing an Englishman? Or think you’d use his misery to gain a favor?”
“Father,” August gasped. “Maeve’s my friend. She’d never—”
“She’d do anything that she’d darn well fancy would work on you, boy! They’re rapscallions, the lot of them. Always a plot, always thinking they’d be better off if we’d just give back ‘their’ land and leave. Always trying to trick us and take advantage of our good fortune.”
Maeve wanted it clear that she was no such thing, and if anything, August was the mischievous and plotting one. The words left her mouth before she could think to recall them. “No, sir! In fact, he kissed me!”
Red stained August’s cheek, complimenting Emmanuel’s crimson.
“Kissed?” It sounded like an abomination on Emmanuel’s lips. “Don’t be so gullible, boy. She’ll have you tricked six ways ‘til Sunday if you give her a chance. These Irish … dirty, dishonest, barely human. Even your mother would … ” He trailed off, the emotional reflection of the day’s passing events echoing in his eyes. Finally, he hissed out, “Your mother left Ireland for good cause. She’d never want something so—,” he vaguely motioned at Maeve, an expression of disgust, as though he had smelled something very unpleasant, marking his features, “—common. Here you are when still her body lays cold and forgotten upstairs, forsaking her.”
August’s face mired in confusion as he tried to make heads or tails of the statement. He looked to Maeve, her expression pleading, her eyes watering with tears, and back to his father, the man whose love he had wanted so long, and whose love he stood to lose in the same instant he had found it returned to him.
“You’re right,” he agreed, his lip curling in disgust. “Common.”
Maeve’s heart broke into ten bits as she ran from the house. Her mother had been right; August didn’t consider her a friend, she was a method of distraction that Emmanuel merely tolerated. Now that Eliza Grayson was dead, Emmanuel no longer required her “services.”
It wasn’t a week later, following the interment of poor Lady Grayson’s body in the Irish soil, that the reclaimed son returned to Norwich with his father, perhaps never to return to Killarney, for all Maeve knew.
He left her with only her slighted heart and the bittersweet memory of a stolen first kiss.
Sayeth the Lord
Killarney, Ireland, 1866
During her life, Sine O’Connor had always held the belief that her daughter was too curious for her own good. Once, when she was eight, Maeve had heard from the boys in church that nuns were naked beneath their habits. Maeve had almost succeeded in raising Sister Mary Agnes’ skirt in front of the whole congregation before Rory had intervened.
As Maeve marched the path from the O’Connor cottage to Shepherd’s Bluff the following night, she cursed her own conflicting cause with every third step. Her only prayer and wish was that August’s indifference would hold, and that he was not intending to check under her skirt. Anticipating the possibility, Maeve had made certain to put on her most restrictive underthings in layers. Just because she had to make herself available did not mean she had to make herself accessible.
She quietly closed the oak door behind her, repeating to herself her plan over and over: go to his room, thank him for the bread, serve her twenty seconds, and then tell him that she was through. It would buy a few days, at least, giving Maeve a chance to talk to Owen about her next course of action.
Grayson sat in his chair by the fire, again dressed in his bed clothes, his face buried in a book. The dancing firelight sparkled off the metallic rims of his reading glasses as Maeve sat wordlessly and waited. Several minutes passed with no movement except for the occasional turning of pages.
“If I’m going to make a fool of myself traipsing up here like a mad woman after dark, the least you can do is look at me when I sit down.”
He kept his face turned downward, turned his eyes upward. Focused emerald eyes met hers with a certain degree of impatience and gaiety. The weight of his stare caused Maeve to shift around in the chair. He let out a small chuckle, removed his glasses, and bit down on the stem.
“If you insist,” he acknowledged as he set the book on a nearby table. “Time runs away from me when I’ve found a passage that enraptures. Surely you understand. Have you been waiting long?”
“Have I been waiting?” she asked, gasping. “I’ve sat here patiently for three whole minutes, counting out the time on your precious clock over there. It seems an awful long time just to fulfill a twenty-second obligation. What could possibly be put into written words that you would find so engrossing?”
He ran the glasses’ stem back and forth over his tongue, making butterflies flutter in her stomach for reasons she couldn’t quite comprehend.
“You’re quite right,” he agreed. “At least as far as finding anything in this room more enrapturing than you. It’s odd, Miss O’Connor. I remember you as pretty, but hardly beautiful. Time has done you good service.”
“And turned you into a scallywag,” she muttered under her breath, though she could not suppress the blush that broke across her face. She turned before he could notice, but heat radiated off her, making him smirk.
“You would find this one somewhat ironically apt: The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. But tell me then, what do you read?” he asked sincerely.
She answered him curtly. “I don’t.”
Grayson’s expression transformed into shock and misunderstanding. “But … I taught you … ” he uttered, astonished and perhaps slightly disappointed.
“I said don’t, not can’t,” she snapped back. She turned her eyes from his and focused on the fire, desperate to break herself from the empathetic stare he suddenly fixed on her. “We don’t own any books, Lord Grayson, except of course for The Book.”
His back molded against the chair. “Ah, well, that’s just a shame. Don’t misunderstand, there are certain passages of the Bible I find thrilling. Why do you look at me so? Did I say something shocking?”
It seemed almost sacrilegious to her that he took a thrill from so reverent a source. Moreover, of course, she didn’t believe him. “What passage?”
Maeve turned back, but Grayson was not in his chair. He had stood without her taking notice and was planted in front of the clock, eying her with devious intent etched into his features. Maeve’s breath caught, but she kept it well hidden. He waited in a silence heavy with expectation, and then slowly raised his hand, pointing at the same spot he had her occupy on her previous visit. Maeve heeded the call, but kept her eyes fixed on the clicking second hand, not allowing herself an opportunity to lose her concentration by again being drawn into his needful gaze.
Without making any contact, Grayson circled her and leaned over her shoulder from behind, bringing his lips nearly flush with her ear, maintaining the slimmest of distances. He whispered softly, the heat of his breath sending a shiver into the pit of her stomach.
“‘Blow upon my garden, that the spices thereof may flow out. Let my beloved come into his garden, and eat his pleasant fruits,’” he quoted conspiratorially.
August had instilled in her the ability to read, and only one book to practice the skill upon. She knew every Bible verse by heart.
“Song of Solomon.”
She felt her breath stagger as he simultaneously cupped her cheek. It was the last graceful action he would allow. It was the last tenderness before he sprang.
He pressed his lips hard upon hers as he spun Maeve around and pushed her back against the wall, attacking her neck. For a moment, the thought crossed her mind that such action might leave marks that she would be hard pressed to explain, and in the next moment she couldn’t have cared less. She even longed for him to do it, if that meant the pleasure coursing through her would continue. She knew she should have been counting the seconds, but Maeve found herself unable to concentrate as he brought his lips back to hers and pressed her into the wall with his hard body.
