“Legally, yes. But per your father’s will, the bulk of your money is held in trust for you until you turn thirty.”
“Thirty?” Marjorie stared at him in horror. “But I’ll be an old maid by then!”
“Until you turn thirty,” he said, giving her a smile she could only describe as infuriatingly smug, “I decide how much income you receive. You seem surprised.” He nodded to the documents on his desk. “I take it you didn’t read far enough to get to that part?”
Marjorie rallied, sticking her chin up. “You intend to use my own money to control me, is that it?”
“I will use whatever works.” He tilted his head, looking at her speculatively. “How much fun do you think you’ll be able to have in London on ten dollars a month?”
“With a fortune in the bank, you’d really restrict me to the same allowance I’ve had since I was seven?”
“You’re in mourning, so even if I gave you a larger allowance, there’s not much you could spend it on. And whatever the amount, it will not be enough for yachts and racehorses.”
Marjorie cursed her own mischievous sense of humor. “Will it at least be enough for decent clothes?” She gestured to her black suit coat with the Forsyte Academy insignia on its lapel. “I can’t very well keep wearing my teacher’s uniforms everywhere, and they are almost the only clothes I have.”
“I see your point,” he said, much to her relief. “When we reach London, I shall ask my sisters to take you to Jay’s.”
“Is that a modiste?” she asked, her spirits lifting a bit.
“Yes, indeed. They make clothes for mourning.”
“Oh, no.” She might have to allow this man some control over her life and make some compromises with him, but going about in black bombazine and crape was not a compromise she was willing to make. “I will not go into mourning.”
“You must. It’s customary after the death of a parent.”
In his voice, Marjorie heard the hard resolve of an iron will. But what her guardian didn’t seem to have realized yet was that her will was equally strong. “I will not go into mourning,” she said again, “and I fail to see why I should.”
“Because your father is dead, Miss McGann,” he said, his face twisting with pain. “A fact you seem quite happy to forget. And you seem to display a pleasure-seeking disregard for his demise that is as astonishing as it is unseemly. Your lack of grief and gratitude do you little credit.”
That accusation sparked Marjorie’s temper like nothing else ever could. “Gratitude? Grief?” she echoed with blazing scorn. “Are those the emotions I’m supposed to be feeling?”
“I would think so, yes.”
“Then you understand nothing about it. The last time I saw my father, I was seven years old, and my mother had just died. She wasn’t in the ground a week before he took me to Forsyte Academy and shoved me into the arms of Mrs. Forsyte—a woman I’d never met in my life before. He kissed me good-bye, told me to be a good little girl, and then . . . he left me there.”
Mr. Deverill pressed his lips together. “He probably felt that was for the best,” he said after a moment. “Given his profession, he knew he’d be gone a great deal. And many widowers—”
“He promised he’d come back for me,” she cut in, sparing them both the lame excuses society allowed widowers to use so that they could abandon their children, “but he never did.”
“I’m sure he intended to do so.”
“Yes.” She folded her arms. “Just as you intended when you left me this morning.”
She heard his sharp intake of breath, but it was several moments before he spoke.
“Miss McGann,” he said at last, “it’s clear you think I attempted to abandon you, but such was not the case. As for your father, I know he left you so that he could continue to provide for you. And he succeeded in amassing you a fortune—at great personal cost, I might add. Because of his sacrifice, you will be able to live in luxury for the rest of your life.”
“I’d rather have had a father. One who visited on occasion, or who could at least manage a letter more often than once or twice a year.”
“Billy never was much for letter-writing, I admit, but I doubt his decision not to visit was one of neglect, though it might seem that way. He probably didn’t want you to see him ill.”
“And now I shall never see him at all!” Her throat closed up, her eyes began to sting, and she realized in horror that she might actually cry over her wretched excuse for a father, and she turned her face away before Mr. Deverill could see. “He could have told me, sent for me. I’d have come.”
