Chapter Ten

Friday was rushed and hurried and crazy. A sick child, a lovesick man, and Louisville’s finest new actress coming for dinner. The supper was cooking and Liam was in the water closet due to his two large glasses of apple juice. Finola puffed at a wisp of hair that stubbornly fell into her eyes.

The doorbell rang, and she hurried to answer it. She would have to make short haste of whoever wished to bother her today. Yanking the door open, she stopped in her tracks and stared at the group of men standing on the porch bearing flowers.

“May I help you?” she asked, bewildered at the array of colorful blooms in the midst of a freezing January afternoon.

“Is this the Adams’ house?” asked the man nearest the door.

“Yes, yes it is.” She wiped her hands on her apron and worried about the leg of lamb in need of basting in the kitchen.

“Mr. Adams ordered these and said they must be delivered before five o’clock. I have his instructions here for where they are to be placed.” He made a motion toward the door, but Finola put her hand up to stop him.

“Just a moment, please. May I see the list?” He handed it to her and she read it over. Yes, there was no mistake. Only Timothy would go to such lengths to impress Mary Louise. Finola sighed and stepped aside to allow the parade of men to enter.

“Help yourself. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

She had just finished basting the lamb and was tossing potatoes with herbs and butter when Liam arrived at the kitchen door.

“I am never drinking apple juice again. I think I’m all pooped out now,” he said with a sigh.

“Well, I’m glad to hear that, I think. Your da will be home soon. You should go get dressed for dinner.”

“I don’t want to.”

Finola raised her brows at the boy’s insistence. “And just how do you think your father will feel about that?”

“I don’t care.” He crossed his arms in stubborn refusal. “I’m still thinking about that dream I had. I don’t want that woman here.”

“Liam,” Finola said, wiping her hands on her apron. “Come here.”

He did as she asked. She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him tightly. “You can’t let a silly dream rule your life, now can you?”

He shrugged.

“You know that your da loves you dearly, and if he should decide to marry Miss Rankin, you’ll have to learn to love her, too.”

“I don’t want to,” his said, a pitiful tremble in his voice. “I want her to go away and never come back.”

“Well, I’m sure she will be leaving soon for another show somewhere.” She smoothed his hair. “I’ll bet she’s going somewhere exciting like Paris or New York. Think of the wonderful tales she can tell you about those places.”

“I don’t care.” He set his jaw with determination. “I want to hear about Ireland and St. Louis. The stories you tell.”

“There is nothing very exciting about Ireland, and there’s certainly nothing at all interesting that I could tell you about St. Louis.” She graced his forehead with a rare kiss. “Now, run upstairs and wash your face. Have a little lie down before Da gets here.”

She shooed him off, her heart constricting at the thought of ever having to leave him. She didn’t want to, that was certain. But if Mr. Adams married Mary Louise, she would have to go. There could be no way under God’s Heaven that she could bear it.

****

By the time Timothy arrived home from the bank, everything was well in hand. The lamb was roasted to perfection and resting to allow the juices to settle before carving. The potatoes, carrots, and turnips had been coated with butter and herbs and also roasted to a fine turn. Fresh rolls filled the kitchen with a mouth-watering aroma. Trays of pickles, relishes, and other savory delights dotted the elegant dining room table, draped in white linen finery and laid with delicate china plates and cups. Fine crystal goblets and silver tableware accented each place setting.

And flowers were everywhere. In Finola’s opinion, the Adams’ dining room and front parlor now smelled more like a funeral parlor than a house.

She stood waiting for Timothy’s command.

“Are my clothes laid out?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Should I shave?”

Finola squinted her eyes and peered at his jaw line. “I don’t believe so, sir.”

“Dinner smells wonderful. I know you’ve done an excellent job—you always do.” He smiled and then laughed at her blush. “Finola, I do believe I’ve embarrassed you.”

“Oh, no, sir…maybe just a bit,” she confessed, feeling her cheeks burn under his gaze.

“Well, it’s true. You take fine care of Liam and me.” He stopped and looked at her intently. As if he were not thinking, he reached out and smoothed back the stray wisp of hair from her forehead. “You’ve made life grand again for us. Once I didn’t think that was possible.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied, hating the red flush she felt creeping over her face. “I try to do my best.”

“And that you do,” he agreed. “Sometimes I think…”

She kept her eyes on his, mesmerized by the faraway gaze. “Yes?” she whispered.

Timothy smiled and stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets. “Oh, nothing. I best change. Is Liam all ready?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied, wishing for all the world that Timothy Adams had finished his sentence.

****

Mary Louise Rankin arrived thirty minutes late, sending Finola into spasms of panic. The lamb would be dried out, and the vegetables would be ruined. If not for a chocolate torte, they would have nothing.

“Nothing at all, I tell you,” she fumed as she basted the sliced lamb. “Who in the world of manners would just waltz in late, knowing that people have gone to a lot of trouble.”

“Finola? Who are you talking to?” Liam asked as he entered the kitchen.

