Marrying Christopher

by Michele Paige Holmes

  “She’ll be all right.” The second voice spoke again. “Mr. Vancer will take care of her. He’s half in love with her already. Have you seen the way he looks at her?”

  The name Vancer sounded familiar, but Marsali could not put a face with it. And she still did not know who was speaking— or, for that matter, where she was. She was going to have to open her eyes.

  They didn’t want to at first, heavy as they were with sleep, or possibly some medicine, but at last she forced them open and stared wide-eyed at a completely unfamiliar room and two maids she had never seen before, one seated on either side of her.

  “Who are you?” Marsali asked. “This isn’t my aunt’s house.”

  The one closest to her smiled kindly. “You’re in New York, miss. In Mr. Vancer’s house. Your ship wrecked off the coast, but you were rescued, and he brought you here.”

  “Mr. Vancer?” She still had no recollection of who he was, though the events they had described were at least partially familiar. She remembered the storm and being in the lifeboat.

  The second maid’s mouth turned down, and she exchanged a worried look across the bed with the maid who had just spoken. “You do not know who Mr. Vancer is?”

  Wasn’t that obvious? She’d just asked, hadn’t she? “I do not,” Marsali said, trying not to panic.

  “Mr. William Vancer,” the first woman said, “is one of the wealthiest men in New York— and your fiancé.”

  The clock downstairs struck eight times, and Marsali left the luxurious bedchamber, wondering if she had spent her last night in it. She had planned her meeting with Mr. Vancer for morning, when it was sure Lady Cosgrove would not be awake and about, for she would not approve of what Marsali was about to do and might have found some means to prevent it.

  And though Lady Cosgrove’s plan might have been the easier route, Marsali could not go through with it. She would not. No matter what the consequences. A week had passed since she had arrived at Mr. Vancer’s home, and it was long past time that he learned who she really was.

  Perhaps Mr. Vancer would be so put off by her deception that he would throw her out immediately— and Lady Cosgrove along with her. If so, Marsali felt regret about that, but she could continue this ruse no longer. She was not Lydia, and she had no intention of becoming so.

  Even risking her life by subjecting herself to Mr. Thomas and the terms of her indenture was better than losing herself, simply disappearing, and becoming someone else, as if she’d never existed.

  Though a few servants moved about the upper hall and downstairs, no one stopped Marsali as she wandered, searching for the breakfast room, or perhaps a study, where she might locate Mr. Vancer. She’d yet to leave her chamber before today, and she’d dared not voice her request to meet with him to anyone else, lest word of it got back to Lady Cosgrove.

  After peering into several rooms— a sitting room, a music room, a library— Marsali discovered what she had been searching for, along with the man she had been hoping to see. Gathering her courage, she stepped through the doorway. “Mr. Vancer.”

  He’d been looking down reading a newspaper, a tray of sundry breakfast items on the table in front of him, but lifted his head to look at her. She was relieved to see that it truly was he; she’d only guessed it would be but recalled his face from their earlier, brief meeting, when he had come up to her room for a few minutes to see how she was recovering. She ought to have told him the truth then, but Lady Cosgrove and two maids had also been in the room, and Marsali had been too surprised by his presence to form any kind of cohesive thought or explanation.

  “Miss Cosgrove. Good to see you up and about.” He pushed back his chair and rose, then held his hand out, inviting her to join him and take the seat nearest his.

  Marsali strode purposefully into the room, stopping before the chair he held out. She hesitated, then sank into it, rationalizing that she might as well have a bit of breakfast while she broke the news to him.

  He passed a plate of toast and a dish of marmalade to her. “Are you feeling much improved this morning?” His brows lifted as he studied her with a look of hopeful concern.

  “I am well rested, thank you.” She gave up all pretense of fixing her toast and turned to face him. “But I am much troubled otherwise. There is something I must tell you.”

  “Go on.” Neither his expression nor tone suggested any concern at her announcement. Rather, it almost seemed as if he was having difficulty containing a smile.

