A Love by Any Measure, page 3
Emmanuel’s fearsome gaze turned next to August, shaking like a wee willow in the frame of his door, watching the scene with terror. Across the hall, a slow creak drew all their attention. Sleepy-eyed Caroline looked so small, so fragile, that before he knew what he was doing, August had cut an agile path around his father, grabbed his mother’s hand, turned his five-year-old sister back around, and locked the three of them securely behind Caroline’s heavy wooden door.
“Mother, are you hurt?” he whispered as Emmanuel continued to slur his mother’s lineage in brash, haughty tones.
She shook her head, pulling a trembling Caroline into her chest, trying to stop tears that were threatening to break. “August, I’m so sorry you had to … It’s just, when your father … The things he said, and that horrid man—”
“—and teaching our son that damned language of yours, that heathen tongue! Don’t think I’ll let you fill Caroline’s head the way you did our boy! Our son, who will someday be a Lord! An English Lord!”
August put his hands over his mother’s mouth, stopping her needless excuses. “Don’t worry. It’s plain to see who’s being uncivilized now.”
Our Daily Bread
Killarney, Ireland Autumn 1866
“August!”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”
Rory O’Connor leapt up in shock at Maeve’s indecipherable scream and warily eyed his daughter above, as though he suspected the state of her sanity or sobriety. If there was one thing Maeve fell short on, handling a drink may well be it.
Eyes wide and breath wild, she panted and stared, and stared and panted. When at last she realized she was in the familiar comfort of her own bed, her expression eased. Leaning over the edge of the loft, Maeve tried to assess her father’s reaction.
“Was I … ?” Her voice trailed off as she ran her fingers through her long, chestnut hair. “ … crying?”
Rory took a sip of his tea and smacked his lips. “A wee bit just now. Bad dream?”
Her smile threatened to belie the truth. The dream … Flashing images of emerald eyes and firm red lips, a swish of ebony hair, the tracing of soft fingers over her cheek …
Maeve gave a quick, deceitful nod and came down the ladder.
“Know what I think?” Rory queried. “You caught a chill. It’s not your way, going out after dark. Your constitution’s not built for it. Weak lungs, just like your poor ma.”
Maeve smirked as she poured herself a cup of tea, relieved to have so convenient a diversion presented to her. “She had no problem yelling at you.”
Rory erupted into laughter, and Maeve found herself smiling right along. He doubled over, smacking his knee before his peals transformed into a full-on coughing fit.
Maeve leaned over and examined her father closely, running her hand over his forehead and thinking him warm. “Perhaps I’m not the only one who caught a chill.” Glancing out the window, she noted the overcast sky. “You should stay in today. The sheep won’t die from one day’s rest.”
Rory cast her a downward glance as he threw his jacket over his shoulders.
“Sheep don’t care. It’s only we meek mortals that think all manner of life should halt when the rain falls.”
“But you’re just getting better,” she argued, tugging on his jacket in a useless attempt to hold him back. “You spend the whole day out in the rain and you’ll be down with consumption come morning.”
Pushing his hat over his head, he made for the door. “I’ll be fine. I’ll just take them out for a few hours and be back. Make up some soup for your dear da tonight?”
The morning passed without much incident, and with nothing else of consequence demanding her attention, Maeve found herself seated in a chair by the fire, peeling potatoes and slicing onions. She groaned at the realization that there would be no bread; her rush to depart Shepherd’s Bluff the night prior had seen to that. All their funds of late had gone in savings towards the rent. Grain prices were high these days, and the O’Connors hadn’t been able to buy flour for weeks. As though the fact that she had failed to make Grayson keep his end of their arrangement, simplistic as it was, wasn’t enough to irk her, Maeve also felt pangs of guilt. For the second time in as many days, she had crafted a lie and served it to her father. She played it over in her head, testing its veracity, and decided her story would sound plausible enough. She had tripped on the way home, she would say, and the bread had landed in some mud on the side of the path.
