Comfort and Joy by Sandra Madden

at once.”
    “Mother —”
    “You cannot continue another day with a marriage so ill-suited. A marriage foisted upon you by shifty, greedy Irishmen cannot be considered a true marriage.”
    “No, and I —”
    “Why did you not put an end to it immediately after you came to your senses?”
    “Because Maeve saved my life,” Charles said, biting back the unexpected anger swirling like a tainted meal in the pit of his stomach. “I brought her home so that by spending time with me, she will see first-hand that we come from far different backgrounds. Maeve will quickly come to understand that she and I are too dissimilar to make a success of our marriage.”
    “You give her too much credit,” Beatrice sulked.
    “I intend to reward Maeve for taking my life into her hands. Mrs. Potts has been instructed to provide a proper wardrobe and after the holiday I will settle with my...” Charles paused, he’d almost said wife. “I will settle with Maeve.”
    “What do you mean?” His mother frowned as she inclined her head.
    “Maeve will have enough funds so that she will never have to work again. In return she will give me a divorce.’’
    “Work?” An even deeper frown drove Beatrice’s eyebrows dangerously near to the bridge of her nose. “What sort of work does the woman do?”
    “She is in service,” Charles said quietly.
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Maeve’s a maid, or was, in service to Harriet Deakins.”
    “Oh Lord, save me!” Beatrice closed her eyes and moaned. “The Deakinses! Does Harriet know about your marriage?”
    “I don’t believe so.” Charles rose. This interview had gone badly. He attempted to reassure his prostrate parent as he ambled to the door. “Mother, this will all be over soon. In the meantime, please be kind to Maeve. Remember, she saved my life.”
    “I cannot promise,” Beatrice replied faintly, lifting the smelling salts to her nose once again.
    Charles reached the door and was about to say good night when his mother spoke again. “Be warned. I shall speak to your father about this.”
    His hand froze on the polished brass handle. “I beg your pardon?”
    “There is a new medium in Boston; Mrs. Helen Foster. I have been corresponding with her and she promises contact with the spiritual world and most especially your dear departed father.”
    A man Beatrice avoided as much as possible during his lifetime had been relegated to sainthood shortly after his death.
    “Mother, no one talks to the dead.”
    “I shall, through Helen.”
    Heaving a resigned sigh, Charles turned the handle. “Very well. Give father my best.”
    * * * *
    He brushed his fingertips over the sketch, soft strokes of admiration for the art. His hands trembled from the chill of the damp, cold room.
    He gazed with reverence at the picture: St. Nick sketched in black and white. Not a drop of color on the canvas and yet every fine line evoked a feeling. Love and whimsy were portrayed in the curl of the old man’s beard, the twinkle in his eyes and even the very girth of him. His generosity was depicted by the sack across his back that overflowed with toys: dolls, wooden soldiers, trains, and tops.
    The artist had only produced a dozen sketches before his untimely death. Each was valuable, but this sketch of St Nick was the only known piece by the artist showing joy. The difference made it especially valuable.
    The sketch promised to bring a great deal of money when he sold it in London. And he needed money desperately. Things had gone badly for him most of his life. He was due a stroke of luck, even if he had engineered it himself.
    When he’d tried to break off with his mistress recently, Lydia had balked. The tart threatened to expose him to his wife — who was not an understanding woman.
    Using his forefinger, he stroked the bristly corner of his mustache. From the first, Lydia had been expensive. Over the course of a year, she’d driven him deeply into debt. Now she’d turned to blackmailing