  “I am not Lydia Cosgrove,” Marsali blurted. There was no easy way to say it.

  He smiled warmly. “I know.”

  “You do?” All of the tension and worry she’d felt over his reaction left in a rush, leaving her feeling somewhat deflated, yet much better at the same time.

  “I know all about you, Miss Abbott.”

  Not everything, apparently. “I am no longer Miss Abbott,” she corrected him. “I am a married woman. My last name is Thatcher.” She showed him her hand with the wedding ring.

  Mr. Vancer glanced over her head toward the doorway. Wordlessly, he rose from his chair once more, then crossed the room and slid the doors shut.

  “I know, but much of the staff does not,” he said by way of explanation. “And we don’t need a lot of gossip about you spreading around New York, do we?”

  She shook her head, though she had no idea what he was talking about. Who would bother to gossip about unimportant me?

  “I can see you don’t believe me,” he said. “So please allow me to explain.”

  “Go on,” Marsali said, wondering how it was that he was the one doing much of the talking when she’d planned out her long speech so carefully.

  “You married a Mr. Christopher Thatcher while aboard the Amanda May. Is that correct?”

  “It is,” she said, her heart throbbing with loss at the reminder. “The captain married us.”

  “That would be Captain Gower, whose body was recovered from the wreckage?”

  Marsali swallowed with difficulty as she nodded. She hadn’t known Captain Gower long, but the thought that he had died still made her sad. He’d had a family— a wife and children— to return home to. What must the real Amanda May be feeling now?

  “So the man who performed your marriage is dead,” Mr. Vancer continued. “As is the man you married— Mr. Thatcher.”

  “That is not certain.” Marsali looked at her lap as she fought back tears. Christopher dead. She still refused to believe it. She’d never known anyone more alive. “I have checked the papers daily, and there has been no report that his— that he— has been found.”

  “I do not mean to be unkind,” Mr. Vancer said, compassion in his voice. “But much of the crew has not been discovered. Those who went down with the ship likely remain in it.”

  Marsali thought of Christopher as she had last seen him, on the floor and unmoving just inside the captain’s quarters. It was not likely that he had survived. But neither is it impossible. She looked up at Mr. Vancer and found him gazing at her with concern.

  “With the captain dead and your husband… missing… and the ship’s records at the bottom of the sea, any proof that your brief marriage even happened has vanished. It is simply gone.”

  “I realize this.” Marsali straightened and met his intense gaze with her own. “And so I am prepared to honor the terms of my indenture with Mr. Thomas.”

  “But why?” Mr. Vancer leaned back in his chair and brought a hand to his mouth as if puzzled. “Why should you do such a thing? Lady Cosgrove has told me about him as well. Surely you do not wish to subject yourself to his cruelty— or worse?”

  “I do not see that I have a choice,” Marsali said, then hurried on before he could suggest otherwise. “I am not Lydia Cosgrove, and I do not feel it right to pretend to be. I haven’t amnesia. I did not hit my head. When we arrived I might have been temporarily unsettled, but now I am perfectly aware of who I am— and what debts I have incurred that must yet be paid.”

  “What if I were
to pay them?” Mr. Vancer asked.

  “That is a very generous offer, but it is unnecessary.”

  “As it was unnecessary for Mr. Thatcher to marry you?”

  Marsali squirmed uncomfortably in her seat. “Yes— no. That was different.”

  I never do anything I do not wish. How many times had Christopher told her that? He had wanted to marry her, had even mentioned love when he had given her his grandmother’s ring.

  There had been far more between them than the issue of her safety, though each had danced around their mutual attraction, avoiding it as long as possible. Wasted days, she thought with regret. “Mr. Thatcher and I had become acquainted with one another on our voyage. We felt we suited each other.”

  “But still, the primary reason for your hasty marriage was so that he could protect you from Mr. Thomas, is that not correct?”

