Marrying Christopher (A Hearthfire Romance Book 3)

by Michele Paige Holmes

  After her mother had selected the fabrics she wished Marsali’s dresses to be made from, she had allowed Marsali to choose one additional fabric— any she wished— for a party dress. Marsali had chosen a blue silk, the color of the sky.

  How I loved that dress. She realized that she had not appreciated it or the many other fine clothes she’d owned. And in the years since, she had nearly forgotten them.

  “Come in, come in.” The stoutest of the four women came forward, beckoning Marsali into the room.

  Marsali entered, feeling as if she had stepped back in time or into a dream. She allowed the woman to guide her to the dais and then held her arms out obediently while her measurements were taken.

  “Something rose-colored to start with, I believe,” Lady Cosgrove was saying and pointed to a bolt of pink fabric laid out on one of several tables.

  “A lovely choice.” The dressmaker picked up the fabric and brought it over to Marsali, holding a swathe of it in front of her.

  “Do you like it as well?” the dressmaker asked.

  “It is very pretty,” Marsali concurred, rubbing a piece of the fabric between her fingers. Very soft. Like Lydia’s borrowed satin. Would she forever be reminded of that when she wore fine gowns?

  “Good. We will make your first dress out of this.” The dressmaker whisked the bolt away, handing it off to the third woman before marching back over to the table and Lady Cosgrove.

  “I think a pale yellow next,” Lady Cosgrove said. “And then a green and perhaps a lavender.”

  “No.” Marsali left the dais and came over to the tables. “I do not have need of so many gowns. You may make me two only. And I wish one of them to be blue.”

  The image reflecting back at her in the mirror shocked Marsali. Disbelieving, she stepped closer, squinting at her reflection and feeling slightly better when she recognized the way her nose wrinkled. But the rest of me…

  Her hair was done up in what she’d been told was the latest fashion, something called an Apollo knot. The maid who’d been sent up to fix it for her had complained heartily that Marsali hadn’t long enough hair to work with for such a style, and even if she had, Marsali wasn’t at all certain that she liked it. The curls hanging down on either side of her face seemed a nuisance, and the bun was pulled much too tight, not to mention the ridiculous amount of time it had taken with the curling tongs to get her short hair to curl as it should.

  But the jeweled butterfly combs were quite lovely, and Marsali could not help but admire her new gown. She could hardly keep from running her fingers over the smooth blue silk.

  “Mr. Vancer awaits you.”

  Marsali turned from the mirror to see Lady Cosgrove standing in her bedroom doorway.

  “The blue was a good choice. It becomes you.”

  “Thank you.” Marsali heard the sadness in the older woman’s voice and guessed at once that she was imagining what it would have been like had Lydia been standing here— as she ought to have been— preparing to attend a dinner and be presented by Mr. Vancer.

  Marsali quickly crossed the room, took Lady Cosgrove’s hands in her own, and leaned forward, kissing her on the cheek. “Thank you for your kindness to me.”

  “You’re most welcome.” Lady Cosgrove blinked rapidly and pulled away. “Forgive me. I was just thinking of when I was younger, and my first husband was courting me, and what a lovely time that was.”

  “You must tell me all about it tomorrow.” Marsali felt her own sorrow swell, pained that Lady Cosgrove had not been thinking of her daughter but of herself. Marsali knew Lady Cosgrove had to be grieving and had heard her crying at night. But for some reason, she seemed unable to show her emotions to others.

  And I am no better— attending a dinner as another man’s guest when my husband has been missing but two weeks. Marsali walked down the hall, knowing she did not belong here— not in this fine house and especially not seated beside Mr. Vancer at his table, as she would soon be.

  She twirled her wedding ring beneath her glove and remembered the moment Christopher had slipped it onto her finger and the promises that had come with it.

