Marrying Christopher (40 page)

The thought of Marsali hurting and alone prodded him to walk faster.
Lady Cosgrove will know something. She must.
After all, he reasoned, she had been with Marsali that last night when he had gone in search of Lydia.

Mr. Murphy’s investigation at the docks this past week had revealed that Lady Cornelia Cosgrove and her daughter Lydia had been rescued from a lifeboat at sea, picked up by the Irish packet ship
Josephine.
They had disembarked in New York on Friday, 26 September— three full weeks ago.

Perhaps Marsali had been picked up by a different ship.
Why is there no record of her?

Murphy had been unable to locate or learn of any other survivors from the
Amanda May.
But he had been called upon to identify bodies of many of the crew, Mr. Tenney and Captain Gower among them.

But not Marsali. Because she is not dead.
Christopher mourned for those who had been lost, particularly Captain Gower, but he did not allow himself to dwell on their deaths and instead held on to hope as he clumped along the sidewalk, past the immigrant districts and to the more wealthy neighborhoods.

At midafternoon, he at last came to Fifth Street and located the Vancer mansion. It appeared every bit as opulent as Miss Cosgrove had described it, and he imagined that she and her mother were both quite comfortable here.

Christopher knocked on the door and was admitted by a butler who looked at him askance, as if his clothing indicated he ought to have rung at the servant’s entrance.

So much for my fine suit
,
Christopher thought, caring little. His two pounds were gone, as were his books, clothing, and other belongings. But he cared not a whit for any of that and would have gladly given all of it and more to find Marsali.

Hat in hand, Christopher waited in the foyer, wondering that the butler had not offered to take his hat or shown him to a room to wait. After so many hours of walking, sitting would have been a vast relief.

A few moments later, Lady Cosgrove swept into the room, appearing far better than the last time he had seen her. As he opened his mouth to greet her, Lady Cosgrove’s face turned ashen, and she stumbled backward, only just managing to catch herself from falling by grabbing onto a side table.

“Lady Cosgrove, are you not well?” He stepped forward, intending to offer his good hand to her.

She shook her head and did not speak but took a step backward, declining his assistance. “Impossible. You are dead.”

“Not quite.” He gave a tight-lipped smile. His leg and arm hurt enough that he might have wished for death a time or two the past weeks, had he not had Marsali to think of. “I have come to inquire about my wife’s whereabouts. When last I saw you, Marsali was with you in the saloon of the
Amanda May.
Do you know what became of her?”

“She—” If possible, Lady Cosgrove’s face grew more pale.

Christopher stepped closer, judging how he might be able to catch her, lest she fall. “Have you seen her? I have had no word and
must
find her.”

Lady Cosgrove took several shallow breaths before meeting his eye and speaking again. And then it was not to answer his question.

“You are injured?” Her eyes flickered from his cane and bandaged arm to his closely shorn hair.

“I was,” he clarified. “I will be well soon enough. Please, have you any news of Marsali?”
She knows something. She is avoiding telling me.
His fingers curved over the handle of the cane, bracing himself for the worst.

“Miss Abbott is… How are you to work with your injuries?” Lady Cosgrove asked, once again changing the subject swiftly.

“I’ll manage,” Christopher said, wondering that she would care at all. “Have you any news of Marsali?” He was not going to leave until the woman told him whatever it was she knew. Good news or bad, he needed to hear it.

Lady Cosgrove considered him a moment more, then seemed to stiffen with some sort of resolve. “Miss Abbott would not leave the ship with me. Mr. Luke came to take us to a lifeboat, but she insisted on waiting for you. Later, when I was in the boat, I caught a glimpse of her up on deck, calling your name. The way the ship was rolling in the sea, it is difficult to believe one could stand on the deck at all— without being secured.”

No.
Christopher refused to believe that Marsali had been swept overboard. Still, he gritted his teeth to keep from crying out his anguish. That Lady Cosgrove would know of Marsali’s whereabouts had been his greatest hope.

“I was not aware of other survivors beyond Lydia and I,” Lady Cosgrove said quietly.

“Mr. Murphy is alive as well,” Christopher said. “It is thanks to him that I am here. And Marsali is alive. I
know
it. If she was on the deck by the boats she must have ended up in one.”

“Yes, well…” Lady Cosgrove cleared her throat. “Ours nearly capsized several times that awful night. It is entirely possible that others did.”

He didn’t want to think about that possibility either and refused to consider it yet. “I thank you for your time,” Christopher said, wanting only to get far away from Lady Cosgrove and her dire imaginations as quickly as possible. “I wish you and your daughter a happy life together here.”

“Thank you.” She looked away, as if she felt guilty that they should have such happiness when he did not.

He limped his way to the front door and the waiting butler. It seemed his leg was even less prone to functioning normally now that he had stood still a few moments.

Where are you, Marsali? Where would you go? To Virginia
?
The possibility that she was even now at Mr. Joshua Thomas’s plantation worried him greatly. Yet it was a very real possibility.
If Marsali believed me dead, she would have felt she had no choice but to honor her indenture.

At the threshold, Christopher turned around once more to find Lady Cosgrove anxiously looking past him.

Discomfited by my injuries, no doubt.
His hair had not yet grown enough to cover the scar running down the back of his head.

“If you should chance to learn of my wife’s whereabouts or even see her, I will be found in Virginia, working on or near Mr. Joshua Thomas’s plantation.”