“Oh, no one, child. Just meself.”

“Da says we’ll be sitting down in about five minutes.”

“Thank you, son. Now, let’s have a look at you. Oh, aren’t you handsome? Such a fine lad, you are. Run along and tell him that everything is just fine.” She watched him pass through the doorway and then pulled her apron off.

Despite the thread of jealousy taking hold of her heart concerning Mary Louise, she was still Finola’s friend. It would be fun to hear where the young actress would be traveling next. She could only dream of the life the actress led.

When she heard them enter the dining room, she carried the meat platter in first. She smiled at Mary Louise as she set the platter at the head of the table next to Timothy’s place.

Mary Louise was striking in a sapphire blue gown, and she was wearing gloves. Her golden hair was swept up toward the crown and caught with two lovely jeweled pins that allowed it to cascade down to her shoulders in a riot of curls. Small pearl earrings dotted her earlobes, and she wore a matching strand of pearls around her neck. She was, Finola realized yet again, the most beautiful woman in the world.

Moving toward the kitchen with haste, she transported the other dishes to the table. With a jolt, she realized that neither Timothy nor Mary Louise had started filling their plates. They meant for her to serve them, and so she did. Then she refilled them, and their water glasses, and their coffee cups, all the while they chatted and laughed. Finola found herself fuming.

Mary Louise was her friend. Timothy wouldn’t even know her if it wasn’t for his lowly housekeeper. Her eyes caught Liam’s gaze that seemed to say, “See? I told you so. No room for you, and no room for me.”

With dessert and coffee finished, Timothy and Mary Louise moved to the parlor. Liam declined their invitation to join them, opting instead to help Finola with cleaning up.

As she furiously scrubbed the dishes in scalding water, she wiped at her cheeks with her shirtsleeve and hoped Liam would believe it was only sweat on her face and not tears. Peals of bright, ringing laughter floated in, and the child looked toward the door with a dark, brooding stare.

“I wish she would go home,” he finally declared. “Da acts like he has no sense when she’s around.”

She knew she should scold the boy, but she didn’t. Heaven knew he was telling the truth. Anger coursed through her like coal oil on a fire. She should leave tonight, and she would if not for Liam. Mr. Timothy Adams could learn to row his own boat, she fumed. She strained her ears to hear the conversation in the nearby parlor, but couldn’t make out the words.

“I’m going to bed.” Liam yawned. “I know when I’m not wanted. Goodnight, my Finola.”

“Goodnight, love.” She kissed him on the forehead. “I’ll be up in a bit and check on you.”

“I know.” The child smiled. “You always do.”

She waited until he was gone and then crept closer to the door. She frowned. They did seem to be talking quite a bit. Fresh panic coursed through her chest. Of course! They were making plans—plans for a wedding and their marriage. Plans for this house and their future children. Lord, no!

She couldn’t stop or even fight the flood of tears coursing down her cheeks. Damn him! Damn them both. Horrified at her thoughts, she crossed herself and begged God for forgiveness. This was eating her alive, she realized, and leaving her no other choice than to run before it completely consumed her.

She glanced around the kitchen and sighed. Clean and neat, everything was in its place. Now she had to cross through the parlor to get upstairs and hide in her room. Steeling herself, she stepped to the doorway.

“Are you sure about this, Mary Louise?” Timothy’s voice was low with a tight edge of something Finola couldn’t quite recognize.

“I am, Timothy. But just the same, I do hope that you’ll do business with my new backer. He’s looking to invest in several new venues.” Mary Louise’s silvery voice rang out clear and bright. “Now, is there anything else for us to discuss or are we all set?”

She stepped back from the door. That quickly? They had their wedding plans all made so soon?

“No, I suppose we are done here. Let me get your wrap, and I’ll ring the bell for Patrick to bring the carriage around.”

“Patrick?” The actress laughed. “Is that his name? You do have a liking for the Irish, don’t you?”

She heard him pull the bell chain to the stable.

“I just hired him. Finola hasn’t even met him yet.”

Mary Louise allowed Timothy to help her slip into the royal blue velvet cloak with the fetching white fur trim. “Well,” she replied at last, “perhaps our little housemaid will like him.”

Finola bristled at the words “our little housemaid.” How dare she say such things.

Timothy sighed with exasperation. “Finola isn’t like that. You know her, Mary Louise. She’s an upstanding, moral woman.”

She bit her lip in the quiet shadows of the hallway.

“Oh, come and walk me out. I didn’t mean any harm. I was just kidding.”

She waited until she was sure they moved past the stairwell, and then she ran for it. The last thing she wanted at that moment was to face either of them. From the stairs she could see them in the foyer, their faces serious and intent. She couldn’t hear them, but she could well imagine their words—talking about their future, their lives together, and maybe even children.

A sob caught in her throat, and tears blinded her vision as she rushed up the stairway. Nothing, no nothing, could make her stay here and be witness to the marriage of Timothy Adams and Mary Louise Rankin.