Evelyn’s mind was a whirl as she read the words that brought the reality of the situation home. “Are you honestly telling me that I’m to marry a man I barely know? Just a couple of days ago it was only a possibility. Now it’s reality? Why didn’t you tell me? Warn me?”
They’d obviously planned the events of the previous evening ahead of time—without her knowledge—to have gotten the announcement into the morning’s paper. They had known but had said nothing. Her eyes burned with betrayal as she turned to her father who was still reading his paper.
“Da? Please? This is not how you promised me this would happen.”
Her father sighed as he laid aside his paper. “Evie, me lass, we’ve been here three months already, and ye’ve shown no preference to any of the lads who’ve asked me for your hand. I cannae be gone from New York forever, so I picked one for you. Shaftesbury is a good man; I’ve worked with him for years. Good business sense. I’m sure his son will be no different. Besides, Hindon has taken a strong liking to you and has been persistent in his appeal for your hand since we met him in New York last autumn.”
“You’ve engaged me to the son of the owner of one of Preston Shipping’s English competitors because his father has good business sense?” She was getting her Irish up, she knew, but it was a better feeling than the queasy sickness that had been plaguing her all night. “You don’t care that I barely know him? That perhaps there is someone else I’d rather marry?”
“I have done as I promised and given ye to a young, pleasant gentleman. He has all the qualities you require,” Preston insisted. “Besides, you have not shown a preference before.”
“Well, I’m showing one now,” she retorted her voice rising, quivering. “Besides, he isn’t young.”
“Who do you prefer then?”
“Francis…” Eve faltered. Francis what? Had she not gotten his full name? “Lady Hyde’s grandson. I met him last night.”
“Yet, he did not seek an introduction to us,” her mother tempered the argument with calm logic.
“He will. He’s going to call…” She swallowed deeply as an abyss of desperation opened before her. She couldn’t let this happen. “Da, why can I not marry Francis instead of some man I barely know?”
“And ye know this lad better?” He shook his head in denial. “I think not, lass. What’s done is done. Besides, a lad approaches you without coming to your mother or me for an introduction? You know he is probably a fortune hunter out to charm you or compromise you into marriage.”
“He’s not like that! I know he’s not.” She clutched desperately at her father’s sleeve. He wasn’t, was he? Surely, he wasn’t just out to compromise her into marriage to win her father’s fortune. He’d said he felt the magic as much as she. There was no way to fake that. Was there? Besides, he didn’t even know who she was. Or did he? Uncertainty spread like epidemic.
“Enough from you, me lass. I have had enough this morning. Tomorrow we will depart for the earl’s Dorset estate to finalize the engagement and settlement, then we will finally return to New York. You’ll wed Hindon and that is that.” He brushed her hands from his sleeve with a rough pat.
Eve was stung. Her whole life her Da had pampered her, spoiled her. He’d kept her mother from pushing her too hard with rules and high society. Yet in the space of just hours he’d gone from champion to executioner.
“Why, Da?” she cried softly, as Kitty reached out to her and clutched her hands in sympathy, support.
“Your mother wants the earl for you, and I’m not going to live forever. I am an old man already. It is a good match.” He sighed heavily. “What do you know of this lad you met?”
“He’s…” Eve stumbled to a halt realizing she didn’t know anything about him at all, other than he was in town visiting his grandmother, had a large family, and was from Scotland. She knew only what he made her feel. “He’s a good person, Da.”
“I’m making you a countess, Evie. Ye cannot throw that all away on some London city dandy who probably only wanted ye for yer inheritance.”
“He doesn’t know, Da,” she insisted, though doubt had begun to creep in.
“Are ye sure, lass? Are you sure he didn’t know who ye are?” he asked craftily, knowing that every man in the city was aware of his daughters and what a marriage to them might bring. “I thought not,” he answered, when her silence prevailed. “We will leave on the morrow.”
“But, Da!” Eve cast around desperately. She had to be able to stay. She must see Francis again. “Kitty has yet to find a husband.”
“Kitty will wed Mr. Hayes of Boston. His father has written asking for her again as he had before we traveled here. Your mother and I discussed it this morning. Since she has not settled on a titled gent here and shows no inclination to do so, she will be engaged to her previous suitor,” he informed her. “Since you had no suitors in New York, we had wanted to see you settled with a title.”
“A title it will be.” Her world shattered into a thousand pieces. “A countess, as you wish it. So be it, Da, but you break my heart to do it.” Bursting into tears, Eve ran from the room.
With a sigh, Lelan Preston rubbed his chest painfully as he watched his eldest daughter flee the room. The intermittent pain had returned. Rich as he might be, Lelan could not control the hand of fate, could not extend life beyond that with which God had blessed him. He was in his sixty-fourth year already, with time and infirmity closing in on his heels. His girls might not as yet understand his motivations for seeing their futures settled, but they would one day.
“Good morning, Mrs. Preston,” he offered heavily as he rose to leave the room.
