The Marriage Masquerade

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  “No. I think I shall refrain. However, I did expect you to put the lie to my duchess story. Which you didn’t.”

  He had to look away from her. Cursing himself for being so tongue-tied around one tiny woman, Sam focused instead on the scene outside the window … the sun rising over the green hills, the spring day beginning, the countryside stirring. “I had every intention of doing so, believe me.”

  He sought her gaze. He wanted to see her face, see her reaction. “But then … I saw you. Right here, in fact, in front of this very window. You had your back to me. And I was intrigued. A part of me wondered what it would be like to have a woman like you as my duchess. And another part of me wanted to see what your game was, how long you would carry on the charade.”

  With her face uplifted to his and her lips apart, she was utterly entrancing. Sam wanted nothing more than to kiss her soundly. He was lying. He wanted nothing more than to begin with kissing her soundly. She then surprised him by stepping in closer to him and putting her hand on his arm. Her touch was warm, riveting. Sam clamped his jaw shut and braced his knees. Much more of this intimacy and he’d be carrying her off to bed.

  “Sam, you knew, didn’t you, even before you saw me on the day I arrived, that your actual wife couldn’t possibly be here? Am I right?”

  The warmth of the moment fled. Sam stared down at her. An old hardness that not even Yancey’s nearness could dissipate infiltrated his bloodstream and left him cold. “Yes, you are right. I knew better. But I don’t like talking about this.”

  “I know. You’ve said.” She removed her hand from his arm and stepped back. “And yet I’m afraid you have to, if you want my cooperation.”

  “You have no idea what you’re asking of me, Yancey.”

  She held his gaze with the strength of her own. “You’re asking a lot of me, too, Sam. I can tell this is hard for you. But it has to be this way. I admit that until now I’ve been the one to involve myself. But if I’m going to agree to help you from here on out, then I have to know everything.”

  Sam roved his gaze over her high forehead, across her delicate cheekbones, and down her jaw. She had the pinkest skin and lips and the greenest eyes. Quite arresting. But more importantly, and he’d only just realized this, she looked kind. In fact, her entire demeanor was that of a caring woman. Why hadn’t he noticed this before? Blame lust, he accused himself. “All right, Yancey,” he began slowly. “Despite what my mother was told and what I told you this morning, my wife is not dead.”

  “You sound awfully certain of that.”

  There was a tone to her voice that Sam couldn’t identify. Suspicion. Or challenge, maybe. He didn’t like it. “That’s because I know all too well that she is alive.” Yancey raised her eyebrows, increasing Sam’s irritation. “All right, then, I suppose I’m assuming she is alive. At least, she was when I left America.” Yancey said nothing, merely nodded. Sam braced himself to speak aloud—and for the first time—of his personal cross to bear. “What I’m about to tell you not even my family knows. But I believe Sarah to be alive and well in Chicago. I say ‘well’ but that’s not completely accurate.”

  “Then what is, Sam?”

  “I mean she’s physically well. At least she was at last report. But she’s in an asylum, Yancey … for the mentally infirm.”

  Yancey’s surprised exhalation of breath came out on one word. “Oh.”

  “Yes. Oh.” Sam steeled himself for her further response.

  “So that’s why you weren’t distraught over news of her death,” she said, frowning in concentration. “You believed she wasn’t dead.” Then she nodded. “Yes. I daresay your behavior makes sense now.”

  Her comment on his behavior aside, Sam couldn’t have been more surprised by her very practical and unemotional response. For years he’d lived with the oppressive shame and guilt of his wife’s growing mental instabilities and with having to commit her. He’d feared being looked upon as coldhearted or conniving for having her put away. And perhaps he still would have to face that from other people. But apparently not from this woman. A grateful warmth for her spread through Sam.

  Then, some new thought apparently struck her and had her turning widened green eyes up to him. “Oh, Sam, oh no. You poor man. Your wife.”

  “Yancey, what’s wrong?”

  Looking supremely sad, as if the life had been drained out of her, she closed her eyes and slowly shook her head.

  Sam gripped her arms. “Yancey? What is it? Tell me.”

