Marrying Christopher (44 page)

“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.

“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!