by Joanna Shupe
Why is it my fault Father has a problem with gambling? Why am I being forced to suffer for his failings?
No matter how hard she tried, she could not picture Van Peet as her husband. Perhaps he wanted a marriage in name only. Would she really need to lie with him? A shiver racked her and she wrapped her arms around her middle.
“I asked you a question,” her mother snapped. “Is that truly what you want for your parents?”
“No, Mother,” she whispered.
“Good girl. Now, go get a decent night’s sleep. Tomorrow, you shall meet with your future husband.”
Chapter Three
Movement out of the corner of Oliver’s eye startled him. The greenhouse door had opened and Christina’s head peeked through, a question in her brown gaze. He squashed the small burst of happiness that expanded behind his ribs. Three days since he had last seen her. Still, it would not do to become excited at her return, not when he would much rather be left alone. He put down his tools and motioned her inside.
“Hello,” she signed after slipping through the entrance and closing the door. It was colder today than previous mornings, frost coating every twig and branch in the gardens, so he was not surprised to see her teeth chattering.
He pointed to where a breakfast tray rested on the counter. “Drink,” he gestured.
Nodding, she removed her gloves and poured herself a cup of tea, not even bothering to shed her coat or hat. She sat on the empty stool and sipped the warm liquid. He told himself he watched her mouth merely to notice if she spoke, but that did not explain the attention he devoted to the full lips hugging the porcelain rim, the pink tongue sweeping the extra droplets . . .
Stop, Oliver. Stop it right there.
He tried to look away, to concentrate on her hands, but then he saw her mouth move. She was trying to talk and he had not been paying attention, damn it. “What?” he signed.
She took another sip. “I have a question for you.”
“Yes?”
She nibbled on her bottom lip. “It is difficult to explain.”
He withdrew the small ledger and pencil from his pocket and slid them down the tabletop.
“No, I did not mean to imply you would not understand—”
She thought the issue was communication. He stood, went to her side, and picked up the pencil. Writing can help to clarify one’s thoughts, he wrote. Write it down.
“Oh, I see.”
After removing her coat and hat, she moved closer to him, their hips nearly brushing as she bent to write. He waited patiently, watching her hands instead of her face. He needed no reminders of her beauty and how it affected him. In fact, he’d thought of little else lately.
He started to read over her shoulder.
I am to pay a call to a gentleman this afternoon, she wrote, and I fear I shall not be able to fake civility. He is entirely unsuitable. My parents are relying on me to do my duty as a daughter but that grows more difficult as the prospect of marrying becomes a reality. To consider disobeying, however, fills me with guilt.
Ah. Now he understood. He held out his hand for the pencil. Your parents wish for you to be happy. Talk to them. Make them understand this man’s unsuitability.
When she read this, she shook her head and snatched the pencil back. They only want money. They do not care about my happiness.
Oliver rubbed his chin. If their financial situation were indeed dire then her parents may very well push her into a union, regardless of the suitor. He’d been lucky; his own parents had wanted the best for him, no matter the personal sacrifice. When he lost his hearing at age thirteen, they had hired every physician in the Northeast to examine him, hoping for a cure. Then there had been Dr. Jacobs for sign language, followed by the best schooling available for deaf students. Through it all, he never doubted his parents’ love or dedication, even after they died.
A shame Christina’s experience differed.
He wrote, Who is the man?
Her hand wobbled as she gripped the pencil. Mr. Van Peet.
Drumming his fingers on the wooden tabletop, Oliver tried to remember how he knew that name. Hadn’t the sons died? The father was still alive, however, if memory served. Wealthy? Owns the Upper Hudson Railroad Company?
I am not certain what he owns but he is very wealthy. The wealthiest in New York, I am told.
Well, hell. Van Peet had to be eighty if he were a day. When Christina had said “old,” Oliver had not thought quite that old. Though he never circulated in society these days, he could guess that marriages between nineteen-year-old girls and men in their thirties and forties—even fifties—were still common. However, a man in his eighties? It was distasteful. What were her parents thinking? Surely there were other wealthy men closer to their daughter’s age.
She tapped his arm and pointed to the paper. It is awful, she had written. I am able to tell from your expression.
Oliver winced. He is a bit older than I expected.
“Me, too.” Desolation shone deep in her eyes, unhappiness like a blanket surrounding her. Is he cruel? What do you know about him?
He was uncertain how to answer. Even in a city that revered capitalism above sense, Van Peet was vilified in the newspapers. His workers were constantly striking for better wages, living conditions, and benefits. Van Peet crushed the rebellions with a heavy hand, the bloodiest of the battles only three years ago in Scranton. Hundreds died and the union had not succeeded with their demands.
Then again, perhaps Van Peet had an altruistic streak, like Carnegie. The old man could have a heart of gold for all Oliver knew.
Not much, he wrote, flipping the page to keep going. But if you do not care for him, have your parents refuse his offer. He is far from the only wealthy man in New York.
She grabbed at the pencil. My parents are set on the match. How should I dissuade him? Is there a way to convince him we would not suit?
