Marrying Christopher (A Hearthfire Romance Book 3)

by Michele Paige Holmes

  Mr. Vancer pulled Marsali’s hands from her face and did not release them. “I am not sorry in the least,” he said. “I had worried that you were not ready yet. I am vastly relieved to discover that you are, and that you are as eager as I am for our marriage.”

  She cringed internally.

  “And now I am eager to share our good news with the others. Shall we go in to the ball?” He stood, then held his hand out to her. She took it, and he helped her up. They went out into the hall.

  “I will speak to the musicians about halting after this set— so we can share our good news with our guests.”

  “Go ahead,” she urged. “I’ll wait here.” As soon as he had left her side and began crossing the room to the musicians’ dais, Marsali stepped into one of the curtained alcoves adjoining the vast ballroom.

  Turning her back to the entrance, she tugged off her glove, then stared down at her hand. Christopher’s ring peered up at her, bringing a rush of tears. She looked away, hoping for something in the tiny room to take her mind from the past she so easily slipped into. Through the lone, square window she saw that the drizzle outside continued, as it had for the past several days. She longed to be outside in it, to remember the smell of rain and the feel of the cool drops on her skin as she had stood on deck and spoken her wedding vows with Christopher.

  This is hopeless. Marsali squeezed her eyes shut, willing the memory away. How was she supposed to look to the future when everything reminded her of the past and Christopher? She would have to do something to change that.

  She opened her eyes and quickly twisted the ring from her finger, then dropped it into the bodice of her dress and replaced the glove.

  Christopher is dead. I am no longer his wife. She could not wear his ring if she was to marry another. She must do as Charlotte directed and give Mr. Vancer a proper chance.

  Marsali blinked back her tears, straightened her back, and returned to the ballroom, determined, now that she had agreed to marry Mr. Vancer, to make the choice to love him. She would begin tonight. By smiling and laughing with him, staying at his side, and hanging on his every word. She would dance with him and do all in her power to be a delight to him. It was the right thing to do. The only thing to do. And so she would endeavor to do it well. After all…

  At least one of us should be happy.

  Hurrying through the drizzle, Christopher donned his mask and walked briskly toward the entrance to Mr. Vancer’s ballroom. If my sisters could see me now, he thought for probably the hundredth time since leaving England. They would not have believed— he hardly could— that he had purposely dressed in costume and was eager to attend a ball.

  Upon learning that Charlotte had been picked up by a carriage belonging to one William Vancer of New York City— just hours before Christopher had arrived at her home— he had set off, following her by wagon, foot, borrowed horse, and ferry, believing there was only one place she could be going and one person she could be going to see.

  But why did Lady Cosgrove not send me notice? Perhaps she had and Miss Thomas had intercepted that correspondence as well. Regardless, whatever barriers had stood between him and Marsali finding one another, Christopher felt them slipping away. He felt infused with purpose and more alive than he had for many weeks. Very soon— moments now?— he would see Marsali and hold her in his arms once more.

  He tugged at the suit his former New Jersey landlady had kindly lent him when he’d stopped at her boarding house for a precious few hours’ sleep and a bath. He clutched the muddied card that had fallen from heaven, so to speak, after he had spent an hour posing as a servant hired to help outside for the evening, desperately trying to determine how he might gain entrance to the mansion. Just when he had almost given up and was assisting with the unloading of what he had decided was his last carriage full of guests, he’d found a card and mask that had fallen into the rain-soaked street as the overly excited and flustered occupants of the carriage had disembarked. The ink on the card was now blurred, and Christopher’s heart leapt at this fortunate turn of events. The name of the guest it had belonged to was no longer legible, though it was still obvious that the invitation was for tonight’s festivities. A masquerade ball… honoring Miss Marsali Abbott.

  Christopher handed the card to the servant stationed at the ballroom and made his apologies for its condition, citing the rainy weather they had been having. He was given a brief nod in return and moved easily into the ballroom. No name required. Perhaps things were done differently here in America. Or perhaps it seemed unlikely that a gentleman would attend a masquerade ball if it was not required that he attend.

