An Unexpected Pleasure

“You know, what he’s like. How he looks.”

“Oh, I can imagine that perfectly,” Megan responded. “He has English coloring, of course—blond hair and pale, lifeless skin—and doubtless a weak chin. He’ll have that supercilious expression, as if he looks down on the rest of the world with all the arrogance and contempt of a man who’s going to be the Duke of Broughton someday. His eyes are probably a cold blue.”

“Do you think he feels guilty over what he did to Dennis?”

Megan shrugged. “I don’t know. All I care about is that I make sure he pays for it till his dying day.”

“What are you going to do? I mean, how are you going to find out what happened? How are you going to prove it?” Deirdre asked.

“Well, it’s essential that I interview the other Englishmen who were there. Mr. Barchester, of course, and the other one. Julian Coffey.”

Their brother had set sail ten years ago on an expedition to the Amazon led by an American explorer named Griswold Eberhart. In the only letter they had received from Dennis after he left, he had told them that all the other men on the expedition had either fallen ill or given up by the time they had started up the Amazon, leaving only him and Captain Eberhart. Dennis had been exuberant, however, about their good fortune in coming upon a group from England, similarly depleted, with whom they had decided to join forces.

The English party had consisted of three men: Andrew Barchester, Julian Coffey and Theo Moreland. All of them were “excellent men,” he had written, especially Theo Moreland, who was only four years older than he and, according to Dennis, “great good fun.”

Some months later, Frank Mulcahey had received a short, formal note from Theo Moreland informing him of his son’s death and extending his sympathies. But it had been Andrew Barchester who had written to give them a longer account of Dennis’s death, revealing the unexpected news that Dennis had died at the hands of Theo Moreland himself.

“What he told Da wasn’t very specific,” Megan said now.

Deirdre nodded. “It’s been ten years, too. Da’s bound to have forgotten some things.”

“Unfortunately, I imagine Mr. Barchester probably has, too. Still, I have to talk to him.”

“What about Moreland?” Deirdre asked. “Are you going to question him?”

“I doubt he would even talk to me. He lives in a grand house, with a footman. I’m sure some unknown woman would not get past the door.”

“I’ve known you to lurk about until someone you want to interview comes outside and then accost him as he’s getting into his carriage,” Deirdre reminded her, her eyes twinkling.

Megan grinned, a dimple deepening in her cheek and her eyes glowing with mischief as she agreed, “’Tis true I’m not shy about throwing myself in his path. But for the moment, at least, I think it’s better not to do so. He’ll not admit that he killed a man. I need to use subterfuge here. I have to get inside his house and spy on him. If he took something from Dennis, as Da suspects, it’s most likely that he has it in that house. If I can track it down, it will give me proof—and will be something I can use as leverage. If I’m lucky, I’ll trick it out of him in some way.”

“How?”

Megan shrugged. “A number of men are talkative when they’re in their cups. I remember one fellow at Tammany Hall who let out quite a few secrets. He was a regular drinker at O’Reilly’s Tavern, and I was able to get hired on as a tavern maid.”

Deirdre shook her head in rueful admiration. “I remember the fit Da threw when he found out how you’d gotten that story.”

“You’d think I had taken up walking the streets, the way he carried on. I did nothing but serve drinks—and I showed no more bosom than many an evening gown I’ve seen on an elegant lady.”

“I don’t know how you have the nerve. I’d have died of embarrassment—not to mention being too scared to go in the door. Weren’t the men forward? Even, well, forceful?”

Megan shrugged. “Nothing I couldn’t handle. It helped having been around newspapermen for several years.”

Megan had had to fight for respect in her field—indeed, she had had to fight for everything she had gotten in her profession, from her first chance to write a story to her present job. She had known from the first that she could never reveal any weakness or others would seize upon it as proof that women were not competent to be reporters.

She had never told Deirdre about many of her experiences, knowing that they would have frightened her delicate sister—enough that Deirdre might even tell their father about them. And while Frank Mulcahey had been proud of her and ready to fight any man who dared suggest that his girl wasn’t as good a reporter as anyone, he had also bombarded her with constant worries and warnings about her safety. If he had heard about some of her more dangerous exploits, she wouldn’t have put it past him to come storming down to the newspaper to have it out with the editor for putting her in harm’s way.

“But that sort of thing won’t work this time,” Megan told her sister now. “I have no idea what tavern Theo Moreland frequents—if he even goes to any place so plebeian. He probably drinks at some gentleman’s club, with no women allowed inside. What I really need is to get inside the house. So I’m going to apply for a position as a servant there.”

