Marrying Christopher

by Michele Paige Holmes

  “Mr. Thomas?” Christopher dropped to his knees and gave the man a shake. “Wake up.” He patted Thomas’s cheeks but received no response. Christopher pressed a hand to Thomas’s neck and felt a faint pulse. He stood and hefted Thomas in his arms, then ran toward the house, shouting for help.

  Of all the repercussions he had anticipated, this one he was unprepared for.

  Following young Joshua Thomas, Christopher climbed the stairs to Mr. Thomas’s bedroom. The summons he’d been expecting for days had finally come, and he was not looking forward to the ensuing confrontation. He’d stayed on only because he felt guilt that his actions— however justified they had seemed at the time— had ultimately caused Mr. Thomas to have a heart attack. Christopher had worked doubly hard since then, hoping to somehow make up for that, though he still felt no regrets about aiding the slave girl. And he still did not hold with Thomas’s methods.

  “In there,” the little boy whispered as he stopped before the third door in the second-floor hall.

  Christopher knelt before the child. “Thank you, Joshua.” He wished he had something to give him— a penny or a stick of candy— though in the month he’d been here, Christopher had discovered that what the child lacked most was attention. Given Mr. Thomas’s age, young Joshua had come later in life, and it seemed the man took very little interest in his son.

  Christopher had not seen anyone who might have been the boy’s mother, neither had there been any mention of Thomas’s wife. He guessed she might have died giving birth to the boy— perhaps the reason Joshua’s father did not care to spend time with him.

  And now I must leave him to his loneliness. It was with some regret that Christopher stood once more and ruffled the boy’s hair. “Thank you for being my friend while I was here. But now you must go.” He did not want the child to hear him arguing with his father.

  Joshua nodded and scampered down the hall, presumably in the direction of the nursery.

  When he had disappeared behind another door, Christopher raised his hand to knock upon Mr. Thomas’s. His knuckles had nearly brushed the wood when he stilled, listening to a suddenly raised voice coming from the other side.

  “And how much longer will you be able to go on like this, Papa?”

  Christopher quietly stepped backward. He had expected to have to face Mr. Thomas and felt prepared for that, but he had no desire to have that conversation with Mr. Thomas’s daughter in the room.

  “I wish to be settled before you pass,” Miss Thomas continued. “I do not want to run this plantation alone.”

  “Won’t have to.” Her father’s voice was feeble. “Harvey will run it for you.”

  “Harvey will steal it from me.”

  Christopher could imagine the look of petulance upon Miss Thomas’s face. On several previous occasions he had witnessed it transform her otherwise pleasant features into something almost gruesome.

  “Why won’t you ask Mr. Thatcher to be an overseer?” she whined. “You’ve said yourself that he learns quickly and is capable.”

  The compliments meant little to Christopher. It would not matter if Thomas did offer him such a position. He would never work for him— not like that.

  “It would be a natural progression to him taking charge,” Miss Thomas continued. “And then I could marry him, Papa. He is well bred— the descendant of a duke in England— and he does not know of my indiscretion.” She laughed. “He believes Joshua to be your son.”

  Christopher stifled a gasp. This revelation made little Joshua’s circumstance all the more tragic. Instead of retreating down the hall and stairs— as would be proper— Christopher glanced about, searching for any nearby servants, then stepped closer to the door and turned his head to the side to better hear.

  “He would find out,” Mr. Thomas said.

  “It would not matter. By then we would be married, and there would be little he could do.” Miss Thomas sighed wistfully. “We would not need to worry about him telling my secret, as some silly maid might. As my husband, it would be in his best interest to keep quiet on the matter. Like the others, he could be made to understand that it was best if everyone believed Joshua came to us through the unfortunate death of a relative.”

  The circumstances Marsali’s sister had described in her initial letter began to fall into place. The need to cover up an illegitimate child could be a powerful motivator. It wasn’t mere cruelty leading to the accidental death of more than one lady’s maid. Heavens above… This was murder almost as sure as if he’d witnessed it!

