Demonwood Read online

  "And then?" she prompted.

  "And then he smiled." I felt myself flushing, remembering with alarm the intensity of my reaction to that smile. "I felt as if . . . as if my knees had melted."

  She laughed then, a full-throated roar. I stared at her in mute rage while she continued to enjoy my unfortunate situation.

  "I don't consider the situation to be all that amusing," I said stiffly.

  "I'm sorry, dearie." She mopped her streaming eyes. "But I never thought the day would come when I'd hear you talking like a moon-struck weanling! I rejoice to hear it."

  "The man is married to my cousin," I reminded her sourly. "And even if he weren't, he's a bit beyond the reaches of a Shanty-Irish girl past her prime."

  "Mind what you say, girl!" she protested. "I'm the same age as you are and I don't consider myself past my prime. Why, you're prettier than you've ever been, and so am I, if your damned brother would just leave me alone long enough to stay unpregnant for more than half a year at a time." She glared at her distended stomach in disgust. "The situation is not that bad, Mary darlin'. Maybe you've just sort of . . . come awake. Like Sleeping Beauty, and now you'll be able to appreciate men in their natural role."

  "And pray, what may that be?"

  "As husband and lover and protector," she replied. "Not as a peer. For heaven's sake, Mary, you've more men friends than you could shake a stick at. Men have other uses, you know. As any number of them have been trying to tell you these last few years."

  "I don't need a protector," I said stubbornly. "I'm entirely capable of taking care of myself."

  "And you don't need a husband or a lover?"

  "Not now," I said sadly. "I've got a horrid feeling that I'm doomed, Pauline. When the Gallagers mate, they mate for life. Haven't you heard of my great-aunt Moira, who hanged herself when her young husband was drowned? Or Aunt Mary, whom they named me after, who was jilted at the altar and never looked at another man?"

  "And you'll be feeling the same desperate way after clapping eyes on Mr. Connell Fitzgerald? Faith, he must be some man!"

  "Lord, I hope not," I said devoutly, my sense of humor returning. "Not that it would do me any good- he didn't like me one bit. I don't know that he really likes any women."

  "You were ever one to jump to conclusions," she clucked. "What makes you up and decide that?"

  "Just a feeling I had. The way he looked at me— with such dislike and contempt. And I'd never even met the man!"

  "Well, that solves your problem, then. If the man doesn't even like you all you'll have to suffer is a few soulful longings for what will never be. It will do wonders for your emotional growth—you can have nice, tear-filled nights like you should have had when you were seventeen, and in a year you'll be ready to fall into a good man's arms and appreciate him. If the man's as unpleasant as you say, I can't think why you'd want to have anything to do with him in the first place."

  "You don't think I'm asking for trouble?" I questioned dubiously, longing to be convinced.

  "Devil a bit," she replied cheerfully. "And besides, who says you'd even see that much of him? Isn't he always traveling around on business or off in Europe with his fancy wife? Pardon me, I should say Cousin Maeve. I doubt you'll see him above once a month. If it bothers you so much, why don't you talk with Father McShane first?"

  "Because I know exactly what he'll say, and I know it's the truth. Adultery of the heart is just as great a sin as adultery of the body, and Father McShane thinks I have far too many sins of the heart already. He thinks I should marry Michael and raise a large family of Catholics."

  "And so you should," she agreed stoutly. "And you'll be far more likely to do just that and be happy about it once you've got this . . . this wanderlust out of your system. You go and teach thatjyoung boy, and come back in a year and start raising a family of your own. Michael will wait."

  "But I don't want him to wait," I lied. The thought of being able to fall back upon the strong shoulders of Michael Flynn comforted me in my moments of self-doubt.

  "Well, whether he will or not isn't up to you, my girl. And I think it's the world's best thing for you to get away like this." She finished off her cold tea and made a face. "But don't you dare tell your brother I said so."

  Chapter Two

  Pauline, good, wise, ever-pregnant Pauline, was right as always. I didn't set eyes on Connell Fitzgerald the next day, or the day after that, or for the entire week I was being prepared for my demanding task. Instead, I spent all my time with his sister.

