Читать книгу: «The Paper Marriage»

Chapter One

March 3, 1898

Norfolk, Virginia

Most of the mourners had already left. A raw, wet northeast wind whipped the black skirts of the lone woman who lingered, her veiled head bowed, beside the open grave. Nearby, the preacher eyed the lowering clouds as he waited patiently for Rose Magruder to pay her last respects to her grandmother’s mortal remains. He took out his pocket watch, glanced down quickly, then looked up at the sky again, and at the grave diggers waiting to finish their work.

Some distance away, a handful of servants huddled uncertainly, hoping the rain would hold off for another few minutes. Hoping Miss Rose would land on her feet, because the poor girl deserved better than she’d had these past few years.

Hoping even more that Mrs. Littlefield had left them the back wages she’d died owing.

On the other side of the plot, under the shelter of a massive magnolia, an elderly couple lingered, their heads close together as they carried on a low-voiced conversation. Bess Powers had been Augusta Little-field’s friend for more than forty years. Horace Bagby had been her lawyer for at least that long.

“Gussy would’ve told us all to get inside before we catch our deaths,” murmured the plump woman with the suspiciously red hair. “Poor Gussy, she was a tartar, but I loved her like a sister.”

“Gussy was always proud of what you’ve accomplished, you know. Used to read me every one of your letters while you were off on one of your travels.” The two longtime friends were among the few who had been allowed to call the late Mrs. Littlefield “Gussy.”

“Well, I’m home for a few weeks, at any rate. Horace, what are we going to do about that poor child?” She nodded toward the deceased’s only relative. “I suppose I could invite her to move in with me as a sort of secretary-companion, but you know how small my cottage is.”

Horace removed his derby, smoothed the few strands of hair laid carefully across his dome, and carefully replaced his hat. They both studied the lone figure dressed in black. Tall as a beanpole, Bess was thinking.

Slender as a willow, Horace mused, a romantic in spite of his elderly bachelor status. “Bess, I just don’t know. Right now all I can think of is how I’m going to break the news to her. I’d rather take a licking, and that’s a fact.”

“Poor child, you’d think she’d have earned a little peace after all she’s had to put up with. Never had a beau in her life, far as anybody knows. Gussy said she married the first jack out of the box after her folks died. Nobody had ever heard of the fellow. Then, less than two years later, the fellow up and died on her.

“Drowned, I believe Gussy said.” They stood in silent sympathy for the tall, plain woman who lingered beside the grave.

The handful of acquaintances who had braved the weather to attend the funeral had already left, eager to exchange this dismal place for a warm, food-laden parlor where they could enjoy a good meal while they speculated on how much the old girl had left her only granddaughter.

Not until the preacher finally led the chief mourner away did Horace tuck Bess’s hand under his arm and steer her toward the one remaining carriage. “Waiting hand and foot on Gussy couldn’t have been any picnic, either,” Bess remarked as she picked her way carefully around the puddles. “By the time Rose came to live with her, Gussy’s mind was already addled. Never was much to brag about, poor soul.”

Horace nodded. “Came on her so gradually, I kept telling myself she was just having another bad spell, but you’re right. She never was what you might call quick-witted. I tried to warn her about those funds, but by the time I found out what she was up to, it was already too late.” He sighed heavily. “And now there’s that poor girl yonder….”

“I know. I didn’t want to believe it, either.”

They followed the lead carriage, bearing the preacher and Augusta Rose Littlefield Magruder, granddaughter and sole heir to the late Augusta Littlefield, back to the Littlefield mansion.

Bess patted Horace’s black-gloved hand. “Never mind, we’ll think of something.”

The house was overheated. It smelled of wet wool. There’d be an enormous coal bill to pay once Rose had time to tackle her grandmother’s messy desk. Right to the end Gussy had insisted on keeping her own accounts. She’d allowed no one in what she called her office, a converted sitting room off the master bedroom that was kept locked, with the key hidden in one of Gussy’s bedroom slippers.

Rose had known where it was, of course, but neither she nor any of the few remaining servants would have dreamed of using it. A calm and contented Gussy had been difficult enough to deal with; an angry Gussy utterly impossible.