  She opened her eyes. They brimmed with sympathy. “Sit down, Sam.”

  “I will not.” He let go of her and stepped back. “Not until you tell me what you mean.”

  “Oh, Sam, I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you.” She covered her face with her hands and then lowered them, showing him her sad eyes. “The report your mother received may not be wrong. In fact, I’m very much afraid it’s not.”

  Sam couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. He stared at her, feeling suddenly hollow and cold throughout. “What do you know? Tell me.”

  Her expression intensified. “Sam, you really need to sit down. I’ve got some bad news for you. News you’ve already heard once today, but which I must verify, I’m afraid.”

  * * *

  Yancey sat with Sam on the grassy crest of a rounded hill situated between the ancient stone manor and the Cumbrian Mountains that provided its brooding backdrop. Barely a breeze blew and the air smelled sweet with the riotous blooming of colorful wildflowers. Only the occasional bumbling bee that buzzed curiously by and a songbird, happy with its existence, dared disturb their conversation. Not that there was any at the moment. Instead, she and Sam were sitting quietly. Yancey waited upon whatever Sam might want to say.

  She exhaled sadly. There was nothing worse than being the bearer of bad news. She’d told Sam about the other Sarah and why she believed that woman might have been his real wife. He’d become quite agitated and almost unmanageable. Yancey had quickly suggested that they come outside, that they walk some and put a bit of distance between themselves and the oppressive though sleeping presence of his family. Her hope was that the soothing countryside and the cool yet rapidly warming day would settle Sam’s troubled heart, even if only for the space of an hour or two.

  Suddenly he pointed off into the distance. “Look there, Yancey.”

  “Where?” A thread of alarm unraveled along her nerves, making her wish she’d brought her gun along. She strained to see what had caught his eye. He directed her attention down the hill and off to his right. Since she was seated to his left, she got up on her knees, steadied herself with a hand on his solidly muscled shoulder, and peered around him. “What am I looking for, Sam?”

  As if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to do, he put his arm around her waist to steady her. “See that cottage down there? The one next to the mill? With the many pens behind it?”

  “I think so. Yes.” Yancey could barely think with his hand on her. His touch seared through her clothing, leaving her a bit breathless. Then she caught sight of what he meant, and realized it looked a perfectly innocent cottage. “What about it?”

  “That’s where Geoffrey and I played our game of dare with the sow.”

  How odd that he would think of that in such dire circumstances. Yancey glanced down at Sam’s profile and saw his faraway look and soft smile. Perhaps it wasn’t so odd, she decided. Maybe right now he needed the memories of a more innocent time. Yancey played along, even laughing. “And look—there are still pigs down there.”

  His chuckle accompanied her sitting back down as he gripped her elbow to steady her. Yancey arranged her skirt around her legs. “I have to thank you, Sam. Because now, if suddenly asked by Roderick where the pig farm is, I’ll know.”

  He smiled, showing even, white teeth. “Then perhaps you should also know that the stone bridge for which the manor is named is located over there.” He swung his arm to her left. Yancey’s gaze followed his lead. “You can’t see it from h
ere,” he informed her. “But that’s where it is. Those trees meandering along that trickling stream over there hide it. It’s not very impressive. Small, even. But now you know.”

  “Now I know,” Yancey repeated, more interested in watching Sam’s face. It alarmed her that she cared so deeply about his state of mind and his every mood. Her mother’s warning to her about never marrying, about not giving up her independence, once so loud in her ears, now seemed to be fading further and further away, the longer she spent time in this man’s presence. So did Mr. Pinkerton’s admonition to his agents not to entangle their emotions in their work.

  “It’s not as it seems, Yancey. I didn’t just abandon my wife,” Sam said suddenly, riveting her attention to his face. “I had no means, beyond heavy and continual sedation, for getting her back with me to England. She was in one of her violent moods at that time. In fact, she’d already tried to kill me twice before I finally admitted defeat three years ago and called in a doctor.”

  “Dear God, Sam. She tried to kill you?”