  Letting out a long breath of relief, Christopher scanned the ballroom for Marsali. He did not see her but on his second pass across the room discovered Lady Cosgrove busily chatting with a group of other women. Even in costume she was impossible to miss, with that ramrod-straight back of hers. With purposeful strides, he started toward her, mask in place.

  He waited patiently until a lull in the conversation, then gently touched her elbow. She turned to him and looked him over, a puzzled expression just visible behind her own mask.

  “Good evening, Lady Cosgrove.” He inclined his head, allowing his own mask to slip a little so she might see him better.

  A hand flew to her chest. “Excuse me, ladies,” she said to the other three women congregated with her. “Come with me,” she said under her breath and began leading him to a more secluded corner of the ballroom.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded when they had reached the relative privacy of an alcove.

  “I have come to find my wife— perhaps share a dance or two and then take her home with me.” Home was currently a room at a boarding house, but he knew it wouldn’t matter to Marsali.

  “Shh.” Lady Cosgrove pressed a finger to her lips. “Do you wish the entire ballroom to hear our conversation?”

  He would shout his request to the entire room if she did not cooperate and tell him where he might find Marsali. “Just show me where Marsali is, and we will leave— together.”

  “You cannot. She is— no longer your wife,” Lady Cosgrove stammered.

  “What do you mean?” Panic flared, though reason told him that Marsali was not dead. Masquerade balls were not held in honor of deceased persons.

  Lady Cosgrove bit down on her lip and brought a hand to her head as if in a great deal of pain. “She thinks you deceased,” she said finally. “And Mr. Vancer is set to publicly announce their betrothal at this moment.”

  “What of your daughter?” Christopher asked, momentarily brushing aside the crushing pain of Lady Cosgrove’s announcement and all its implications, not the least of which felt like betrayal from Marsali. “Is Miss Cosgrove not to marry Mr. Vancer?”

  “Lydia is dead,” Lady Cosgrove said, a slight catch in her voice. She removed her mask and looked up at him, a plea in her eyes. “When we landed in New York I told the authorities that Marsali was Lydia, and so we were both brought here. At the time Marsali was not coherent enough to protest, but I did it for her as much as myself. I kept her from Mr. Thomas. As soon as she was well again, she insisted Mr. Vancer know the truth. And these three months we have been here with him, they have fallen in love.”

  A knife to Christopher’s heart could not have hurt any worse. “You never told her that I came?”

  “No,” Lady Cosgrove admitted with a shake of her head. “At first I was afraid that if Marsali left, I should be asked to leave as well. And then, when I knew that was not a concern, and when you came to find her, I feared for Marsali. I have come to care for her too, you see. Your injuries were so that I did not think you could provide for her. I imagined her toiling long hours each day, the two of you barely getting by with enough to eat, let alone a home to live in or any kind of a decent life. She was meant for better than that. She wasn’t born to be a servant. You said so yourself.”

  “You lied to us both because you thought she would be better off here, living a life of luxur
y.” Christopher grabbed Lady Cosgrove’s arm and pulled her toward him. “Did you never once think that ought to be her choice? Do you have any idea what I have been through, not knowing whether Marsali was alive or dead— whether she was alone somewhere and needed me, or—”

  “She has not been alone. She has been well cared for.” Lady Cosgrove extracted her arm from his grasp. “I am truly sorry. Perhaps I acted in error, but she is happy now. Mr. Vancer can provide for her in a way you would never be able to. If you love her, you will leave and let her be.”

  Outside the alcove the musicians struck the final note of a reel. This was followed almost immediately by a shushing that seemed to flow over the crowd as the ballroom grew silent.

  “It is time. Mr. Vancer is about to announce their betrothal. It is for you to decide now whom you will think of— yourself or Marsali and what would be best for her.” With that, Lady Cosgrove left him, merging quickly into the guests packed onto the floor, all facing a dais at the head of the hall.

