Marrying Christopher
Page 10
“No, thank you,” Marsali said as kindly as she could. She’d indulged them after breakfast, when really all she had wanted to do was go to her room and continue reading the marvelous book he’d lent her. But her conscience had not allowed her to abandon Mr. Thatcher to a morning alone with Miss Cosgrove. Though Marsali found her quite amusing, as well as a great insight to the intricacies of society, she could also appreciate that Miss Cosgrove’s non-stop chatter could grow wearisome, especially for a man. And now it appeared that her chatter had been replaced by tears. Marsali very much doubted that Mr. Thatcher had particularly enjoyed those either.
Notwithstanding he has a fine shoulder to cry upon. Her gaze flickered over him briefly, looking as handsome in his frock coat today as he had yesterday when describing to her his discomfort as he took leave of his sisters. And as fine as he looked last night when we danced.
What a pleasant diversion that had been. Though there had been that moment when he’d faced her, when their eyes had met and their fun had seemed to turn to something more— something that both frightened and excited her. Marsali supposed she was a coward for not lingering in the moment and exploring it more closely, but Miss Cosgrove’s timely arrival had seemed the perfect excuse to end whatever it was that had passed between herself and Mr. Thatcher.
I am not free to be interested in any man. Charlotte had been eighteen when she’d met Matthew, fallen in love with him, and married. But I do not have that luxury. I am not allowed feelings of my own yet, other than the feelings of responsibility to those to whom I am committed.
“I am truly sorry to decline your invitation,” she said to both Mr. Thatcher and Miss Cosgrove, as they were clearly both waiting for an explanation. His face registered disappointment, though he attempted to hide it. And Miss Cosgrove let out a dejected sigh. Marsali picked up the envelope in her lap. “It is just that I’ve been waiting until we were at sea to read this.” She could not bear to think of waiting even a half hour longer. The letter had been on her mind almost constantly since her aunt’s maid handed it to her two days earlier. A dozen times she had picked it up and been on the verge of opening it, only to tell herself that she should wait. But with their ship underway and England’s shores at last safely behind them, there was no longer a reason to delay reading it.
“Oooh.” Miss Cosgrove’s eyes widened with delight, and she rose up on her tiptoes, leaning closer for a better look. “Who is it from? Have you left a beau behind, or is there one awaiting you in America?”
“It is a letter from my sister,” Marsali explained. “She promised to write and tell me what I must expect upon my arrival in New York and on my journey to Virginia.”
“Oh, do tell us what she says, please.” Miss Cosgrove left Mr. Abbott’s side and with a flounce of skirts— pink today— seated herself on the crate beside Marsali.
“Perhaps Miss Abbott would like to read her letter in private,” Mr. Thatcher suggested.
Marsali sent him a look of gratitude. “That would be—”
“But I haven’t ever had a letter from America,” Miss Cosgrove said. “Mr. Vancer only ever wrote to Mama, not to me. I should love to have a sister waiting for me, especially one who has lived in America for four years. She must know everything about it.”
“Likely not,” Marsali said. “Charlotte lives on a modest plantation in Virginia. And I fear—”
“Oh, you needn’t worry I’ll be bored.” Miss Cosgrove leaned in close— so close her chin nearly rested on Marsali’s shoulder.
“Very well.” Marsali held back a sigh. “You may stay as well, Mr. Thatcher,” she said as she caught him sneaking away.
They exchanged a look similar to that which they’d shared at breakfast, only this time it was Marsali who came away with the point. As if we are playing a game of badminton and Miss Cosgrove is the shuttlecock. The image brought a smile to Marsali’s face as she remembered playing the game with Charlotte ages ago.
Charlotte. Without further hesitation, and heedless of her audience, Marsali tore into the envelope, breaking the seal and extracting the letter. With greater care, she unfolded the parchment. Her smile widened as she recognized her sister’s fine script.
“What does it say?” Miss Cosgrove asked. “The sun is blinding, and I cannot see.”
