"I can't tell you how pleased I am to hear that." She refused to meet his eyes.
"No, Maura. Truly. There's a look about you now that wasn't there before, a softness, a sparkle. This place suits you."
"The way Harvard suited you?"
For a moment he seemed stunned, just a brief flash of confusion crossed his blandly handsome features. "What do you mean?"
"Don't play dumb, Roger. I called the Harvard alumni office when you disappeared. They had never heard of you. You are not in any of their records."
"So, you were worried about me?"
"No. I just wondered who the hell you really were. Who are you, Roger?" She at last looked up at him. He placed his thumb on her chin.
"Don't you dare," she warned.
"Dare what?" His voice had that quality that used to make her knees wobble.
"Don't you dare chuck me on the chin. I've always hated that. You were forever chucking me on the chin."
"Why, Maura. I don't recall any complaints."
"Ugh!" She turned toward the kitchen. "Mrs. Macguillicuddy! I believe your client wishes to leave now."
"What, dear?"
Roger stepped closer. "Maura, I am interested in this house."
"Do come again after I have an alarm system installed," she hissed.
"I've come all this way to personally tell you some good news, and this is how you treat me?"
"Good news? Is Interpol onto you?" "Why, Maura"—he chuckled—"you've grown a sense of humor!"
She refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much she hated him. He wasn't worth the energy.
"Good-bye, Roger."
"You're a wealthy woman now, Maura."
"I know. That's why you're here, isn't it? You dropped me when I was broke, and now you're here hoping to claim the inheritance. Right?"
"No. You misunderstand. I've always been in love with you but felt unworthy. And do not forget, I'm a man of action, Maura. I crave adventure and danger and feared that getting too involved with you would curtail my life."
She simply stared at him. A man of action? Craved danger? The most risky thing she had ever seen him do so far had been a brief jaywalking spree in downtown Milwaukee and a tussle with a baby goat at the petting zoo.
"But now, Maura, I'm the man you need." His bearing became almost military. "I'm not afraid of commitments. I'm finally ready for us."
"You're ready for us?" The urge to laugh was so powerful, she bit the inside of her cheek to keep quiet. "Roger, please. It's over. Let's at least keep some dignity."
Suddenly she felt sorry for him, as if seeing him for the first time. It was sad, really, sad and funny and certainly not worth any more angst. He had managed to fool both of them once, and now he was only fooling himself. For that she was almost grateful— how could she ever have thought herself in love with
him? He belonged in the same category as her brief crush on Billy Kennedy in fifth grade, a romance that ended when he wrote her a note reading "You are a pig." She still had the note somewhere, a torn page from a loose leaf folder, and all of her memories of Roger would soon join her Billy Kennedy collection.
"Oh, Roger," she said. It was more of a sigh to herself, a realization of how very foolish people can be.
Biddy returned, flush with the notion of romance. "What a charming couple you two make! Now, Mr. Parker, would you rather Miss Finnegan alone shows you about the place?"
"Roger has a previous appointment. Don't you, Roger?" Her smile defied argument.
"Alas, that is true," he said.
"What a shame! But, Mr. Parker, I thought you had cleared this entire afternoon to see this house?"
"I've seen all I need to see."
"Good-bye, Roger." She reached behind him to pull the door wide open.
"Well, I suppose we will return." The agent shrugged with less enthusiasm than Maura thought her capable of.
Roger waited for her to leave, then looked directly at Maura.
"I'll be back, sweetheart," he murmured. Just before he passed through the entrance, he chucked her on the chin.
"Roger." she shook her head as she watched him walk away. Had he always walked like that, with his hips swinging and his arms dangling so awkwardly at his side? His head seemed tilted, as if he was straining to hear some silent message, a dog whistle only Roger could hear. Again she smiled. Poor Roger.
She had a choice later that night. Either she could spend the evening alone with a pot of tea and a stack of books or at Nesbitt's, with dozens of her closest friends, many of whom she was not yet acquainted with. Donal had mentioned something about having dinner, but the plans seemed casual at best. The choice had not yet been determined when the telephone rang.
"Maura."
The voice was so clipped, she didn't realize who it was for a moment.
"Donal?"
There was a sound of voices in the background, bursts of laughter, and a woman's high-pitched giggle from somewhere in the distance. A man began to sing a song she couldn't identify, but other men joined in, off key and joyous.
"Yes. It's me." There was an edge in his tone she had never heard before.
"Is there anything wrong?"
"We need to talk."
"Sure. What do you want to talk about?"
"Not over the telephone. We need to speak in person. Shall I come by?"
Although she was quite certain now that she had dreamed the entire Fitz episode, she still wasn't sure what, or rather who, had attacked Donal. That had been real.
"No, no. I'll meet you someplace. Where are you now?"
"Nesbitt's."
She laughed, but he did not return the laughter.
"Will you come soon?"
"Yes, of course. Just give me a few minutes to . .."
"Fine. Good-bye then." And he hung up.
"And I'm so looking forward to seeing you, too," she said sweetly into the dead receiver.