  Making certain his mask was still fastened tight, Christopher ducked beneath the sideswept curtain and stepped to the fringes of the crowd. A richly dressed man who could only be Vancer stepped up on the dais.

  “Welcome, friends. It has been good to celebrate with you tonight. And now I wish to share with you even more cause for celebration. Many of you are aware of the tragedy that encompassed me a few months ago when my fiancée was killed. The same shipwreck that claimed her life also cost another young woman dearly.”

  He extended his hand, and a woman took it and stepped up beside him. She turned to face the crowd, a radiant smile upon her face. Christopher wished he could shut his eyes in denial. But they were fixed upon Marsali, standing prettily beside Mr. Vancer in a stunning gown and with wispy curls hanging down on either side of her face.

  I have touched those curls. I have kissed that woman. She is my wife. He took a step forward, intending to make his way to the front and put a stop to this farce. She might have forgotten him so easily, but they were still married.

  Are we not? Captain Gower had said that common-law marriage was recognized in New York, so for Marsali to marry another should be against the law. Halfway to the dais he paused, uncertain.

  With Marsali beside him, Mr. Vancer began speaking once more. “Miss Abbott has been recovering from her own injuries and tragedy these past months.”

  What injuries? How was she hurt? Christopher hoped she had not been burned. His own pain had been excruciating at times, but it hurt worse to think of her enduring the same.

  “It has been a blessing for Miss Abbott and me to turn to one another in our grief.” He paused and smiled down at her with a look, which— even from this distance— could not be mistaken as anything other than tender affection.

  Along with the knife lodged in his heart, Christopher felt as if someone had punched him and the pain had spread instantly to his limbs and elsewhere.

  “Earlier this evening I asked Miss Abbott if she would be my wife, and she has kindly agreed.”

  Cheers and applause erupted at this news, shaking Christopher from his stupor and prodding him to move once more, quickly now. He had to set this right. Marsali could not really mean to marry another man. Her affections could not have changed so quickly.

  “I am so very happy for her,” a woman beside him said as he passed. Her voice sounded strangely familiar, and from the corner of his eye he noted that her look was too. Marsali. His heart lurched. There had been some mistake. That was all. It had not really been Marsali who was to marry Mr. Vancer.

  Christopher turned toward the voice and knew immediate disappointment. While the woman had similar features, she definitely was not Marsali.

  Charlotte?

  “She has had such a difficult life,” the woman was saying to another beside her. “I am happy to see that she will be both loved and provided for now. No one could be more deserving of such a happy resolution.”

  During the time that Christopher had paused, Mr. Vancer had concluded his speech and the applause had died down. Marsali and Mr. Vancer had left the dais, and sets were forming around them. Theirs appeared full already, but that did not mean he could not get closer to her.

  “May I have this dance?” Christopher asked the woman who had to be Charlotte.

  “You may,” she replied with a smile similar to her sister’s. She bid her companion farewell and took his hand as they hurried to form the last of a set.

  There was no time for introductions, simply a bow and curtsey, and they were off. She was not his partner for long, as he traded with another gentleman as soon as he could, then continually moved into the next closest group, displacing several upset partners along the way as he feigned confusion and murmured false apologies.

  At last Christopher had worked his way to the set Marsali was in. When the ladies circled before the gentlemen, he tried to get her attention, but she was not looking his way. The weaving was to come next, and he would have his chance then.

  One, two, three of the women passed him. Marsali was next, and he would be able to touch her briefly in passing. He held his arm out, and she touched it lightly. He found her hand and squeezed it, and she looked back as if startled. The next steps came, and Christopher found himself pushed aside from one of the angry men whose partner he had stolen.

  Christopher searched for Charlotte but did not see her. No doubt he’d humiliated her in his haste to reach Marsali. He stepped back from the dance, waiting on the edge with those who had not joined in.