  His frowning expression intensified. “Yes. Once she set a fire in our bedroom—with me in the bed.”

  They shared a bedroom, was all Yancey could think. A more logical part of her mind reminded her that she was not his wife, no matter the pretense, and well she would do to remember that salient fact. Yancey blinked back to the moment and heard Sam still talking.

  “… put it out quickly without realizing at the time that she’d set it deliberately. But there was no mistaking her second attempt. She came at me with a knife. I never knew what would upset her or what I’d done, if anything.” He pulled at a blade of grass and heaved a sigh. “And I still don’t. Worse, early on, I never knew, when I left the house, what state I’d find her in when I came home.”

  A sudden insight had Yancey asking, “Was her … behavior why you didn’t have servants in America?”

  He nodded. “Yes. We had a small staff at first. But as her madness progressed, how could I leave some poor, unsuspecting maid alone with her? I did try hiring companions, but they never stayed. Too afraid. I don’t blame them. There at the last, I had no choice except to care for her myself.”

  “I see. Her family couldn’t help you?”

  “She had none. She was alone in the world. An heiress from New York. That’s where I met her. The impoverished second son—that’s me—takes a well-to-do wife. And she was ten years older than me.” Sam looked into Yancey’s eyes. “Not exactly a love match, is it? Or ‘was’ it, I suppose I should say.”

  Yancey lowered her gaze to her lap and picked at a fingernail. “I’m so sorry, Sam.” She looked up. “But what about your mother? Couldn’t she have helped?”

  His expression hardened. “No.”

  Yancey lowered her gaze. “Of course. You never told her about Sarah’s madness. Otherwise she wouldn’t have written to her daughter-in-law.”

  “Exactly.” The look he sent her was hard, proud. He didn’t say anything for a moment more, but then his expression clouded. “I sounded resentful just then, didn’t I? I mean about losing everything because of Sarah’s sickness and especially when it was her money to begin with.”

  Swept with sudden sympathy, Yancey shook her head. “Sam, only if you were a saint could you not have at least some hard feelings.”

  “Well, I’m certainly not a saint. I’ve barely been accused of being a gentleman.”

  “I think you are. A gentleman, I mean. And while you may not be a saint, I do think you behaved nobly with regard to her.”

  He shook his head. “You can’t say that. You weren’t there. It was an awful struggle. And I wasn’t always kind … as you yourself have seen.”

  Yancey smiled her sympathy. “None of us is always on our best behavior, Sam.”

  “Now you’re being kind and forgiving me too easily.”

  He was right. She was more than ready to forgive him anything. Feeling as transparent as a pane of glass where he was concerned, she carefully avoided meeting his eyes. “I just don’t see how you or anyone else could have been unfailingly kind in that situation. You had to have been exhausted at times. And very frustrated.” In truth, Yancey felt so sad for the young husband he had been, probably full of ideas and ideals, all of which he’d been forced to abandon—as had his wife. That’s right, she reminded herself. His wife. She now looked up at him and found him watching her. “Tell me about your Sarah.”

  He looked away from her. “My Sarah. Funny. I never thought of her in that way.” He exhaled. “But you asked me about her.” He was quiet a moment, then began by repeating her name—and Yancey’s real one. “Sarah. Her madness came on slowly. In between episodes, she was loving and kind. She tried hard and didn’t ever seem to remember her … worst moments.”

  “And you didn’t tell her, either, did you?”

  “No. What good would that serve? At any rate, and even on her best days, she hated the ranching country where we lived. You see, I was experimenting with cattle stock, how to improve it. And I got involved in horse breeding. Mostly Thoroughbreds.”

  “That explains the beautiful animals I’ve seen here.”

  He smiled as if genuinely pleased. “You noticed. All I had to bring back with me were my ideas and experience and use them here.”

  “Well, at least that’s something, Sam.”

  “Yes.” His expression became far away. “You’ll get around to thinking of it at some point, Yancey, so let me just say now that I did not have my wife killed. I can’t say the thought didn’t ever cross my mind. I am only human. But when I got to that point with her, of actually considering it, I allowed her to be committed.”

