Only in My Arms Read Online Free PDF Page B

thoroughfare in the heart of the city, was then a muddy tract in the hinterlands.
    The gray stone home was large and solid, built to accommodate Jay Mac's mistress and his five bastard Marys. There was a lot of gossip among society's upper crust when Jay Mac's plan was first revealed and still more during the residence's construction. After all, matrons tittered, Jay Mac and his wife lived not far from the planned site. How could he do this to Nina? How would that woman hold her head up? Only Nina's death finally silenced the gossips on that subject.
    On another front, one closer to his heart, Jay Mac heard from Moira that she really didn't want to leave the flat where she had been living with her daughters. True, they were cramped, and Mary was old enough to deserve her own room, but it was hardly a squalid setting.
    John MacKenzie Worth had not become one of a dozen of the most powerful and influential men in the nation by listening to what everyone else said. The construction went ahead.
    Now, as Mary Dennehy came to stand in front of the spiked iron fence that bordered the property, she appreciated her father's decision as she had never done before.
    She pushed at the gate and it swung open easily on well-oiled hinges. Mr. Cavanaugh's work, Mary thought. Their groundskeeper worked hard to present the house in its best light. The shrubs were carefully manicured, the rosebushes pruned lovingly. Now that it was fall, marigolds and hardy mums followed the perimeter of the house and touched it with a deep, rich rainbow of autumn's finest colors.
    Mary let the gate swing closed behind her and paused briefly before starting up the walk. She drew a calming breath to order her mind because she recognized that the serene and stoic presentation of the house was not what one necessarily encountered inside.
    A maid she didn't recognize greeted her at the door and took her shawl. "Where's Mrs. Cavanaugh?" Mary asked. The groundskeeper had a perfect counterpart in his wife, who oversaw all of the inside work. Mrs. Cavanaugh had been with Moira Dennehy and her children since they'd moved from the flat to the palace.
    "M'name's Peggy Bryant, Sister," she said, making a little curtsy. "Mrs. Cavanaugh's having a row with the butcher this morning. Something about being charged twice for lamb chops that weren't worth their price once."
    Mary smiled. It had been disconcerting not to see a familiar, loved face immediately, but Peggy's story was pure Mrs. Cavanaugh. She loved to haggle with the green grocer, the butcher, the flower vendor, and the milkman. She watched every one of Jay Mac's household accounts as closely as she watched the stock market. In her mind the two were related. The housekeeper supposed that whatever she could save on the front end would be returned to her twofold through her stocks at Northeast Rail. Jay Mac tried to explain once that it didn't work that way, but there was no telling Mrs. Cavanaugh anything once she had made up her mind. To Mary's way of thinking that trait went a long way to making Mrs. Cavanaugh one of the family.
    "Your mother's gone shopping," Peggy offered. "I don't think she expected you before tea."
    Mary did not let her relief show. The cornet of her habit continued to frame delicate, serenely untroubled features. "And Jay Mac's at his office?"
    Peggy nodded, and several strands of dark hair slipped from beneath her dainty, starched cap. She quickly tucked them back. "Since early this morning, Sister."
    "I'm just Mary here."
    Peggy's hazel eyes were skeptical as they took in Mary's habit from head to toe. "That will take some getting used to," she said uncertainly. "I was raised by the Sisters at St. Stephen's. They weren't likely to ask me to call them by their given names."
    Mary saw Peggy glance upward as if she were expecting lightning to strike. She said dryly, "In my experience, Peggy, our Lord uses more subtle means—at least before tea."
    Peggy's eyes widened so the whites were completely