An almost irresistible urge overcame her to call back Nesbitt's and have whoever answered the telephone pass a message on to Donal that she would not be able to make it after all. But then the thought of wondering why he sounded so upset, of not knowing if she had done yet another thing to inspire wrath, was simply too annoying. She had to know, no matter how upset it made her.
"A perfect end to a perfect day," she said to herself as she finished dressing.
Nesbitt's was friendly and welcoming as ever. If only she was not scheduled to have some undoubtedly trying conversation with Donal, she could actually enjoy herself.
Perhaps she was mistaken. Perhaps the tension in his voice was due to overwork or not sleeping or maybe even something he ate at dinner. It was possible, she mused, that she herself had nothing to do with his seemingly foul temper.
She was being rather egotistical, in fact, to assume that she had the power to ruin his day, to unwittingly taint his evening with unpleasantness.
And then she saw him, glaring at her from the end of the dark wood bar, the solitary grim face in a sea of affability.
"Hi, Donal," she managed to greet him breezily.
"I hear you had a very special visitor today."
"Excuse me?"
"Why didn't you tell me you were engaged?"
"Roger? You mean Roger?"
"Yes, I mean Roger. Biddy Macguillicuddy has told all of Dublin about the romance of it all. How could you have kept this from me?"
"But we're not engaged! He said we were, but we never even discussed marriage."
"You planned last night together, didn't you? So he could get the best price on your town house. The whole ghost charade was to throw us all off the track, wasn't it?"
"No! I can't believe you think that! Listen, Roger is a joke—he's a fraud and a nothing."
"When I think of what a fool you have taken me for. . ."
"Donal, no. Please."
There was an empty pint jar next to his elbow, and he made no effort to either signal for more or offer her a drink. "Then I might as well
tell you now, Maura, I bought the factory. The papers that Charles had you sign were not about your house, although by signing on an estate agent, you've made your plans clear on that flank as well. Don't look so surprised. You must have known . . . Maura?"
She felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her. All she could do was shake her head.
"No." It came out as a whisper.
The anger seemed to leave him. "Maura, listen to
me. There was nothing personal in this. I was doing my job. It was a business move."
"Yes. Yes, it was personal." She tried to keep her voice even. "I trusted you. I told you things, shared ... oh God."
Trembling, her hand covered her mouth, as if stopping her words would undo all that had happened.
"Maura." He glanced around, aware that eyes were focusing on them. "Let's discuss this further, someplace more private."
"No." A wave of nausea rose, and she wondered if she would become ill right there. She had to leave. She had to get away from the smoke and the faces and the smell of whiskey and stout and the laughter. Above all, she had to get away from Donal.
Without another word she left, blindly dashing through the crowds that parted as she passed.
He was about to follow her, but someone held him back. "Best let her go, Byrne. Give her a few minutes head start."
"Good God," he mumbled. "What if she was telling the truth about Roger? That they weren't engaged? That she didn't love him?"
"Have another pint, man," another person offered.
Donal stared at the foamy head on the new pint.
He had been so sure. When he heard that a handsome American was claiming to be her fiance, he had immediately assumed it to be true. Of course she would go with her own kind, good-looking, a Yankee. Of course, how could she be interested in someone like Donal.
But the expression on her face. Would he ever be able to strike it from his mind? It was raw hurt, visceral pain.
Indeed, if she was telling the truth, he had just offered her the final betrayal. He had been so busy feeling sorry for his own wounded pride, he did not think about anything else.
Maura had seemed so miraculous, he didn't stop to even question the first unfavorable bit of gossip about her. She had been an impossible fantasy. And he had been all too eager to destroy that fantasy, simply because he couldn't trust his own luck.
So he did not trust her.
And what if this Roger was behind the events in the Merrion Square house. That made more sense than any other possibility. And if so, perhaps she was in trouble and did not even realize it. Maybe even real danger.
"I must go," he said to his companions.
"Ah, you can't be going just now. Give her time to cool off."
Another agreed. "Go after her now, and you'll be seeing the flat side of an iron pan before long. She was in a fine state when she left. If I were you, I'd give her a good head start."
"A year, at least," added a third person before they all chuckled.
They were right. He needed to figure out what to say, how to phrase his feelings.
In truth, he'd never done anything like this before. He had always been pragmatic, focused. Until Maura.
With a shock he realized that he couldn't imagine his own future without her. Even next week was inconceivable, let alone a month, a year, a decade.
He didn't need the factory. He needed Maura.
Perhaps the factory had been a red herring all along, some scheme of fate to bring them together. He had fought so furiously for the factory simply because he couldn't face the truth. What he had really been fighting for had been Maura.
"Why, Donal Byrne, you've gone quite pale."
"Aye. He looks as if he's seen a ghost, he does."
All he could manage was a weak smile.
Yes, he would wait a few moments to follow her. He couldn't possibly run now, not with his heart already pounding and his legs threatening to collapse.
"Another drink, Donal?"
He took a deep breath and nodded. This evening he had intended to tell her all of the nasty business about the factory, to watch her squirm and writhe under his astute observations.
Instead, he was about to do something far more dangerous. Donal Byrne was going to declare himself to the American Maura Finnegan.