  As long as we both shall live. What if he no longer does? Though they had been married but one day, a mourning period seemed appropriate just the same. He had given her all he had, and moving on so quickly felt wrong. And impossible. Circumstances might require her to wear a pretty gown and to pretend to enjoy another’s company. But her heart and soul felt bleak.

  My Dearest Sisters,

  I am writing with all urgency lest you have somehow learned that the ship I sailed upon, the Amanda May, was sunk just outside the New York Harbor in the early morning hours of 26 September. If it seems the greatest irony to you that I made it safely across the Atlantic only to encounter disaster on the shores of this new land, know that you are not alone. Know also that I am well— in body, if not spirit.

  You will laugh to hear this, or perhaps you will believe that my injuries have caused my mind to fail (and yes, I do have some injuries, though none too serious or life-threatening), but I will attempt to share with you the adventures of my sea voyage. The journey was not at all what I had expected and would have been rather dull were it not for an acquaintance I made my first night aboard ship. One of my fellow passengers, a young woman by the name of Marsali Abbott (she is French and English and a bit Scottish, and entirely delightful), arrived late and in quite a poor condition. I could not resist helping her, neither could I cease my concerns for her welfare when she was discovered to be indentured to a man known for cruelty.

  Not having the means by which to free her from her circumstance (excepting the sale of Grandfather’s ring, which I had promised never to part with, save for the purpose of marriage), I chose the only action available to me. On 25 September, while still aboard the Amanda May, I married Marsali Abbott of Manchester. It was the finest day of my life…

  Christopher winced as the doctor parted his newly regrown hair and probed the red, puckered scar running down the back of his head. “Your stitches are healing nicely, and you’re looking more healthy each day. I predict a full recovery.”

  “Thank you,” Christopher said without enthusiasm. He didn’t feel grateful. He felt bitter. And frustrated that he had no recollection of how the cut that nearly split his scalp in two had come about.

  He had recalled the scene over and over again until his head pounded as much from the effort as from his injury. He had been in the saloon speaking with Marsali. She had seemed frightened. He’d been as well. The ship was burning too quickly for the flames to be kept from spreading, storm and rain notwithstanding.

  The next thing he recalled after that was waking to excruciating pain. His right side had felt as if it was on fire, though the night was chill and rain continued falling. He’d been in a lifeboat with Mr. Murphy and had drifted in and out of consciousness for a day and a half until a fishing boat had picked them up off the New Jersey coast.

  “I cannot recommend you to labor for two more weeks, at the least,” the doctor said. “And that is optimistic.”

  “It is impossible for me to remain idle so long.” It vexed Christopher to have started out his new life in America in debt. It was the very legacy he’d come here to escape. Yet there had been no help for it. When they’d been found, he had needed a doctor— badly. And he had required food and lodging in the nearly three weeks since. He’d written his sisters just this morning— at last being able to bear moving his hand and arm enough that he could write— advising them of his circumstances and requesting a loan so he might pay both the doctor and the kind widow who ran the boarding house where he was staying.

  “Nevertheless, I must advise against working so soon,” the doctor continued. “If you wish your injuries to heal completely, that is.”

  Christopher glanced at his arm swathed in bandages. It hurt far worse than his head wound and worried him more. The doctor had assured Christopher that if cared for correctly— cleaned and rewrapped frequently— his burne
d skin would eventually heal and he would likely regain full mobility of both his arm and leg. But if I do not… He would be unable to perform the labor necessary for farming. Any labor. He would have to do as the doctor suggested and wait a while longer.

  “I will cease seeking employment until you have given your approval,” Christopher agreed. “Though I must continue to perform tasks for the widow Jensen. She has been kind enough to keep me, and I must begin to repay her as I can.”

  “That should be fine, so long as you are careful with that arm.”

  I have little choice but to be. Christopher recalled his frustration when he had injured his hand taking out Crayton some months ago. But losing mobility in much of his arm and having a leg that could not properly support him was proving far worse and more concerning to his future. How could he hope to take care of—

  Christopher swallowed and quickly reached for his borrowed hat. He glanced at the clock on the wall— almost fifteen minutes had passed since he’d thought of Marsali. Too long. And he had waited too long to find her. But she had to have survived. And must feel equally frantic.