Now Rose sat numbly, half hidden behind a Chinese screen, waiting for this endless day to end. She would have given anything she possessed, which wasn’t all that much, to be able to close her eyes and sleep for a solid week.

Unfortunately, even if she’d had the chance, her mind would have refused to cooperate. She had grown up in a house nearly as grand as this one, but the thought of being solely responsible for her grand-mother’s entire estate was overwhelming.

Gradually, she became aware of a whispered conversation on the other side of the screen. She honestly didn’t mean to listen, but without revealing her presence it was impossible not to hear.

“…finally gone, I guess her granddaughter’s set for life, the lucky woman.”

“Lucky? If you ask me, the poor thing’s earned every dollar the old biddy hoarded all these years. Didn’t pay her servants worth diddly. Her upstairs maid came to work for me last fall, and she said—”

“Yes, but they say the granddaughter’s had a hard row to hoe. I heard her folks were killed in that awful train wreck near Suffolk, and a few years later her husband was murdered.”

“He wasn’t murdered, silly, he drowned. The way I heard it, he—”

“Black don’t become her at all, does it? If I was her, I’d use a touch of rouge.”

“For shame, Ida Lee, she’s a decent woman, for all she’s plain as a fence post.”

“The poor thing, they say she’s still grieving for her husband, too.”

What was that old saying about eavesdroppers? Rose wondered, amused in spite of herself. Black did indeed make her look sallow, but then so did everything else. Some kind soul had once called her un-fashionable complexion “olive,” and she’d latched onto it because it sounded better than sallow—even faintly exotic—but fancy words couldn’t change the truth.

And she was grieving. She would grieve for the rest of her life, but not for the lout she had married.

Rose Magruder had never been one to display her emotions. She had come to her grandmother a penniless widow. Since then she had been far too busy trying to keep up with the constant, confusing and often conflicting demands of her only remaining relative to do more than fall into bed each night, exhausted.

Of the staff required to maintain an eighteen-room mansion and the acres surrounding it, only three had stayed on until the end.

Rose fully intended to see that those three were amply rewarded for their faithfulness.

But first she had to find time to go through the mountain of papers her grandmother had left crammed into shoeboxes, hatboxes and goodness knows where else. She knew for a fact that the household accounts were in arrears, because several of the merchants with whom they did business had brought it to her attention.

Thank goodness for Horace Bagby. She didn’t know the man well, but he seemed both kind and competent. With the help of an accountant, which Mr. Bagby could probably recommend, they should be able to sort things out. Sallow or not, she had always had a good head for figures.

Not until the last of the mourners had gone did Rose discover that she might have saved herself the worry. Horace Bagby had stayed behind when the others left. He wished he’d thought to ask Bess to stay and help him with the unpleasant task. He hated tears, never had learned how to deal with them.

“As to the, ah—the will, I’m afraid the news is not good, my dear. Your grandmother’s estate is…well, the truth is, it’s mortgaged to the hilt and will have to be sold immediately to pay off creditors.”

He braced himself to deal with anything up to and including an outburst of hysteria. Mrs. Magruder fooled him. She shed not so much as a single tear. There in the gloomy front parlor, its windows shrouded in respect for the deceased, she sat quietly, her hands folded on her lap, her eyes somewhat swollen, somewhat pink, but quite dry.

“There now, we’ll come through this, my dear,” he said without the least notion of how he would bring about such a miracle. As the poor girl didn’t seem inclined to question him, he hurried to fill the silence with all the information he had at hand.

Rose sat quietly as the words droned on and on and on. Now and then a phrase would snag her attention.

Nothing left?

“—gambled away—risky investments—warned her, but you know Gussy, she was headstrong right to the end.”

Sold immediately?

“—lock, stock and barrel, I’m afraid. I’m sure we can think of something. That is, there’s bound to be a way—”

Rose took a deep, steadying breath. “Would it be possible,” she asked, her voice unnaturally composed, “to sell several pieces of my own jewelry? They were given to me by my grandmother, but legally, I believe they’re mine to do with as I wish.”

“Of course, of course, my dear, you’re quite right. I’ll handle it this very day, if you’d like.”