  “…cannot marry him,” Mr. Thomas’s voice croaked.

  “Yes, I can, Papa. I am only asking your blessing, but if you will not give it, I will convince Mr. Thatcher to marry me anyway, after you are gone. How could any man resist inheriting a plantation?”

  Christopher was indignant. He had not wanted his brothers-in-law to hand him property in England, and he did not want it handed to him here. Particularly with Miss Thomas attached to it. He would have nothing to do with a murderess.

  “You will not marry him.” Mr. Thomas’s voice sounded stronger, and there was a rustling of bedsheets from the other side of the door. “Mr. Thatcher is already married.”

  “No matter,” Miss Thomas said dismissively. “He does not know about Miss Abbott, and it isn’t as if she is here, so what does it matter?”

  Christopher reeled backward as if struck.

  “It matters plenty.” Mr. Thomas’s voice was strained but adamant. “If discovered, Mr. Thatcher would be guilty of bigamy. Wasn’t the scandal of your illegitimate child enough of a trial?”

  “I dealt with that,” Miss Thomas said. “As I have dealt with the problem of Mr. Thatcher’s wife. I saw to it that his letter never reached her sister, and I made up a letter from the sister in return. He believes his wife to be dead. It is quite simple, actually.”

  Christopher turned away from the door, though his inclination was to kick it down and demand justice. But that would only waste more time. And it was entirely possible that he still would not arrive at the truth. Their time for retribution would come.

  He hurried down the stairs and out the front door and down the drive. If he had figured the distance correctly and walked without stopping to sleep, he would reach the plantation where Marsali’s sister lived by the week’s end.

  Marsali fastened a string of pearls— a gift from Mr. Vancer for the ball tomorrow evening— around her neck and studied her reflection in the dressing table mirror. Four months ago she could never have imagined she would find herself here, in a New York mansion, wearing beautiful gowns and jewelry and with a maid to care for her. It was a lovely change from being a maid, yet one she still did not feel entirely comfortable with. She walked over to the window, where she watched the rain as it began to fall from a darkened sky, and she contemplated all that had happened to her in the past two months.

  Mr. Vancer had spent a small fortune on her, and with every generosity and gift, she felt he pulled her closer, hooked on a line, much like the unfortunate fish she and her father used to catch. She was nearing the surface now, where escape would be impossible. He would remove her from the hook and place her in his boat, and that would be that.

  A soft knock sounded upon her door. “Come in,” she called, expecting her maid to appear. Instead it was Mr. Vancer who peeked his head through the doorway. Marsali turned from the window and met his gaze, feeling a tiny catch in her heart. But it was not love. It was his hook— the weight of guilt eating at her. Mr. Vancer was a good man, but she felt incapable of returning that goodness to him.

  “I have a surprise for you.” He sounded as eager as a child on Christmas morning.

  “You have already given me a gift for tomorrow.” She fingered the pearls at her throat.

  A grin split his face. “True. But you will like this one better. It has a far greater value than pearls.”

  Oh my. Oh no. Marsali’s gaze dropped to her lap. He was going to ask her to marry him. She had known he wished
to present her as his fiancée tomorrow; it was no surprise at all. What was surprising was that in all her weeks here, she had not figured out how to answer him.

  He is kind. He will take care of me and provide for me.

  I still yearn for Christopher. He made me laugh. We understood one another as Mr. Vancer and I never shall with our backgrounds so different.

  “Are you ready?” he asked, pushing the door open a bit farther.

  “Yes. Of course,” she lied, then put on a brave smile and prayed for the right words, for inspiration and peace in her heart and mind.

  He thrust the door open all the way, so that it nearly banged against the wall, then stepped aside, making way for the petite brown-haired woman behind him.

  “Charlotte!” Marsali tripped over her stool in her haste to cross the room and fall into her sister’s outstretched arms.