  “It is,” Marsali said. “But as Mr. Thatcher is… missing, and possibly deceased…” She closed her eyes briefly, attempting to shut out the pain of that admission. “And as I am not—”

  “You are now a widow,” Mr. Vancer finished. “Who is recovering from a tragedy and is a guest in my house.” He pushed back his chair and stood suddenly, then came around the table and seated himself in the chair directly beside hers. Leaning forward, he reached for her hand, taking it into his two as he looked at her directly.

  She resisted the urge to pull away from him, all the while feeling an unfaithful wife, sitting here conversing so intimately with another man when she ought to have been out looking for her husband.

  “Will you not give me that same opportunity, Miss Abbott? Allow me the same four weeks you spent with Mr. Thatcher, and let us see if we do not suit each other as well? I have lost the woman I was going to marry, and you have, in all likelihood, lost your husband. I can pay your debt, freeing you from the term of your indenture, and if— at the end of a month spent together— you do not feel a marriage between us to be in your best interest, you will be free to leave.”

  “That is very kind, but—”

  “Kindness has little to do with it,” he confessed, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth— a mouth, Marsali noticed suddenly, that was rather attractive, along with the rest of his face.

  “Lady Cosgrove has not stopped singing your praises since she arrived, and I find that I am deeply curious to get to know you. To count the extraordinary young woman described to me as my friend— at least.”

  “I am quite flattered, but still…” She searched her mind for another argument and could find none. Yet staying here, with him, under any pretense, felt wrong. Disloyal— to Christopher.

  “One month. That is all I ask.” He was fully smiling now, as if he knew he had won.

  “And, at the end of that month, if I should wish to leave—” When I find my husband.

  “You will be free to go.” He released her hands and held his up as if freeing her now.

  “And Lady Cosgrove?” Marsali asked. “What would become of her if I were to go?”

  “She will remain my guest indefinitely. Our families are old friends, and when I offered for her daughter, I knew it meant Lydia’s mother would be coming as well.”

  “You are very generous,” Marsali said. “How is it that a man like yourself does so well at business if he is forever paying other’s debts and supporting them with his means?”

  Mr. Vancer’s smile turned sly. “Fortunately, I do not conduct many business transactions with damsels in distress. Rather, it is stuffy old men with whom I barter and bargain. And for those, I show no mercy.”

  “You must make one deal with this damsel if she is to stay,” Marsali insisted, rationalizing that what she was about to propose would make her feel better about the situation. “My true identity must be made known to all. I cannot continue on as Lydia. And second—”

  “Ah.” He held up a finger, stopping her. “You said one.”

  “Yes, but that is only the first part of the one.” She smiled sweetly, causing him to laugh.

  “That is exactly why I do not do business with females.” He brushed his fingers down the side of her cheek, causing Marsali a sudden intake of breath.

  His face grew serious. “I can see already that I will not be impervious to your smile. What is it you wish, Miss Abbott?”

  “I wish to continue a search for my husband. And if I find him or if I choose to leave at the end of the month, you must allow me to repay the money of my indenture. It will take some time, but I shall be able to do it.”

  “Honesty, loyalty, and equity… you strike a hard bargain.” He held out his hand. “But I’ll take it.” Marsali placed her hand in his and felt the pressure of his fingers closing over hers. But instead of being comforting, as Christopher’s touch had been, she felt entrapped— caught by Mr. Vancer’s kindness, ensnared in his generosity.

  But as they returned to eating their breakfast, and she silently admired the fine china and beautiful furnishings in the elegant room, she realized she had arrived at the station in life she had only dreamed of. Just like that, she had returned to the status she’d been born to, a refined and luxurious life laid at her feet.

  If she chose to start down that path— one that promised everything she might wish and included the kind Mr. Vancer at her side.

  My Dears Lady Grace Sutherland and Mrs. Helen Preston,

  It is my unhappy fate to tell you that your beloved brother, Christopher, has been missing since the night of 25 September, when he incurred an injury just prior to the ship, the Amanda May, being lost at sea. Rather than share with you the details regarding the event (and revisit those myself) I must simply tell you that his probable death was a result of a price of ninety pounds sterling on his head, the sum of which was offered by a pirate named Crayton. A man whom we (all of us upon the ship Amanda May) believed to be a trustworthy member of the crew was, in fact, in league with Crayton.