He moved to stand in front of her. “Consumption is brutal in its final stages,” he said, the compassion in his voice making her angrier, fueling her pain like paraffin on flames. “It’s not something any loved one ought to see, believe me.”
He was trying to console her, she knew, but she didn’t want to be consoled. “And what about all the years before that?” She looked up, her eyes meeting his. “My father had plenty of chances to visit me, but he never did. Not once.”
“I’m sure he thought of you a great deal.”
Even he seemed to realize how inadequate those words sounded, for the moment they were out of his mouth, he grimaced.
“Are you sure?” she asked, forcing a laugh. “I can’t think why, since he failed to tell you, his best friend, of my very existence until he was about to die.”
He didn’t reply, but then, what could he say?
“I don’t remember much about my father, Mr. Deverill, for even before he went West, he was gone a lot. But I do remember my mother. It’s a vague remembrance, of course, but there are things about her that stand out—how she would always beg my father not to go away again, and the awful look on her face as we’d watch him pack his kit and walk out the door. I remember the hushed sound of her sobs at night as she cried herself to sleep.”
He started to reply, but she didn’t want to hear it. “You talk of the sacrifices my father made on my behalf,” she said, “but the truth is that for him, there was no sacrifice. He was doing just as he pleased and living just the life he wanted. Letter after letter I wrote, asking—begging—him to come back or to let me join him, but all I got were excuses.”
Her hands were shaking, she noticed, and pride impelled her to clench them into fists so her guardian wouldn’t see. “In the few replies he bothered to write, he always said the same things. That he’d send for me, that there’d be plenty of time for us to be together when I grew up. ‘Soon,’ he’d always say. ‘Soon we’ll see each other again—’”
Her voice broke, and she had to pause for a deep breath before she could go on. “In your judgement of my behavior,” she said after a moment, “have you ever considered what my life has been like? Mrs. Forsyte is a kind woman, but she’s not and never could be a mother to me. My father was my only family, and despite all his promises, it was clear he did not want me. Do you have any idea how it feels to live year after year on promises?”
“I do, yes. Believe that or not.”
“Can you also understand what it did to me when I finally realized all my father’s promises were lies? That when he died, I knew ‘soon’ was never, ever, going to come?”
“Yes, I can.” His voice was low, his reply a simple acknowledgement that made her feel worse.
Her throat tightened again, threatening to choke her, and she continued quickly, while she still could. “Forgive me, Mr. Deverill, if my father’s death gives me little cause for grief and his way of protecting me fails to inspire my gratitude. I realize that for you, his passing was a wrenching loss and that pain over his death is what you feel, but for my part, I feel as if I’ve been let out of prison. And now that I’m free, I have no intention of going back behind bars. I’m not going into mourning, for I will not play the hypocrite and pretend to grieve for a man I hardly knew, a man who never gave a damn about being any sort of real father to me.”
“Even if society judges you unfavorably for your choice?”
/>
“Even then. I am going to laugh and dance and enjoy myself and wear whatever colors I please. I’m going to do the season, meet young men, fall in love, and get married. And when I do, you can bet the man I choose will be a better husband and father than Billy McGann ever dreamed of being. I intend to have a real home and a real family and a life worth living, and I don’t give a damn if any of that breaks rules of propriety, offends society, or inconveniences you.”
With that, she turned and walked out, slamming the door of her new guardian’s stateroom behind her, taking enormous satisfaction in the very loud bang.
Chapter 5
Jonathan scowled at the closed door, fully aware that as a guardian, he wasn’t acquitting himself very well. But really, he thought in baffled exasperation, could any other man put in this situation have done better?
Even as he asked himself that question, he knew that wasn’t the point. Responsibility for her welfare, her reputation, and her future was in his hands now, and if anything happened to tarnish her—which given her speech of a few moments ago, was quite likely—he would be to blame. Despite all her brave talk, she was an innocent young woman, and he was a man of the world. He knew far better than she how easily her good name could be blackened by even the most trivial incident, and the girl herself seemed to possess no sense of self-preservation. Nor any sense of sorrow.
