by Jane Goodger
Her mother looked at her with an almost blank expression, as if what she was telling her was so far beyond her experience it was as if she were speaking a foreign tongue. “Of course it would. Do you remember how very miserable Elizabeth was when her mother was pushing her toward the duke?”
“I’d hardly call forcing your daughter to marry someone she doesn’t love ‘pushing.’”
Harriet pursed her lips, obviously not liking what her daughter was saying. “But it all ended up well, did it not? I would never be quite so adamant. However, I’m certainly not foolish enough to ignore the fact that my daughter is in close proximity to a very eligible earl.” Maggie started to protest, but her mother would have none of it. “You must at least try.”
Maggie stood abruptly, her anger returning as quickly as her mother’s tears had doused it. “I thought we were going on with the ruse that I am still engaged,” Maggie said. “If that’s the case, I certainly cannot go out looking for a husband, can I?”
Her mother put a shaky hand to her temple. “I hadn’t thought of that. I only wanted to protect you from humiliation.”
Maggie didn’t bother to point out she didn’t feel humiliation as much as a bit of disappointment and a large dose of relief. “It’s of no consequence anyway. Why can’t you just let me be?”
“Why are you being so cross with me? Honestly, Maggie, you are talking in circles. First you are angry with me that I am lying about Arthur, and then you are angry for pushing you toward the earl. I don’t know what I should say anymore.”
Maggie’s nostrils flared. “I told you I do not want to marry. I cannot marry, Mama.”
“But the earl is here and I know he is interested. A mother knows these things. We can say Arthur has begged off. It’s not unheard of. I do wish I’d thought of that before I mentioned him. But it’s of no matter. And then you’ll be free to marry the—”
“Mama, stop. I cannot marry anyone, most especially not the earl.” God, if he knew what she’d done, he’d never forgive her.
Her mother stood, her face red with sudden anger. “I will not have a daughter as a spinster. And so that means you must marry. And you must find a husband now. Here. It is providence that we are here. You cannot throw this opportunity away as you threw away Arthur.”
Maggie gasped. These uncharacteristic outbursts from her mother were getting more frequent of late. “What?”
Her mother pressed her fingers against her temples. “This is all too much. Too much. I don’t understand you. You are a girl from a good family. A beautiful girl that any man would be proud to call a wife.”
“No, Mama.”
“How can you say that? Your father’s taint will not reach you here.”
“Please leave it be,” Maggie begged.
“Make me understand. I don’t understand.”
“Oh, Mama, please. Why won’t you listen to me when I tell you I cannot, cannot marry?” she said, beseeching her to stop or understand, she wasn’t sure which.
She watched as her mother’s expression changed subtlety, the slow dawning, the horror and disbelief. “It cannot be true,” she said, staring at her daughter. When Maggie looked away, so ashamed she couldn’t bear to look at her mother, Harriet let out a sound of distress. “Oh, no, Maggie. With Arthur? You let him touch you?”
Tears flooded Maggie’s eyes. She was so sick of lying, so sick of it. But she told one more lie, one more because she knew her mother could never bear the truth. “Yes, Mama.”
“And still he broke it off?”
“It was because of Papa,” she said, telling the truth for the first time.
“When?” her mother asked, her eyes drifting to her stomach.
“Many weeks ago. And I…I am fine.” It was the one thing she’d been grateful for, that he hadn’t planted his foul seed in her.
Her mother’s face turned a mottled red. Harriet was not a woman who got angry, who showed strong emotion of any sort. Indeed, Maggie hardly recognized her. “You have disgraced yourself,” she said. “And this will be rectified. We shall return to New York immediately and force him to marry you. He should do the right thing. You are a girl from a good family and it is unconscionable that he used you, then refused to marry you. He will marry you.”
“I don’t want to marry him. I don’t love him.”
“Do you think that matters at this point?” her mother asked. “Oh, dear, did he force you?”
“No. It was all me.” Again, the truth.