  Lillian Fitzgerald was somewhere on the shady side of forty—a short brown woman with soft eyes and absolutely no pretensions to style or beauty. Her silky brown hair was piled untidily on top of her small head, her deep-set brown eyes peered near-sightedly at the world with a constant expression of both defiance and alarm, her tiny hands clasping and unclasping with genteel nervousness. When I was first ushered into her presence by the dour Mr. Murphy she had risen from the couch and rushed toward me in a whisper of brown silk, throwing her arms around me like a long-lost relative. As indeed, she made it clear from the start, she considered me to be.

  "Just the thing for dear Daniel, Mary," she confided. "Someone young and female and blood-kin. I do think blood ties are so important, don't you? When Con told me he had persuaded you to come to us I nearly wept with happiness—we couldn't have dreamed of anyone more perfect for helping us out."

  That was the term she always used, "helping us out." I think it offended her idea of family ties to realize that I would be a paid employee, and therefore one of the lower classes. The Fitzgeralds had a proud heritage, descended from Irish kings and only one step (and an ocean voyage) away from the landed gentry that were a far cry from the hard-working Gallagers. The beauty of their grandmother, the fabled Countess of Carradine, was legendary. It must have been galling when Connell threw himself away on a lovely nobody like Maeve. But then, perhaps he'd married for love. If so, he'd made a bad choice of it in my cousin.

  My duties were soon made clear, even if they weren't couched in those terms. I would, in a week's time, be transported northward to the Fitzgeralds' country estate in the northeast area of Vermont, where awaited my young charge. There I would remain throughout the winter, readying him for the first school he had ever attended in his life.

  "But he's ever so bright," Lillian assured me, blinking those kind brown eyes nervously. "I'm sure you won't have any trouble with him. And the house is fully staffed—anything you want you need only request." She hesitated. "It will be lonely, of course. Demonwood is comprised of several thousand acres of woodland in a rather desolate area of the country. We have some charming neighbors, but I don't expect you'll see them anymore often than you'll see Connell and me." She made a slight face, so slight I couldn't be sure whether I had imagined it. "And Maeve, of course. Even though Demonwood is our home, we don't seem to spend much time there. Connell is always busy, and Maeve is always traveling. And I . . . well, I suppose I'd best be frank." She leaned closer to me, and I caught the scent of violets emanating from her brown silk body. "Connell has decided that I was becoming too possessive about Daniel. That I should live a life of my own, in the city, with more people around me. Up until this year I've been his teacher, his confidante, his mother." There was anger in her soft, pouting mouth. "I'm sure you realize, my dear, that your cousin Maeve is no sort of mother at all. Her own pleasures and parties come first with her, and always have. Though how she can resist such a sweet, charming, sensitive child I will never understand. She's a cold, heartless bitch, and I don't mind saying so." She looked at me defiantly, as if daring me to defend her.

  "I've only seen her a few times in the last ten years," I said hurriedly. "I really don't run in the same crowds as she does."

  Lillian patted my hand. "Be glad that you don't, my dear. It's a fast, wicked life that will only end in sorrow for her and anyone who gets too close. Like Connell," she said grimly. And then quickly changed the subject.

  The week p
assed in a whirl. My six brothers came over every night, singly, in pairs, and on one momentous occasion en masse, to plead, to threaten, to cajole me into making my home with one of them. Their wives came over, singly, in pairs, and en masse, with an amazing variety of objects, from lace-trimmed underdrawers to several little-worn and much-cherished dresses that would do wonders for my sparse wardrobe. It felt rather like a trousseau for a blushing bride—a thought that I quickly shied away from.

