Marrying Christopher

by Michele Paige Holmes

  “We must write to him at once and tell him that she is well— and in New York.” Grace stood and hurried across the room to pull the tassel summoning Kingsley. “Can we have a driver take it to Liverpool today?”

  “Of course,” Nicholas said. “I will take it myself, if you would like.”

  “Grace can come and stay with Samuel and me while you are gone,” Helen offered.

  “If we hurry I may be able to get it on a ship tomorrow evening.” Nicholas stood and crossed the room, closer to Grace. “Is that what you would like me to do?”

  She nodded and felt her love for him swell. Since learning that she was increasing, Nicholas had hardly let her walk down the stairs on her own. That he would agree to leave her for at least three days to take a letter showed how much he cared for her— and Christopher.

  Kingsley appeared in the doorway, his own brow drawn with worry as he considered the four of them fretting.

  “I need horses and our fastest coach readied,” Nicholas said. “And Harrison is to drive.”

  Grace placed her hand on Nicholas’s arm and smiled her gratitude at his wisdom. Harrison might be their oldest driver, but this errand was of a personal nature to him as well. Undoubtedly he would see Nicholas safely and quickly to the docks at Liverpool.

  But from there it could easily take another two months for a letter to reach Christopher. She pushed the disturbing thought to the back of her mind. She would hope and pray for a miracle. And surely they would get one. She and Helen had ended up so very happy, in part at least from Christopher’s efforts. He had to have his happy ending as well, even if it was far from home.

  It comforted her to think that he had not been alone this whole time and to believe that he would not be for much longer. Perhaps he and Marsali had found each other already.

  Samuel helped Helen from her seat, and they came to stand by Nicholas and Grace.

  “Would you like me to come with you?” Samuel asked Nicholas.

  “No,” Nicholas said, not even taking the time to consider. “I would like you here with your wife and mine, lest something happens and one of them requires a physician.”

  “Very well,” Samuel said soberly, and Grace could see the weight he felt. Worrying over Helen’s health strained him enough. That Nicholas should add my care to Samuel’s burden…

  Is no small miracle itself. Her spirits buoyed, just from thinking how far the two men had come in friendship and trust in the last year. Surely there must be one more miracle out there for our family.

  For Christopher.

  “Ladies, it is time we begin planning our masquerade ball,” Mr. Vancer announced as he entered the room, interrupting Marsali in the middle of playing the Irish folk song “Robin Adair.” At his announcement, her fingers stilled on the keys of the pianoforte, though the words of the ballad continued to trail through her mind.

  What’s this dull town to me? Robin’s not near.

  Where’s all the joy and mirth that made this town a heav’n on earth?

  Oh, they’re all fled with thee...

  “I have been remiss in not hosting a ball to properly welcome you.” Mr. Vancer placed his hand on her shoulder. Instead of comforting, his action felt possessive.

  What made my heart so sore?

  Oh, it was parting with thee…

  “Usually the masquerade is held New Year’s Eve,” he explained. “But the thought came to me today that we must hold it sooner.”

  “What a splendid idea.” Lady Cosgrove clasped her hands together as a younger girl might, reminding Marsali of Lydia.

  Now thou art cold to me.

  Yet him I loved so well.

  “It will be the perfect opportunity for me to properly introduce Marsali to New York society,” Mr. Vancer said.

  Marsali wondered how he would introduce her. As a misfortunate young lady whom he had befriended, or…

  “How do you feel about such an idea, Miss Abbott?” He squeezed her shoulder gently, as if soliciting a positive remark.

  “There is no need to hold a fancy ball to introduce me to anyone,” Marsali said, privately dreading the thought. For all she had wished for her status in life to improve, she did not enjoy the requirements and rigors of society that came with it.

  “Who said anything about a need?” Mr. Vancer asked. “This is something I wish to do— very much. Please say that you will join me in celebrating with my friends and acquaintances.”

  “Of course.” Marsali gave the only acceptable answer, though her heart had yet to accept that the man she truly wished to be with was dead.