“I’m writing a letter today,” she said, rushing to a small desk. She began pulling out pieces of their precious stationery. “This minute, to demand he marry you. Do you have any idea what you have done? Do you? How could you let us leave New York without telling me this? How, Maggie?” Her mother sat down heavily in the desk chair as if her legs could no longer hold her. She stared blindly for a moment before pressing her face into her hands to begin a soft keening cry that tore at Maggie’s heart. When she dropped her hands, Maggie found herself looking into the eyes of a woman completely defeated. “It’s too late,” she said. “This cannot be rectified. I cannot think of anything worse. We must go on pretending you are engaged, of course. Unless…”
“Unless what, Mama?” Maggie said, too weary to even care what her mother was thinking.
“Unless we don’t say a word. Once you are well married, it will be too late for any objections. The earl—” She began warming up to her plan of deceit.
“No, Mama. Absolutely not,” Maggie said, even though she’d been thinking the very same thing when she’d thought Arthur would propose. At the time it had been so lovely to pretend none of it had ever happened, but she would never perpetuate such a lie to someone she loved. “I hate lying, but I don’t want to encourage anyone’s suit and most particularly not the earl, even if he should do such a farfetched thing. I have accepted what I have done and you should, too.”
Her mother’s face crumpled in grief. “You are ruined. What shall we do with you now? Oh, how could you do this thing? After your upbringing, after all the sacrifices we made to make you a better life, to make you attractive to men like Arthur. And to throw it all away. I just don’t understand you,” she said. “My God, Maggie, what shall we do?”
“Let me think on it, Mama. I cannot think of that now,” Maggie answered dully. “I’m going to lie down, if you don’t mind.” When her mother called her name, she kept walking, shutting out her cries, her disappointment, her anger.
When Maggie went into her room she lay dry-eyed staring up at the ceiling trying to stop herself from thinking about anything, but the images she’d been fighting for weeks kept assaulting her. Flashes of what had happened, bits of that terrible conversation flew at her, like some unstoppable pestilence.
“Bend over, my dear. Grab the desk.”
He always seemed to have too much saliva in his mouth and would noisily slurp at it, swallowing audibly. His hands dug into her hips, pressing, leaving marks that remained for weeks. She’d feared at first they would never go away, a brand that would never fade.
Charles Barnes had been one of her father’s business associates. She’d known him for years, and had instinctively, even as a child, stayed away from him. She’d never liked the way he looked at her, the way on those few occasions when she’d been forced to offer him her hand, he’d grasp it and hold, pressing her flesh in a way that made her want to go bathe. He had a way of sweeping his gaze up and down her body that was slightly repugnant. But he was one of her father’s good friends and Maggie had always tried to be polite.
Mr. Barnes was a soft man, not overly fat, but simply soft, like a blob of melting butter. His features looked like so much moist dough plopped together with two small raisins pressed in for eyes. And his mouth, Maggie had always thought his mouth too full, too red.
This was the man who took her virginity. This was the man she bent over for. This was the man who put his penis inside her, who jerked in and out, grunting like a pig behind her, smearing her blo
od on her buttocks, who laughed when he was done as she’d cried.
This was the man who promised if she did this thing, this disgusting mating, that he would guarantee her father would only serve one year. He’d said he knew the prosecutor, that he would make a deal. He’d told her, even as he painfully squeezed her breasts, that her father would be so proud of what she was doing, the sacrifice she was making, and he laughed when she begged him to never tell.
As if he would. That is how stupid she’d been. How stupid and willing. She’d bent over that desk, felt the cool air on her legs, felt him drag down her bloomers, felt him separate her, felt him, felt him, felt him.
Maggie pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, trying in vain to press the images away.
It had been her idea. Certainly, he had hinted at it. He’d told her he had the power to lessen her father’s sentence, but why should he? What would he get out of it? There was no money left to give him. What would be worth such valuable information? What could anyone give him? What?