Marsali held the paper up at a better angle and began to read.
“My Dearest Marsali,
“It is with great urgency that I write to you and tell you that you must not make your journey as we had planned.”
“Oh, dear!” Marsali reread the line again and wondered what trickery of her aunt’s this was. Every one of Charlotte’s previous letters had been counting down the years and then months and weeks until Marsali might join her. “She can’t mean it,” she said, glancing from Miss Cosgrove to Mr. Thatcher. “If Charlotte even wrote this at all. My aunt must have copied her handwriting.”
“I have learned that Mr. Joshua Thomas is not to be trusted. Friday last I discovered quite by accident that his daughter’s previous lady’s maid had passed away suddenly.”
“How dreadful!” Miss Cosgrove exclaimed.
Turning her body away and bending her head low over the paper, Marsali continued to read silently.
As you might imagine, I found this news rather sorrowful, though not too distressing, as I had met her only once previous, when we were both waiting on ladies in attendance at the same ball.
I inquired of our visitor who shared this news, a Miss Pettigrew of Edgewood, what had befallen the maid and was told that she had developed a sudden pneumonia and died within a few days. I thought this rather odd, as pneumonia in the middle of summer here is quite rare, especially in an otherwise healthy young woman. But as we both know, unusual occurrences are often more common than one would believe.
Marsali knew Charlotte was referring to their mother’s illness. Charlotte still believed their mother had simply fallen ill and died of consumption. Marsali had attempted to tell her the truth in a letter— that their mother had been poisoned— but Aunt Ada had intercepted it and thrown it into the fire. After that, Marsali had to carefully choose her words and write only vague hints of the situation at her aunt’s house, or she would not be allowed to write to her sister at all.
Unusual occurrences often have more to them than one might believe, Marsali thought, her concern elevating as she returned to reading Charlotte’s letter.
I would have thought no more of the incident, had Miss Pettigrew’s maid not taken me aside later, as I was out taking in the wash.
What she told me— whether truth or falsehood, though I have since had reason to believe her words to be true— has left me frightened for you, sister. The woman told me that Miss Thomas’s previous two lady’s maids have all perished shortly before their term of service was to end. Other servants working on the Thomas plantation have suffered similar fates, and some have simply disappeared.
Following this report, Matthew and I undertook an investigation on our own, and what we discovered has been extremely disturbing. Mr. Thomas is not a good man. He is known for his cruelty to both slaves and servants alike. To the outside world he is a well-respected businessman, but those living under his hand tell quite a different tale.
Marsali, you must not come to America. I fear you shall be in terrible danger— even more so than you are while still at Aunt Ada’s mercy. Please stay in Manchester through the winter. You shall get through somehow. I know it. And Matthew and I will do our best to save every penny we can to pay for your passage ourselves.
I am as sorrowful as you over this turn of events, but I should rather be sad than frightened for your life. Please remember I love you dearly.
Yours affectionately,
Charlotte
Marsali’s fingers went limp, and the letter slipped from them, falling to her lap. She squeezed her eyes closed, but the awful words still swam before them. Just as in Manchester, there was no escaping. And there was no doubt it was Charlotte who had written th
e letter. Had her aunt tampered with it, there would certainly have been no mention of her cruelty.
“What else did your sister say?” Miss Cosgrove peered over Marsali’s shoulder, attempting to get a good look at the letter.
“Miss Abbott, are you quite all right?” Mr. Thatcher’s voice pulled her back to the present, to the ship that was taking her toward even greater danger.
Marsali looked up through wet eyelashes and had the absurd thought that she must not cry in front of him. He had heard her doing so once already. And he had endured Miss Cosgrove’s tears this morning.
“Charlotte says that I am not to come,” Marsali said numbly.
“But you are already coming,” Miss Cosgrove said.
“She thinks it dangerous,” Marsali said.
“Oooh! I just knew it,” Miss Cosgrove exclaimed. “It is as Mama said— we are journeying to the uncivilized world. Are the natives uprising again? What has happened there in Virginia where she lives? That’s the wilderness, isn’t it? It isn’t like New York, which at least is somewhat close to becoming as refined and cultured as London.”
