Marrying Christopher

by Michele Paige Holmes

  “I admit as much,” Mr. Vancer said. “Yet Miss Cosgrove— and her mother— stood to benefit from it as well.”

  “But you did not know her. What if you did not suit each other?”

  He shrugged. “That was always a possibility. I had not seen Miss Cosgrove since she was a girl, and all I remembered of her was that she had a head full of golden curls and chattered incessantly.”

  Marsali smiled sadly. “She remained very much the same— extraordinarily beautiful and talkative.”

  “Do you think we would have suited well?” Mr. Vancer asked.

  Marsali looked up at him once more, as if studying his profile might help her to predict such a thing. “I do not know,” she said truthfully. “Miss Cosgrove was quite young and rather prone to emotion.”

  “Just one year younger than yourself,” Mr. Vancer noted.

  “Yes, but…”

  “She had not lived through what you have,” he suggested.

  “I suppose that might have been our difference,” Marsali said. “But she was a sweet girl, ever optimistic and enthusiastic, with a spirit of adventure. I believe you would have liked her quite well.”

  “Thank you for sharing that with me.” They came to a bench in the garden, and he stopped before it, stepping aside and indicating that Marsali should sit. Somewhat reluctantly, she did, and he followed— seating himself too closely to her, as she had feared.

  “I have felt somewhat guilty,” he explained, “that I am not mourning my intended, as you seem to be mourning your husband of only one day.”

  “He was my husband for less than one day, but we had four weeks in which to become well acquainted. Had you been given the same, your feelings might be different.”

  “I thank you for that as well,” Mr. Vancer said. “You are generous with your thoughts about others.”

  Not really, Marsali thought, assuming a great deal of guilt herself.

  “But the fact remains that I intended to marry Miss Cosgrove for financial gain. And now that I find myself without a fiancée, time grows very short. If I am not wed by the year’s end, I will lose my great uncle’s inheritance.”

  “Do you need it so badly?” Marsali asked. It had not occurred to her that he might live on borrowed wealth or that his business did not do as well as she had supposed.

  “Need it? No. Do I want it? Yes, very much so. It will provide the capital to expand my current business, as well as to invest in others I have set my sights upon for some time. It is not about the money so much as the opportunity.”

  “You are willing to risk a life of unhappiness for this opportunity?”

  He did not answer immediately but appeared to be considering her question. “I had not looked at it in quite that light,” he said. “After all, I did not intend to marry Miss Cosgrove the very moment she stepped from the ship. Rather, I intended a period of time for us to become acquainted— as you and I are now,” he added, giving her a meaningful look. “But, one way or another, I intend to marry by December 31. I must,” he insisted. “And if I must, I find I should like it to be to you.”

  His bold declaration left Marsali breathless and set her heart to racing. She had known his intentions from that first day at breakfast, yet to hear him declare them so openly frightened her. Not because he was unkind, for he wasn’t, but— because it is not right. Something about this, about us, is not what it should be. But to give voice to those words would sound ludicrous, for she could not explain her feeling any better than that.

  “I know you do not love me,” he continued, causing Marsali to meet his gaze, her own sorrowful.

  “No matter,” he reassured her. “You are young yet, and time enough has not passed for you to forget your feelings for Mr. Thatcher.”

  “I am sorry,” Marsali said, and in that moment she was, and wished fervently that she might feel differently about him.

  “Don’t be,” he said. “Your depth of emotion gives me hope, actually. That when— if— your affection does turn to me— and you must know that I hope it does— you will love me well, with your whole heart.”

  Marsali swallowed with difficulty, growing more ill at ease by the moment.

  “Many marriages begin loveless,” Mr. Vancer said. “Many are still arranged, and the couple has little say in the matter. But after they are married, that is when a friendship can be developed and affection formed. My own parents began as such and had a very happy life together.” He claimed her hand once more, caressing it lightly with his own, and awakening in her a yearning to be held, to be comforted.

  But by him?