Deirdre dropped the potato she had been peeling and stared at her sister, then burst into a merry peal of laughter.

“What’s so funny?” Megan asked indignantly. “It’s a perfectly good idea.”

“You? As a maid? Or maybe a cook?” Deirdre said after a moment, when she finally paused in her laughter and wiped away the tears her laughter had brought. “I should like to see that.”

“You think I couldn’t clean or cook?” Megan asked, putting her fists on her hips. “It’s not as if I haven’t done such things. I cooked and cleaned enough when you were growing up.”

Deirdre tried, not entirely successfully, to compress her lips into a straight line. “Perhaps—when Mary Margaret was cracking the whip. But that has been years.”

“I haven’t forgotten how. I’m sitting here paring potatoes, aren’t I?”

“Yes. But look at the pile of peelings in front of you.” Deirdre gestured toward the newspaper spread on the table between them. In front of Megan, there was a handful of peelings. Across the table, before Deirdre, lay a mound three times that size.

“You started before I did,” Megan pointed out. At her sister’s look, she went on, “Oh, all right, I’m not as fast as you. But they won’t know that.”

“You’d be fired in two days. For answering back, if nothing else. I know you, Megan Mulcahey, and taking orders won’t sit well with you.”

“You’re right about that. But I will simply have to accept it. I don’t see any other way to get into the house. Cleaning rooms will give me a perfect opportunity to look for something that Moreland might have stolen from Dennis.” She paused and looked at her sister a little tentatively. “Umm, I wonder—about those things that Dennis, uh, was looking for…”

Deirdre sighed. “No, I don’t know anything more about them. I haven’t heard or seen anything from Dennis since that night. I have no idea what he wants back so badly.” She paused, then went on, “I know you don’t really believe that Dennis came to me.”

“I don’t think you’re fibbing,” Megan assured her hastily. “I know you believe Dennis appeared to you—in actuality or a dream or something. I just find it—well, it’s—”

“I know. It’s much too otherworldly for you. You believe in tangible things, and there’s nothing wrong with that. You deal in facts, in the practical world. I know that. But, Megan…” Deirdre leaned forward, her brow wrinkled earnestly. “I’m not crazy.”

“Deirdre, I never meant…!” Megan cried, reaching her hand to her sister.

“No, I know you don’t think I’m insane. But there would be those who did if they knew some of the things I’ve seen and heard. But I know what I saw. It was Dennis, and he spoke to me—whether he was right there in the room with me or in a dream, I’m not entirely sure. But I know it was he, and I know he was desperate. He wants whatever was taken from him. It means a great deal to him. And he came to us for help.”

“I don’t know what to think,” Megan told her honestly. “’Tis hard for me to believe in such things, but I know you are neither crazy nor a liar, and as long as there is any chance that Dennis did come back from the grave, asking for our help, I shall strive to do what he wants. And I’ll take any help you can give me, even if it does come to you in a dream.”

“I only wish I could help you.” Deirdre sighed. “I wish this sort of thing was not always so uncertain. Every night when I go to bed, I pray that I will hear from him again. That he will tell us how to help him.”

Megan hardly knew how to respond to her sister.

Deirdre’s unquestioning faith in her visions amazed her and left her feeling, frankly, a little envious. It must be comforting, she thought, to be without doubt or questions. It was not a state, she feared, that she would ever be in. Her entire life was built upon questions, it seemed.

They continued to talk as they finished peeling the potatoes, and afterward Deirdre put the potatoes on to boil and checked the roast in the oven as she continued to put the evening meal together. Megan went upstairs to wash up before supper, then sat down to record her notes about Broughton House in a small notebook.

It was her custom on any story to keep notes this way. It helped her to plan her actions, she found, as well as think about the story in depth, and it also kept her quotes as accurate as possible. Over the course of the years, it had become an ingrained habit.

She only wished she had more facts to go on.

Finally she went downstairs to supper, finding, to her surprise, that her father had not come home yet. After waiting for him for some time, she and Deirdre sat down to eat, glancing now and again at the clock in the dining room, then at each other, their worry palpable.

He still had not arrived by the time they were through with their meal, and Megan helped Deirdre wash and dry the dishes as they talked, their vague concern growing.

It was with a great deal of relief that they heard the front door open a few minutes later, and then their father strolled in, whistling a tune.