Irish Linen (26 page)

Lucas bundled Meghan against him and headed to the big house. “Let’s say we’ll marry in three weeks,” he said. He paused in his footsteps and turned her to smile down into her blue eyes. “We’ll have a big wed- ding.”

Meghan’s heart tripped. “Lucas, it isn’t necessary to spend money on a big wedding. I’d be happy if it was just the two of us.”

His eyes lit up with loving warmth. “I know you would, but it wouldn’t be right.” He tucked her against his side, and they continued toward his aunt’s house. “We’ll have to keep our engagement a secret for a while, love,” he said after they’d taken a few steps.

Meghan stiffened within his arms. “Why?”

A knot formed in her stomach. Was it because he realized that his family would never accept her as she was? She couldn’t forget that spinner Catherine Brown’s cruel remarks about her and Lucas. It was true that she was well beneath his station and that she’d never be woman enough to hold his interest. And she doubted his family would want her as Lucas’s wife.

“Because it wouldn’t be proper for the people here to know before my family,” Lucas explained gently.

Despite her misgivings, Meghan nodded her agreement. “All right, I can wait if ye can.” Lucas’s answering smile was enough to give her goose bumps.

He paused on the porch steps. “Meghan, the other night—” A bright passionate flame lit up his black eyes.

Meghan felt herself blush as she met his gaze. “I know, Mr. Ridgely.” Her stomach did a flip-flop as she realized that in three short weeks she’d be a Ridgely, too. Meghan Ridgely. She smiled. She could certainly get used to the name.

With a heated look at her, Lucas opened the door and gestured for her to precede him. “Remember, love, not a word to anyone.”

“I promise,” she said. It made perfect sense for his parents to be informed first. But what about Aunt Flora? “Lucas, your aunt—”

He shook his blond head. “Not yet, I’m afraid, Irish.”

And so for a little while, Meghan would have to keep her joy to herself. Lucas wanted to marry her. He hadn’t declared his love for her, but he must care, she thought. Besides, she hadn’t told him she loved him either.

She stifled a silly grin as she greeted Lucas’s aunt, who seemed glad to see her as the woman inquired politely how Meghan had fared since the fire.

Meghan thanked the woman for all the wonderful clothes, blushing slightly because she’d chosen to wear one of the servants’ garments instead of an expensive gown. But she was still an employee, and unless there was a special occasion, she would act and dress like an employee of Flora Gibbons. She knew she’d eventually have an occasion for taffeta.

I’m going to marry this woman’s nephew.
She wanted to share the secret. The man she loved wanted her to be his wife. But would it work? Would he still want her if his family disapproved, which they were bound to do?

***

Gifts began to arrive at Meghan’s room daily. Because she’d lost everything in the fire, no one thought Lucas’s generosity strange. It began with a gown of blue satin with white lace trim and pearl buttons. The garment was beautiful, but like the taffeta gown, the satin garment was unsuitable for a house servant. When she expressed her pleasure, but made mention of that fact, Lucas smiled and told her to wear it when his parents arrived on the fifteenth of February.

Meghan tensed, nervous with the prospect of meeting the Ridgelys. “Lucas, I’ve never worn a gown like this.”

“Did you try it on?” he asked.

“Aye,” she admitted, “and it fits perfectly, but—”

He grinned. “It’s yours, love. Now as my future wife, there are things you must learn—like how to accept gifts from me.”

She sighed, not unhappy but uncomfortable with the idea of accepting gifts.

That night she recalled his words and wondered with dismay what else Lucas expected her to learn as his future wife.

Three days later, Meghan was alone in the kitchen. It was late; the servants had left or gone to bed. Lucas had cornered her for a few seconds early in the day, asking her to meet him there. It would be the first time they’d have private time together since he’d asked her to marry him.

Meghan could hear the thundering of her heartbeat as she stood in the dark room, listening for his arrival. The tall case clock in the foyer chimed the hour; it was 2:00 A.M.

Would he come? she wondered, afraid that he’d overslept or changed his mind.

“Meghan.”

She gasped and spun toward the back of the room. She hadn’t heard him enter, because he’d come from the pantry.

“Lucas!” she gasped. “I didn’t know ye were in there.” He must have been there for some time, she realized. He carried a plate filled with food in each hand.