  My Dearest Sisters,

  I have taken my leave of New Jersey, and some two weeks’ travel southwest has found me in a region known as Virginia. The country here is beautiful, and autumn flourishes. Rolling hills, gentle rivers, and dense woods have been my companions during my travels. And amongst all these: farms and a patchwork of well-laid fields. Though I’ve not yet put my hand to a plough, it seems already that the soil here is rich and a man could support himself well. Indeed, this is much the life I dreamed for myself when in England and should be perfectly content with my lot at this time, were it not for my heartache at the loss of my wife. As the weeks pass, my hope of finding Marsali dwindles…

  Hat in hand, Christopher left the wide circular drive of the Thomas plantation and climbed the steps to the stately two-story home on the banks of the James River. He knocked briskly, then waited, glancing about as he did. The plantation was bustling with activity on this fall day, the last of October, with men and women scurrying about in an attitude of work. Though he had passed several people, none had made eye contact with him, even when he had offered a friendly smile.

  The door opened. It was not a uniformed butler who bade him enter Joshua Thomas’s home, but a woman wearing an apron and with a cap on her head.

  “Good day to you, ma’am.” Christopher gave a slight bow. “I am here to seek an appointment with Mr. Thomas regarding the matter of one of his recently arrived indentured servants.”

  “If you mean Molly, it were her own fault she fell down that step and broke her own leg. Daydreaming again, I suspect, and now the master getting blamed for it.”

  Another suspicious injury? “I am not here to place blame on anyone,” Christopher assured the woman. “Nor am I acquainted with the misfortunate Molly of whom you speak. I am here to inquire after a woman named Marsali Abbott, who was a passenger on the Amanda May, and who was, I believe, indentured to Mr. Thomas.”

  The woman’s narrowed eyes loosened somewhat, though her frown remained. “Come with me,” she said at last and led him into a richly appointed sitting room.

  Christopher sat in an uncomfortable straight-backed chair near the fire and waited several minutes more, trying to keep both his hope and anxiety to manageable levels. Marsali could be here. He imagined glimpsing her out the window, or that she might be the one to return for him. But it was a little boy who next joined him, peeking into the room with a somewhat wary expression.

  “Hello there.” Christopher leaned forward in his chair to better see the child. The boy was dressed in a fine suit with knee breeches and a matching blue coat. Blond curls roamed this way and that over his head, as if the child’s mother had long since given up any attempts to tame them.

  “Who are you?” the boy asked, taking another step into the room.

  “Christopher Thatcher.” He offered his hand as he would have to an adult. “What is your name?”

  “Joshua,” the boy said. “I mean, Thomas.”

  “You are Mr. Joshua Thomas? How splendid.” If only I was so fortunate. But Christopher’s grin widened. The child appeared well cared for, and if he belonged to Mr. Thomas… Perhaps the man is at least better than my father.

  “What’s wrong with your leg?” Joshua asked.

  Before Christopher could answer, the same woman who bade him enter the first time reappeared in the doorway, her scowl deepening when she noticed Christopher’s companion.r />
  “You are not to be down here,” she scolded, pulling the child roughly from the room and sending him away with a firm swat on his backside.

  “He wasn’t bothering me,” Christopher said.

  She ignored his reference to the boy. “Follow me, Mr. Thatcher.”

  She led him down a short hall to a study, quite the opposite from his grandfather’s in England. Rich furnishings appeared crammed into the space, and dark, heavy draperies covered the window and even much of the walls, bringing an instant sense of gloom as Christopher entered.

  “You are here inquiring about Miss Abbott?”

  Christopher turned abruptly, unappreciative of being caught off guard, and discovered that an older, slightly stooped, yet strong-featured man had entered just behind him.

  “I am,” Christopher said. “I sailed on the Amanda May with her, and I believe she was to be a servant here.”

  “And your name?” the man asked.

  “Christopher Thatcher, formerly of Yorkshire, England.”