  Still in my heart shall dwell

  Oh, I can ne’er forget…

  Christopher paused to wipe his brow before bending over the tub, stirring another batch of the mortar used to chink the barn where they cured tobacco. His arm had been troubling him again until George, one of Thomas’s slaves who worked alongside him, had suggested applying the mud to his skin.

  The cool mud, when mixed with the crushed leaves of a burdock plant— an annoying little weed in every other respect, so far as Christopher could see— had calmed his wounds as nothing else had. The generously given advice was the start of a fast friendship with and respect for George and many of Thomas’s slaves.

  “Master’s daughter’s coming.” George inclined his head toward the stables. “She goes riding a lot more these days— since you come.”

  “Master’s daughter is nothing but trouble,” Christopher muttered. He finished stirring the mortar and scooped up a generous portion in his trowel.

  “For you, especially.” George chuckled.

  “Oh, Mr. Thatcher,” Susan Thomas sang, waving a lacy handkerchief as she walked toward him. As if I’m blind. He would have to be to miss her in her burgundy riding habit, her long, golden curls tumbling down her back. She was a striking woman in more ways than one.

  “I’ve news for you, Mr. Thatcher. About your wife.”

  Christopher nearly dropped the trowel. The mud glopped onto his boot. With a shaking hand, he set the tool aside and looked at Miss Thomas. “Yes?”

  “A letter came from Miss Abbott’s sister, whom you wrote to. I am sorry to say that she has neither seen nor heard from Miss Abbott.”

  Christopher lowered his head and let out a defeated sigh. If Marsali was dead, shouldn’t he be able to somehow feel it? Instead it seemed the opposite was true. He imagined her very much alive and calling for him to come and find her. Ignoring the tightening in his chest, Christopher wiped his hands on his pants, then held one out. “May I see the letter?”

  “I— it is gone,” Miss Thomas said. “I did not think you would wish to see it. I supposed that you might not be able to read it, so I took the liberty of reading it for you.”

  “If I am unable to read, how did you suppose I wrote a letter to my wife’s sister in the first place?” Christopher demanded.

  “I was only trying to do you a favor.” Miss Thomas’s lip jutted out, and she sniffled as if he had hurt her feelings.

  Christopher hoped he had. She deserved it if she’d really gotten rid of his letter. “Is it customary in America— in Virginia— to open letters addressed to someone other than yourself?”

  “I thought it would be preferable for you to hear such difficult news from me, rather than reading it on your own.”

  “In the future, please note that I am well able to both read and weather the contents of any correspondence I receive.” Christopher resumed his work before he said or did anything more— anything that would have repercussions, like ending his trial run when he still felt that Mr. Thomas was his best hope for finding Marsali. Christopher scooped a generous portion of mud and flung it almost violently at the log wall.

  “I shall both note it and report it to my father.” Nose in the air, Miss Thomas stomped away in the direction of the house.

  “You do that,” Christopher muttered. The worst Thomas could do was tell him to leave.

  “You’re in a mess of trouble now,” Geor
ge said when Miss Thomas was out of sight. His gaze strayed toward the whipping post at the entrance to the barn. “Good thing you a free man.”

  “I am grateful,” Christopher said, thinking not of the consequences but of his continued quest for Marsali. “I’ll have to go see Marsali’s sister myself, and I haven’t any means with which to get there.” He would have to walk, as he had walked here; only this time a mountain range stood in his way. For all of Marsali’s hope that she and her sister would live close by each other, nearly ninety miles separated the Thomas plantation from the one where Charlotte worked. Traveling there would be akin to going from Yorkshire to Liverpool— only this time he had no coach or horse. He would have to walk— on a leg that still was not strong enough.

  My Dearest Marsali,

  It was with both joy and a heavy heart that I read your letter. I am so relieved that you have crossed the Atlantic safely, and so relieved you are no longer indebted to Mr. Thomas. But my heart broke at reading the tragic end to your brief marriage. I understand your sorrow more than you know, for Matthew was killed last August in a logging accident at the mill, just a few days after I posted my last letter to you. Since then I have felt devastated in most every way. I wish you could join me here now, but as it is, I am not certain my employer will allow me to continue to stay, as I can no longer contribute any monies for the rent of our cabin…

  Lady Cosgrove climbed into the carriage behind Marsali. “Just think, dear. One week more, and it will all be official.”