  We had all come to the conclusion that I must give up my half-hearted attempts at mourning, for financial as well as spiritual reasons. We could scarcely afford an entire wardrobe of funereal black. Besides, they all knew as well as I did that Molly and Pat Gallager wouldn't have wanted a year of sorrow and drab clothes in their honor. So I accepted the bright-hued garments with profound gratitude, sternly shutting out thoughts of how Connell Fitzgerald would react to a certain rose-colored dressing gown. My sisters-in-law all loved me dearly and were all deeply grateful that I had chosen an independent life of my own, rather than joining one of their already crowded households. They would have preferred to see me settled with Michael, but accepted my anticipated departure with unabated cheerfulness that would vanish whenever one of my brothers appeared with fresh arguments about the foolishness of my decision, and their suddenly somber and disapproving faces would send me into barely controlled giggles.

  The night before my departure for the wilds of Vermont I was invited to dine on Beacon Hill. Connell would be out, as he had been everyday I had been there, but Lillian and I would contrive to entertain ourselves. We had become surprisingly close in the short time since I had met her, and the thought of leaving a new friend filled me with some regret. Her instructions on the care of young Daniel were foolish and overprotective in the extreme, but I could see through her fussing to the real love and devotion she had for him and promised I would do all that I could to provide the love he would be missing.

  I dressed with care for that evening, in one of Pauline's dresses that she had declared never fit her properly. Indeed, as she was short and thin and I was tall and amply rounded, there was some truth to her observation. It had been made for an elegant lady who had bestowed it upon her maid, who happened to be Pauline's mother. None of the Gallagers, decent, hardworking folk though they may be, could afford such a fine dress of blue-watered silk. Even Maeve's staunchly middle-class parents were unable to outfit her in such luxury. It had taken a multimillionaire like Connell Fitzgerald to dress her in the style she obviously felt she deserved.

  "It will be the perfect thing for you, Mary," Pauline had declared when I protested over the richness of the present. "Some evening when your Miss Lillian is visiting she might have a few people in, and some young man will lay his heart at the indigent cousin's feet, and you'll be set for life. And you can snap your fingers at Connell Fitzgerald."

  "I wish you'd forget what I told you," I begged her, acutely uncomfortable by her harping on my momentary weakness. "I don't know what got into me—nerves, I suppose, at the thought of leaving everything that I've known. I haven't even thought of the man in days."

  Pauline smiled her knowing smile, her eyes merry. "That's as may be," she murmured. "But you'll have the dress anyway. I doubt I'll ever spend more than a few months without a baby in my belly, and someone should get some use out of the elegant thing before it's out of style. It'll make him regret what he's missing."

  I looked at my reflection in the mirror, smoothing the lovely material over my rounded hips. Until this night I had never been more than superficially interested in pretty clothes. Now, despite my protestations to Pauline, my appearance was tremendously important.

  The dress was extremely flattering, and not quite as indecent as most evening dresses tended to be. My black hair hung down in a tangle of loose curls around my neck, my green eyes shone with excitement, and my pale skin was faintly flushed. I looked more like a woman about to meet her lover than a teacher going to dine with a spinster cousin-by-marriage, and the truth of that observation made me blush even more. For I couldn't help but admit to myself that I hoped I would catch a glimpse of Connell Fitzgerald before he went out on whatever mysterious business he conducted at night. More importantly, that Connell Fitzgerald would catch a glimpse of me in my expensive and flattering clothes. The image Pauline had conjured up of that handsome and haughty man mooning after me in a lovestruck daze was immensely satisfying.

  I had forgotten, of course, how very beautiful my cousin Maeve was. I had plenty of time to remember, for the ever-tactful Mr. Murphy ushered me into a salon that I had never seen before. An obviously masculine room, the only feminine note was the huge portrait of my cousin Maeve, dominating the room, her laughing, golden presence overwhelming and subduing the surroundings. I stared up at her painted likeness, and told myself it was the painter's art and that no woman could have hair so gold, eyes such a glorious shade of lavender-blue, skin so translucent. And knew that I lied to myself, and hated her all the more.

  "Good evening." That lovely voice spoke from the door, and I whirled around in surprise, my silken skirts swirling around my ankles. I hadn't really expected to see him, so invisible had been his presence through the last week.