“Myself,” Maggie had said. “You can have me. Once.”
A slow, horrible smile had appeared on those too-thick, too-red lips. “Do you think you are worth it, my dear?” he asked as he moved one thick finger across his lips.
She’d swallowed down the bile and lifted her chin. “More than worth it.”
“All right, then. I agree.”
Maggie stood before him, her body suddenly bathed in a cold sweat, and she’d nodded. “But you must promise me my father will not be in prison for more than a year.”
“Yes. I promise. Now. Bend over, my dear. Grab the desk.”
Chapter 6
Edward was at the moment feeling rather put out. He’d gotten himself so worked up at the thought of seeing Miss Pierce again, he’d barely been able to stomach breakfast, and she’d nearly dismissed him. No, it was worse than that. It was as if he were an acquaintance, and not a very well known one at that. While he’d been pining away, pathetically reliving every moment of their time together in Newport and New York, she’d been getting on with her life. He’d already become a small speck in her long and happy life, a distraction on a long-ago summer season. Perhaps even—humiliating as it was to think—simply a means to make another man jealous. All that rot about how she wanted to dissuade the Wright brothers from matrimonial pursuit when what she’d truly wanted was to make herself more desirable.
How nice to see you again, Lord Hollings, she’d gushed, then turned immediately away to exclaim in the same tone how wonderful Rand’s home was. What had he expected? That she’d throw herself into his arms? Perhaps not so much as that, but a warm look, a smile that said something other than “how nice to see you.” Or a blush that told him she’d been uncomfortable, something, anything that meant she remembered him.
He felt his entire body heat with mortification when he recalled how he’d taken her letters out and read them. And if her fiancé dared show his face here, why, he’d…he’d…Ah, hell. He’d probably act the gentleman and welcome the chap.
“May I come in?” his sister said, walking into his private sitting room without so much as a knock.
“No.”
She didn’t even pause as she sat down upon his favorite chair, perching herself on its edge so that she couldn’t begin to appreciate the comfort of the item. “I’m very disappointed,” she said. “Here I was thinking Miss Pierce was some lost love when it was clear that she is not.”
“I told you she was nothing,” he said rather shortly, and immediately wished he had not. His sister pounced on him like a cat pouncing on an injured mouse.
“But she is something to you, isn’t she?” This last was said with true tragedy.
“Amelia,” he said as a warning. “If you persist on this ridiculous fantasy I am going to have to closely monitor your reading material. Again.”
Amelia let out a huff of impatience. “You don’t understand what it has been like living with you these past months. Were you always this bleak? I remember you as a much happier person.”
Edward smiled gently at his pouting sister. Sometimes she seemed far younger than her nineteen years. It was hard to believe that Amelia and the duchess were nearly the same age. “The last time you spent any time at all with me was when you were eight and I was seventeen. That, as I recall, was a lovely summer.”
She put her chin on her fist and looked as if she were trying to remember that far back. She straightened abruptly. “That was the summer of Giselle.”
If Edward was shocked that his little sister remembered the daughter of one of his father’s friends, he tried valiantly not to show it. She’d been nothing more than a baby then, a lonely little girl with no one to play with, one who desperately missed her older sister. God, he hadn’t thought about his younger sister in months. She’d died when she was twelve, and Amelia had been inconsolable for months afterward. Certainly, Giselle and her extremely loose morals had helped him to forget his grief, a thought that filled him with a bit of guilt even now. No doubt following them around helped Amelia through the pain of missing Caroline.
“Giselle was very pleasant,” he said.
“You used to laugh all the time. It was as if everything she said was supremely funny. I never did like her very much.”
“I think I liked her rather well,” Edward said with a crooked smile.
“Which is why it is so important for you to fall in love.”
Edward let out a beleaguered sigh, then gave a small bow to his sister. “I vow I will make it my priority in the coming seasons to secure a proper wife,” he said, hoping his wily little sister wouldn’t notice his use of a plural in the word “seasons.” Of course, that was too much to ask for.
