A Love by Any Measure (29 page)

“On three. One … ”

Maeve vehemently shook her head, her eyes wide. “No.”

In the meeting of their gazes, he nearly renounced his intentions.

“You must. Two … ”

“I can’t.” Her tiny fists beat into his chest. “I can’t leave you.”

“Maeve, please.” He stilled her fists and kissed them, taking one longing look at her, knowing very well it was the last. “Three!”

Leaping into the light, throwing his fist at the perplexed officer, August felt a surge of comfort as he heard Maeve’s feet begin to carry her swiftly up the alley.

What hit his ears next, however, made him cringe.

“What in the Sam Hill, August!?”

Maeve stopped abruptly.

“Jefferson?” August gasped as a flood of conflicting emotions overtook him. He pulled up his brother and embraced him in relief. “What the Dickens … ”

Jefferson glanced at the night stick clutched threateningly in his own hand. “Sorry to scare you.” He shrugged as August’s eyes ran the length of him, taking in the garb of a police uniform in the pale moonlight. “Figured I could change clothes one more time tonight. August, the fire’s spreading. Half of Boston is awake, trying to figure out what all the chaos is. Let’s see if we can use it to our advantage and get you gone. No time to waste.”

Jefferson led them to the edge of the alley, peeking cautiously around the corner. He raised his hand to still them, before his fingers flexed and they followed him back into the street. In the far distance, the commotion consumed the soundscape: bells, whistles, the pounding of hooves over cobble-stoned streets.

“I fear looking back,” Maeve gasped as the wharf came into sight around the next corner.

“Don’t, just don’t,” Jefferson returned.

August saw Caroline’s petite frame lower from the driver’s bench and land gracefully on the street.

“Maeve!” She ran forth. “Maeve, how I worried.”

“I’ve missed you! Oh, Carol!”

The reunion made his heart clench, but not so much as a moment later, when the tarp of the cart peeled to the side and an angelic pair of blue eyes framed by ebony hair peeked out.

“Ma?” Augusta asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “Ma? Are you here?”

August leapt forward and pulled the beloved child down, but was hardly able to keep a grasp as Maeve claimed her into her embrace. The common stock of blood — or lack thereof — was forgotten. August felt his own heart weep as he pulled both of the girls — his girls — into his embrace and knew, unequivocally, that bloodlines mattered not. This was his family.

And this family would never be separated again.

A raspy, little sound drew his attention to Augusta’s face, and her scrunched up expression.

“Ma, you smell horrible!” she squealed.

Maeve only laughed. “Isn’t it the Lord’s honest truth, Goosie? I can’t deny it.”

Maeve caught August’s eye, and he couldn’t help but laugh as well.

“From the mouths of babes,” Caroline mused, eying them approvingly.

An hour later, through the haze of the burning fire, the cart pulled to a stop atop Beacon Hill. All, save Augusta and Charles sleeping in the back, leapt down and took in the sight with awe.

Boston burned.

Plumes of smoke wafted skyward, pushed by the inferno erupting from the rooftops below. A smoked-over moon hung low in the sky, as though unable to turn from the horrific scene. The smell, the unmistakable scent of ash and cinder, enveloped them.

“Owen!” Maeve cried.

Jefferson’s head hung low. “I tried, but by the time I had Hume’s uniform, the fire was too intense. I wanted to, Maeve. I tried. I just … couldn’t.”

A sadness struck August, as though he had lost someone very dear. Looking to his brother-by-marriage. Defeated again, August suspected that guilt consumed him, knowing the successful escape had caused the blacksmith his life.

August recalled something he had said to Maeve, once so long ago: “There is not benevolence without bane to be found in this. We are all victims of our best intent.”

Again, he recalled the blacksmith’s serenity in that last glance. Was it because of the guilt he felt that he was so prepared to die? Or had Owen loved Maeve so fervently that the sacrifice was the only way he had to show it? August had the honor of Maeve’s love for so long, and squandered it in a misunderstanding of nobility and honor. How noble and honorable was he now, embracing the reverie of having his love beside him at the cost of the life of a man of true honor?

“August?” Caroline asked as she witnessed the destruction of her brother’s resolve. “Why are you crying?”

“I don’t deserve her,” he answered tearfully, speaking to his sister but looking at Maeve. “I’m not good enough for her.”

Maeve hastened to him, bringing her hands up to his face. “Don’t you dare!” she rebuked. “I made a promise to your dying wife, and you made a promise to my dying friend. And we are going to stick to those promises. I’m going to love Goosie and keep her safe, and you’re going to do the same for me. We’re going to make good our word so that their deaths don’t count for nothing.”