  “Hmm.” The man gave a curt nod and walked around to sit behind the massive desk. He sat carefully, Christopher noted, as if the curvature of his spine pained him. When he was seated, he motioned with his hand for Christopher to take one of the two chairs on the opposite side.

  “Now, then, what question do you have regarding Miss Abbott?’

  “Is she here?” Christopher asked, trying not to sound overeager. He refrained from leaning forward anxiously, as he felt prone to.

  “If you were truly a passenger on the Amanda May, then you would know that the ship encountered a storm and was lost just off the coast of New York one month ago.”

  “One month and four days,” Christopher corrected him. Why does he not answer me directly?

  “If you are here seeking damages, you are wasting your time. Ships are lost frequently; their owners are not liable.”

  So you are Mr. Thomas. “I am here seeking Miss Abbott, my wife.” Christopher met Thomas’s gaze. “Is she here?” he asked once more.

  “Now I know you are lying,” Thomas said, pushing off the desk and standing as if to end their interview. “The Miss Abbott I arranged passage for was not married.”

  “Captain Gower married us at sea.” Christopher rose from his chair as well. “I intended to accompany her and work to shorten her term of indenture. And I intend to stay now, until I have discovered her whereabouts.” Something in Thomas’s expression made him suspect— the subtle shift of his eyes, his refusal to answer the question Christopher had posed. He is not telling me something.

  “Miss Abbott is not here,” Thomas said at last. “If you have no notion of her whereabouts, it can be presumed she was lost at sea. But even had she come, I would not allow you to stay. Miss Abbott was to be my daughter’s lady’s maid— a task you seem ill suited for.” Thomas’s gaze roved over Christopher. “Caring for lady’s clothing would hardly seem to be your strength.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Christopher said with little humor. He would not be washing dresses here. “As I am surprised that you would refuse the offer of free labor. I am proposing to work for you, in return only for a roof over my head, decent meals, and the possibility of news of my wife.”

  Thomas appeared to consider him as he came around the other side of the desk. “You haven’t the attitude of a servant, and that spells trouble.”

  “I’m not a servant,” Christopher said, wanting that point clarified up front. I am making the choice to do this. You are not compelling me. “I am not offering to bring your tea or polish your silver or shoes. But I am a good worker. I love working the land, and I’m not afraid of putting in a full day doing it.”

  “Papa, Joshua said you had a dashing visitor.” A young woman appeared in the doorway and smiled prettily at Christopher. “Have,” she amended without so much as a blush of embarrassment.

  “Susan, this is Mr. Thatcher— Miss Abbott’s husband.” A pointed look was exchanged between father and daughter, arousing further suspicion. “Mr. Thatcher, my daughter Miss Susan Thomas.”

  Christopher nodded but kept his attention on Thomas instead of bowing over his daughter’s hand.

  “Mr. Thatcher is of a mind to stay here and work for us, until such a time as news of his wife may be discovered,” Mr. Thomas added. “She is one of the passengers whose body was not recovered, so he feels she may yet be living.”

  Christopher forced back the bile that rose each time he thought of Marsali’s body being found washed up on shore— or worse. She is not dead. Though Mr. Thomas professed that she was not here, Christopher felt more certain than ever that she was alive.

  And he knows something.

  “Oh, do let him stay,” Susan said, sounding far too enthusiastic to Christopher.

  Mr. Thomas was silent a long moment, his gaze never leaving Christopher as he considered. Christopher recalled the conversation he’d had with Captain Gower about Thomas and could imagine the man’s thought processes as he weighed the benefit of nearly free labor against the cost of a potential troublemaker.

  “You’re not fit for hard labor with that leg.” He glanced at Christopher’s cane. “But there are a fair number of lighter tasks needing to be done before winter sets in. We’ll give it a trial run.” Thomas fixed a look on Christopher that left no question as to who would be the one on trial.

  He is more greedy than cautious. Christopher tucked that piece of information away and knew he must learn all he could about Thomas in the coming days. If the man knew anything of Marsali, Christopher would discover it.

