“A temper to boot. I’m in love.” He scratched his big head, set defiantly on a thick neck, and with his cornflower blue eyes twinkling, he said, “How do I woo such a woman?”
“You don’t,” said Fiona over her shoulder. “Not unless you are rich.”
“I’m poor as a sparrow.”
“Then you are a thick-headed gobshite. I have no interest in the likes of you.”
“I’m a great cook and I do the dishes.”
“That’s what they all say.”
O’Reilly looked her up and down. “Bless your little Irish heart and every other Irish part.”
“Oh, you barbarian.” Fiona stomped off.
“Now you’ve done it O’Reilly,” said Zachary.
O’Reilly tipped his hat. “Pardon me, Miss Spencer. As I slide down the banister of life, pray for me the splinters never point in the wrong direction. Off to pursue my future bride.”
“Doesn’t look like you have a chance,” chuckled Zachary.
“She doesn’t know it yet.”
The children surrounded the Chinaman and pulled him away. Like a social curiosity he was. He possessed high cheekbones and stood a head taller than Zachary, his height unusual for a Chinaman. He had long, ink-black hair tied at his nape with a leather thong, a dusty hat, and all-seeing monolid eyes that seemed to hold a thousand years of wisdom. He didn’tsmile, remaining impassive. He bowed to her and that was the greatest form of communication she received from him.
“I tend to pick up strays,” Zachary explained to Elizabeth.
Her gaze drifted to where Fiona and O’Reilly fought like the hounds of hell. “I don’t know if Mr. O’Reilly’s charm will work on Fiona. I’ve never her seen her so worked up.”
“He has his ways but is brilliant and true as the hills of Donegal.”
“If you say so. Does he court all women the same way?”
“He’s never had any interest in females until he clapped his eyes on your lady’s maid.”
Elizabeth blinked. “You mean, she’s the only one?”
“Positive. I’ve never seen O’Reilly in the company of any woman. He’s too busy working on engines. He has one third share of my company. I do the designing and together we build and make our product work.”
When the sun was nearing its descent, the Fitzgeralds retired early making their goodbyes. Zachary and Elizabeth were left to load the exhausted children on the wagons where drivers carted them to the orphanage.
“Oh, Miss Spencer,” Fiona said. “Do you mind if I take the night off? Mr. O’Reilly is kind enough to escort me home.”
Elizabeth did an about face. She would have been less surprised if her maid had announced to waltz off with the Lakota Chief Crazy Horse. How long had Elizabeth been harangued with Fiona’s unbound condemnations of Irishmen? The mystery pleaded for answers—anything that aimed at the absurdity, contradiction and mind-boggling irony. Who was she to nip a blossoming romance in the bud? “Of course.”
In the Spencer carriage, Caroline nestled in Elizabeth’s arms. How sweet her daughter smelled, of daisies and sunshine. “I had a wonderful day, Miss Spencer. Do you know what I dream about?”
Elizabeth smoothed the hair back from her daughter’s forehead, relishing the moment to hold her daughter, feeling her warmth and drowning in a sea of maternal love. “What do you dream about?”
She yawned. “I dream that you are my mother.”
Elizabeth chest hitched. Her vision blurred. Zachary’s cobalt blue eyes gazed into hers with all the hypnotic intensity she remembered.
Caroline lifted her deep violet eyes to Elizabeth. “What do you suppose happened to my mother and father? Didn’t they want me?”
Elizabeth held her daughter’s face in her hands. How she wanted her daughter to love and to hold and to be near Caroline all the time. How her child held her heart in the palm of her little hand. Elizabeth would walk through the gates of hell to keep her sacred gift safe. Elizabeth’s voice cracked with emotion. “I’m sure your mother wanted you very much.”
Elizabeth drowned in guilt. Her soul lay scarred, and her heart despaired wild with regret unable to claim her child.