Technically, the jewelry, especially if it consisted of family pieces, could be considered a part of the estate, but Horace wasn’t about to let this young lady suffer for the mistakes of a weak-minded old woman. After asking her once again if she wouldn’t prefer to go and stay with friends, he reluctantly took his leave. Rose saw him to the door. Mentally she was numb. Physically, she was too exhausted to think about dragging her trunks down from the attic to begin the arduous task of packing. After a night’s sleep, she might be better able to think clearly.

Horace drove directly to Granby Street, where he sold the five pieces of jewelry, none of them particularly valuable. “It should keep her for at least a month, providing she’s frugal,” he confided to Bess that evening over teacups of fine, aged brandy. “Seems a sensible sort, but you never know. At least now she’ll be able to set herself up in a decent rooming house until she can find herself another husband. Shouldn’t take too long, even with mourning and all. She’s a bit long in the shank, but a widower with children might not be so particular.”

“If marriage was the answer to every maiden’s prayer,” his companion observed dryly, “the two of us wouldn’t be sitting here drinking brandy and smoking cigars.”

Horace lifted his teacup in silent acknowledgement.

Unable to sleep after all, Rose dragged her trunk down from the attic and began emptying the wardrobe, folding and packing layers on top of the layers she’d never even got around to unpacking. Most were black, except for a few old summer things and the wedding gown she’d saved as a bitter reminder of what could happen when a woman made the wrong choice. She’d been in mourning for so long, she’d almost forgotten what it was like to wear colors.

The next afternoon she divided the proceeds from the sale of her jewelry among the three remaining servants, thanking them again for their support. “I’m sorry it isn’t more. Goodness knows you deserve far more, this hardly even covers your salary, but it’s the best I can do, I’m afraid.”

They seemed to understand, to appreciate her appreciation, and they wished each other well.

Not until the last one had left did Rose allow her guard to drop. And then the tears came. She wept until her eyes were swollen, her throat clogged, her handkerchief a sodden lump. “Oh, Lord, this is a waste of time,” she muttered, and then cried some more. On the rare occasions when she allowed herself the luxury of tears, she made a fine job of it, weeping noisily until every last dreg of emotion was spent.

She cried for her parents—the charming rascal of a father she’d adored, her dainty, beautiful mother who had never quite known what to make of her gawky misfit of a daughter—and for the grandmother who had changed so drastically from the woman she dimly remembered from her childhood.

But most of all, she wept for her baby, who had never even had a chance to live.

Eventually she mopped her face, smoothed her skirt and stood before the heavy hall mirror, recalling the words her grandmother’s housekeeper had spoken when she’d tucked her share of the money in her purse. “There now, you’ll land on your feet, Miss Rose, you see if you don’t. You might not be much to look at, but you’ve got backbone aplenty.”

Not much to look at, she thought ruefully. Never have been. Never would be. At least she would never have to worry about aging and losing her beauty, which had been her mother’s greatest fear.

At thirteen Rose had been tall and painfully shy. At eighteen she’d still been shy, and even taller, but she could walk without tripping over her feet. She’d even learned to dance so that on those rare occasions when some poor boy had been forced to do his duty, she wouldn’t disgrace herself.

“No, you’re not much to look at,” she told her mirror image. Given the choice between beauty and backbone, she would have chosen beauty, which just went to show she still hadn’t learned anything.

Fortunately, the choice wasn’t hers to make. She’d been stuck with backbone, which was a good thing, because backbone was just what she would need until she could find a position and establish herself in a decent neighborhood.

With the house empty and her luggage stacked beside her, Rose sat on one of the delicate chairs that flanked the inlaid hall table and waited for her grand-mother’s friend, Bess Powers, who had located a suitable rooming house and offered to drive her there, as her grandmother’s horse and buggy had already been claimed by a creditor.

Limp with exhaustion, she was afraid to relax for fear she might fall asleep. Afraid the few dollars in her purse would not be enough. Perhaps she should have kept back part of the proceeds from the sale of her jewelry in case the landlord insisted on being paid in advance.

What if she couldn’t find a position right away?

And even if she could, it would be weeks, perhaps months, before she could expect to be paid.

Choices. It came down to making the right one. Unfortunately, women were rarely given a chance to learn, their choices being made for them, first by parents and then by husbands. The first time she’d had to make a choice, she’d made a disastrous one. After suffering the consequences, she’d had no choice but to turn to her grandmother.

