“Lady Cosgrove, are you not well?” He stepped forward, intending to offer his good hand to her.
She shook her head and did not speak but took a step backward, declining his assistance. “Impossible. You are dead.”
“Not quite.” He gave a tight-lipped smile. His leg and arm hurt enough that he might have wished for death a time or two the past weeks, had he not had Marsali to think of. “I have come to inquire about my wife’s whereabouts. When last I saw you, Marsali was with you in the saloon of the Amanda May. Do you know what became of her?”
“She—” If possible, Lady Cosgrove’s face grew more pale.
Christopher stepped closer, judging how he might be able to catch her, lest she fall. “Have you seen her? I have had no word and must find her.”
Lady Cosgrove took several shallow breaths before meeting his eye and speaking again. And then it was not to answer his question.
“You are injured?” Her eyes flickered from his cane and bandaged arm to his closely shorn hair.
“I was,” he clarified. “I will be well soon enough. Please, have you any news of Marsali?” She knows something. She is avoiding telling me. His fingers curved over the handle of the cane, bracing himself for the worst.
“Miss Abbott is… How are you to work with your injuries?” Lady Cosgrove asked, once again changing the subject swiftly.
“I’ll manage,” Christopher said, wondering that she would care at all. “Have you any news of Marsali?” He was not going to leave until the woman told him whatever it was she knew. Good news or bad, he needed to hear it.
Lady Cosgrove considered him a moment more, then seemed to stiffen with some sort of resolve. “Miss Abbott would not leave the ship with me. Mr. Luke came to take us to a lifeboat, but she insisted on waiting for you. Later, when I was in the boat, I caught a glimpse of her up on deck, calling your name. The way the ship was rolling in the sea, it is difficult to believe one could stand on the deck at all— without being secured.”
No. Christopher refused to believe that Marsali had been swept overboard. Still, he gritted his teeth to keep from crying out his anguish. That Lady Cosgrove would know of Marsali’s whereabouts had been his greatest hope.
“I was not aware of other survivors beyond Lydia and I,” Lady Cosgrove said quietly.
“Mr. Murphy is alive as well,” Christopher said. “It is thanks to him that I am here. And Marsali is alive. I know it. If she was on the deck by the boats she must have ended up in one.”
“Yes, well…” Lady Cosgrove cleared her throat. “Ours nearly capsized several times that awful night. It is entirely possible that others did.”
He didn’t want to think about that possibility either and refused to consider it yet. “I thank you for your time,” Christopher said, wanting only to get far away from Lady Cosgrove and her dire imaginations as quickly as possible. “I wish you and your daughter a happy life together here.”
“Thank you.” She looked away, as if she felt guilty that they should have such happiness when he did not.
He limped his way to the front door and the waiting butler. It seemed his leg was even less prone to functioning normally now that he had stood still a few moments.
Where are you, Marsali? Where would you go? To Virginia? The possibility that she was even now at Mr. Joshua Thomas’s plantation worried him greatly. Yet it was a very real possibility. If Marsali believed me dead, she would have felt she had no choice but to honor her indenture.
At the threshold, Christopher turned around once more to find Lady Cosgrove anxiously looking past him.
Discomfited by my injuries, no doubt. His hair had not yet grown enough to cover the scar running down the back of his head.
“If you should chance to learn of my wife’s whereabouts or even see her, I will be found in Virginia, working on or near Mr. Joshua Thomas’s plantation.”
Mr. Vancer’s buggy turned the corner to Fifth Street, bringing into view the towering mansions that made up the neighborhood. To Marsali, every one seemed ostentatious in size. After a few hours away from the city, being surrounded again by grey stone felt depressing. Instead of looking forward to returning to the house, as she had guessed she would, Marsali felt anxious, as if it was a living thing seeking to ensnare her.
They reached the front of the house, and Mr. Vancer alighted from the buggy. Though she was perfectly capable of removing herself, Marsali waited for him to come around to assist her. Two servants emerged from the front doors and started down the steps as if they had been standing there all afternoon, awaiting their return. Marsali wondered if they had and then wondered at the extravagance of it all. Would not such money be better spent on other things— such as helping people like that poorly dressed man down the street?