  “I will not seek employment yet, but I must travel. I must find my wife.”

  “Stunning. You look absolutely beautiful.” Lady Cosgrove stood behind Marsali, adjusting her bonnet to fit over the back of her hair.

  “I said two dresses, not seven.” Marsali stared at her reflection in the long mirror and tried to find fault with the dark green gown. Delicate gold embroidery covered the bodice and the puffs of the sleeves. The fitted waist and flared skirt made her plain figure appear better than it was. The color contrasted nicely with her fair skin and dark hair and… She turned aside, unable to meet her own gaze in the mirror. The dress was not the problem. She was.

  “Come now. You mustn’t keep Mr. Vancer waiting. He has been looking forward to this outing, and so must you. Will it not be fine to be outside?”

  Marsali did not feel that it would be fine at all. The house offered protection, a sanctuary while she attempted to heal and to determine what she must do next. Going to live and work with Charlotte seemed the most logical move, but Charlotte had yet to write that there was a position for her. Though I have reached America, I am still parted from my sister.

  “What shall we speak of?” Marsali asked, worrying over the length of time she would be alone with Mr. Vancer.

  “Whatever he wishes,” Lady Cosgrove advised, bustling Marsali from the room. “You must appear interested no matter what the subject is.”

  Marsali was not certain which would be worse— awkward silence during which neither she nor Mr. Vancer were able to think of a topic to discuss, or animated dialogue between them. Conversation with Christopher had been effortless, and she had so enjoyed his company in all circumstances. To enjoy Mr. Vancer’s as well seemed disloyal. Yet he had shown nothing but kindness and courtesy to her, and she could not help but like him a little bit at least.

  He met her in the foyer, a glow of approval in his eyes as he took in her ensemble. Marsali took his arm, and they exited the foyer to the front of the house, where an open-topped carriage awaited just beyond the iron gate. She had worried that the shawl Lady Cosgrove had brought her would not be enough to ward off a chill October day— not that she could have worn any sort of coat over this dress, with its somewhat ridiculous enlarged sleeves and flared skirt— but the day was mild and sunny, and, to Marsali’s surprise, she felt her spirits lift the moment they left the house.

  Mr. Vancer had no sooner helped her into the carriage than she was leaning back, her head tilted up, attempting to take in the tall buildings, all so closely built together, that surrounded the street on either side. When she had gone out before to visit the hospitals and the docks, she had always traveled in a closed carriage and refrained from looking outside much at all, especially when close to Mr. Vancer’s residence, as she did not want any neighbors who happened to be about seeing her and speculating.

  “We haven’t a proper park to drive in as they do in London, but there are many lanes quite beautiful with autumn colors this time of year.” Mr. Vancer wielded the reins with skill and guided the team to a brisk trot as they left the house.

  Marsali had not been certain what to expect but found the fact that he was driving them himself pleasing. Her aunt and uncle had always had a coachman to drive them about, even on the smallest errand, as if exerting themselves in the slightest amount would have been too difficult a task.

  “It is fascinating,” she said, marveling at the strange combination of bustling city and brilliant foliage. “I did not know what to expect of America. It is thrilling to see a bit of it at last.”

  He gave her a sideways smile while keeping his eyes on the road. “You may see much more than a bit. Where would you like to go?”

  “To Virginia,” Marsali suggested hopefully, to which he laughed.

  “Perhaps not today— we should have started much earlier and been more prepared for a journey— but I promise we shall reunite you with your sister.”

  “Soon?” Marsali asked, still hopeful.

  “Soon,” he promised.

  The buggy picked up speed as they left the neighborhood behind in favor of less crowded, tree-lined avenues, lush with the reds and golds of autumn. The air felt crisp and cool and fresh— more so than anywhere in Manchester— and Marsali felt as if new life was being breathed into her.