“Miss Cosgrove, please,” Mr. Thatcher said sharply. He squatted in front of Marsali so that he was at eye level. “Are you all right? And your sister? No harm has befallen her?”
“No.” Marsali shook her head and it cleared a bit. There was something to be grateful for— Charlotte was well. “My sister is quite all right. The ill has befallen my predecessor. Here. I do not care to read it again. And I see no harm in either of you knowing.” She held the letter out to him, and after a second’s hesitation he took it, then stood once more and began reading. Miss Cosgrove stood and joined him, nosing her way in to read over his arm.
Marsali folded her arms across her middle, hugging herself. The breeze that had felt good moments ago now seemed chilling. And the voyage she had so looked forward to had lost its appeal.
“But you can’t turn back now,” Miss Cosgrove exclaimed just a second after starting to read. This was followed by several gasps of varying severity. Mr. Thatcher finished the letter, lowered the paper, and looked at Marsali.
“What do you intend to do?” he asked.
“Nothing.” She shrugged. “I haven’t any choice but to go and to honor my indenture.” It wasn’t as if she could dive off the ship and swim back to England. Not that I would go back. Mr. Thatcher returned the letter, and she quickly refolded it, though the words seemed etched in her mind already.
Mr. Thomas is not to be trusted… He is known for his cruelty… maids have perished shortly before their term… Marsali clutched the tail end of the thought as if it was a life raft.
“Charlotte did not say that any of the maids had perished at the beginning or middle of their time of service. It was only when they were about to be released from their contract. Surely I will be safe for a good three years or more.” She gave a half smile, trying to make light of the situation. Mr. Thatcher and Miss Cosgrove did not return her smile. Even the latter was astonishingly quiet.
Say something, Marsali begged silently. Move me to distraction with your chatter.
“You should not go,” Mr. Thatcher said, his mouth drawn and his blue eyes looking as solemn as Marsali had ever seen them.
“I haven’t any choice,” Marsali said. “I’ve no other way to pay for my passage, and I shall owe Mr. Thomas for it upon my arrival.”
“But your sister said he is a cruel man.” Miss Cosgrove’s eyes welled with tears, and her lip quivered as if frightened. Marsali wondered how much the display of emotion had to do with Miss Cosgrove’s own worries— about the fiancé and the new life awaiting her in New York.
At least I am not betrothed to Mr. Thomas. Marsali suppressed a shudder and stood abruptly, taking one of Miss Cosgrove’s hands in her own. “You must not worry for me. I shall be fine.”
“But—”
“As for Mr. Thomas’s supposed cruelty…” Marsali sighed, feeling rather more discouraged than fearful now. “It is not something I am unused to. Both my aunt and uncle loathed me. Having been subjected to their treatment the past four years, I am doubtful that Mr. Thomas shall be any worse.”
Only please don’t let him be as bad.
Mr. Thatcher had not said anything further during this exchange, but Marsali could see that he was troubled. His brows pinched together almost painfully, and his lips were turned down. Had she a penny to her name, she might have offered it for his thoughts.
“Come,” Marsali said, linking her arm through Miss Cosgrove’s. “Let us see if England is truly behind us now or if we can still make out her shore.” She steered Miss Cosgrove toward the back of the ship. Mr. Thatcher lingered behind, and when Marsali glanced back at him, she saw that he had turned the other direction. Strangely, this relieved her. She did not want his pity, and she could not afford to get used to his assistance— as he had offered at her late arrival that first night.
I cannot depend upon anyone but myself. There is no one to rescue me. I am still alone in this world.
These circumstances were not anything different from those she had dealt with previously, but the thought of continuing on that way for another four years was disheartening. All of the enthusiasm she’d felt for this voyage, and her excitement for seeing America and even seeing Charlotte, had fled. Silently Marsali cursed the maid who had rushed to bring her that letter.