His smile took her breath away. “I know you didn’t. I’ve been watching you for the past fifteen minutes.”

She swallowed. “Why?” It was disconcerting to learn she’d been watched without her knowledge, even though the one who had done the staring was the man she loved.

“Come into the pantry, Irish.” He waved toward the door.

She grabbed her candle from Mrs. Riker’s worktable and followed him into the back room, her pulse racing as she wondered what he had in mind for her.

He led her into the pantry, stopped near the rear wall, and handed her the plates. “Hold these for a minute.”

While she held on to the plates filled with cakes, Lucas slid aside a crate and a huge barrel of flour. The noise made by his actions sounded loud in the quiet of the night. When no one came to investigate, Meghan decided that the volume of sound had been magnified by her concern with their being discovered.

Once the barrel was rolled aside, Meghan could see a small hidden door “What is it?” she asked, narrowing her gaze as she wondered whether or not he expected her to fit through the door opening.

“It’s my escape door.” He grinned, his teeth flashing
in the candlelight. “The room behind it was originally built as a priest hole, but I used it as a hiding place when I was a boy… usually when it came time for my parents to take me home to Wind-field. ” His smile became softly reminiscent. “It worked, too. No one could find me, but my aunt knew that I was safe, so she would convince my parents to let me stay one more week after promising to see personally that I got home.

“Once my parents had reluctantly agreed to let me stay, I would come out of my special place from another door behind the house. I’d suddenly appear as if I’d been oblivious to their calling me.”

Meghan listened, fascinated by his tale of youth. “And did ye get to stay?”

He nodded as he caressed her with his gaze. “My aunt had made my mother promise, you see, so neither Mother nor Father would dare go back on their word. Their word was as good as gold coin.”

Lucas looked down at her hands holding the plates. There was no place for her to put them, and Meghan could see by his mischievous twinkle that he’d realized it, too, and was about to take advantage of the situation.

She felt the tingle of anticipation at her nape travel down her spine as he loomed closer, his gaze fastened on her mouth.

“It seems like forever since we’ve been alone,” he said, exciting her with his words.

“Aye,” she breathed.

“I’m going to kiss you, Meghan. Don’t you spill our cookies now.”

Her nod was solemn, but a tiny smile began to form on her lips.

With a groan, Lucas bent and kissed her over the two piled-high plates. It was a brief kiss, but the contact
made Meghan dizzy with happiness, because Lucas seemed as moved by the experience as she.

“Come,” he said. “I didn’t bring you here for this.”

She was disappointed.
Then why did ye bring me here?
Now that she knew Lucas wanted her for his wife, she wanted—needed—to lay intimately within his arms again. But how does one ask without seeming like a wanton? She’d have to wait for Lucas’s lead, she thought.

“I wanted you to see my private place… the one I had as a boy,” he said, touching her heart with his desire to share what had been special to him. “I mean to share everything with you,” he murmured, thrilling her.

A lump rose to her throat as she became blinded by emotional tears. “Thank ye, Lucas,” she whispered.

His answer was a sheepish smile and an extended hand toward her.

She gave him a look and held up the plates. He laughed, took the plates and found a place for them that she’d overlooked.

A week later she thought back to that night and wondered if it had really happened or if it had all been a dream. Lucas had taken her into his room, which was small, damp, and had a dirt floor, and he’d begun to tell her other stories about his experiences as a boy at Gibbons Mill. They’d shared cookies and drank water from fancy glasses. Meghan regarded the time as one of the most wonderful she’d ever enjoyed, for Lucas had opened up to her, telling her a great many things. She, in turn, had told of her early years, and he’d listened, his expression tender, as she’d spoken of her mother and father. And he’d held her in his arms when she’d cried.

They’d shared no physical intimacy that night, but
a stronger, more intimately emotional bond had been formed, Meghan thought.

But the Lucas she’d seen since then seemed like a stranger. His little gifts kept coming to her room daily, but there seemed to be a thread of purpose in the choice of them now.

This week she’d received a jeweled hair comb, a gold bracelet, and a pair of fancy shoes. These items differed from Lucas’s early gifts in that they were expensive and of little practical use, not serviceable and functional as the cloak he’d given her to replace the one she’d lost or the sewing machine that she’d marveled over and quickly learned to use.