Oliver considered this. Why would any man that old want a young woman? To bear children. As a showpiece. To gain a dowry. Christina could not provide the last but she could certainly provide the first two—if Van Peet’s plumbing still worked, of course.
He wants a biddable young thing to give him children. To make himself feel young again. Show him you are not biddable.
She stared at the gardens, her bottom lip disappearing between her teeth again. He did not like to see her withdrawn, lost in her own unhappy thoughts. Tapping her shoulder, he pointed at the paper. She sighed and wrote, I have no idea how to do that—and my mother will be present during the visit.
Of course Christina would have a chaperone. So? he wrote.
I cannot. She will be positively furious.
What is worse: your mother’s wrath or marrying Van Peet?
Honestly, I could not say.
He frowned. Was she so scared of her mother that she’d rather go through with the marriage? What sort of mother instilled such fear in a child? Without thinking, he reached out and gently brushed an errant strand of glossy brown hair behind her ear. His fingers touched the shell of her ear, so delicate and smooth. Something switched on inside him at the contact, a long-extinguished light that flared back to life. Sensation rippled through him, both hot and cold now coursing through his veins, causing him to shiver and break out in a sweat.
She froze, her confused gaze locking with his. A question lingered in her brown depths, one that he could not begin to answer. What in God’s name had he been thinking? He had no right to touch her. Was his body so starved for companionship after six years that he forgot his manners and good breeding?
He forced himself to put distance between them. I am sorry, he wrote.
Color crept along her neck and over her cheeks, her skin glowing in the most innocent and fetching way. She really was incredibly lovely. Van Peet did not deserve her.
Yes, but neither do you.
“It is quite all right,” she said with a delicate lift of one shoulder.
No. Nothing was quite all right, not since
the day she’d hit her head in his gardens. Now he was distracted and his mind disorganized, two things he hated and could ill afford. The last thing he needed was to be declared incompetent and have everything taken from him. God knew many people were committed for spurious reasons, let alone someone who was merely deaf. Oliver had read of several cases where the deaf or mute had been wrongly sent away to asylums. He had vowed to never let that happen, to keep to himself and focus on his inventions.
So the less he saw of Christina the better.
He wrote in the ledger, determined to put an end to this. Convince Van Peet you have a backbone. Your mother might be angry, but she will come around. He returned to his stool and presented her with his back, ready to concentrate on his work. Again.
A tap on his shoulder caught his attention minutes later. Her coat and hat were already in place. “I must return home. I shall see you tomorrow.”
He tried to tell her not to return, but she had already turned away. He thought about using his voice but the words would not come. Frustrated, he watched as she disappeared out the door.
Long shadows draped the empty corners of Mr. Van Peet’s home, the gloomy interior doubling Christina’s nervousness. Apparently Van Peet disliked electric lighting—and heat. The air was so frigid in the parlor that Christina was nearly certain she could see her breath. She clutched her gloved fingers tighter and tried to keep her teeth from chattering as they waited for Van Peet to arrive. Goodness, how did he stand it?
Her mother appeared unaffected by the conditions, which stood to reason, Christina supposed. Her mother would never live here. Christina put a hand to her stomach in an attempt to stave off the rising panic.
You cannot do this. You must not allow them to force you into this marriage, no matter the consequences for your parents.
She hated the guilt that followed those thoughts of rebellion. It had been eons since she had disobeyed her parents, not since she ran away from home at the age of twelve. Archery had been her favorite activity—until her mother declared it unladylike. Christina’s bow and arrows had been taken away, leaving her devastated. That night, she’d stolen back her bow, packed some clothing, and departed in the darkness with no destination in mind.
The next morning, a groom found her sleeping in the village stables and promptly returned her to the countess. As punishment, her mother forced Christina to throw her bow and arrows into a bonfire. She’d been a dutiful daughter ever since, following every rule. Never complaining. However, this time she could not sit quietly and agree to something she knew in her bones was a mistake.
Convince Van Peet you have a backbone.
Oliver’s advice seemed simple in theory, but she was not certain how to execute a show of independence in front of her mother.
“Sit up straight,” her mother hissed. “Do you wish to develop a hunch?”
The question instantly reminded her of Van Peet, whose posture resembled a question mark. Christina lifted her spine and arranged the skirts of her pale pink gown. It was a dreadful color, but the countess had insisted on it, saying the shade made Christina look youthful.
“Today must go well. Smile and be charming. You must do all in your power to lure Mr. Van Peet into a betrothal.”
The idea of luring Van Peet into anything soured Christina’s stomach. She remained silent, however, still agonized over this visit. The trick was to convince him into thinking they were ill suited without her mother catching on. How on earth was she to manage it?
The door opened and Van Peet wobbled into the room, his gait stiffer than she remembered. The countess rose, as did Christina, her knees knocking from nerves and the cold.
“Bring us tea,” Van Peet snapped at the footman by the door. “But not too hot.”
“Good afternoon,” the countess said. “Thank you for receiving us, Mr. Van Peet. You remember my daughter, Lady Christina.”
“Of course I do,” Van Peet snarled, thumping his cane on the carpet. “She’s the reason I invited you. Come here, girl. Let me see you.”
