A Love by Any Measure (5 page)

Let It Not be Forgotten

Miss O’Connor: I have need of your service. My bread basket is bare. Come tonight.

Thoroughly confused, Maeve read the note again and again. Did he actually intend for her to make bread? Or was this code, lest the note go astray? It had obviously escaped his recollection that a good number of the Irish could neither write nor read.

As she watched the sun sinking in the west, she again threw her cloak around her and crept off into the twilight, walking the familiar path toward Shepherd’s Bluff. Fortunately, her father was once again detained by his social obligations at the pub. With any luck, she would serve her time and be in her bed before an inebriated Rory O’Connor made his way home.

Passing through the servant’s entrance, she found herself in the deserted kitchen. Maeve remembered how August had once snuck her up to the attic this way so they could spend a rainy day together. The house had been new then, and the attic a vast complex of gables and arches, unhindered by any boxes or crates. Everything was new and untainted. The house. The attic. August. Maeve.

On the kitchen table sat two perfectly-portioned loaves of bread, a cotton sack lying suggestively next to them. She sheathed them and, as instructed, did not tarry but made her way to Grayson’s room, pausing only briefly by a mirror in the hall to straighten her hair. Her cheeks proved flushed, though she did not feel winded. The walk in the dark had been invigorating, but hardly taxing.

She removed her cloak and sat it, along with the sack, on the table, closing the door quietly behind. Pacing through the room with feather-light steps, she made hardly a sound. As before, Grayson sat in his chair by the fire, his eyes transfixed amid the pages of a book.

“You found the bread?” He did not look to her.

“Aye, thank you. I thought maybe you actually intended me to bake.”

His eyes turned up, though his head stayed inclined. His spectacles transformed him somehow, making him look much older than his twenty-four years.

“Why would you think that?”

“The note you sent.”

He sat confused for a moment, before realization dawned on his face. “Ah, yes, the note. I thought maybe if your father should see it, or even the courier … In any case, no, the last thing I desire for you to do right now is bake.”

Maeve waited for him to make some indication, but he continued reading instead. She sat in the chair, staring blankly into the fire. She detested this game of his, perhaps meant to remind her that she was the servant here, and he would take her service only when he was good and ready.

“I almost didn’t come,” she blurted out, needing his attention.

And she received it. His fingers pinched the rim of his glasses and ripped them off as the book fell and he leaned forward.

“Why ever not? Are you … ” August seemed at a loss for words. “Are you ending our agreement?”

She was positively thrown at the concern etched in his features. His eyes were keenly focused on her.

“I am not … ” Grayson’s tension eased, and he sat back. “Yet.”

“Yet?” he repeated. “Whatever does that mean? Either our agreement is in place, or it isn’t. There is no part way.”

“August, I … ”

Her voice faltered as his anger manifested, as though his hands had encircled her throat.

“I am Lord Grayson,” he reprimanded. “Lord, Miss O’Connor, and you would do well to remember it.”

Part of her wanted to slap August for speaking to her in such a tone, to strip off every air he had attached to himself with one fervent slam of her hand against his cheek. She could feel the fire of frustration building within, feel the burning in her face, and she knew she must have been as red as a rooster. It pleased him, her evident fury, which angered her further.

“You … ” she growled.

His look grew expectant. “Yes, Miss O’Connor?” He was daring her with a devilish smile.

And yet, the other part of her knew that Grayson had it well within his power to cast her from her cottage if he so desired. The fact that he already had the ability to evict her within a few days of making the decision to do so, and that he had not, had to mean something, she thought. True, she was offering him payment in the form of her presence, but what was the value of that? He was hardly aching for funds, so he must be receiving something from her. It couldn’t simply be the company of a woman; surely a man of his stature would have access to women of a certain sort, and ones that hardly had the time limitations that their arrangement precluded.

Maeve smoothed her skirt and kept her emotions at bay, trying to keep reason her guiding star. The words of Father Corbin echoed in her memory: The Lord wants to be loved. It is well within his power to demand your love, but he does not. He simply asks for your obedience … That you allow him to earn your love ...