It would have been better had I not known. At least I could have enjoyed these few weeks. Now, instead of eagerly counting down the days until they arrived in New York, Marsali would be marking them off as the last days of her safety.
No matter, she told herself bravely as they reached the back of the ship. She released Miss Cosgrove’s hand and clutched the rail as she looked out at England’s rapidly receding shores.
“Aren’t you afraid to work for Mr. Thomas?” Miss Cosgrove asked, her voice subdued in both volume and animation.
“Yes,” Marsali answered honestly. “But many times in my life I have been afraid. And I have survived them all.” Some just barely. She glanced at Miss Cosgrove and saw her lip quiver.
“And you are frightened as well?” Marsali asked. “About what awaits you in America?”
Miss Cosgrove nodded and sniffed loudly. She turned to Marsali, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. “Mr. Vancer is so much older. What if he doesn’t care for me? What if he is cruel like your Mr. Thomas?”
“He is not my Mr. Thomas,” Marsali said, then regretted it when Miss Cosgrove gave a hiccupping sob.
“I’m sorry,” Marsali said, sliding her arm around Miss Cosgrove’s shoulder in a gesture of comfort. “Mr. Vancer will not be cruel to you. And he does like you. He would not have offered for you otherwise.”
“He doesn’t know me,” Miss Cosgrove said. “He hasn’t seen me since I was twelve, and I don’t remember much of that visit.”
“But he must,” Marsali said, praying she was right and was not about to make the situation worse. “You must have made a very good impression upon him, so that all these years later he has sent for you to come and be his bride.”
“Oh, I do hope you are right.” Miss Cosgrove managed a tiny smile along with the tears streaming down her face. Even with her cheeks red and her eyes puffy, she still managed to look very pretty. Marsali withdrew her arm from around Miss Cosgrove’s shoulders and stepped back. She knew a moment of longing as she took in Miss Cosgrove’s golden curls and the jeweled combs in her hair that matched her dress. Surely Mr. Vancer would be pleased with her appearance at least. She hoped very much that he would be pleased with the rest of his bride as well— that he would enjoy her vivaciousness and appreciate her enthusiasm for most everything.
And if he does not… It troubled Marsali to think of a subdued Miss Cosgrove, of the light and happiness within her put out.
“Your mother will be with you as well,” Marsali said, searching for something she might say which was true. “She would not let you marry someone who would be unkind to you.”
Marsali laughed with her and felt better for having offered comfort. “Such an unfair lot we women have,” she said as much to herself as to Miss Cosgrove. “It seems we must either marry— and often not for love or because we wish to— or we must spend our lives serving others and subject to their treatment.”
“I think you are certainly the one with the more difficult time of it,” Miss Cosgrove said in a rare display of altruistic thinking. “I wish you could come with me and be my lady’s maid. I would treat you kindly, and we would be the dearest of friends— sharing my sweets, staying up late at night talking together, gossiping about the ladies I’d met at the ball or the gentlemen who had come to call on us.”
“It sounds lovely,” Marsali said, indulging in the fantasy even further, where she was not the maid but a resident of such a household and of equal status. “But no doubt your Mr. Vancer has a houseful of servants already, with one picked out especially for you.”
“And she is probably old and stuffy.” Miss Cosgrove wrinkled her pert nose and stuck out her tongue.
Marsali laughed. “Oh, Miss Cosgrove, you are a dear. You have cheered me considerably, and I thank you for it.”
“Lydia,” Miss Cosgrove said. She reached out, turning Marsali to her and placing her hands upon her shoulders. “We are friends now— in sorrow and fear as well as happiness— so you must call me by my Christian name.”
“Lydia is a lovely name,” Marsali said, thinking how well it fit her. “You may call me Marsali.”
“Marsali the brave!” Lydia quipped. “Facing her fears with far more courage than I. Though I don’t know how you shall.”
“Do not worry for me,” Marsali said once more. “I have been on my own for a long time. I can care for myself.” And I will.