Thoughts racing, Eve dashed out the front door. It was still early. Perhaps Francis hadn’t left yet. If she could catch him, maybe he could come to meet her father and convince him there were other options than wedding her to a near stranger. Absurd! She thought. Francis was a stranger! But, oh! it did not feel that way. She knew she could be happy with him.
The door on a hansom cab was just being closed, and the coachman lifting himself into the seat as Eve raced down the street.
“Sir! Please wait. Please,” she cried and knocked at the window. “Francis? Are you in there?”
He stuck his head from the window. “Eden? What is the matter? Could you not wait a while longer?”
“Please don’t tease me now, I must speak with you most urgently.”
The seriousness of her voice gave him pause. “What is it?”
“I know this is wrong. We’ve just met after all, but I need you to speak with my father.” She faltered not knowing what she expected him to do, only that something must be done. “I want…I know I cannot expect…”
“You are terrifying me, lass.”
“My father is making me get married. I need you to tell him that there might be a chance that maybe someday…that perhaps we might…” She bit her lip as Francis frowned and looked away.
“You want me to tell him that I want to marry you instead?”
A rush of relief flowed through her. He understood. Of course, he did. Didn’t he say that he had felt it, too? That there was something between them?
“Yes, Francis, of course not right away, but…” She stopped as he held up his hand.
“Eden, I cannot marry you.” His face flushed with guilt, regrets pounding profoundly in his heart. “Not now or ever.”
“Why?” she whispered, trembling. A ghost of dread shivered down her spine as she gazed into Francis’ closed expression.
“Because I am already married,” he whispered in return and watched her flee back up the street.
PART 2
Chapter 7
What does not destroy me makes me stronger.
~ Friedrich Nietzsche
Raven’s Craig Castle
Glenrothes, Scotland
April 1892
Evelyn née Preston, now Lady Ashley-Cooper, Countess of Shaftesbury, sat motionless on a bench in the shade of a large gnarled oak overlooki
ng the pebbled beach of the Firth of Forth. From a distance, one might have had the impression of a timeless painting, so still was she. Her posture was stiff, her back straight. One gloved hand held her lacy parasol aloft just so in order to keep the remaining morning sun from touching her face. Her black woolen serge gown was adorned with jet beads, and an enameled broach was at her throat. The height of fashion, at least for one in mourning. Her other hand held a small book at eye level.
Though she might have appeared engrossed by the book’s contents, in truth the countess was not paying it the slightest attention. Instead, she was thinking about the significance of the day.
One year ago that day, on April 13th of 1891, she had sat with her family in a carriage at the port of New York as the steam liner SS Anglia was disembarked not only by its regular passengers but also the 153 survivors of the Anchor Line steamship, the SS Utopia. New York had been the original destination of the Utopia before it had sunk off Gibraltar just four weeks before, killing a reported 574 of the passengers and crew on board.
Her husband, William, once just Lord Hindon but then Earl of Shaftesbury, returning from a business trip to Italy had been booked on that ship.
Her father’s position in the shipping industry had allowed them to pull their coach onto the dock to within thirty feet of the gangplank from which the liner’s passengers were disembarking. Four weeks without a word from William. Four weeks wondering if he was lost as they assumed or would arrive on the Anglia that day with the others who had survived the Utopia tragedy.
Evelyn had sat in the carriage hunched and tense as she gripped Kitty’s hands in hers. Surely if William had survived it would have occurred to him to make mention to her via telegram as other survivors had. If not to her, he would have never forgotten his man of business. Surely not. He must have perished!
I didn’t want him dead, she told herself firmly as she stared at the book before her, denying even now the morbid wishes for her husband’s demise. I never wanted him to die, to actually die. I just wanted to be free, free of him. But not that way.
She recalled how, as the passengers had continued to disembark, her agitation had sent her nerves over the edge as hope mixed with dread that William would come down the gangplank hale, hearty and whole. Reluctant guilt filled her when she had admitted to herself the hope was not for his survival, but for his demise. In her heart, she prayed that he would not be there, would not be among the survivors.
“Don’t worry, dearest,” her mother had assured her, leaning across to pat her hand. “I’m sure everything will be fine. I’m sure William is just fine.”
A sound halfway between a sob and a hysterical laugh had escaped Evelyn’s lips as she glanced at her mother, then her father who just regarded her with a steady gaze that had done much for Evelyn’s composure. “Worry not, daughter. One way or the other, it will end here.”
Even now she recalled that warm wave of affection that had rolled over her at his words. Thank God she had finally gotten the nerve to talk to her father after William had left on his trip.
She’d taken a chance on her father’s love and support that had failed her years before, finally telling him the truth of her marriage and begging his help to gain a divorce from William. If William had stepped off that ship, her father would have supported her decision to proceed with a divorce despite the protests that her mother would most assuredly voice over the scandal.
Either way, she would have her freedom. But still…
Her mind drifted back to that day.
A sharp rap on the carriage door caught all their attention. “Mr. Preston, sir?”
Lelan leaned to look out the window, then reached to swing the door open. “Mr. O’Connell? What can I do for you?”