She could never love Grayson; she knew this to be fact. But maybe, if she played along with this charade in the remaining time, a little sliver of the boy who had once felt like family to her could be reclaimed.

“Lord Grayson,” she continued, emphasizing her correction, “I have recently accepted a position in town. It isn’t much, only two days a week, but the wages are sufficient enough that in a few weeks’ time, I should be able to resume my payments to you. In a few months, I should be able to catch up completely. For now, I am obliged to remain in your service.”

Grayson seemed disappointed. “Employment?” he queried. “Where?”

“A bakery. O’Toole’s, to be precise.”

He smirked. “Baking bread in lieu of the time in which you are ‘baking bread.’”

She giggled. “Yes, that trick did not escape my notice. I wasn’t looking for work, but my fiancé’s cousin has a bakery, and she—”

His beautiful green eyes turned to brimstone. “Your what?”

Anxiety consumed her, though she knew not if it was because she feared Grayson’s anger or regretted his lack of indifference. “My Owen, I mean, my fiancé, Owen Murphy. Well, that’s just it. I am engaged.”

He said nothing, but she noted the sudden paleness of his face. Without warning, Grayson was on his feet, taking off his robe and pitching it against the floor. A swirl of confusion left Maeve disoriented as he leaned over and gripped her by the wrist, dragging her behind him across the room, positioning her in front of the clock. Its steady tick tock clashed with the banging bodhran in her chest that was her heart.

“Forty seconds?”

A still confused Maeve nodded meekly.

“Good.” He made a quick sweep of her cheek with his hand, his touch feather light.

Maeve’s eyes fluttered at the warmth that radiated under the pulse of his fingertips. She could feel his breath on her lips as he leaned in closely, speaking in hushed tones.

“You and I reached an agreement,” he began, so close she could feel his words as well as hear them. “My pleasure, your time. That is the only payment I will accept. You can leave the cottage if you wish, but payment by coin is no longer an option. This … ” His hands ghosted over her frame and landed on her breasts. Despite the layers of clothing—four, to be precise—that she had put on as a barrier, she quivered when his palms enveloped the peaks and pulled teasingly. “ … is what I desire from you.”

Her eyes opened to catch his. She couldn’t recall seeing such wild demand before. In no uncertain terms, he was making it known that he would have her, as the time allowed him to possess her, and there could be no mistaking his intentions.

“I am to be wed,” she countered, a hint of regret in her voice. “I will default on my payment then, if you will not take my shillings.”

Grayson scoffed at her. “You may find, Miss O’Connor, that I can be a difficult creditor to outrun.”

With his mouth, he attacked her neck, his lips working forcibly over the flesh. Maeve’s hands were suddenly in his hair, weaving through the ebony locks and pulling him closer as he worked up her jaw before his lips crashed into hers.

She felt again the hardness of his attributes between them as he pressed her against the wall, and she wondered at the unfamiliar feeling it stirred within her. More than feverish, she felt aflame, as though fire danced on her brow and breasts. Gaining ever so slight a measure of flesh, he moved his efforts to the sliver of cleavage, his tongue quickly skimming the valley between the firm mounds.

“Mo Maeve,” he muttered between his workings. “So … beautiful … ”

His voice trailed off as he found a spot atop her right breast and suckled it, pulling the flesh between his teeth and biting. Though Maeve feared the pain, she was surprised when instead the teasing nip sent a heated chill about her, and the feeling manifested into a heavy sigh. Grayson’s lips fluttered into a smile against her chest as he kissed the spot duly marked with his workings.

“So enticing,” he uttered as he began to pull away. “I cannot wait for our interest to accrue in due time. Forty seconds passed much too quickly, and I fear you are left in quite a tizzy.”

“Passed?” she gasped. “It’s … it’s over?”

Empty arms clutched the space left by his withdrawal. Maeve snapped back to the utter reality of the moment and looked down, taking in the oval red-blue patch of skin on her breast.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” she exclaimed. “How did you … ? Why did you … ?”

She looked accusingly at Grayson, but there found she no trace of regret or apology. Instead, he seemed whimsically proud.