  At her side Mr. Vancer chatted amiably, pointing out places of interest and telling her of the history of the region. She was neither bored nor uncomfortable but quite enjoying herself. For the next hour she allowed herself to cease thinking of the past and the voyage across the ocean that had changed her life.

  “I love America, and particularly New York.” Mr. Vancer waved his hand emphatically at the outline of the city as they reached a vantage point, ready to begin their return voyage.

  “Do you never miss England?” Marsali asked.

  He turned toward her, as they had not yet begun driving again. “Not really,” he said. “Business necessitates that I return every few years, and on the last of those voyages I could hardly wait to return home— here,” he clarified.

  Mr. Vancer still travels to England and Europe every couple of years. I shall be able to accompany him…

  Recollections of an early conversation with Lydia echoed through Marsali’s mind, haunting her and bringing her back to the present and the guilt she felt at being out driving with her friend’s fiancé. Lydia should be here. Not I.

  And she should have been with Christopher, the man who had sacrificed so much for her. The man I loved. The man I still love. But she could not continue to love him while enjoying Mr. Vancer’s company. It wasn’t fair to either.

  “When will you be traveling to England again?” Marsali asked.

  His brow drew together with apparent concern. “Not thinking of leaving, are you?”

  “No.” Marsali shook her head and forced a smile. “I do not ever wish to go back.” Her gaze dropped to her lap, and she began twisting the ring on her finger beneath her glove. “But there is something I ought to return. Perhaps, if the timing is right, you could see it safely home for me.”

  Leaning heavily on his cane, Christopher disembarked the steam ferry in New York, on the other side of the North River. His leg was throbbing, and he still had half the distance to go to reach Mr. Vancer’s estate. The journey would be worth it if only Lady Cosgrove could give him some idea as to where he might find Marsali. Had she been injured? Was she in a hospital somewhere nearby, waiting for him to come to her?

  The thought of Marsali hurting and alone prodded him to walk faster. Lady Cosgrove will know something. She must. After all, he reasoned, she had been with Marsali that last night when he had gone in search of Lydia.

  Mr. Murphy’s investigation at the docks this past week had revealed that Lady Cornelia Cosgrove and her daughter Lydia had been rescued from a lifeboat at sea, picked up by the Irish packet ship Josephine. They had disembarked in Ne
w York on Friday, 26 September— three full weeks ago.

  Perhaps Marsali had been picked up by a different ship. Why is there no record of her?

  Murphy had been unable to locate or learn of any other survivors from the Amanda May. But he had been called upon to identify bodies of many of the crew, Mr. Tenney and Captain Gower among them.

  But not Marsali. Because she is not dead. Christopher mourned for those who had been lost, particularly Captain Gower, but he did not allow himself to dwell on their deaths and instead held on to hope as he clumped along the sidewalk, past the immigrant districts and to the more wealthy neighborhoods.

  At midafternoon, he at last came to Fifth Street and located the Vancer mansion. It appeared every bit as opulent as Miss Cosgrove had described it, and he imagined that she and her mother were both quite comfortable here.

  Christopher knocked on the door and was admitted by a butler who looked at him askance, as if his clothing indicated he ought to have rung at the servant’s entrance.

  So much for my fine suit, Christopher thought, caring little. His two pounds were gone, as were his books, clothing, and other belongings. But he cared not a whit for any of that and would have gladly given all of it and more to find Marsali.

  Hat in hand, Christopher waited in the foyer, wondering that the butler had not offered to take his hat or shown him to a room to wait. After so many hours of walking, sitting would have been a vast relief.

  A few moments later, Lady Cosgrove swept into the room, appearing far better than the last time he had seen her. As he opened his mouth to greet her, Lady Cosgrove’s face turned ashen, and she stumbled backward, only just managing to catch herself from falling by grabbing onto a side table.