Mr. Vancer’s buggy turned the corner to Fifth Street, bringing into view the towering mansions that made up the neighborhood. To Marsali, every one seemed ostentatious in size. After a few hours away from the city, being surrounded again by grey stone felt depressing. Instead of looking forward to returning to the house, as she had guessed she would, Marsali felt anxious, as if it was a living thing seeking to ensnare her.

They reached the front of the house, and Mr. Vancer alighted from the buggy. Though she was perfectly capable of removing herself, Marsali waited for him to come around to assist her. Two servants emerged from the front doors and started down the steps as if they had been standing there all afternoon, awaiting their return. Marsali wondered if they had and then wondered at the extravagance of it all. Would not such money be better spent on other things— such as helping people like that poorly dressed man down the street?

What is such a person doing here?
she wondered, having seen no one who appeared anything other than well-to-do in this part of town. She leaned closer, squinting at him. There was something familiar about him— the broad shoulders, the way he carried himself.

Christopher!
Marsali rose up in her seat, leaning over the front of the carriage.

“Miss Abbott, do be careful.” Mr. Vancer held his hand out to her, and Marsali accepted it, practically jumping from the carriage. She stepped past him and began walking briskly down the street, about to call out the man when his cane swung into view.

She felt her hope deflate.
It cannot be Christopher. See how he is hobbling. He is probably not even young.

But he is tall, his shoulders broad.

Many men are tall with broad shoulders, even as they age.
She continued arguing with herself.

His hair—
That was it. His hair would tell her. If the man was indeed Christopher, his brown hair would brush the back of his collar with a slight curl. He was walking so slowly, and she so quickly, that she was almost close enough to tell.

“What is wrong? Have I done something to offend you?” Mr. Vancer’s gentle voice and his hand upon her arm stopped her. Instead of looking at him, she watched as the man with the cane lifted his hat to mop his brow. The skin at the base of his head appeared wrinkled. Her disappointment swelled.
He
is
old.
And his hair in back was cut very short, perhaps the same color as Christopher’s, but nowhere near to his collar.

I will simply have to allow my hair to grow…

Crushing disappointment swelled in her breast, so much so that she stumbled and might have fallen save for Mr. Vancer’s hand at her arm. The man continued his labored walk down the street. Something about his leg was obviously very wrong or possibly even deformed, and Marsali wondered how she ever could have imagined it might be Christopher.

“I thought I saw someone I knew.” She looked at the ground as tears stung her eyes.

Mr. Vancer did not say anything but drew her to him, pulling her into his embrace. His strong arms offered comfort, and a tiny sob escaped her throat. “Would that I might take this pain from you, Miss Abbott.”

She began to cry in earnest.

He did not chastise her but gently steered her back the way they had come, through the gate and into the relative privacy of the garden. There they sat on a bench, and she wept out her heartache.

“Allow me to help you heal,” Mr. Vancer said after some time had passed and at last her tears had dried. “If you will but give me a chance, I promise to make you happy again.”

Wearing a triumphant smile and looking far better than Marsali had seen her thus far, Lady Cosgrove practically floated into the sitting room. “We’ve made the second page of the
Evening Post
,” she exclaimed.

“The newspaper is just now publishing the story of the
Amanda May
?” A month had passed since her wreck— old news for most, though Marsali continued to dwell on it, remembering the horrific events leading to its end with such clarity it was as if they had happened hours ago. “I suppose the papers in America are not as prompt at reporting news as those in England.”

“Everything is slower here,” Lady Cosgrove agreed, her face resuming its usual, pinched expression. “But this article is not about the misfortune of the ship; it is about
us
.”

Why should anyone want to read about
us
?
Marsali set down her embroidery and reached for the paper. “May I?”

Lady Cosgrove handed her the paper and seated herself on the sofa beside Marsali’s chair. Marsali had learned to avoid the sofas and love seats when sitting in this room or any other, lest Mr. Vancer join her and assume a place too near her.

“Do read it aloud,” Lady Cosgrove said. “I should like to hear it again.”

Marsali opened the paper and saw the headline on page two at once. “Fairy Tale to Nightmare— Or Is It?” Her brow wrinkled, and a premonition of unease flared in her stomach.

“
Miss Marsali Abbott (19) of Manchester boarded the
Amanda May
at Liverpool, England, on 4 September, eager for a new life in America. Miss Abbott, daughter of Charles Abbott, of Manchester, England, came to join her sister, who had made the journey four years earlier. Miss Abbott’s parents are both deceased
.” Marsali stopped reading and looked up at Lady Cosgrove.

“This is all about me— why should anyone care who I am?”

“Yes, yes.” Lady Cosgrove waved her hand dismissively. “That part is rather boring, but keep reading, my dear.”

Silently Marsali bristled at the endearment. Never once, throughout the entire four-week voyage, had she heard Lady Cosgrove refer to Lydia as such. Of late Marsali worried that there were times Lady Cosgrove really did believe she was her daughter.

“
While aboard the
Amanda May
Miss Abbott became enamored of fellow passenger, a Mr. Christopher Thatcher (21), grandson of Eugene Durham, the Seventh Duke of Salisbury
.” Marsali glanced down at the ring on her finger, the family heirloom that could no longer be passed down.
At least until I have returned it to Christopher’s sisters.
In her letter she had promised to give them the ring as soon as safe passage for it might be arranged.