  What I do wish for you to know is what Christopher’s last weeks and days were comprised of. You may think me forward for referring to him by his Christian name, but I assure you I mean no disrespect. I loved your brother dearly and was given to believe he felt the same for me. We were wed by Captain Gower while still aboard the Amanda May, on the morning of 25 September…

  Marsali walked down the hall, the sealed letter in her hands. She hated that it was to deliver such sorrowful news to two ladies she almost felt she knew, but she realized it was her duty, as Christopher’s wife, to inform them that he was missing. She had been to both the hospital and the docks every day and had discovered no news of him. With each passing day, it became more difficult to hold onto hope that he was yet alive.

  She passed Lady Cosgrove’s open door, and a few seconds later, Lady Cosgrove herself emerged, walking briskly to keep pace with Marsali.

  “What have you got there? Where are you going?” Since learning that Marsali had slipped out of her room and sought out and spoken with Mr. Vancer, Lady Cosgrove had assumed the position of Marsali’s shadow— a situation Marsali found most unpleasant.

  “I wish to find the butler. I have written a letter to Christopher’s sisters informing them that he is missing.” That it is probable he is dead. She had yet to say the words. Though the days stretched further between her memories with Christopher and her new future, he remained as present in her mind as if he was here with her. She would not be surprised to find him at breakfast, holding the milk captive, or waiting outside on the step, wishing to take her for a walk.

  “Well, hurry, then. We mustn’t miss our appointment.”

  Inwardly Marsali bristled at Lady Cosgrove’s tone, though she had heard Lydia addressed the same way on many occasions. But I am not Lydia. At least her chat with Mr. Vancer had cleared that up. He promised to make everything right concerning Marsali’s identity, and she trusted him to do it.

  “We’ve only three hours. We must be prompt,” Lady Cosgrove insisted. “The dressmaker will be here at precisely ten o’clock, and we mustn’t waste a minut
e of her time. I took the liberty of arranging to have her come here, rather than going out to her shop. I thought you would prefer that.”

  “I do,” Marsali said earnestly. As much as she had professed to Mr. Vancer that she needed to leave and fulfill her obligations to Mr. Thomas, she could not deny that she felt some measure of safety here. Now that she knew she did not have to seek employment for a few more weeks, she wished to leave the house as little as possible. She especially did not want to go out for something as frivolous as purchasing a gown.

  “How am I to pay for all this clothing, which you insist I must have?” Marsali asked. For that matter, how was Lady Cosgrove to pay for hers? In the end she had arrived every bit as destitute as Marsali.

  “Mr. Vancer will pay for it, of course,” Lady Cosgrove said, as if that was the most logical, most appropriate thing to be done.

  Marsali felt quite the opposite. It had been one thing for Mr. Vancer to take her into his home and offer her food and shelter as she recovered from her ordeal. She could even justify his loan, paying off her debt to Mr. Thomas, as she fully intended to repay every penny of it. But to spend his money on purchasing her clothes when this borrowed servant’s gown was finer than any dress she had owned for quite some time seemed very wrong.

  One more thing to bind me to him? She imagined a noose tightening around her neck.

  She found the butler and gave him directions regarding her letter, then allowed Lady Cosgrove to steer her where she would. They returned to the second floor and ventured into a corridor Marsali had not yet visited. Lady Cosgrove led her toward a set of open double doors, through which Marsali glimpsed the finest dress makings she had ever imagined.

  They stepped inside the room, and Lady Cosgrove moved forward to speak with the dressmaker and her assistants— three of them— already in place, waiting to attend to them. Marsali stood transfixed, certain her eyes were large as they took in the bolts of silk and velvet and organza in every color imaginable. No plain muslin here. There were open boxes of ribbon and lace, and a small, circular dais upon which she was to stand. For a moment, Marsali closed her eyes, remembering a similar scene, long ago, when she and her mother and sister had gone to visit a dressmaker in Lyon.