"A toast, gentlemen," he began. "To wonders, and may they never cease."
Maura hadn't thought it possible. A day that had been turning progressively more horrendous by the hour had managed to become an absolute nightmare within a final span of twenty minutes.
That's how long it had taken. Twenty minutes, start to finish, and whatever she thought she had was gone.
No factory. No house. No way to save the company back home, which meant no job, no future, all of those workers suddenly unemployed.
Above all, no Donal. Her legs felt so heavy that even crossing the front hallway seemed like trudging through quicksand. Slumping into the nearest chair, she didn't mind that it wasn't comfortable. She didn't deserve comfort.
Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes.
"Fitz," she mumbled. "What am I going to do."
Drowsy, she did not hear the footsteps on the staircase.
"Hello, Kitty my love?"
His voice was clear, liltingly beautiful, and heart-breakingly close.
His rich chuckle caused her eyes to open, and there he was. Fitzwilliam Connolly.
As she straightened in the chair, she realized she was wearing yet another costume. It must be a different day from the last dream, although he seemed to be in the same loose linen shirt and breeches and boots he always wore, his thick hair tied back.
"Are you feeling better now, Kitty?"
"Yes." There were tea things out, another set this time, with half-eaten scones and bits of white bread. He approached and smiled down at her, resting his knuckles along the side of her face.
"We'll have to get you stronger by the wedding," he said softly. "It would never do to have the bride swoon during the ceremony."
"Why not? The other ladies will when they catch a glimpse of my handsome groom."
Fitz rubbed his thumb gently on her temple, then sat down in the chair next to hers. It seemed impossible that such a delicate chair could hold his solid weight, but it did.
"I will be blunt, my heart," he said, taking one of her hands into his. They were large, rough hands, full of strength. Even the bent finger on his left hand was strong and sure. "I am worried about you."
"Oh, Fitz." She glanced at the tea tray filled with crumbs. "I must have eaten the cakes too quickly."
"You did not take a single morsel. Andrew ate several, I had one. You could not seem to bear the sight of them, and do not deny this. I saw the change in your countenance."
"I must just be nervous about the wedding." A thought came to her. "Are you wearing pale blue?"
The smile left his face. "We just had that discussion. Andrew and Aunt Sarah want me in the blue satin, you wish me in simple black, and I gave you the final vote. Kitty . .." His fingers tightened around hers. "I am to be your husband. In truth, I feel so now. Tell me what ails you."
"I, well," she stammered. "I guess I'm worried about Patrick Kildare."
"What say you?"
"Do you really trust him? It just seems to me that giving him a share in your company may not be such a good idea."
For a few moments he did not respond; he simply stared at their linked hands. "Do you object because he has not his own fortune? Because, in truth, his own fortune could be covered with the crown of a hat."
She was confused. "Whose hat?"
"Come, come, Kitty. He is not a wealthy man, but he is just and honest, and he is the best friend I have ever had. Besides you."
"Fitz." She leaned forward and kissed his hand. "Would you rather not see him? He should be here presently with some new shipping orders."
"I'd love to meet him." He had to be better than Andrew, she thought. At least he couldn't possibly be as bad.
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"Meet him? Kitty, you've known him almost as long as I have."
"I mean, meet him at the door."
Before the conversation could go further, there was a loud knock, then the sound of a doorbell. She jumped. The house as she knew it had an electric bell, hollow and mechanical sounding. The pleasant gong surprised her.
Fitz made no move to answer, and she was about to rise when a pleasant-looking woman in a mop cap bustled to the door.
"Good day, Mrs. Finnegan. Is the great lord within?"
Finnegan! The housekeeper's name was Finnegan, and Maura craned to see the woman but was unable to see her face. The older woman laughed, a merry, plump sound. "Of course he is, Mr. Kildare. He's just having tea with Miss Burbridge."
"Kitty!" The man's voice was effusive, and it made her smile. He bounded into the parlor, a broad grin on his face, arms opened wide. "How grand to see you!"
She automatically stood up, her own arms open. "Patrick, what a sight you are, you rascal."
It was as if she saw her favorite friend from high school, the guy who never had dates but deserved the best. He was handsome in a bright, clever sort of way—his personality rather than his features made him attractive. Although he wasn't nearly as tall as
Fitz, he was stocky, the sort of build that tended to become stout with the years.
"And there he is," Fitz said. "The prodigal partner. How goes it out west?"
"Things are well, Fitzwilliam. Give me a moment to seduce your betrothed." With that he kissed her forehead, then paused. "Are you feeling well, Kitty?" There was genuine concern in his brown eyes.
"What flattery, Patrick! No wonder you remain a bachelor still. I suppose you approached the girls in Kilkenny with the same accusation of illness. Nothing makes a woman feel more wretched than wearing her best gown, working magic with her hair, and then being asked if she is not too unwell to be out in a public place."
"We are all aware of Patrick's peculiar charms," Fitz approached the two, his hands clasped behind him. "What was that insulting phrase you spoke to the girl last year at the Castle ball? Kitty, you must recall, for you helped the poor thing dry her tears on the verandah."