  Marsali continued dancing with Mr. Vancer as if nothing at all had happened. How could she not know? Christopher wondered. How could she not feel that it was I? He regretted that he had not thought to take off his mask.

  “You see, she is happy.” Lady Cosgrove appeared beside him. “I was not lying.”

  “About that, anyway.” There were no words to describe the bitterness and even hatred he felt toward Lady Cosgrove right now. And watching Marsali laugh as she lingered near Vancer, her hand on his arm, felt as if the imaginary knife was being repeatedly thrust and twisted into his heart.

  All these weeks he had been trying to find her. He had walked miles searching for her, had worked for her vile employer— all in the hope that she might be found. And she had been here the entire time, enjoying herself. Without a thought of me.

  Marsali tipped her head back and smiled up at Mr. Vancer as she had smiled up at Christopher many times before.

  He ran his hands through his hair, unable to deny the obvious.

  She cares for him. He cares for her. He can provide for her— anything she might want or need. I cannot do the same.

  Wordlessly he turned from Lady Cosgrove and made his way out of the ballroom, back out to the street where the rain was turning to sleet.

  He had no money to hail a carriage. He had nothing, so he shoved his hands in his pockets and began walking toward the ferry that would not return to convey him until tomorrow morning because he had stayed too long. He had no idea where he would sleep or what he would do next.

  Is it better that Marsali is with Mr. Vancer? What kind of life could I have given her?

  Rebellion flared for a moment. He had always been able to find work and to protect his sisters. He would have done the same and more for Marsali. He could have given her a good life.

  I love her. But none of that mattered now.

  His brief marriage was over.

  “Andrew Jackson has won the election, and I am not even upset.” Mr. Vancer dropped a kiss on the top of Marsali’s head before taking his place at the table. “Must be because I am getting married today.”

  Marsali returned his smile and nibbled at her toast. She dared not eat more; her stomach was in such knots. The last time she had been about to get married, she had felt excited and happy, not as if she wished to cry.

  The butler appeared in the breakfast room doorway. “Sir, Mr. Fenington is here to see you about a shipment of furs.”

  “Right.” Still sip
ping his tea, Mr. Vancer stood. “Forgot I’d told him I could give him fifteen minutes this morning. But that is all. Can’t be late for my own wedding!” With a fond look at Marsali, he left the room.

  She took his absence as an excuse to make her own escape, before Charlotte or Lady Cosgrove arrived at the table. Marsali needed a few minutes alone this morning. Soon enough she would have to dress for the ceremony, but until then she needed a quiet room and a handkerchief and a good cry.

  Upstairs in her room, she shut and locked the door behind her, retrieved a handful of prettily embroidered handkerchiefs from her bureau, and went to the window to look out at the city view that would be hers for the rest of her life.

  She and Christopher had spoken of a life in the country together. Of their own little farm, of working side by side. The life she was about to pledge herself to could not have been more different.

  Marsali sank to the floor, burying her face in her arms upon a seat cushion as the flood began. She cried because months had passed without word, and she could no longer deny that Christopher had died. She cried because she still felt as if she was being unfaithful to him. She cried because Mr. Vancer did not make her heart race and sing as Christopher had. She cried because she knew he did not really love her either— not the way Christopher had. She cried because tonight they would both have to pretend something that did not exist, and then she would have to continue pretending it for the rest of her life.

  Her handkerchief was soaked through, and she had started on a second when her door opened. Marsali looked up to see Lady Cosgrove enter, key in hand, with her maid and Charlotte close behind.

  “Fetch a cool cloth,” Lady Cosgrove instructed the maid upon seeing Marsali seated on the floor and draped over the seat.

  “I will be well enough,” Marsali said, sniffing loudly and attempting to stop the next wave of tears.

  “Your face will not be.” Lady Cosgrove crossed the room and pulled Marsali to her feet. “Look what you have done to yourself. And with but two hours until we must leave.”