“Season,” Amelia said. “One that I should be participating in. I am nineteen, after all. If only I had a proper chaperone, an older, married woman who isn’t encumbered with a husband hanging about. One who, perhaps, would adore a chance to see—”
“Stop right there, you devious little schemer. Mrs. Pierce cannot be your chaperone. At the moment, she is Miss Pierce’s chaperone. Besides, I don’t believe they will be staying in England as long as all that. It’s only October now. The season doesn’t get into full swing until April or May. You know that.” Edward thought that would settle things directly, but he should have known better.
“We could ask. Perhaps they would enjoy extending their stay if it meant participating in the season. She can chaperone us both,” Amelia said, her face alighting with the knowledge that she’d solved a major problem.
“Both?”
“Why, don’t you think Miss Pierce would appreciate a London season?” She held up her hand to stem his objection. “I know she is here for the duchess. But once the baby is born, perhaps she would enjoy seeing London. No one likes to travel during the winter months. Just ask the duchess what she thinks of that idea. You recall how horrid her trip was on that awful cargo ship. Is that what you would wish for Miss and Mrs. Pierce? An ocean voyage on a dilapidated old cargo ship? And you can escort us everywhere. Steer her clear of the bad apples.”
Edward had, throughout Amelia’s monologue, tried to interrupt her torrent of ideas, but he was pointedly ignored. Just as he knew whatever he said to her now would be pointedly ignored. But he decided to try anyway, for the thought of steering Miss Pierce away from ardent suitors was about as palatable as eating a pile of rotting, steaming fish. “Absolutely not. I would never impose on Mrs. Pierce to do such a thing. Besides, Miss Pierce is engaged to be married. A season for her would be pointless.”
“Now you are simply being mean,” Amelia announced with assurance. “Think on it, will you? And don’t be such a poor sport. Just because Miss Pierce isn’t interested in you doesn’t mean you shouldn’t look yourself. Perhaps she could help you find someone.”
“Are you trying to make me angry?”
Amelia looked suitably shocked.
“Because I can tell you right now it is not working,” Edward said pl
easantly, lying through his teeth.
Amelia stood. “Just think on it, Edward. After all, until you find someone of your own, you’ll have to dance with someone. Why not her?”
“Good-bye, Amelia,” he said, smiling in an effort to disguise his growing anger. His sister was about as transparent as a new plate-glass window, but he had to admire her tenacity.
“I truly would like a season, Edward. Even if it is just for a little while. Next year I’ll be twenty and have absolutely no prospects. I know how tedious it is for you. And I also know that Auntie cannot escort me this year. Not with Janice being so sick lately. Please think on it.”
The only thing worse than his sister’s needling was her sincerity—and she was being excruciatingly sincere at the moment. Janice reminded them both too much of Caroline, who seemed to simply fade away before their eyes before finally dying. “All right. I’ll think on it.”
Amelia brightened and Edward watched her walk in her singularly bouncing way with a feeling of pure inevitability. He owed a season to his sister, and damned if Mrs. Pierce wouldn’t be the absolutely perfect chaperone for her. His list of suitable female chaperones was woefully short, especially with his step-aunt being unavailable. And if Mrs. Pierce was chaperone, Miss Pierce would certainly tag along. And he’d end up escorting her to balls and the opera and watching other men fawn over her, perhaps even fall in love with her. He almost thanked God she was engaged, because he didn’t think he could bear watching her fall in love with someone else.
Chapter 7
Maggie sat on the southern veranda, feeling content and snug, with a warm cup of tea in her hands and her best friend sitting next to her. The two were silent, enjoying the rare warmth of a late October morning and the knowledge that for the next few weeks at least, there would be many mornings like this one. Across an expanse of green grass were the brilliant reds, golds, and burnished browns of fall foliage. It looked so much like home that for one fierce moment Maggie wished she were back in New York. But such a thought immediately brought with it the reason why they were not in New York.