  “What will?” Marsali asked uneasily, though she was fairly certain to what Lady Cosgrove referred.

  The carriage began to roll as she answered. “Your engagement to Mr. Vancer. He intends to make it official the night of the masquerade ball.”

  “Without asking me?”

  Lady Cosgrove waved her hand dismissively. “What is there to ask? Of course you will marry him.”

  “I cannot,” Marsali insisted. Since the month they had agreed upon had ended and stretched into another, Marsali had been careful not to be alone with Mr. Vancer— lest he decide to propose— a task made easier because November was a busy month in trade for him, keeping him away many hours.

  But even had he asked— or even if he did not— she did not feel ready to agree to marriage and would have left his home already had she any idea of where she might go.

  Lady Cosgrove leaned forward, placing a hand upon Marsali’s and fixing her with a stern look. “You will not throw all of our hard work here away. I have done this for you, and now you shall have everything you’ve ever wanted.”

  “Everything you wanted,” Marsali corrected. “I do not love him,” she said, half wishing that she did. Mr. Vancer was kind to her, and she felt no objections with his character. But he did not make her feel as Christopher had. And she could not seem to get past that. Or Christopher.

  “Love can come later,” Lady Cosgrove said. “You will not get another opportunity like this. If you reject Mr. Vancer’s offer, you’ll end up a servant somewhere— or worse.”

  It was not an exaggeration or an idle threat. If Mr. Vancer sent her away, Marsali had no idea where she would go or to whom she would turn. Charlotte had been her last hope, and even she had encouraged Marsali to stay.

  “And if love never comes?” Marsali said, as much to herself as to Lady Cosgrove.

  “Then you find yourself grateful for what you have— a fine home, beautiful gowns, plenty of food to eat.”

  All things I have lived without the past years. And all things she could survive without again. And I can survive without Christopher as well. But she feared she would never again feel fully alive without him.

  Christopher removed his hat and set it aside, then primed the pump in the yard. His leg throbbed but still supported his weight after a day spent on it, working hard. He felt hopeful, both about his ability to walk the hundred miles to see Marsali’s sister and even about the possibility that Mr. Thomas would lend him a horse or take him partway.

  The Indian summer had allowed Christopher to finish clearing the south field earlier than he’d anticipated. Surely Thomas will be pleased. The ground was as near perfect for spring plowing as one might hope, and Christopher wished it was spring already and the winter months did not stretch between. Virginia was a man’s dream— at least so far as farming was concerned.

  He leaned over, availing himself of the cool water flowing from the pipe, cupping his hands to drink first, then splashing it over his face and arms. Though the nights had grown cool and crisp, by midday the sun still shone brightly. A few of the trees had begun to lose their leaves, but many were still ablaze with color. The garden had been mostly cleared of its pumpkins and squash, but beyond that there was little sign of the coming winter.

  He was just replacing his hat when a woman’s scream rent the air, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. The crack of a whip sounded, followed by another scream.

  The barn. Christopher ran toward it, thinking of the whipping post and the smatters of dried blood on the ground beneath. In the three weeks he had been working here, he had not seen the post used— or noted any other punishments or mistreatment from Thomas. Miss Thomas’s behavior had been more troubling, but her implied threats each time they had a disagreement had never amounted to anything.

  The screaming had not ceased when Christopher burst through the doors in time to see Mr. Thomas raising his whip once more, aiming at the back of a young slave girl tied to the post. Christopher stepped in front of her, placing himself between her bloodied back and Mr. Thomas.

  “Stop,” Christopher ordered. “She’s but a child. You’re beating an innocent child!”

  “She’s no child— she’s near eighteen,” Thomas growled. “Not innocent either. She stole from me.”

  “What? An extra piece of bread because she’s starving?” Christopher could see the girl’s ribs through the thin fabric of her dress. “You don’t want to do this,” he said to Thomas.