  “I believe you, Sam,” she said quietly, knowing in her heart that were he capable of violence, all he would have had to do was … kill his wife and bury her. Yancey knew firsthand that it was very easy, out on the prairie, to explain away a missing person. Snakebite. Sickness. A bad fall. Happened all the time. Just shoot them and bury them. That was all it took. And no one would ever know. She saw herself digging the two graves … her parents’ graves. Eight years ago.

  “Good,” Sam said suddenly, pulling Yancey back to the moment and holding her gaze with his gray eyes the color of slate. “I’m glad you believe me. More than anyone else in my life, I very much need you to.”

  Moved, her throat working, Yancey fought to keep an understanding smile on her lips. “I have to tell you something else, Sam. Before I left Chicago to come here, I told as much as I knew of all this to Mr. Pinkerton. I showed him the letters from your mother. And he knew about the man in the whorehouse I shot. And he also knew about the other Sarah Calhoun being killed. Now, the description of her murderer matched that of the man I shot. So Mr. Pinkerton began an investigation that very day, Sam.”

  “What are you saying, Yancey?”

  “I’m saying that I believe the agents he put on the case will probably have already found the trail to the asylum where Sarah was—or maybe still is. The only way we’ll know for sure if your wife is actually dead or alive is to see if she is or isn’t there. If she isn’t, they’ll find out soon enough what happened to her. They’re good. They’ll find out where she went, too, and why she was released, things like that.”

  He nodded, his throat working. Sam looked down at the ground and then up, but still facing away from Yancey. “She wouldn’t be released. She—There was no hope that she’d ever … get better.”

  Yancey wanted to cry, it was so sad. “Maybe she escaped.”

  He shrugged. “Unlikely, but possible. She could have.” He was quiet a moment. In an increasingly emotional state herself, Yancey studied his troubled profile. Then, with vehemence, he all but cried out, “God forgive me, Yancey, I hope she is dead. I don’t like to think of her suffering, and I would never do anything to harm her. But being alive, for her, was more suffering than a person should have to bear. When she wasn’t violent, she was withdrawn and confused. There was no joy, no understanding for her.”

  Yancey cou
ld only stare at him, wondering how she should proceed with him—a man who had sacrificed his life for a woman who probably had no idea he had, for a woman who had tried twice to kill him in her demented rages. It was time for Sam’s hurting to stop. It was time for him to live again. Yancey reached out to him, putting a hand on his arm. “Sam?” He settled his hurting gaze on her. “Don’t do this to yourself. You’ve suffered long enough.”

  His face colored with high emotion, and his expression hardened. He nodded and again looked away from her. After a moment, he said, quietly, hoarsely, “Perhaps. Go on with what you were saying.”

  Yancey thought quickly. What had she been saying? Then she had it. She lowered her hand to her lap and said, “We were talking about the investigation in Chicago. I don’t believe it’s inconceivable, Sam, to think that the agents may already have the answers for us. You see, with my life in danger, Mr. Pinkerton made this case a priority and had agents assigned to it right away. Now, that was over a month ago when I left Chicago. So if they found something weeks ago, and accounting for the length of time it would take to get a letter here to me, one could arrive at any moment from them.”

  Sam swung his gaze her way. Yancey was relieved to see that he looked more himself now, more caught up in living. “That makes sense. Would they know you were here, though? Or would they think you were in London at my residence there? After all, this is the height of the season and they could reasonably assume you’d be there if I was.”

  “Mr. Pinkerton will send his findings to Scotland Yard. They know where I am and would send it along. Remember, I was in London before I came here.”

  Sam nodded. “I remember. But what was I supposed to think, Yancey, before today, before you told me who you are, if a letter had arrived for you from Scotland Yard?”

  “I’d been worried about that,” she confessed, grinning guiltily. “I suppose I would have had to tell you at that point.”

  “Obviously.” He looked at her as if she were some sort of new mechanical marvel that had caught his eye. Then he frowned. “However, I’m not so sure the doctors at the asylum will tell your agents anything. I pay handsomely for Sarah’s privacy.”