“It will heal.” Coughing, he continued on, taking on a formal tone. “Now, as to our arrangement, you will keep your end or I will stick to the exit clause of mine.”

“Our what?” Her breath still raced, and she wondered at his cool and collected countenance. How was he able to turn on and off so easily, while she was still stuck in the conflicted desires of thirty seconds before? “Yes, well, we shall see. When shall I come again? Or will you let me know?”

He rubbed his chin. “Well, I cannot keep sending you notes. It was difficult enough today to find a courier whose discretion I could trust. I do believe you can see the top of the north wing attic from your hillside?”

Of course she could see it. No doubt he remembered the game they’d played that summer long ago. When at last they had departed each other’s company for the night, August would climb up to the attic, lantern in hand, and Maeve would sit on her front porch with her father’s lantern. By way of a system of flashes, they would send messages back and forth.

“I expect the view is just the same now as it was then,” she answered.

He nodded. “Yes, that will do. I will hang a lantern in that window. That will be your signal to come to Shepherd’s Bluff.”

His eyes glanced downward as he took in one more survey of his marking upon her, and his smile in its observation could only be called prideful.

“That is all for tonight. Good night.”

She knew better this time than to expect his seeing her out. Instead, she made for the door. As she passed, he caught her by the arm and locked his eyes on her breasts.

“One request, Miss O’Connor?”

“Yes?”

His eyes shifted to her skirt. “Next time, wear something simpler.”

Idle Gossip

Katie O’Toole possessed much too slender a frame and genteel a repose to throw about balls of dough as she did. Nonetheless, Maeve watched in awe as the petite woman slapped another heap into submission.

“Never be afraid to give it a good whacking,” she advised in the back room of the bakery. “Remember, it feels no pain.”

By this time, the daybreak crowd had already filtered in and out of the shop. They came now from Catholic houses, as well as Protestant. Katie was spinning trying to keep up with expectations. For the Irish, she made brown or soda bread, for the English, white. For the French, she baked baguettes, and for the Americans, she simply gave whatever was left over. Katie’s opinion of Americans was low, but she acknowledged that they at least had the good grace not to be English. And at least Yanks took what was available, while the English only complained no matter the selection.

“How long do you let it rise?” Maeve questioned as she saw Katie set the formed loaf aside and cover it with a cloth.

“Depends on the temperature. The warmer the air, the quicker the rise. You want it to about double, then stick it in the oven to bake. It’s more about the size of it than the time.”

A twinkle of bells in the front of the store alerted the women that the calm of the mid-morning lull was passing and the banking crowd was soon to arrive. Wiping her floured hands over her apron, Katie turned to Maeve.

“I’ll bring up some loaves from the racks. Can you handle?”

Two English ladies, modest in the fashion befitting their station, stood at the counter chattering like little music boxes gone mad. Their expressions were mischievous and haughty, as though they were privy to some great secret and couldn’t believe their luck at the lot of it.

“How can I help you?”

Their response to Maeve’s inquiry was a snide glare.

The one to the right sneered as she overly enunciated the request in the Queen’s proper English, as though speaking to a slow child. “Six baguettes and three white loaves, for Sir Edmund Gantry, charged to his account.” She tossed a cotton sack on the counter with little concern where it landed.

A quick nod to acknowledge the order, and Maeve turned to the other maid with an inquisitive gaze.

“Nothing for me, thank you,” the second woman returned, her voice kindly. Her companion gave her a little nudge as Maeve took the cotton sack. “Cecily, whatever did you do that for?”

“Oh, Margaret! ‘Nothing for me, thank you,’” she mocked as Maeve pulled out the baguette basket and began to sort through. “So polite to the natives, are we?”

Maeve gnashed her teeth, wondering if Cecily really believed that a distance of five meters rendered her unable to hear. Still, she knew better than to raise ire against the English bit; having it out with a customer on her second day of employment wouldn’t reflect well on her—or Owen. Instead, she kept her eyes trained on the loaves as Cecily continued.

“Oh, then again, your lady is half-native, isn’t she?”