  “Welcome, Mr. Thatcher. Let me show you around.” Miss Thomas linked her arm through his.

  I will find Marsali, he silently vowed. And despite her arm through his, he knew he would avoid Miss Thomas in the meantime.

  Yorkshire, England, November 1828

  “Oh, Helen, you’re here at last.” Grace rose from her chair to greet her sister as she entered the sitting room at Sutherland Hall.

  “I came as soon as I could,” Helen exclaimed. Behind her Mr. Kingsley, the butler, hovered, waiting to help with the cloak she hadn’t taken the time to remove. “Samuel insisted on driving me over.”

  “As I would have as well, had Grace been going to visit you to hear news of your brother at last.” Nicholas shot a look of approval at his brother-in-law, who had just entered the room behind Helen.

  “Thank you, Nicholas,” Samuel said. “I am glad we are in agreement on some subjects these days.”

  “Many of them, likely,” Nicholas said, concern creasing his brow as he watched Grace. “I think you should sit down, darling. And perhaps I should read the letters first.”

  “Carrying a child has not altered my eyesight,” Grace said, but she leaned close and rose up on her toes to kiss his cheek, to show that she appreciated his concern. How I love him. And how worried she had been for Christopher. Taking up the letters from the side table, she seated herself on the settee and pulled Helen down beside her. “There are three letters here. They all arrived at once— no doubt at least one was sitting at the office awhile— but I propose that we read them in the order they are stamped.”

  “Yes,” Helen agreed. “Just please hurry. I must know that Christopher is well.”

  “Of course he is well,” Nicholas said. “He has written to you, hasn’t he?”

  “It is only natural that she should feel anxious for news of her brother,” Samuel said, a slight reproach in his tone. He crossed the room and seated himself in the chair closest to Helen while Nicholas took one on the other side of Grace.

  “Only two of the letters are from Christopher,” she explained. “The third came from someone in New York. That is the one with the oldest postmark, so we shall read it first.” She picked up the top envelope and broke the seal, then removed the letter. When it was pressed flat she began to read.

  “My Dears Lady Grace Sutherland and Mrs. Helen Preston,

  It is my unhappy fate to tell you that your beloved brother, Christ
opher, has been missing since the night of 25 September…”

  Grace continued reading, her voice rushed and rising in pitch. Missing, injured, Crayton, married. It was too much news to take in all at once.

  Beside her Helen burst into tears, causing Samuel to jump up and come to stand behind her, his hands on her shoulders for support.

  “Will this business with that scoundrel Crayton never end?” he demanded. “We have had word that he is yet well occupied, earning his bread in France, so how is it this Mr. Luke came to follow Christopher?”

  “Luke’s transaction with Crayton must have occurred before we had put our plan into action,” Nicholas said. “Christopher had booked his passage prior to that time, and if he was being watched…”

  “Christopher married? I cannot believe it,” Grace said, latching onto the least disturbing piece of information. They all knew Christopher had been the most self-proclaimed bachelor.

  “He is missing,” Helen exclaimed. “That is all that matters.”

  “Not if he has written you a letter, he isn’t. Open the next,” Nicholas said. Grace hurried to comply, tearing the envelope in her haste.

  “It is from Christopher.” She let out a breath of relief. “I would know his writing anywhere.” She read the letter out loud straight through until she came to the line about his missing wife.

  “Oh, dear,” Helen said, her hands coming to her cheeks. “Each believes the other has perished.”

  “Read the third letter,” Samuel urged. “Perhaps your brother has found his bride.”

  All four leaned close over the page as Grace unfolded it, her hands slightly trembling. She did not bother reading it aloud, as each was close enough, and four sets of eyes were already scanning the contents.

  “He is in Virginia now,” Samuel remarked. “That seems a great distance to travel so quickly with the injuries he described.”

  “I wish you were there to tend him,” Helen said, her eyes still searching the paper. “Oh no, he has not found her. He sounds so sad. ‘As the weeks pass, my hope of finding Marsali dwindles…’” Helen looked up at the others.