Rogue's Mistress Read Online Free

freight. Julian wondered idly if O’Shea had been one of the thousands
of Irishmen brought over in the thirties to dig the New Basin Canal.
    Henrí opened the coach door, and
Julian alighted, holding on to his hat as his body was battered by the icy wind
blowing off the river. The O’Shea manservant approached. “What we tell Mistress
O’Shea, sir?” he asked Julian, almost shouting over the howl of the wind. “She
be mighty sick.”
    “At the moment—nothing,” Julian
replied. “I’ll be the judge of what is said.”
    “Yessir,” the servant replied,
staring at his feet.
    With Julian leading, the threesome
crossed the barren yard and climbed the creaky steps to the sagging porch.
Julian’s knock was promptly answered by a graying black woman in humble attire,
who glanced confusedly from Julian to Henrí to Joseph. When Joseph nodded to
her, she promptly admitted all three men.
    Julian entered a surprisingly
neat, if shabby, parlor. He caught images of cheap, fraying furniture, a
Crucifix, a family Bible on a stand and, above it, a picture of the Holy
Virgin. The room was chill, the bitter wind penetrating the thin walls.
    Julian handed his hat, cloak, and
gloves to the woman. “I would see your mistress.”
    The woman again looked to the
manservant for guidance, and he inclined his head once more in the affirmative.
Drawing her ratty shawl more tightly about her frail shoulders, the woman
motioned for Julian to follow her. She led him through a doorway directly into
the next room. This room was slightly warmer; a couple of charred logs glowed
in the grate. Julian approached the low bed, where lay the shrunken form of a
woman. Her complexion was waxy, and her thin, pale hands lay listlessly on the
moth-eaten wool coverlet. Her breathing was shallow, labored—little more than a
death rattle.
    Julian turned to the black woman
and whispered, “What ails her? The pneumonia?”
    The woman nodded, fixing doleful
brown eyes on her mistress. “She already weak from the consumption. Then the
pneumonia, it take her three days ago. The doctor, he say it jes’ a matter of
time. And the priest, he already come and go.”
    “What about the child?”
    “Miss Mercy, she sleepin’ in the
next room.”
    Mercy , Julian thought. What
a lovely name for a child. “How old is she?”
    “She nine.” The woman hesitated.
“Why you here, sir?”
    Julian glanced away, running a
hand through his hair. “I’m a concerned friend,” he said at last, knowing that
the woman didn’t believe him for a second.
    Yet she didn’t press him, saying
merely, “Yessir.”
    Julian glanced back at the
prostrate figure on the bed. “Is there nothing we can do for her?” he asked,
knowing the answer full well.
    The woman nodded sadly. “No sir.”
    “Then I’ll sit with her awhile,”
Julian said. He glanced at the dying fire. “You must ask the manservant to
bring more wood.”
    The woman lowered her eyes in
shame. “They ain’t none, sir. I use the last of the logs for mistress tonight.”
    Julian quickly withdrew some coins
from his pocket and handed them to the woman. “Kindly give these to my coachman
and tell him to go fetch firewood at once.”
    At first, the servant’s eyes grew
huge as she stared at the precious coins. Then she smiled at Julian gratefully.
“Yessir.”
    As she started to leave, he added,
“By the way—what is your mistress’s name?”
    “Corrine, sir. Corrine O’Shea.”
    The woman left, and Julian went to
sit in the ladder-back chair next to the bed; the rickety contraption groaned
beneath his weight. He studied Corrine O’Shea more closely. At one time, she
must have been quite a beauty. There was an aristocratic air about
her—something he found odd, considering her impoverished circumstances. Her
features were classically lovely—a long oval face, delicate nose, wide mouth,
and beautifully arched dark brows. Her hair was curly and raven-black, now
damp, due to her malaise, and streaked with