Margaret sounded almost admonished in her response. “Yes, Lord Grayson’s mother was Irish. To the best of my knowledge, the pedigree has done Miss Caroline no ill.”

Feeling a little jolt of surprise, Maeve stood erect and spun around. Her sudden movement drew curious glances from the English maids, but Maeve made quick her recovery.

“Sorry, miss. Was that five baguettes?”

Cecily scowled, her lip curling. “Six, and snap to.” As she turned back around, Maeve heard the venomous voice continue. “My dear, the pedigree, as you so diplomatically put it, is the least to blame for poor Caroline Grayson’s lack of decorum. She was practically an orphan, don’t you know? Her mother died when she was a child, and they say that Emmanuel Grayson sent her off to live with her governess even before that. They say Caroline looks so much like her mother that he couldn’t stand the sight of her. I heard she hadn’t even seen her father or brother for ten years when the old frog croaked.”

“But she’s with him now,” the kinder of the pair countered. “Miss Caroline told me herself that the first thing Lord Grayson did when their father died was come collect her. They’ve barely been separated since, and it pained him to leave her behind in England to come set up Shepherd’s Bluff. Her arrival was quite the event. You should have seen Lord Grayson yesterday. He was positively alight with glee.”

Despite herself, Maeve smirked. Until Cecily spoke again.

“Oh, Lord Grayson.” From the tone, Maeve could imagine her swooning, even if her back was turned. “I would do nearly anything required to make him … alight with glee.”

“Cecily!”

But she refused to be ashamed. “Come now, Margaret. He’s handsome beyond all measure. Surely, sometime late at night after your Mistress goes to bed, you could chance into his chambers to offer ... to fluff his pillows.”

Glancing back over her shoulder as she stuffed the rest of the bread into the sack, Maeve saw one girl looking wholly embarrassed as the other smiled wickedly.

“I would never,” Margaret proclaimed in a low voice. “How profane. Besides, Lord Grayson orders all servants away from his and Miss Caroline’s chambers after dark.” Maeve set the bag on the counter as she took out the ledger to note the purchase. She was nearly blushing in a confusion of unease, but let her hair fall over her face to hide it. Meekly, she pushed the ledger forward. “Your signature, ma’am.”

“You know what that means?” Margaret shrugged at Cecily’s question. “It means he already has someone, and I bet—”

“You need to sign!”

It was fortunate that the outburst had the result of leading the English to want to move their conversation elsewhere. Cecily signed, and the women quickly made their way out the door.

A few hours passed until at last it was time for Maeve to make her way down the lakeshore toward home. On a good day, the distance took an hour to cross. Today, however, her feet dragged slowly as she tried to make sense of the anger — and dare she say, jealousy — that had wracked her.

Horse hooves clopping and a familiar voice drew her from her contemplating. She turned to find the smiling face of Jared Boyle beaming at her.

As he was heading in her direction, he offered her a place on his cart, which she accepted gladly. Her feet had grown just as weary as her mind; she never would have imagined something as seemingly benign as working in a bakery could be so taxing. She grimaced when she thought of what poor Owen must feel like at the end of the day.

“How go things at O’Toole’s?”

Maeve tilted her head in Jared’s direction. “Does everybody know my every move?”

“It’s Killarney,” Jared answered with an eye roll. “You can’t kick a stone without it being heard clear across town.”

She sighed. That’s what worried her. “The bakery is fine. Katie O’Toole is a good woman; it’s very kind of her to offer me the work. The clientele, however … ” Her voice trailed off, remembering the maids’ conversation as she shifted uncomfortably on the seat.

“English mutts nipping at your skirts a bit?”

Her silence was confirmation. It wasn’t in Maeve’s nature to speak ill of … anyone.

A warm squeeze on her shoulder let her muscles relax a bit. “Don’t let them get to you. Be patient. Everything will right itself soon enough.”

His face looked oddly smug as he made the proclamation. Maeve wondered, but she let it fall by the wayside as they rounded the bend in the road and she saw the smoke rising from her own hearth. All else was forgotten in the warmth of coming home.