What is such a person doing here? she wondered, having seen no one who appeared anything other than well-to-do in this part of town. She leaned closer, squinting at him. There was something familiar about him— the broad shoulders, the way he carried himself.
Christopher! Marsali rose up in her seat, leaning over the front of the carriage.
“Miss Abbott, do be careful.” Mr. Vancer held his hand out to her, and Marsali accepted it, practically jumping from the carriage. She stepped past him and began walking briskly down the street, about to call out the man when his cane swung into view.
She felt her hope deflate. It cannot be Christopher. See how he is hobbling. He is probably not even young.
But he is tall, his shoulders broad.
Many men are tall with broad shoulders, even as they age. She continued arguing with herself.
His hair— That was it. His hair would tell her. If the man was indeed Christopher, his brown hair would brush the back of his collar with a slight curl. He was walking so slowly, and she so quickly, that she was almost close enough to tell.
“What is wrong? Have I done something to offend you?” Mr. Vancer’s gentle voice and his hand upon her arm stopped her. Instead of looking at him, she watched as the man with the cane lifted his hat to mop his brow. The skin at the base of his head appeared wrinkled. Her disappointment swelled. He is old. And his hair in back was cut very short, perhaps the same color as Christopher’s, but nowhere near to his collar.
I will simply have to allow my hair to grow…
Crushing disappointment swelled in her breast, so much so that she stumbled and might have fallen save for Mr. Vancer’s hand at her arm. The man continued his labored walk down the street. Something about his leg was obviously very wrong or possibly even deformed, and Marsali wondered how she ever could have imagined it might be Christopher.
“I thought I saw someone I knew.” She looked at the ground as tears stung her eyes.
Mr. Vancer did not say anything but drew her to him, pulling her into his embrace. His strong arms offered comfort, and a tiny sob escaped her throat. “Would that I might take this pain from you, Miss Abbott.”
She began to cry in earnest.
He did not chastise her but gently steered her back the way they had come, through the gate and into the relative privacy of the garden. There they sat on a bench, and she wept out her heartache.
“Allow me to help you heal,” Mr. Vancer said after some time had passed and at last her tears had dried. “If you will but give me a chance, I promise to make you happy again.”
Wearing a triumphant smile and looking far better than Marsali had seen her thus far, Lady Cosgrove practically floated into the sitting room. “We’ve made the second page of the Evening Post,” she exclaimed.
“The newspaper is just now publishing the story of the Amanda May?” A month had passed since her wreck— old news for most, though Marsali continued to dwell on it, remembering the horrific events leading to its end with such clarity it was as if they had happened hours ago. “I suppose the papers in America are not as prompt at reporting news as those in England.”
“Everything is slower here,” Lady Cosgrove agreed, her face resuming its usual, pinched expres
sion. “But this article is not about the misfortune of the ship; it is about us.”
Why should anyone want to read about us? Marsali set down her embroidery and reached for the paper. “May I?”
Lady Cosgrove handed her the paper and seated herself on the sofa beside Marsali’s chair. Marsali had learned to avoid the sofas and love seats when sitting in this room or any other, lest Mr. Vancer join her and assume a place too near her.
“Do read it aloud,” Lady Cosgrove said. “I should like to hear it again.”
Marsali opened the paper and saw the headline on page two at once. “Fairy Tale to Nightmare— Or Is It?” Her brow wrinkled, and a premonition of unease flared in her stomach.
“Miss Marsali Abbott (19) of Manchester boarded the Amanda May at Liverpool, England, on 4 September, eager for a new life in America. Miss Abbott, daughter of Charles Abbott, of Manchester, England, came to join her sister, who had made the journey four years earlier. Miss Abbott’s parents are both deceased.” Marsali stopped reading and looked up at Lady Cosgrove.
“This is all about me— why should anyone care who I am?”
“Yes, yes.” Lady Cosgrove waved her hand dismissively. “That part is rather boring, but keep reading, my dear.”