  “Oh, Marsali, how I’ve missed you!” Charlotte hugged her tightly, and Marsali— incapable of stopping a flood of tears, overwhelmed as she was— wept onto her shoulder. A soft click sounded behind them, and she looked up to see that the door had closed and Mr. Vancer had gone.

  “I was beginning to fear we should never see each other,” Marsali said, still clasping her sister tightly to her.

  “As was I.” Charlotte lessened her grip and leaned back. “My, but you have grown up, little sister. You look like Mother.”

  “So do you.” Marsali smiled through her tears and then guided Charlotte so that they both stood in front of the mirror. “We look like each other.” Both sisters laughed, and then Marsali cried again, relief and the sheer joy of their reunion spilling beyond the borders of her heart.

  When at last her emotions had settled, Marsali led Charlotte to sit upon the bed.

  “How did you come to be here?” Marsali asked.

  “Mr. Vancer arranged it— sent a private carriage all the way to Virginia for me.”

  “He is a dear man.” Marsali felt a swelling of gratitude and was closer to loving him than she ever had been.

  “You must be very happy,” Charlotte said, brushing a hand over Marsali’s escaped curls, as had oft been her habit during their childhood. “How fortunate that he has taken you in— and taken to you.” She laughed in that delicate way Marsali remembered from when they were girls.

  “I am happy,” she said, meaning it for the first time since that awful night of the shipwreck. “You’re here.”

  “And I understand that tomorrow there is to be a ball,” Charlotte exclaimed. “And you are to be the princess of honor.” Her gaze grew distant and wistful. “Do you know that I’ve not been to any gathering resembling a ball since coming to America? We have only country dances in Virginia— sometimes in people’s barns.”

  Marsali doubted there could be any dance to top the one she had shared with Christopher on the ship’s deck. “Do you wish to go?” Marsali studied her sister curiously. She realized Charlotte was not wearing mourning clothes. Did she not miss Matthew terribly?

  “I see what you are thinking,” Charlotte said. “You are wondering how I could think of dancing when Matthew is gone.”

  Marsali did not deny it. “I am not judging you,” she hurried to say. “I am only wondering how you have arrived at that point. It feels as if I never shall, and I did not have the years with Christopher that you did with Matthew.”

  “Neither have you had six months to recover,” Charlotte said, causing Marsali to wonder if there was some magic healing that would occur when half a year had passed.

  “Of course I miss Matthew.” Charlotte sighed sadly. “I always shall. But it is difficult— as it was in England— for a woman to be on her own here and to provide for herself. And I am lonely. And, of course, Alec needs a father.”

  In her excitement over seeing her sister, Marsali had forgotten about her nephew. “Where is he? I must meet him at last.”

  “Downstairs,” Charlotte said. “One of the maids took him in to feed him some dinner and put him to bed.”

  “Might I not see him first?” Marsali asked, wondering at Charlotte’s seemingly easy adjustment to the household staff in allowing one of them to take over the care of her son— even temporarily.

  “Of course you may,” Charlotte said. “But first you must tell me all that has happened since you came— and truly how bad it was in Manchester. I could feel the heartache of your letters, though I guessed well enough that you had to be careful with your words.”

  “I had to take great care,” Marsali said. Manchester and her life there seemed a world away. A month across a vast ocean was no small journey. And one I shall never again make.

  But she did not wish to speak of England and their aunt’s house or of Mr. Vancer and his. Marsali wished to recount the details of her voyage on the Amanda May. She wanted to tell Charlotte everything about Christopher and to have her understand why Marsali could not forget him. But Charlotte spoke before Marsali could begin.

  “Mr. Vancer is dashingly handsome. You are most fortunate.”

  “Yes.” Marsali searched Charlotte’s gaze, silently pleading with her to understand. “Lady Cosgrove says that he is going to ask me to marry him.”

  “That’s why he arranged for me to be here,” Charlotte exclaimed. “How terribly thoughtful. He is kindness itself.”