In the relative silence of the cottage, with only the occasional crack of a log on the fire and ping of steady falling rain on the roof, Maeve’s mind turned traitor and recalled images of the previous evening. Grayson was not only a selfish rogue for offering his trade-in-kind, he was a horrible whiffler as well. She hadn’t been difficult and, in fact, felt she more than held up her end of their arrangement. Why, then, had he suddenly seemed so indifferent to her very presence? He may be a Lord, but he was not a gentleman, she concluded. He merely took his piece, then took his leave.
And worst of all, he had actually made her enjoy it.
Not his disdainful treatment of her afterwards, but the kiss. The kiss which now seemed etched in her mind like the smell of roses and feel of the sun in summer. The way his lips moved over hers, the way he tasted teasingly of brandy, the feel of his hand threading through her hair, pulling her closer, closer …
Maeve crossed herself thrice at the realization of how her breath and pulse were racing. God might forgive her, but only if she did not allow the devil’s progeny to taint both her soul and her heart. How could she go again? She wouldn’t. Instead, she would do what she should have at the onset: go find Owen and tell him that Grayson would file with the magistrate to revoke the lease, and that she and her da needed to move. Surely, being formally engaged, the appearance of them living together before they wed would not be so scandalous. Not nearly as scandalous as the alternative, for certain.
A knocking on the door brought Maeve from her reverie.
Patrick O’Keefe, Grayson’s middleman, stared out at her from under a broad-brimmed hat dripping with rain. A huge mass of a man replete with muscle and brawn, his patience with the O’Connors’ tardiness waned. Compassion only went so far, and consternation tended to take reins from there. Whereas his size once had made Maeve cower, she now only found annoyance in Patrick’s biweekly visit to collect the pittance of rent Maeve scrounged together per their compromised installment schedule.
“Maeve,” he greeted cordially, though his expression evidenced intrigue.
She had no patience to pretend with him this day. “Patrick.” He continued to stare silently, shifting his eyes to the fireplace suggestively. “Well, fine,” she acquiesced with a huff. “Since you came all the way down, you might as well come in and dry a bit.”
Patrick shook off his hat and jacket and loped through the room, negotiating the low roof and tightly packed furnishings to take a seat by the hearth. Maeve sat across from him and eyed him suspiciously as he lowered his side pack to the floor.
“I haven’t the money, if that’s what you’re here for again.”
He gave her a sideways smile. “No need. Grayson informed me that you had agreed to an exchange. He came to see me this morning and told me not to bother you about rent, then asked me to give you these.”
Patrick leaned over to his sack and pulled out two perfect loaves of fresh soda bread with a folded scrap of paper tied by twine to one. Overcome with a combination of incredulity, disgust, and utter joy, Maeve eyed the loaves — and more so, the paper — as Patrick arched his body the distance between them, placing the lot in her hands. She quickly rose to put all three items out of sight. Let not Patrick O’Keefe think for one moment she was about to take out that note in front of him.
“Don’t you want me to read it to you?” he asked curiously, confirming her suspicion.
Maeve vehemently shook her head. “I can read. Aug … ” The name in the familiar died on her tongue. “Grayson taught me when we were children, and I’ve kept up the hobby.”
Patrick leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Tell me, why would the Lord of the manor be so concerned about one of his tenants having bread?” he questioned in a tone that presented suspicion.
“As said he, we agreed to a work exchange,” she answered stoically. “I make his bread, he forgives our rent.”
“I take it that’s what you were doing there last night?”
Her breath caught, but only for a moment. She feigned confusion instead, but her insincere, uncertain expression only drove Patrick on.
“Patty was up feeding the baby. She was certain she saw you coming down the lane and past our cottage. Said you looked in quite a huff.”
Her sins were piling higher by the moment, compounded by each lie and half-truth. She wasn’t certain Sunday was going to come quickly enough to save her soul as it was.