Silently Marsali bristled at the endearment. Never once, throughout the entire four-week voyage, had she heard Lady Cosgrove refer to Lydia as such. Of late Marsali worried that there were times Lady Cosgrove really did believe she was her daughter.
“While aboard the Amanda May Miss Abbott became enamored of fellow passenger, a Mr. Christopher Thatcher (21), grandson of Eugene Durham, the Seventh Duke of Salisbury.” Marsali glanced down at the ring on her finger, the family heirloom that could no longer be passed down. At least until I have returned it to Christopher’s sisters. In her letter she had promised to give them the ring as soon as safe passage for it might be arranged.
Safe passage— Is there such a thing?
“Grandson of a duke or not, no doubt you would have continued on in a life of poverty being married to Mr. Thatcher. He was a descendent through his mother, so the title and monies did not go to him.”
“He did not need a title or money.” Marsali had loved him as he was. Just as he was, and she felt certain he would have built a better life for himself here. The one he had dreamed of. She felt suddenly tired and sorrowful. She leaned forward, handing the paper to Lady Cosgrove. “I fear I can read no more.”
“Very well.” Lady Cosgrove took up the paper, straightened her posture, and began where Marsali had left off.
“It is assumed Mr. Thatcher returned that affection, for Captain Robert Gower (44) of Liverpool, married the two the morning of 25 September, just hours before lightning struck the mast of the Amanda May, setting the ship afire and sending all of her crew and two of her passengers to watery graves. The only survivors were Miss Abbott and Lady Cornelia Cosgrove—” Lady Cosgrove cleared her voice suddenly, then mumbled something that began with “fifty.”
She skipped reading her age, Marsali surmised. Lydia had informed her— as she’d informed everyone else on the ship— that her mother was fifty-one.
Lady Cosgrove cleared her throat once more. “I seem to have a tickle,” she said. “Be a dear and find someone to fetch me a glass of water, will you?”
“Of course.” Marsali stood and left the room, trying not to contain her growing resentment of Lady Cosgrove. She treated Lydia much the same, Marsali reminded herself— partly a pampered showpiece to put on display, and partly a servant at her beck and call.
But at least I am not in danger here. And I can leave next month.
She found a servant girl to fetch Lady Cosgrove’s drinks— water and something a bit stronger, Marsali knew intuitively by now— and returned to the sitting room.
In her absence Lady Cosgrove appeared to have recovered from her tickle and began reading aloud once more before Marsali had even taken her seat.
“Lady Cosgrove’s daughter, Lydia, formerly betrothed to Mr. William Vancer (34) (Vancer Furs, Vancer Shipping) of New York, perished at sea. Upon learning of the disaster, he welcomed both Lady Cosgrove and Miss Abbott into his home indefinitely.” Lady Cosgrove paused and removed a handkerchief from her sleeve, then used it to dab at the corners of her eyes.
“Since then Miss Abbott and Mr. Vancer have been seen driving, and the three have hosted a dinner party with a few close friends. At that party, Miss Abbott was seated near the head of the table at Mr. Vancer’s right, indicating that the rumors are likely true— that she and Mr. Vancer are helping each other through their grief and may just be able to heal each other’s broken hearts. The real fairy tale might just be unfolding.”
Marsali brought a hand to her forehead, partly covering one eye and wishing she might disappear altogether. “I did not realize the gossip column merited the second page. It seems this piece is more fictitious than newsworthy.”
“Do not be ungrateful, dear,” Lady Cosgrove snapped. “Mr. Vancer has rescued you as surely as Mr. Thatcher did— better, in fact. Look what he can give you.” Her hand swept the room. Marsali did not need to follow to note the luxurious drapes, furnishings, and artwork. She was well aware of the wealth of her surroundings.
“Note that there was no mention of your poverty or the indenture to Mr. Thomas,” Lady Cosgrove said. “Mr. Vancer made sure of that. No one will look down their noses at you here. You will have everything you’ve ever dreamed of, the life you were born to,” she added, causing Marsali a sting of guilt.