You talk of the sacrifices my father made on my behalf, but the truth is that for him, there was no sacrifice.
He’d always known Billy was no saint, but her condemnations of his late friend had nonetheless been hard to hear. And though she may have ignored his wishes and defied his plans, her fiery speech was forcing him to admit she had cause to resent her parent.
I feel as if I’ve been let out of prison. And now that I’m free, I have no intention of going back behind bars.
But even as her defiant words went through his mind, he felt sure she didn’t truly appreciate the consequences of that defiance. She couldn’t toss the restrictions of society back at the very people who imposed them and expect those people to accept her anyway. They would not, and he knew it. It was his job to see that she complied with the rules.
Once they got to London, he’d hurl himself on the mercy of his sisters, and hopefully, they’d agree to watch over the girl while he went to Africa, but until then, he was on his own in managing her. The surest way to avoid gossip, criticism, and unwanted attention was for her to stay in her cabin, but he couldn’t see how to guarantee she did. Ordering her would probably be as effective as leaving her behind had been. Locking her in her cabin wouldn’t do, and he doubted it would work anyway. If he locked her in, she’d find a way to pick the lock.
No, employing persuasion and reason, not authority and force, was his best option. Once her temper cooled, he could surely make her see that following the rules was the way to gain her what she wanted. And it wouldn’t hurt if he reminded her of all the wonderful things she had to look forward to next spring if she behaved with decorum now.
If such a strategy was to work, he’d have to mend their fences. An apology on his part was required, as well as his reassurance that she would not be abandoned, as she felt her father had done to her.
Glad he had a specific course of action, Jonathan shaved, dressed for dinner, and left his room. He went in search of the purser, where a short explanation of his position as guardian, along with a pair of silver dollars, gained him Miss McGann’s cabin number.
A few minutes later, he knocked on her door, hoping like hell she was inside and not off gallivanting around the ship. To his relief, the bolt slid back almost at once and the door opened.
His relief, however, was short-lived. She had changed out of her walking suit into a velvet evening frock, and though it was black, there was nothing else about it that resembled mourning attire. The tiny cap sleeves and low neckline revealed far too much of her creamy skin. Even worse, the garment was tightly fitted, flaring out from her body only at her knees, and the way it hugged the hourglass curves of her figure was something no guardian could ever approve.
The sight of her in such a gown served to increase both his apprehensions and his resolve, but since beginning their conversation by laying down the law about what she could wear would get him nowhere, he didn’t even raise an eyebrow. Instead, he bowed.
“Miss McGann,” he said as he straightened. “Might I have a few moments of your time?”
“Are you sure you should be here?” Leaning past him, she peered up and down the deserted corridor. “What if you’re seen skulking about outside my room? Heavens, what would people say?”
“Don’t be impudent. It’s the height of bad manners to give a man cheek when he’s come to make amends.”
“Oh, is that why you’re here? To apologize?”
Take your medicine, old chap. “I am.”
“All right, then.” She fell silent, waiting, making it clear that he was expected to give chapter and verse right here in the doorway.
Jonathan, however, had no intention of doing so. As she’d pointed out, the longer he lingered out here, the more likely it was someone would see him. “May I come in?”
“Into my cabin?” Her eyes opened ingenuously wide. “Why, Mr. Deverill, what an improper sugg—”
“Enough,” he cut in, giving an uneasy glance up and down the corridor. “If you want to hear my apology and have the satisfaction of crowing over it, you’d best let me in.”
She gave way, closing the door behind him. She then sat down at one of the two chairs at the minuscule table, gesturing for him to take the opposite chair, and it did not escape his notice that her tight-fitting gown forced her to perch on the very edge of her seat.
“After our discussion this afternoon,” he said as he took the offered chair, “I appreciate that I may not have handled our situation as well as I could have done.”
