Free Comfort and Joy by Sandra Madden Page B

week, I paid a call to Edgar Dines’s establishment in order to purchase a sketch I’d heard —”
    “Oh, no. Another?”
    His mother’s disapproval did not trouble Charles. Someday, he would bring Beatrice around to his way of thinking. Someday she would understand. “The sketch of St. Nick is the best of the lot, I believe.”
    “Go on.”
    “On my way to the carriage, I was accosted. Ambushed. The sketch was stolen.”
    Dropping his hand, Beatrice bolted upright. “My dear boy! Were you hurt?”
    “Yes. As a matter of fact, I was.”
    “Oh!” She reached for her smelling salts.
    “Maeve —”
    “Maeve?”
    “Maeve O’Malley, the young woman you met earlier.”
    “Oh Lord, is she Irish?”
    He nodded slowly. “Yes.”
    “Oh, no.” Beatrice rapidly fanned the bottle of smelling salts under her nose and then proceeded to choke.
    Charles continued in a rush. “Maeve found me bruised and incoherent. A blow to the head had left me with a temporary loss of memory. During the time when I was not quite myself, we were forced to wed.”
    Beatrice threw her head back and moaned.
    “As Maeve nursed me back to health, there were...” He faltered here, letting his thought go, envisioning others, oddly joyful and intimate.
    His mother’s frosty frown demanded that Charles finish.
    “Evidently there were some compromising moments.”
    “Have mercy!” Beatrice’s outcry startled Charles. He was unaccustomed to hearing such an epitaph from his proper mother.
    “I didn’t mean to shock you, Mother.”
    Upright on the chaise once again, Beatrice’s angry frown involved every line, fold, and wrinkle in her face. “Did the Civil War nurses marry all their patients?”
    “Hardly.”
    “And certainly, they faced compromising situations and awkward moments.”
    “More than likely those angels of mercy did not have Maeve’s father and brother standing over them,” Charles pointed out
    “It is a ruse to use you and gain your fortune!” Beatrice declared.
    “Perhaps.” Charles had entertained the same thought and could not deny the likelihood.
    “Annul—”
    “Impossible.”
    “You’ve engaged in...?”
    “So I’ve been told.”
    “Why are you not outraged?”
    “I am outraged, Mother, but I must proceed with reason.”
    “Charles, you behave the same whether you are outraged or pleased,” she huffed. “I have never known whether you were happy or sad, angry or joyful.”
    “Father taught me long ago that wise men do not reveal their emotions.”
    She arched a dubious brow. “Perhaps in business, but if you are to have a proper wife, you must display a bit of emotion.”
    “I shall endeavor in the future to make my feelings known,” Charles hedged. He had no intention of leaving himself vulnerable in such a way.
    “As much as I hate the scandal of it, you must obtain a divorce at once,” his mother pronounced. “It’s long past the time when you should have made a proper marriage and produced an heir. You have neglected your duty to the family and your father’s publishing company for far too long.”
    “Yes, Mother.” Even as he agreed a dark sadness settled into his bones. As much as he’d declared himself a confirmed bachelor, before Maeve,he knew it to be impossible. A Rycroft did the right thing, and the right thing for Charles was to produce heirs.
    “The sooner you are rid of this Irish woman, the sooner you can make a suitable marriage.”
    Charles stood, preparing to make his escape. “I quite agree.”
    “I brought Stella home with me especially for that purpose. She is from a fine family with impeccable breeding.”
    “Yes, however —”
    “Is she not attractive?”
    “Extremely attractive, Mother.”
    “And being a widow, she is eager to marry again and start a family. Stella has been so looking forward to meeting you.”
    “At present I am not in a position to court anyone.”
    “You soon shall be,” his mother assured him with some asperity. “Make arrangements