Meghan knew that she should be happy that her fiancé was wooing her with tokens of his affection, but she would rather have received the gift of three words. A sincere “I love you” would be his three greatest gifts to her.

But she would have to be happy with jewels, she thought miserably. Lucas cared for her, but love? No. She must be content that he desired her enough to want her for his wife.

Please God, allow me to make him happy.
She was of poor Irish stock, while Lucas was a wealthy, upper-class Delawarean. Were his expensive gifts hints that she should learn to become a proper, socially acceptable wife? Meghan frowned. She knew she was right; Lucas was trying to mold her into something—someone— she could never be. The question was what was he going to do when he learned that she could never be anything more than she was—a woman born from poor Irish stock.

“Meghan.” Flora Gibbons entered the sewing room and went directly to where Meghan sat at her sewing
machine, making a new shift for Rachel. “I’d like you to try on this bonnet. It’s a lovely hat, but I’m unable to wear it anymore.” She lowered her voice conspira-torially. “It’s much too young-looking for me, but not for you, dear.”

The bonnet was made of straw with a large brim. A huge ostrich feather stuck out of a band of artificial roses, and there were pink satin ribbons attached to be tied under the chin.

Meghan regarded the hat doubtfully, but Lucas’s aunt insisted upon setting the bonnet on the young woman’s head herself. The Irishwoman felt like a small child again as Flora fussed over the correct placement. Meghan sat silently while Flora straightened the brim and ensured that the ribbons were tied just right, until finally the older woman seemed satisfied.

“There,” Lucas’s aunt said as she straightened. She regarded her handiwork with a critical eye. “Oh, yes, it looks quite lovely on you, my dear. Here…” She helped Meghan to rise. “Come and see how perfect it is for you.”

Meghan allowed herself to be dragged down the hall to Flora Gibbons’s bedchamber where she was thrust before a cheval looking glass. The bonnet was beautiful, although a bit fancy for Meghan’s taste.

“What do you think?” the woman prompted.

Peering at her reflection, Meghan didn’t feel right in taking it, which was clearly what her employer had in mind. “I think ‘tis grand, but—”

“It would go splendid with your new blue gown, wouldn’t it?”

Meghan studied Flora’s mirror image as the woman smiled over Meghan’s shoulder. How did her employer know about Lucas’s gift? The blue gown was the one that Lucas had intended she wear to meet his parents.

“Mrs. Gibbons, I can’t take this…”

Flora waved her hand. “Nonsense, dear. You must. I simply insist.” She paused to lovingly touch the bonnet’s brim. “My late husband gave it to me, Meghan,” she said softly. “I’d be pleased if you’d wear it.”

Fighting emotion, Meghan couldn’t refuse. How could she say no when she was offered something that obviously meant so much to Lucas’s aunt?

Ye’re going to marry him, girl,
an inner voice said.
Get used to it, Flora is his aunt; it’s all right to accept the gift.

“Thank ye, Mrs. Gibbons. ‘Tis lovely—truly.” She blinked back tears. But the woman’s kindness only emphasized in Meghan’s mind her failings as Lucas’s future wife.

Flora nodded. “You’re welcome, dear. Now,” she said, turning, “I also have this wonderful book of poetry.” She moved to a dower chest and searched inside. “Ah, here it is! A collection of works by Robert Browning!” She closed the lid and approached Meghan with a book, smiling. “I know the most perfect poem for you to memorize. We’ll have to work on your pronunciation, of course, but…”

The rest of Flora’s words were lost to Meghan when she realized what Lucas’s aunt was doing. She was going to tutor Meghan in the fine art of being a woman of higher class.

“I think ‘Bells and Pomegranates’ is the best piece, but ‘A Soul’s Tragedy’ is good, too. It’s up to you, Meghan, after all, you’ll be the one to recite it!”

Pain choked Meghan’s throat. “How did ye find out?” she rasped. She’d never felt so hurt before, because someone thought she wasn’t good enough as she was. Lucas, she thought. It was because of Lucas. “Did Lucas—”

“No, Lucas didn’t say a word,” the woman said, regarding
her with kind eyes. “But it was easy for me to guess.” She laid her hand on Meghan’s shoulder. “I know my nephew better than his own mother does. I’ve seen how he looks at you and…” Her features were soft. “I knew.”