The harbormaster tipped his hat to the ladies in the carriage and lowered his voice to Preston. “Mr. Preston, sir, I noticed yer carriage here today and having heard of yer gal’s man being on the Utopia, I took it upon meself to bring the captain of the Anglia here to ye so as ye dinnae hae to wait any longer.” O’Connell gestured to the other man accompanying him.
“Who is it, Mr. Preston?” Margaret asked.
Preston leaned back into the carriage and answered his wife but watched his daughter as he spoke. “Mr. O’Connell is the harbormaster here for many years, Mrs. Preston. He has brought the captain of the Anglia here to us.”
All eyes turned expectantly to the captain, who, to his credit, did not look away or shuffle his feet. As his gaze met hers through the open door, Evelyn asked the question softly. “Do you have news of my husband, sir?”
The captain removed his hat and answered. “With regrets, ma’am, your husband, the earl, is not among those survivors we have aboard.”
Evelyn sucked in a breath and swallowed. “Is there any chance?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. All survivors bound for New York were brought aboard the Anglia.”
“Thank you, Captain, for bringing word personally. It was most gracious of you.” Years of training brought the words to her lips, but Evelyn’s mind was already miles away.
“I am very sorry for your loss, ma’am.” The captain donned his hat and, touching the brim, turned away. The harbormaster also nodded at Lelan Preston and moved on with the captain.
“Oh, Evie!” Kitty flung her arms around her sister as Eve buried her face in her hands.
“That is it, then,” Preston grunted with a stiff nod, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “The earl is dead.”
Thank God, thank God! The thought echoed through her mind all night, making sleep impossible as guilt and remorse racked though her.
After six abysmal years of marriage, she’d become a widow.
* * *
An investigation by the Crown had followed the return of the Anglia, and William had been declared legally dead several months later. She became a widow officially, a state of existence for which she could not find it in herself to be sorry.
As she now sat overlooking the firth glittering in the morning sun, Eve closed her eyes against the wind that fanned her face and blew long wisps of hair across her cheeks. That minute bit of untidiness would have earned her reproach just a year ago, she thought. She raised her chin and savored the feel of the breeze over her skin. Her mind was at odds with the peace she exuded. The stillness of her body bespoke a calm she did not feel. There was still so much wrong in her life.
After so many awful years of marriage, she had lost vitality, energy…hope. Marriage had done this to her, made her into this person she barely recognized.
When her then-fiancé, William Ashley-Cooper, had chosen to stay in New York in the spring of ’85 for the last three months of their year-long engagement, Eve had been grateful. Having not seen him in almost all of the previous nine months of their betrothal, she tried to look positively on the opportunity to spend some time together, to come to know him better before they finally wed. Thinking it best to put aside the nature of their engagement, Eve put her efforts into having the best marriage possible.
But still they did not spend a great deal of time together despite his taking up residence just blocks away from her parents’ Fifth Avenue home. Just once a week, he would make an afternoon call. One night a week he would escort her to a dinner or opera. By the time they had wed that June, Eve, having been in William’s company only a couple of dozen times, still felt that she didn’t know him any better for their year’s acquaintance with the exception of knowing that he was very proud to have her as his fiancée and then his wife. He loved to have her on his arm, to show her off at each function they attended. His pride in her was very evident. If he would adjust her hair or accessories, Eve had been certain it was just so that she could look her best.
Following their wedding ceremony at St. Patrick’s Cathedral and reception, they finally departed New York for their wedding trip. Surely, she’d thought, they would begin to know one another better. The nearly year-long excursion was a traditional time for newlyweds to become acquaint
ed when the fashionable standards of courtship did not really allow it at all.
However on the crossing, the only time she spent alone with her husband were the few nights he slipped into her stateroom. Remembering the only kiss she’d ever shared with another, Evelyn had tried to embrace the physical side of her marriage but found her husband interested in only the briefest of unions. His attentions were dispassionate at best, in private and in public. Eve had wondered if it was a circumstance of his age. He was, after all, almost twenty years older than she. Perhaps that age difference might also have been the reason that he didn’t seem to like her or have any real interest in her as a person. They had diverse interests that stretched like a gulf between them.
Yet, while William didn’t seem to care for her company, he still insisted she accompany him each night for dinner with the captain and other notable figures aboard the ship. In Paris, when Evelyn spent her days having her wardrobe completed by Monsieur Worth, her husband had been there choosing designs and fabrics so that she might spend her evenings as little more than a fashionable trophy on his arm at the theater and social events he scheduled.
Still, if her marriage was not all that it could have been, she tried to be happy with what she had and embraced her opportunity to see Europe as she had always wanted.
Moving on to Italy, Evelyn had come to grasp the nature of the marriage William wanted from her. The polite distance in private. The public image. Realizing there might never be any love lost between them, she decided to enjoy her life on her own terms. She’d loved Rome and Naples. For eight months they lived there. William wanted little to do with the region and more to do with the social life he participated in, leaving her to go her own way when he did not require her presence to adorn his arm. She spent her days exploring the region and had fallen in love with its history, architecture and romance while her husband worked and socialized with his associates.
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