Inhaling deeply, Christina approached him. His rheumy eyes peered at her bosom, modestly covered by fabric, and then moved down to her hips. “Pelvic area’s a bit on the narrow side.”
The countess tittered as if this criticism amused her. “She is still recovering from a cold last week.”
“I hope she does not die on me, like my last wife.” Van Peet lowered himself into an armchair, his head settling at an awkward angle. “Sit down, sit down.”
The countess resumed her seat. “I assure you, she is normally the very picture of good health.”
Christina’s chest burned at the indignity of being discussed as if she were not even in the room. Not biddable, Christina. She lifted her chin and walked back to her seat. “Well, except for—”
“And she comes from a long line of healthy childbearing women,” her mother said, talking over her. “Large families on both sides.”
Van Peet nodded. “Good. I had three sons, but they’ve all died. My two daughters married wastrels so I have cut them off completely. I’d like at least two more children before I pass on.”
Two children! Christina’s mind reeled, her breath turning shallow as horror seized her lungs. She could not imagine reproducing once with this man, let alone twice. I must find a way out of this. I cannot do this.
“Perfectly understandable,” the countess said. “Christina will make a fine mother. She has been trained in household duties befitting a wife her entire life.”
Van Peet pursed his thin lips as if he doubted this. Before he could say anything, however, a young maid entered with a tea tray. The girl avoided Van Peet, walking around to the other side of the table, entirely opposite the old man. Was the maid afraid of him? Christina would not be surprised to learn he was a terrible employer. If his public demeanor was any indication, she shuddered to think of what his private demeanor was like.
The maid set the tray down. When she straightened, her gaze caught Christina’s—and Christina registered the sympathy there, as if the maid was warning Christina away from this place.
“Girl, you pour for us,” Van Peet said, waving his hand in Christina’s direction. “Let’s see your competence with tea service.”
Christina had been pouring tea her whole life. Yet the countess’s lips pressed tight, as if she suspected Christina would embarrass them.
An idea occurred. What would happen if she did embarrass them? Van Peet, appalled at her lack of manners, might very well order them from the house. He might lose interest in marrying her . . .
Her mother cleared her throat pointedly.
Snapping out of her reverie, Christina realized she had paused with her hand on the teapot handle. Hands shaking, she set to work on the strainer.
Van Peet thumped his cane on the floor. “Is she simple?”
“Of course not. She speaks four languages and plays two instruments.” The countess’s voice was smooth and confident, as if Christina was the perfect daughter. “She will make you an excellent hostess.”
“I hope so. I have many business interests and prefer to entertain here. Easier that way for me.”
Entertain? The idea filled Christina with dread. She hated socializing, was terrible at polite small talk. And here she had assumed this bargain could not get any worse . . .
She finished the pour and served Van Peet first, then her mother. She cradled her own cup for warmth, hoping her hands would soon thaw. When Van Peet noticed, he frowned. “You aren’t hoping for coffee, I hope. Cannot stand the stuff. It will not be served in my home.”
Backbone. Remember what Oliver said.
“I do prefer coffee,” she lied. “It is far more flavorful than tea.”
The countess’s mouth fell open slightly, but she was too well-bred to argue in front of their host.
“You shall need to give it up, if I decide to marry you.” He sniffed. “And is that perfume? I only allow unscented soaps here. I cannot stand any sort of strange scent in the
house.”
Christina’s throat burned with the need to scream. To run. To leave all this behind and disappear. Why was this happening? Could her mother not see Van Peet’s cruelty, comprehend the horrendous husband he would make?
Yet, her mother’s expression had not changed since the visit began. Do you not understand? I am doing you a favor by selecting someone like Van Peet. In the countess’s twisted mind, she saw this as the perfect solution for Christina.
Christina vehemently disagreed. This hardly felt like a favor. Almost anyone would be a better husband. Even Oliver, with his moodiness and proclivity for solitude, would be far, far preferable. She would rather be ignored than abused and belittled.
Though to be fair, Oliver had not completely ignored her today. He’d actually touched her, a gentle sweep of his fingertips over her skin, and the simple gesture had started a fire in her belly, an ache of some kind. She had not experienced that before, a strong physical yearning for another person. It had confused and excited her. She’d wanted him to continue, to let her drown in the green of his eyes and the soothing press of his fingers.
But Oliver had been appalled by the intimacy, recoiling as soon as he realized who he was touching. He’d ignored her for the rest of the visit. How can you blame him? You are not a beauty, like your mother, or vivacious, like Patricia. You are plain and boring.
“I am certain my daughter will be amenable to any household rules you have established,” the countess was saying. “She is quite biddable.”
Biddable.
Like a dog.
The burning resentment in Christina’s chest spread to her throat and then her temples. Do something, Christina. Without thinking, she let the saucer in her hand slide and the cup teetered, liquid sloshing onto the fine carpet below. Her mother gasped and Van Peet uttered a choking sound. Christina righted the porcelain, apologizing profusely.
The countess put her own cup and saucer down with a snap. “I sincerely apologize, Mr. Van Peet. I do not know what has gotten into my daughter this afternoon.”
Van Peet narrowed his gaze on Christina. “That was clumsy of you, girl.”