She didn’t seem satisfied by that, but he persevered. “I can only reiterate that learning you were a woman, not the child I’d been expecting, was a shock. And I knew at once that your age would require an entirely different set of circumstances than I was prepared to meet. Then, the discovery of you aboard ship, in my room, a place you had no business to be—”
“You don’t make apologies often, do you?” she cut in.
He blinked at the abrupt question. “No,” he answered, “I suppose I don’t.”
“Obviously not, since you’re terrible at it.”
“I don’t often find it necessary,” he shot back before recalling that he’d come here in a conciliatory spirit. Exhaling a sigh, he started over. “Miss McGann—”
A knock on the door of her cabin interrupted before he could go any further.
“Ah.” Marjorie rose. “That’ll be the baroness, I expect, coming back to fetch me.”
“Who?” he asked, too surprised by her declaration to bother with proper grammar.
“Baroness Vasiliev,” she answered over her shoulder as she turned away and stepped across the tiny stateroom. “My chaperone and companion.”
“Chaperone?” he echoed in bafflement as he stood up. “Companion? What are you talking about?”
“Baroness Vasiliev,” she said again, as if repeating the woman’s title was expected to enlighten him. “I’m so looking forward to presenting you to her.”
Jonathan watched as Marjorie opened the door to a middle-aged woman of Junoesque proportions and suspiciously black hair. Dressed for dinner in a red brocade gown that was obviously new and swathed in diamonds he suspected were paste, this so-called baroness looked far more like an actress playing a part than a real aristocrat, at least in Jonathan’s opinion.
“Marjorie, darling,” she greeted the girl with exaggerated familiarity, flinging the end of her fluffy, feather-trimmed evening stole back over one shoulder. “How marvelous you look,” she said, her voice laced with heaviness of an overdone Russian accent. “The dress fits you well.”
Too well, Jonathan wanted to say, but somehow, he mana
ged to suppress his opinion.
“I do hope you are ready to go down,” the woman continued, “for I must have a drink. I’m parched.”
“I’m not ready just yet, I’m afraid,” the girl answered and opened the door wide. “But please, do come in, Baroness.”
The woman noticed him as Marjorie moved aside and she entered the cabin. Frowning, she lifted the jeweled opera glasses that hung about her neck, plunked them onto her nose, and gave him the once-over in a way so theatrically perfect that he almost wanted to laugh.
“Baroness, may I introduce my guardian, Mr. Jonathan Deverill?” Marjorie presented him to the woman with a flourish. “Mr. Deverill, the Baroness Vasiliev.”
He responded to this introduction by bowing his head a fraction. “Madam.”
If he thought his refusal to address her by her title would be regarded as a set-down, he was mistaken. At once, the opera glasses dropped to nestle in the crevice of her bosom, and her disapproving face relaxed into smiles, making her look even more like the blowsy actress he suspected her of being.
“It is so good of you to trust me with the responsibility for your young ward, Mr. Deverill, and I assure you that I take my duty as her chaperone most seriously. That is why I must ask you to leave her apartments at once.”
This pretense of concern was a bit much, and it took all the effort Jonathan had not to roll his eyes. “Your vigilance does you credit,” he said instead, striving to keep a straight face. “But I’m afraid I have some matters of business to discuss with Miss McGann.”
“My dear man . . .” She paused, flinging out her hands in an extravagant gesture. “I cannot permit it. Here, in her own cabin? No. This is not done.”
He glanced past the self-proclaimed baroness to where Marjorie was standing by the door, and his expression must have been grim indeed, for she looked away at once. But he did not miss the smile that tilted one corner of her mouth, and he feared that instead of being intimidated, she was having a jolly good laugh at his expense.
“What sort of chaperone would I be,” the older woman said, bringing his attention back to her, “if I allowed any man, even her own guardian, a private meeting? No, I must be able to assure the duchess when we meet again that the girl has been looked after.”
Heiress Gone Wild Page 5