“As stated, a work exchange,” Maeve retorted. “I bake Grayson’s bread.”
“So you’re telling me that you, the same girl who refused to come to my and Patty’s wedding because it would have meant being away from Middle Lake for a whole night, is traipsing a mile up the road after dark to satisfy Grayson’s desire for … bread?” he asked, his head cocked to the side. She nodded, even as she told herself he wasn’t buying it. “You know, Patty always tells me what good friends you are. She speaks so highly of you and Rory, tells me constantly how strong you were when your ma died, how you took over the household and kept Rory from going mad with grief. You’re known about these parts as a woman of her word, pure as the day is long. Take my advice, Maeve, don’t get taken in by Grayson. He’s no good.”
Reddened over in her fury, her words were barely restrained under an irate cloud of insult. “Whomever I choose to bake bread for is none of your concern, Patrick O’Keefe! If Lucifer himself should pay me an honest penny for a loaf, there’s no need of you to take notice. Now, your piece is said and your task is finished, so I’ll thank you to be on your way.”
The words slapped him in the face as his eyes winced. Patrick threw back on his coat and took up his side pack, tossing it over his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized sincerely. The compassion evident in his eyes introduced a pang of guilt in her chest. “I’m sure you’re just doing what’s necessary. Like us all.”
“That I am.”
He smiled widely as he opened the door, tipping his hat back over the top of his head. “Of course.”
He stepped out into the rain, but as she started to close the door, he turned and caught it with his hand.
“Oh, one other thing?”
“Aye?”
“Do let me know how you like the bread. I’m of the opinion that Patty’s is one of the best in County Kerry, though I tend to play favorites.”
Maeve knew she looked quite aghast — and guilty — as she pushed him out of the way and slammed the door closed. Patrick might not know exactly what was going on, but he certainly knew that the bread alibi was a lie.
By the time Maeve had worked out her anger in laborious frustration, the cottage was proper enough for a visit by the Queen. By mid-afternoon, the rain had tapered off, though the sky stayed dark and cloudy. Rory returned before dusk with nary a word, ate his soup with slices of Patty’s bread, and went straight to bed.
This left Maeve in a precarious state. She couldn’t take out her dwindling rage beating the rugs into submission; she wanted to keep the doors closed and let her da get some rest. With nothing else to distract her, she threw on her cloak, took the letter from where she had concealed it under her bed roll, and took off for the lakeshore.
The air soothed her. She began to take some comfort in the realization that Patrick might not know anything for certain. After all, he had no proof, and Maeve had her good name to stand witness if anything should be accused in public. Yet she chastised herself for her stupidity; she shouldn’t have gone to Shepherd’s Bluff with a lamp. It drew attention, and the middleman’s cottage was too near the lane leading from the road. She resolved that when she should go next, the lamp should be left behind. She knew the road well enough, and moonlight and starlight could be her guide a good measure of the time.
As she lingered by the lakeshore, however, she saw suddenly how her own thoughts betrayed her heart and resolve. Hadn’t she decided not to return? Hadn’t she sworn to herself the previous evening to repent? The whole cavalcade had already caused her to lie to her father twice. In the wholeness of the universe, the Almighty could forgive a few fibs, but what of the other things that were sure to transpire with time? Would He forgive that as well?
Could she forgive herself?
If it wasn’t so potentially tragic, she would have laughed. He sent bread. He sent her two loaves of bread. She kept telling herself there was nothing to it except for him seeing through his side of the bargain. Even a scoundrel could be a man of his word, no matter how devious the intent. So why should such a small gesture be so overwhelming?
With a sigh, Maeve took the paper from her pocket and opened it.
Tomorrow, at dusk.
As her fingers traced over the twist of each letter and her heart sped, it occurred to her. She was in worse straits than before. He was already doing it to her again: reeling her in, earning her kinship, using her as a comfort. And just as before, it was only a matter of time before he betrayed her.
