Chapter 15
Hart seemed taken aback. “What are you trying to say?”
“A man named Mike O’Donnell has come forward,” Francesca said.
“He is the girls’ uncle, and a low-life thug with questionable morals, although he claims to have had a religious awakening.
I don’t know if you are aware of it, but Rick and Leigh Anne are trying to adopt the girls.
He has suggested that he could raise the girls himself. ”
“Why doesn’t Rick arrest him for extortion?”
“He never actually asked for money directly. Rick is afraid for Leigh Anne, Calder. She is very fragile now and he doesn’t know if she can withstand a prolonged crisis. I suggested that he pay O’Donnell to leave the city.”
A moment passed as he considered her words. “I know what you are after, Francesca. But he would never take any money from me.”
She was grim. Was Hart refusing to help his own brother? “How do you know that, if you do not ask him if you can help? Would you help, if he let you?”
His eyes flashed. “Of course I would help! I would gladly give him the funds. But I am telling you, he would die before ever being beholden to me.”
She was relieved Hart would come to his brother’s aid in an emergency. “Rathe and Grace went to Newport for the week. Who else can he ask? Can I tell him that you have offered him the funds?”
He gave her a look. “He’s going to be angry with you for interfering, Francesca. He will be angry with you for approaching me behind his back.”
“What do you want to do, then? Wait for him to ask you himself?”
Hart was thoughtful. “He will never come to me in a million years. Go ahead. Offer him the money. But be prepared—he isn’t going to be grateful.”
“I don’t care. I think this is the best solution, considering all that Leigh Anne has been through. We need to pay off O’Donnell and get rid of him,” she declared. “It’s best for O’Donnell and it is best for the girls.”
Hart made a sound, shaking his head as he did so. “You are loyal to the very end.”
“I will always be there for your brother, just as I will always be there for you.”
“Then we are both fortunate, are we not? That you care so much for us both.” He was mocking.
She closed her eyes in dismay. Hart was never going to forget her brief romantic interlude with Bragg. “Do we have to argue over my friendship with Rick now? When we are arguing about everything else?”
He studied her, his gaze ominously dark. “Our fifteen minutes are up, Francesca.”
Her heart tightened. “Calder…”
“You should go.”
Maggie bent over the only table in the one-bedroom flat she leased, sewing industriously by the light from a kerosene lamp.
She had lost her job at the Moe Levy factory, due to the excessive number of days she had missed, the manager had said.
No amount of explanation had convinced the manager to change his mind.
She had four children to support, but before she had been able to spend one single day looking for new employment, Lady Montrose had appeared at her door with Francesca, ordering six new gowns and as many underclothes.
Francesca had ordered an evening dress, as well, although Maggie knew she did not need another one, as she had recently finished a large order for her.
Then Joel, who was Francesca’s assistant, had received a raise in his wages.
And just when she had finished the Montrose order, Mrs. Bragg had ordered an entire new wardrobe for Mary’s children, Katie and Dot.
Maggie paused in her sewing. Mary O’Shaunessy had been her friend and her death continued to sadden her, but it was a blessing in disguise.
Katie and Dot had been taken in by the Braggs, and clearly, they were thriving in such a wonderful family.
It was obvious that Leigh Anne thought of herself as their mother.
Maggie shuddered, recalling how brave she had been confronting that awful Mike O’Donnell.
While she had never met Mary’s brother, Maggie knew Mary had been afraid of him, especially when he was drunk.
She smoothed down the bright yellow fabric she was working on.
Maybe losing her job at the factory was a blessing in disguise, as well.
At first, she had thought that Francesca had maneuvered her sister into ordering so many dresses as an act of kindness and charity.
But in the several fittings she had had with Lady Montrose, they had become rather friendly.
Francesca’s sister was terribly elegant, but she was as kind, as warm and as considerate as her sister.
Maggie had come to realize that Lady Montrose had genuinely wanted several new dresses, and that she had admired the two evening gowns Maggie had made for her sister.
Now, with the order Leigh Anne Bragg had just placed, Maggie was beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, she could make ends meet as a seamstress.
Maybe she would not need another factory job.
