Free Comfort and Joy by Sandra Madden Page A

of him eased her emptiness.
    “I’ll be apologizin’ for the interruption,” she said, still gazing into the black night.
    “There’s no need to apologize. They were worried about you. It is a blessing to have a family who cares so much about you,” he said with what sounded to be a wistful tone. He closed the door.
    “ ‘Tis indeed,” she said quietly.
    “And now I must face Beatrice.” Charles straightened his shoulders and shot Maeve a wry smile. “I expect with the aid of her smelling salts that my mother has fully recovered. And I am certain she is waiting with great anticipation for a full explanation.”
    The unexpected, and quite enticing, twist of his mouth might have charmed Maeve at another time. But not at the moment. “And me as well,” she asserted. “Do ye not think I deserve an explanation? I did not even know your mother lived here.”
    “It seems I have much to answer for.” His eyes met hers, soft and silvery and sincere. “Can you forgive me?”
    How could she not, when with just one look, he’d managed to melt her heart?
    The fourth floor corridor of the Rycroft brownstone featured gilt portraits of deceased ancestors. The painting of Charles’s father, Conrad B. Rycroft, was by far the largest and most prominent in the gallery of rogues, as Charles thought of this display. The flattering portrait was mounted at the end of the long, narrow hall and from this particular spot it seemed the elder Rycroft’s eyes followed every move. Charles felt his father’s critical gaze upon him now as he approached his mother’s bedchamber and sitting room.
    Beatrice’s suite was on the same floor as Charles’s. Since she was rarely in residence, he thought himself the beneficiary of the utmost privacy, a privacy he’d enjoyed. Up until now.
    Every muscle in his body felt as tightly wound as a clock mainspring run amuck. For the first time in memory, he experienced the angst of a tormented man, a man caught in the grip of circumstances quickly spiraling out of his control. As he walked the chilled corridor, beads of sweat broke out on Charles’s forehead. Clearing his throat, he knocked on his mother’s door.
    Beatrice answered with a faint bid to enter. Alone in her sitting room, she reclined on a pink-and-white striped satin chaise. Only the ornately carved rosewood furniture offered the eye a respite from the many shades of pink used with abandon in his mother’s rooms. Wall and bed coverings, drapes, and upholstered furniture had been swathed in varying shades of Beatrice’s favorite color. She made no secret of feeling that pink was the only color that truly flattered an aging woman.
    Charles pulled one of the uncomfortable, dusty-rose, tufted chairs close to his mother’s chaise and sat gingerly on the edge of the seat. He always expected the balloon-back gilt chairs to give way under his weight
    “How are you feeling, Mother?”
    She raised the back of her hand to her forehead. “I am quite undone.”
    “I am sorry tha —”
    “What have you done?” Beatrice snapped.
    “I fear it is a long —”
    “Surely you make some cruel jest,” she interrupted impatiently.
    “No, Mother, it’s no joke.”
    “But you cannot be married.”
    “My thought exactly when I was first informed.”
    “How could you let such a dreadful thing happen?” Beatrice wailed. More dramatically than necessary, Charles thought.
    “I was under the impression that you wished me to marry, Mother.”
    “Yes but to a suitable woman like Stella.”
    “Of course.”
    Tears brimmed in Beatrice’s eyes as she extended a limp hand toward him. “Did the vixen hoax you, son?”
    Charles took his mother’s cool hand. “No. Not really.” He could think of no easy way to explain. “It is, rather it was an extraordinary situation.”
    “I don’t think I can bear to hear it.” Beatrice closed her eyes, in a bid, Charles supposed, to shut out reality. “But do go on.”
    What choice did he have? “Last