As Maeve’s eyes locked in to his, and August saw the power of her conviction, he realized this is what it meant to be noble, to go forward with grace and humility, to see through the promise of the sacrifices of others, lest they be in vain. To do anything less than allow himself to love Maeve with all his heart would be a disgrace to the memories of all those whose valor and surrender had delivered them to that moment.

Owen. Amelia. Rory. Even Eliza.

His mother, Eliza, who gave up her home, her family, and her identity to love Emmanuel, who in turn never embraced her sacrifice but spurned it in needless worry over the impressions of others.

August would not be his father. He would not spurn Maeve’s sacrifice. Not one moment longer.

He realized, this was it – the very thing that even Owen Murphy could see that he had withheld from her. It was the one thing he had never given her, and the only thing she had ever needed. In essence, his surrender. August had always made the decisions for her, decided what she could and could not be in his life.

“Maeve,” August gasped, lowering his forehead to hers. “I’m so sorry. I should have … Maeve, marry me. Have mercy on the wretch that I am and marry me.”

He felt her smile as his lips sought hers. It was his sacrifice. August offered her his heart, though he knew it unworthy, and Maeve could destroy it now with a single word. The decision was hers.

I surrender.

“Yes, August. Yes.”

The Boston Globe-

Monday November 11, 1872

BOTH VICTIM AND PERPETRATOR OF GRAYSON KIDNAPPING ASSUMED DEAD IN WAKE OF FIRE

From our remote office, Cambridge-Damage from the fire that swept through our city is still being assessed. In some areas, cinders still glow. It will be many weeks, if not months, before we can fully gauge the breadth of the destruction.

Reports of casualties are rising, though not as many as first feared. Many remain without shelter. We pray any able in coming winter months to open their homes to those left without will do so, in the name of Christian charity.

Hundreds of buildings are lost, it is our sad duty to report. The courthouse was damaged, but may be recoverable. Many of our brave citizens ignored danger and were able to secure the Old North Church from harm, however. Also a victim of the inferno was the city jailhouse, where two extremely burned bodies have been found. It is believed one of these was that of Maeve O’Connor, the infamous Norwich Nanny, housed there pending conviction. In an odd twist, it is believed that the other body was that of Lord August Grayson, coincidently visiting the jail at the time the fire broke out. This suspicion is further credited by the report of Mrs. Caroline Schand, Lord Grayson’s sister, that her brother has not been seen since the fire.

“We are overcome with grief,” she told The Globe last evening. “We believe that my brother has perished. We cannot abide to stay and be reminded of our pain. My husband and I are returning to England with our son and our niece, to mourn privately.”

Mrs. Schand further thanks the people of Boston for their kind wishes and sympathies.

In Perpetua

Oregon

Spring 1878

“Riordan!”

Patrick O’Keefe’s booming voice was the only one that could ever compete with the ferocious crack and groan of a shorn redwood falling to earth. August let the axe rest where it had landed in a tree he’d been at for the last few hours, and turned around to take in the mammoth figure of the foreman.

“Yes, sir?” he asked back in his perfected, false Irish brogue.

“Quitting time,” he grumbled, cigar-gnawing not forsaken, then added with a curt smile, “Get home to your wife.”

August looked around, only noticing now that in his complete concentration on the work, the sky had begun to darken.

“Yes, sir!” he exclaimed, peeling off the gloves and fetching his lunch pail off the forest floor.

Instinctively, the fingers massaged the rough spots on his hands, once so soft and warm. Five years of arduous work had done away with that. The life he and Maeve had made was not an easy one, but it was one where their labors and not their laity determined their fate.

Sometimes, as he held her in his arms at night and paid homage to their love with long, tender strokes, August wondered if the coarseness of his palms vexed her. If it did, Maeve never breathed a word. Truth be told, time and fortune had left each with wear. She was still just as beautiful to his eyes, if not more so, but gone was the soft, supple lass of Killarney. What remained, however, was more precious still: the love of his life, the light of his heart, the adopted mother of his child, and the reason he drew breath each morning.

“Good night, Curtis!” August called as he paced towards the road. He knew Patrick would be waiting as always, so they could walk together.

Curtis threw his gloves aside, calling out his goodbye as August passed. “Night, Paul. See ya in the mornin’, eh?”

August heard Patrick chuckle as he came into view, leaning against the side of the rest building.

“What?”

“Paul Riordan,” he mocked. “Do you ever get used to it?”

“Do you ever get used to Patty making jokes about you whacking your log all day?”

He clicked his tongue in rebuke. “Watch it there, Riordan. Remember, I am your boss and I won’t hesitate to fire your English arse.” He chuckled, a full-bellied, echoing laugh, at his own jest. “And then I would be whacking my own log. Patty would turn me out.”