  "Mr. Fitzgerald." I controlled my stammer, but just barely. He was dressed in evening clothes, and if anything he looked more elegant and disdainful than before. I tested my reactions, just a pinch, so to speak, and was relieved to find none of that treacherous melting. It had been a mirage, then, brought about by nervousness and rage.

  "You look very lovely tonight," he said in a bored tone of voice that told me he couldn't care less. "I'm afraid Lillian is discommoded this evening. She suffers from the migraine, you know." Those chill blue eyes raked over me with indifferent curiosity, and I could feel myself flushing.

  "No, I hadn't known. In that case I'll excuse myself." I started toward the door, expecting him to move aside with that insolent grace. The damned man did no such thing, just stood there staring down at me with the beginning traces of amusement.

  "Where are you running off to, Mary? And why are you blushing in such a charming way? I have better things to do with my time than seduce innocent young relatives of my dear wife."

  "I'm sure you do." My head snapped up defiantly. "And I have better things to do than bandy words with a rude, arrogant, railroad magnate." I made it sound like an aspersion on his parentage. "I'll be saying good night to you, Mr. Fitzgerald."

  He still did not move, but that lazy smirk had vanished. "I was forgetting how much you dislike me,

  Mary. Well, I'm afraid you'll have to swallow your distaste for the evening. I happen to be your employer, and there are certain things I had better make clear before you take that train tomorrow morning."

  "You could have spoken with me any time this last week," I pointed out rudely.

  "I didn't care to talk with you this week. I had other, more important things on my mind than an impudent colleen I was fool enough to hire." He was losing his temper, which was preferable to that condescending charm that emanated from him at odd moments.

  Of course, I was losing my temper too, and a grand thing it is when it goes completely. "Certainly, Mr. Fitzgerald, sir, I understand," I said in a superficially meek tone of voice that was belied by my flashing eyes. "And what is it you'd be wanting me to do?"

  His anger subsided as quickly as it had come, leaving in its place a bored, unhappy man. "In the first place, you might bring yourself to call me Connell. We are related, even though you prefer to look upon it as a mere connection." He smiled then, and my heart sank. It hadn't been an hallucination the other time- it was happening all over again. And it was his smile that did it; the lost, half-loving smile that he no doubt bestowed on serving maids, stockholders, cab drivers, and indigent cousins-by-marriage with equal indifference. Bravely I controlled myself and met that charming smile stonily.

  "I merely want you to have dinner with me while I explain a bit about the situation at Demonwood. Is that
asking so much? In the meantime you could be taking pity on a lonely man by agreeing to bear him company. You shouldn't let that pretty dress go to waste."

  "You needn't try to charm me," I warned him darkly. "I'm a level-headed young woman and not easily moved. I've been around too many Irishmen all my life to be taken in by blarney."

  He stared down at me for a long moment, conflicting and unreadable emotions playing across his handsome face. "All right, I won't try to charm you. I'll be completely straightforward and honest with you, but I give you fair warning. I'll expect the same honesty from you. Inasmuch as you're capable of it—being a woman, you're not likely to do too well in that area. There's nothing I detest more than liars."

  I watched him out of narrowed eyes, considering. Clearly, the man had known many liars in his life, most assuredly my dear Cousin Maeve, for one. As I was neither adept in the art of prevarication nor particularly fond of it I found the promise easy to make. "Fair enough," I agreed, and held out my hand to shake on it. He stared down at it for a minute, and amusement lightened his dark face. He grasped it, and the touch of his rough, long-fingered hand sent an unpleasant little shock through my body. Without a doubt, the less I saw of Connell Fitzgerald the safer my immortal soul would be.

  Dinner was a sumptuous feast—there was enough food to feed my entire family, and they were all heavy eaters. Course followed upon course, and staunchly I .plowed through each one, having a murderous time keeping my mind on a dozen different things, among them which fork to use, how much to eat, what that funny-looking thing with the pink sauce could possibly be, how much of the potent wine I could safely imbibe, and most of all, what in the world I could say to the man who was sitting across from me, watching me out of those cynical dark blue eyes while he ate barely a thing.