  “He is.” Marsali could not disagree.

  Charlotte seemed to finally take notice that she seemed less than enthusiastic. “Tell me you are going to say yes,” she said. “He must care for you to have gone to all the trouble of bringing me here. I would say it even probable that he loves you.”

  “What if I do not love him?” Marsali asked. “Isn’t that unfair— to both of us?”

  Charlotte turned toward her on the bed and took Marsali’s hands in her own. “You have been so fortunate to be sheltered here. Have you considered what might have happened to you had Mr. Vancer not taken you in?”

  “I should have had to work for Mr. Thomas,” Marsali said.

  Charlotte nodded. “And you would have been in grave danger. Something is not right about that household— and you would have been thrust into the thick of it. Even if you had survived your term of indenture, you still would have been obliged to work— hard, as I do. Being a widow in America is not pleasant, secure, or happy. At least if you marry Mr. Vancer, you will have a chance at those. And as for not loving him… Love is a choice, Marsali. And you must choose to make it now, before it is too late.”

  “But how? I’ve tried.” Marsali felt more despair than before, if that was possible. If Charlotte did not understand her, no one would.

  “You have not tried hard enough,” Charlotte said. “You’ve been holding on to the past instead of embracing the future. It is time you forget Mr. Thatcher and pour all of your efforts into caring for Mr. Vancer. I promise, if you do you shall be very happy.”

  “I want to be happy,” Marsali said, her eyes welling with fresh tears.

  “I know.” Charlotte scooted closer and hugged her once more. “Trust your older sister and marry Mr. Vancer. I promise you will not regret it.”

  Marsali accompanied Mr. Vancer into the library as he had requested. Though the door was not completely shut behind them, they were far too alone for her comfort.

  “You look beautiful tonight,” he said, taking a seat near to her on the sofa. “But, then, I have seen you looking nothing less from the first moment you came.”

  “Thank you,” Marsali said, doubting that she had appeared anything near to beautiful when they had first arrived, tossed about the sea all night as they had been. “I do not begin to know how I shall ever repay you for all of the gowns you have purchased.”

  “I have a few ideas,” he drawled, a twinkle in his eye.

  Marsali did not laugh at his joke or the suggestion behind it but forced a polite smile.

  “Do not look so alarmed,” he said, his teasing voice gone. He leaned forward so she would have to meet his gaze. “I hope you know that I would never force you to anythin
g.”

  She swallowed, pushing her discomfort down firmly, where it sank inside her like an unwieldy stone. “I do,” she said. “You have been nothing but the perfect gentleman to me.”

  “Perfect may be going a bit far when describing me, but I have come to care a great deal for you.” He moved closer yet, so that their knees were practically touching.

  “And I you,” Marsali said truthfully. He is a good man. Embrace the future.

  “We have had these three months together, and I feel that we suit each other well. I mean no disrespect to Miss Cosgrove or to your late husband, but I would be less than honest if I did not express the gratitude and pleasure I feel at having you here beside me.”

  “I am grateful to be here,” Marsali said.

  “You know what I wish to ask?”

  She caught the slightest bit of uncertainty in his words, and it both surprised her and melted the resistance she felt. I cannot hurt him.

  “I am prepared to answer,” she said, mustering courage as she never had before. “Yes, Mr. Vancer, I will marry you.”

  A corner of his mouth lifted in a slow smile. “That was much easier than I expected. I did not even have to ask.”

  “You didn’t—” She brought her hands to her face, mortified. She had been so worried that she would not be able to tell him yes, so focused on what she must say so as not to hurt him, not to disappoint Charlotte or upset Lady Cosgrove, not to ruin her own life, that she had spoken out of turn. Grossly out of turn.

  Mr. Vancer pulled Marsali’s hands from her face and did not release them. “I am not sorry in the least,” he said. “I had worried that you were not ready yet. I am vastly relieved to discover that you are, and that you are as eager as I am for our marriage.”