They sauntered on another half hour to the settlement where both their homes sat. As his cabin came into view, Patrick asked, “Maeve hasn’t caught on, has she?”

“Mary,” he reminded Patrick lest some wayward passerby hear the faux pas, “hasn’t a clue. Thanks to your help, of course. I can’t wait to see the look on her face. Goosie’s staying with you tonight, eh?”

Patrick threw his brawny arm around August and squeezed his shoulder, nearly causing the Englishman to squeal. “Aye, and she’s welcome to. Patty feeds that lass right: good crisp bacon and warm brown bread. Not that wet muck of dough that gets passed as bread at the Riordans.”

“We’ll return the favor, of course,” he continued as Patrick let go of his shoulder, the muscle burning in the wake. “If you and Patty ever need a quiet evening, we’ll take your lot in.”

“All five of them?” he asked with a coaxing smile. “Well, now I just think you’re trying to get a promotion from me.”

Goosie was sitting on the front porch when August came into the yard. She jumped up and darted across the distance when she caught sight of him at the gate. Patrick’s cottage was a quarter-mile back up the road, where he had turned off.

“Da!” 

August twirled her around as best he could in his arms; she was so tall and slender now that the task was becoming nearly impossible.

“What’s all this commotion about? Just me, same as always.”

“All the commotion? It’s your anniversary. It’s so romantic! Ma has been at it all day, singing and cooking, and cooking and singing. There’s enough food in there to feed an army.”

“Is that what she’s giving me for our anniversary, I wonder? An army?” August scratched his chin in false contemplation. “Well, that would make dragging the logs to the shore easier on the horses.”

Augusta gave her father a poke in the shoulder. “Think you’re quite the joker, don’t you, Da?”

“Well, he better not try to pull any jests on me tonight, if he values his life.” Maeve walked out on the porch, rubbing a kitchen rag over her hands. Her eyes twinkled as she met August’s stare.

Patty stepped around Maeve and out on to the porch, a bundle of white pulled to her chest.

“Evening, Mrs. O’Keefe.” He tipped his cap to her.

“Mr. Riordan,” she said with a kindly nod, winking. “Little Brie here will be waking up wanting to eat soon, as will Patrick, no doubt. I should be going. Goosie, all ready?”

“Yes, Mrs. O’Keefe,” Augusta answered, dangling a sack in front of her. “I’ll come home after mass, Ma?”

“Yes, please do,” Maeve confirmed. The wind blew through the trees then, and Maeve pulled her wrap closer around her. “Make sure you keep warm tonight. There’s an awful chill in the air.”

“Good night, Da.” Rolling up on her toes, Augusta swept her long locks aside and planted a kiss on August’s cheek, which he returned.

“Good night, my dear. And good night to you, Mrs. O’Keefe.”

August turned and watched them exit through the gate. Patty’s one arm kept the baby well-secured, while the other circled around his daughter’s shoulder.

“Oh, and Patty!” he yelled. She paused, her gaze focusing on August, curious. “Tell Patrick I’ll have the rest of the money to him next week.”

Patty smiled. “We know you’re good for it. Whenever you get to it.”

He swore he heard her add under her breath, “Just, please, don’t be trying to barter any exchanges with him.”

Maeve was smirking when August turned back to her.

“Money?” she queried. “For what?’”

Stepping up onto the porch, August took his wife into his arms and kissed her with the passion that had been building the whole day. “A man of good upbringing delivers his wife a present on their anniversary. I like to believe myself a man of at least adequate upbringing. Patrick helped forward the funds on my behalf.”

The scents coming from the cabin tempted him: squash, potatoes, carrots. Maeve must have made one of her famous stews.

And of course, bread.

But the temptation he wanted to give in to now was the one in his arms. Maeve’s scent set his heart afire, and August wanted nothing more than to draw every possible pleasure from her. His mouth trailed down her jaw and then to her neck. They remained on the porch, her quickening breath sending clouds of condensation into the night air.

“Uh-uh.” She reprimanded him with a sideways glance as she pulled back. “We have plenty of time for that tonight, mo chroi. I’ve spent the last two hours putting up with all of Patty’s primping and prepping and you will behold it with the proper attention it’s due.”

“Really? Well, step inside our home and let me see, Mrs. Riordan.”

For so many years, August had secretly held fantasies of the day when he could call her Mrs. Grayson, or even Lady Grayson. But this was better. There had already been one Lady Grayson as his wife. Despite the nature of that union, he never wanted Maeve to believe that she was somehow a second-hand replacement for the mother Augusta had lost or the wife he had. Maeve was an act of grace unto herself. They knew from the Boston newspapers that they were both presumed dead, and to ensure that their names did not tip anyone off of the fallacy, they had selected Riordan in homage to Eliza.