Before her husband had died, many years ago, she’d had a foolish but wonderful dream.
She had dreamed of one day having her own dress shop.
It would be in some fabulous location—perhaps Union Square or the Ladies’ Mile.
All of the most fashionable uptown ladies would frequent her shop, begging for her services.
She would have to turn away customers, for she would be one of the city’s most sought-after dressmakers.
Her husband had shared her dream. He had sworn that one day she would have her own shop.
It was impossible, though, and she’d never shared her thoughts with anyone else, knowing that it was just a foolish hope.
It would be enough to sew for the uptown ladies out of her home, in the darkest hours of the night, barely making ends meet, while she worked by day as a housemaid or candlemaker.
Still, the possibility now loomed that she might not need the daytime job.
She would be happy if she had enough food on the table for her children, four little beds and a roof over their heads. What else did she need?
An image came to mind of a dark and handsome man, a thought she did not want to entertain. Maggie quickly picked up her needle and thread, blinking back unwanted tears—tears she refused to identify. She began to sew, her fingers swift.
A knock sounded on the door.
Paddy and Matt walked together the few blocks to and from the public school they attended, but they never knocked; they shouted and screamed.
Her toddler, Lizzie, was on the floor, examining her most precious possessions—two stuffed animals—a spotted horse and a shaggy dog, both gifts from Evan Cahill.
But then, the gifts he had given her children were all over the flat.
“I’m coming,” she said softly, unable to ignore the ache in her heart as she went to get the door.
I told you all along, Maggie girl, he’s not for you.
Although her husband had died three years ago, when she was pregnant with Lizzie, he was with her still. Months might go by without a word, and then suddenly he was there in her mind, offering her all kinds of advice and his particular brand of wisdom.
Ye got to move on, me girl. There’s someone else out there for you, someone as kind, just not as rich or handsome, someone who will do right by ye and the girl and boys.
Maggie had not a doubt that he was right. She had never expected anything from Evan Cahill. She had never understood his interest in her children, his warmth, his smiles or his visits. But those visits were over anyway. He was marrying the countess.
Maggie opened the door and went into shock. For standing there was none other than the stunning countess herself.
The auburn-haired woman smiled. “Hello. You are Mrs. Kennedy, are you not? The seamstress?”
Maggie realized then that the woman had come to place an order. Somehow she nodded and smiled, but her gaze veered to the woman’s waist.
Evan had told her the countess was carrying his child.
He had seemed so terribly unhappy when he had spoken, yet she had known that one day, he would be thrilled.
One day, the child Bartolla Benevente carried would be the greatest joy in his life.
She had told him just that, but he clearly hadn’t been able to believe her.
The countess wore a resplendent royal blue gown that hugged her lush figure and was cut low enough that the dress should only be worn in the evening.
It was an expensive, stiff satin, trimmed with equally expensive lace.
She wore matching sapphires. Maggie saw that her belly was slightly curved, but still in perfect proportion to the rest of her figure.
Maggie did not know how far along she was, but she wasn’t showing yet.
Realizing she had been staring in the most inappropriate manner, she jerked her gaze upward. “Do come in, Countess,” she stammered in haste, and with the same confusion, she curtsied.
The countess was a head taller than Maggie and she looked down at her with a mixture of amusement and condescension. “Thank you.” She swept into the two-room flat, glancing curiously around. “I don’t believe we have ever met, although I have heard all about you.”
Her tone dripped with smug superiority. Maggie was taken aback, but then, perhaps she had become too accustomed to being treated as an equal by the Cahills and Lady Montrose.
Yer a hardworkin’, God-fearin’ Irish woman, me girl. Ye can be proud of who you are, but you ain’t one of them an’ you never will be—no matter that he kissed you.
“I have also heard about you,” Maggie said, blushing now. She had done her best to forget that Evan Cahill had kissed her, just once. It had been an impulse on his part, obviously, but she had secretly dreamed of his kisses for months afterward. “I am very pleased to meet you, Countess.”
“Really?” She glanced at the table where Maggie was working on Katie’s canary-yellow dress. “And how would you know about me?” She faced her, a beaded blue purse in her hands.