  To his surprise, Mr. Thomas lowered his whip and began coiling it in his hands. “You’re right. I don’t.”

  But his tone said otherwise. Christopher’s fists clenched at his sides, and he braced himself, expecting Thomas’s fury to be redirected at him.

  “I’m getting too old for this sort of thing,” Thomas said, his voice congenial, as if they were discussing the threshing of wheat instead of the thrashing of another human. “I shouldn’t be doing it.” He finished coiling the whip and looked up at Christopher, their gazes locking. “You should.” He held the whip out.

  Christopher checked the impulse to voice his refusal and walk away. No doubt that was what Thomas expected, and then he would resume beating the girl.

  “My daughter has been after me to make you an overseer,” Thomas said. “Let’s see if you have it in you to discipline when it’s needed.”

  “Using that whip isn’t discipline; it’s abuse.” Christopher’s mind raced, and his gaze never left the whip as he tried to anticipate Thomas’s next move.

  “Call it what you like, it’s got to be done to keep these people in line.”

  “And who keeps you in line?” Christopher asked.

  Thomas’s toothy grin appeared. “No one. None around here is up to the task. The same can be said of my daughter. But for some reason she thinks you’re the man for the job— and even more, she wouldn’t mind being kept in line by you.”

  This is madness. Christopher had done absolutely nothing to encourage her attention. He took care to avoid her whenever possible. Even Miss Cosgrove’s company was preferable. She’d been chatty and emotional and somewhat annoying, but Miss Thomas seemed something else altogether. She was a woman with an agenda— one who, he had begun to suspect, would do just about anything to get what she wanted.

  Behind him, the slave girl was still tied to the post, her arms suspended above her, her back painfully exposed.

  “Are you going to finish, or am I? Or would you like to be through working here?”

  I am
done. Christopher kept the thought to himself. Feet dragging with obvious reluctance, he walked forward and took the whip from Thomas.

  The handle was both warm and worn, and he felt vile just holding it. How many people has this harmed? How many has it murdered?

  Christopher allowed the coil to loosen, and the whip unfurled, the end snaking through the dirt on the ground. He looked at it a long moment, then turned toward the woman. He raised his hand and drew the whip back, then whirled about toward Thomas as it snapped forward, its stinging tip flashing dangerously close to Thomas’s face as the brute hollered and jumped back, losing his balance.

  Christopher ran to the girl. Using the knife from his belt, he cut the straps holding her bound. “Go,” he said, pushing her toward the doors as he faced his Thomas once more.

  The man now knelt on the ground, one hand braced on the dirt floor, his head down. Christopher wasn’t fooled. Any second now Thomas would jump up in rage, the gun from his belt pointed at Christopher’s heart. He couldn’t bring himself to care and thought only of the crying girl, of Marsali, and what she might have suffered at Thomas’s hand, and of the maid who had died before her.

  “It’s the weakest of men who hurt a woman, and a true coward who beats a helpless girl.” Christopher’s voice was filled with hatred. “I’ll not have a part of it or anything else to do with the likes of one who does.” Turning his back on Thomas, he strode to the doors and hurled the whip outside— over the fence and into the pig’s mire for good measure.

  Still no shot came. Christopher’s heart pounded. Why is he waiting? What else does he have planned?

  The girl he’d freed stood near the fence. “Look,” she said, her hand outstretched as she pointed into the barn. Christopher followed her gaze back and saw that Thomas no longer knelt but lay on his side, unmoving.

  “Go,” he ordered the girl once more as he strode back toward the barn. “You shouldn’t be seen here. If something has happened—” For the first time he considered that possibility, and he didn’t want the girl to be blamed. “This is my doing, not yours.” When she didn’t move, he shouted back at her. “Get out of here!” He glanced over his shoulder, relieved to see that she had finally listened and was running off in the direction of the cabins. Christopher reached Thomas’s side, then used his foot to push him to his back. He rolled slowly, like deadweight, and his unmoving eyes stared up from an ashen face. His gun was still in its holster on his belt, and his hands were slack at his sides.