It hurt to know that one of the bodies assumed to be theirs was Owen; the other must have been Hume’s. Caroline and Jefferson had returned almost immediately to England as Maeve, Augusta, and he had fled west. Caroline ignited a rumor that Augusta had boarded ship with them, but took ill and died at sea, where she was buried. The Grayson title passed then to young Charles, though Jefferson and Caroline assumed control of the family’s estate. Caroline wrote to August with great amusement when Woodrow read from August’s will, “In the event that I am without male heir at the time of my death, and should I still remain unwed, I bequeath my entire estate to my nephew, Charles Schand, with the condition that in his adulthood he be permitted to marry whomsoever he wishes without condition.”

Caroline promised to make it so.

Maeve was right, Patty had gone to great lengths. His wife’s hair had been extensively curled and clipped into cascading ringlets that trailed down over her shoulders. Truth be told, it was quite regal. Maeve looked like a queen, and August felt humbled in her presence.

“With beauty such as this, you deserve a gown of oriental silk and fine pearls,” he mused as he twirled one of her locks around his finger. “If only I could still give you those things … ”

“Now, what use would oriental silk be here?” She blushed, causing him almost to give into the temptation to pull her to their bed that very moment. “Besides, pearls against my ivory skin? Gold would be a better choice.”

Beaming, he nodded in agreement. “Gold it is then. Whenever you desire.” He reached out, tracing a finger down her neck, then over her breast. “Seems unfair to show up the gold like that, though.”

Her mouth twisted into a devious, knowing grin.

August made love to his wife on the floor in front their fireplace, just as he had the first time, absent the ticking clock. That clock, which had measured each of their stolen moments mockingly. Now they were free to embrace, to kiss, to love without measure and in every measure.

After they had redressed, August led his Maeve outside, telling her they would stroll by the river. The night was cold, despite the mildness of the day. Even as they languidly meandered, his arm around her to help keep her warm, snowflakes intermittently floated down from above. At a bend in the river, with the moon knitting a soft glow that weaved through the forest canopy, making it look as though fairies danced to and fro, he led her off to a rarely-used path.

“Where are we about?”

August smirked. “I want to give you your present now.” He pressed her forward with more haste.

“Way back here? August, it’s cold and I’m … not … St. Peter, is it really?”

“Every plank and every thatch.”

“The cottage!”

Maeve ran to the front door, reaching out a hand to make certain it wasn’t a mirage. As her fingers made contact with the worn wood of the front door, she felt faint.

“How is this possible?”

“You didn’t think I had actually destroyed it, did you? No, I had it carefully disassembled and stored. It was my intention to rebuild it elsewhere, after the Fenians had their little uprising done. But then, well … You know, fate just didn’t favor it.”

Tears burned down her cheek. “But here? In Oregon? It must have been so costly.”

“Pricier to find some lads to put it together who wouldn’t let the cat out of the bag.” August grinned as he recalled asking Patrick for the help, both in finding such men, and for good measure, paying them on his behalf so they wouldn’t know precisely for whom the building was meant. After initial disbelief, Patrick had agreed. He thought it proper, he added, that after having taken Maeve’s cottage from her, giving it back was the least August could do. It would be the first time the English gave the Irish back their homes willingly, he had joked.

August reached out and opened the door, coaxing her inside. “You forget that Caroline has mineral rights to a rather productive copper mine. The gift is from her, too. And Jefferson, of course.”

Everything was perfect; it looked just as it did the day she had left it years ago, right down to the proper chairs and broom by the hearth.

A mug, distinctly missing a chip, was on the table.

“August,” she said happily, “I have a present for you, too.”

“Oh?”

“Well, I mean to say, I will, but it won’t be here for … another five or six months.”

“Six months?” He laughed. “Did you send off for something in a catalog?”

She giggled. “No, I didn’t send for something.” Her hands reached for his, and when he gave them into her grasp, she pushed them gently against the little bump of her stomach firmly. “It’s actually something you’ve given me. I’m hoping, a son.”

Realization like thunder struck. A child was under his hands. Their child.

“You’re … expecting?”

It couldn’t be possible. After all the time of thinking Maeve was barren, and having resigned to that fact, she was carrying a child.

Which they would raise together, here, in her cottage. Maeve would have her all.

She turned and threw her arms around his neck, pulling his lips to hers. August wanted to respond, but was frozen in shock. Maeve mistook the silence. He saw that same fret curl its way around her heart, and she pulled back in anxious vexation.

“I thought you’d be happy. I know we never said we’d have children, but we didn’t think I could and—”

Melting, August pulled her back to him and wrapped his arms about her, kissing her feverishly.