In Remembering we have, and what we’ve lost
Killarney, Ireland, 1856
Such a sight young Maeve had never before witnessed.
There must have been twenty in all, an Englishman atop each. Certainly she had seen horses before, and had even been on the back of one a few times. The Boyles over the hill had one, and sometimes when she, Ma, and Da went into Killarney to attend mass, Billy Boyle would let her work the reins.
But in general, horses were work animals, and she hadn’t seen anyone but August’s father mounted right atop one laden with riding gear. She wondered if this was what the Knights of the Round Table had looked like when they rode off to Jerusalem. She had liked that part of the Tales of King Arthur most, and consequently August had read that passage to her several times over the summer.
August’s favorite part, when Guinevere betrayed Arthur and rode off to be with Lancelot, was positively scandalous. Maeve had told him that Guinevere was a foolish woman of bad morals. August had argued that their marriage was doomed from the start. For one, Arthur became a king who was no longer worthy of obeisance, and Guinevere had been right to leave him. Secondly, Arthur needed an heir and Guinevere was unable to provide him one. On reflection, he couldn’t understand why Arthur hadn’t pitched her earlier. Then maybe he could have had a queen who would have borne him a legitimate son before Mordrid had killed him.
Maeve had been confused. “I don’t understand,” she’d told August as they sat together in the hayloft over the stable. “I thought marrying meant they would have children. Why didn’t Guinevere have a baby then, if that’s what Arthur needed?”
“Perhaps they didn’t do it enough,” August returned with a slight blush on his cheeks.
But Maeve was more confused still. “Do what?”
August smirked. “It, Maeve.”
She hadn’t understood, but August was reluctant to offer any more explanation.
The riding party approached the dirt lane that connected the O’Connor cottage to Killarney. Further down shore sat the newly completed manor house where the Graysons resided. Most of the horseman continued on, seemingly pressed in their business. One, however, slowed near the O’Connors’ gate. Maeve’s mother and father walked out to meet him. They spoke in voices too low to hear from the cottage stoop where she sat, carding wool. At one point, there was a lull in their conversation as all turned to look to her. She blushed deeply as the Englishman gave a disappointed grimace her way.
Finally, the Englishman straightened on his steed and continued up the lane. Both Sine and Rory O’Connor’s expressions spoke of anxious confusion. Sine exhaled and beckoned her daughter near with a wave.
Maeve set down the combs on top of the sack of wool and rubbed the oily residue from her hands onto her skirt as she walked over to her parents.
“When did you last see Master Grayson?” Sine asked her daughter.
Maeve fidgeted. August’s formal title was detestable. Titles belonged to the English, and though August was English, she couldn’t slight him that way in her own mind. To her he was simply August, a friend with whom she had spent the whole summer, running over hill and dale near Middle Lake.
“We were in the stable last night, reading until twilight,” she answered in her matter-of-fact tone. “I came home right after dark. He said he was going to try to see his mother.”
Sine scowled, her cheeks flushing red. She did not like the idea of Maeve getting, as the Yanks who came through town would say, “too big for her britches.” After a summer of being Master Grayson’s distraction from his mother’s illness, Maeve’s britches were beginning to look awfully taut. Firstly, she spent half her time cooped up with him in the hay loft of the stable, reading. The young Grayson had taken great delight and pride in teaching Maeve to read, but Maeve didn’t see the lessons for what they were. Maeve thought August was doing her a kindness; Sine thought August held it as nothing more than teaching a puppy a fancy trick. Whenever they weren’t running around the grounds of Shepherd’s Bluff, they were to be found somewhere else together, whether seated at the only table in the modest O’Connor cottage, or with their knees covered in mud and muck at the lakeshore.
Then came the day when August’s gaze fell upon her daughter with a new softness, a sense of reverence that she had understood at once with tempered fret. Her child wasn’t even yet thirteen, but old enough to have caught the eye of someone of her own casting.