This time she was fresh out of relatives. It was a criminal shame, she told herself, that well-bred young women were never trained to be self-supporting.

Bess arrived on the dot of four. “There you are,” she declared, as if she’d been searching everywhere. Parking her umbrella in the stand, she stood before the mirror and re-skewered her hat atop her freshly hennaed hair with a lethal-looking hatpin. “Shame about the house, but I’ve been telling Gussy for years that this was too much house for one lone woman. Don’t be possessed by your possessions, I always say.”

Which was all very well, Rose thought, as long as one possessed a roof over one’s head. A bed in hand was worth two in the bush.

Giddy, that’s what you are. Good thing your feet are as long as they are, my girl, because you’re going to have to stand on them from now on. “Grand-mother’s housekeeper gave me the name of a reliable agency where I might look for work.”

“What kind of work can you do?” Bess didn’t believe in mincing words. As a woman who supported herself with words, she valued them too highly. “Can you take shorthand? Can you cook? Not that I’d recommend it, but better to lord it over a kitchen than to have to wait on every oaf with the price of a meal.”

Rose had never even considered serving as a waitress, but it might well come to that. “I’ve never tried it, but I’m sure I could learn. I’m good with invalids, too.”

“You want to be a doormat all your life? I haven’t known you long, child, because I’ve been away so much these past few years, but we both know Gussy was no invalid. What she was, poor soul, was crazy as a bedbug, not to put too fine a point on it. Now, don’t tell me you want to go to work in one of those asylums, you wouldn’t last out a day.”

Rose knew the woman meant well. And after all, she was one of those rare creatures, a truly independent woman. “All right, then what do you suggest? Governess? Companion? Surely I could qualify for either of those positions.”

“I thought about hiring you as a secretary-companion.”

Rose waited for the catch. She was certain there would be one.

“Trouble is, I couldn’t afford to pay you enough to live on. My publisher pays my expenses when I’m traveling, but I doubt if he’d pay for a secretary.”

On her good days, her grandmother used to talk about her friend, Bess Powers, who was considered a minor celebrity after the diaries she had written while growing up aboard her father’s ship had been published. Rose envied Miss Powers her freedom and independence but, celebrity or not, she wasn’t at all sure she could abide the woman for any length of time.

“I’m afraid I don’t take shorthand. I’m sure I could learn, though, and my penmanship is excellent.”

“’T’wouldn’t work. I’ve traveled in single harness too long. As it happens, though, I have another problem on my hands. You might be just the one to tackle it. I don’t suppose you’ve got a drop of brandy in the house, do you? This miserable weather goes right to my knees.”

“I’m sorry. Knowing I’d be leaving today, I let the servants take home all the food and drink, but I’m sure there’s some tea left in the caddy.”

“Never mind. Now, where was I? Oh, yes, Matt. My nephew. Poor boy, he was desperate enough to write to me for help, which means he’s at his wit’s end. Last time I saw him he called me a meddling old busybody.” She chuckled. “I’ll not deny it, either.”

Rose murmured a polite disclaimer. She scarcely knew the woman, after all, but if she had indeed spent her formative years at sea in a man’s world, as she claimed to have done, then it was no wonder she tended to be outspoken.

Rose appreciated plain speaking. It saved time in the long run, even if the truth did happen to tread on a few tender toes.

“Well anyhow, as I told Horace, you’re a tad on the scrawny side, but then Gussy was always frail, too. Still, it takes a strong woman to look after a child.”

“A child?” Rose repeated, frowning. Perhaps she was more like her grandmother than she’d thought, for she was having trouble following the conversation. “I’m sorry—did I miss something?”

“Child, baby, I’m not sure of her age, but I do know I’m too old to tackle the job, even if I had the time. Still, I expect you’re stronger than you look, else you’d never have been able to put up with Gussy. I know, I know, she was my dearest friend, even though we didn’t see much of one another once I started traveling professionally, so to speak. But Gussy was always a bit light under the bonnet, if you take my meaning. Old age struck me in the knees. It struck Gussy’s head. I guess it hits us all in our weakest parts.”