The maid appeared in the doorway, waiting there until Lady Cosgrove beckoned her in. When the tray of drinks had been set on the table in front of them and the maid had gone, Marsali was not at all surprised to see Lady Cosgrove pick up the glass that did not hold water.
The older woman scooted forward on the sofa and reached out, touching Marsali’s arm in an almost motherly way. “Dear, you must forget Mr. Thatcher,” she advised, her voice softer. “Think of efforts I will have wasted in bringing you here. Mr. Vancer is a fine man, and if you’ll only let him, he can give you everything.”
“I know,” Marsali said, her eyes downcast. But what if I cannot give him anything— even a piece of my heart— in return?
“Lady Cosgrove showed me the article in the paper,” Marsali said, feeling that to be a good topic for conversation as any on her stroll with Mr. Vancer through his gardens.
“Brilliant piece, wasn’t it?” he asked, the smugness of his smile suggesting that he’d had much to do with it.
“Did you write it yourself?” Marsali asked.
He chuckled. “No, but I gave them the information needed and showed them its potential.”
“What potential?” she tilted her face up at him.
“For the love story of the decade,” he said, his lip curving upward as he looked down at her. He patted her hand as it rested lightly on the crook of his arm. “We are the matter of dreams. Women will swoon over such a story, and then they will recall the name Vancer when it comes time to purchase their furs.”
Marsali bristled. Losing one’s fiancée and one’s husband is what others dream of? “And if our dream does not go as the paper has so boldly predicted?” She did not see how it possibly could, based as it was on promoting business, as it suddenly seemed to be.
Mr. Vancer ceased walking, turned to Marsali, and took both of her hands in his. “Why should it not?”
She replied with a question of her own. “Why should you wish to marry me? Why, for that matter, did you wish to marry Lydia? No doubt you are one of the most sought-after bachelors in New York, or possibly even the entire States.”
“New York, yes. The States… perhaps, though there are some well-known Virginians still holding out as well.”
She frowned at his arrogance, and he laughed aloud as if he knew her thoughts.
“I am only jesting,” he assured her. “The truth is twofold. I have entertained a great many fine ladies with the idea that I might find one I wished to cou
rt. But none has ever held my attention for long.”
“Perhaps it is your attention that is lacking, rather than the ladies,” Marsali suggested, causing him to laugh again.
“That is what I love about you— your candor is refreshing. I shall never be allowed to be vain with you by my side.” He released her hands, offered her his arm once more, and they resumed their walk.
Marsali fretted even more. He’d spoken almost as if it was a foregone conclusion that they were a couple, that they would be together.
“Why did you suppose that Lydia— Miss Cosgrove,” Marsali amended, “would be any different than the other ladies? That she would be able to keep your attention?”
“I did not suppose that at all,” Mr. Vancer said, somewhat astonishing Marsali.
“Yet you intended to marry her? And what would happen when you no longer fancied her?” she demanded. “Would you—”
“No.” His tone sounded more pained than angry. “When I marry I shall be faithful to my wife. As I would hope she would be faithful to me.” He cast a glance a Marsali, causing her further guilt.
I am already unfaithful. I cannot stop thinking of Christopher or comparing the two.
“I agreed to marry Miss Cosgrove for two reasons. First, the Cosgroves are old friends. Our families have a history some generations back. When Lady Cosgrove wrote to me of her predicament, I do not believe she was hoping for an offer of marriage for her daughter.”
“Then why—”
“If honesty is your strength, impatience is surely your weakness,” Mr. Vancer said.
Marsali sighed, then found herself smiling. “You are right, of course,” she admitted. “My apologies.”
“Accepted.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Lady Cosgrove’s letter arrived at nearly the same time as another letter from England, this bequeathing to me an estate worth a great deal of money. However, to claim the inheritance, I had to be married.”
“So your act was more than charity,” Marsali said, understanding at last what had brought about such an unusual betrothal.
Marrying Christopher (A Hearthfire Romance Book 3) Page 29
