sat and smoothed her skirts, reminded again of how much she detested the new fashion of large, projecting bustles.
Papa cleared his throat. She sat up straighter. He still wanted her to be the proper lady, even when no one was there to see or care.
“You know your mother and I had always planned for you to have an advantageous marriage,” Papa began, sinking heavily into his leather chair. “You asked that we put off such discussions while … while your mother was indisposed. But it is now clear that she will not recover as we had hoped.”
“She needs more time,” Mariah said, knowing that she was lying to herself as much as to him. “Please, Papa. Be patient just a while longer.”
“No.” He stubbed out his cigar and leaned heavily on the ebony desk. “No more waiting, Merry. It’s time and past that you were married.”
To someone who will take me before I begin showing the same signs as Mama, Mariah added silently. If such a person existed.
“You may wonder if I have someone specific in mind,” he rushed on. “There is a fresh crop of English gentlemen arriving this season, and you will be meeting all of them.”
Impoverished gentlemen, he meant. “Viscounts” and “earls” and assorted “sirs” who were in desperate need of a wealthy wife, even if she were American.
Mariah didn’t have to ask why Papa wanted her out of New York. Away from the influence of her crazy mother. Away from the gossip. He wanted to secure her future, her security … and, above all, her sanity. But there were some things the human will, however indomitable, could not overcome.
“I don’t wish to leave New York,” she said, meeting his gaze. “Not so long as Mama needs me.”
“You’ve spent enough time in asylums,” he said harshly. “You can’t make your mother any better, there or here.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “She wants your happiness. You know that, Merry.” His commanding tone became persuasive, almost gentle. “You’d make her happiest in these … last days by marrying well and starting on the road to having your own family.”
Mariah pressed her palms to her hot cheeks. She wanted children. She wanted them badly. But if she should inherit the madness that had claimed her mother and her mother’s mother before her.
Papa was blinded by the hope that she would be different. He still intended to see that she climbed to the heights of society, high enough to sneer at the snobbish “old money” of New York. And the surest way of achieving his goal was by trading money for a title.
As if that would make a difference.
I don’t need it, Papa. Oh, I can ape the manners of a fine lady, but I don’t belong among them. I’ve been by myself too long. All I want is a quiet life. Then, if anything goes wrong …
“I can’t, Papa. You know I can’t.”
“I know you can.” He was all brute force now, the man who had brought the New York Stock Exchange to its knees more than once, and in spite of herself, she quailed. “You will. And you’ll begin next week, when the Viscount Ainscough arrives.” He turned his back on her. “Mrs. Abercrombie is throwing a ball for him. She has invited you.”
Mariah wondered how Papa had wangled such an invitation. Perhaps Mr. Abercrombie hoped to encourage a substantial investment from Mr. Marron and had prevailed upon his wife to accept the former pariah.
“—you’ll be wearing a new gown and looking like a queen,” Papa was saying.
“I don’t need more gowns, Papa.”
“You will from now on. A new one for every concert, soirée, breakfast and party during the Season.”
Mariah rose and walked to the window, looking out over Central Park. Leaves were turning and beginning to fall. Mrs. Abercrombie’s ball was only the beginning. Soon the Season would be in full bloom, and she would be in the thick of it, as if Mama didn’t exist.
“I know it’s difficult for you, sweetheart,” Papa said, coming up behind her and laying his broad hand on her shoulder. “But you’ll carry on. You’re stronger than …”
Stronger than your mother. You won’t hear voices. You’ll behave normally. You won’t ever end up in a … “Promise that you won’t send Mama back to the asylum,” she said.
He looked at her with that shrewd, hard gaze. “Are you trying to bargain with me, Merry?”
“Keep her here. Let me see her between engagements, and I’ll become whatever you want me to be.”
His shoulders sagged. “I don’t want to send her back. I only want what’s best.” He seemed to shrink to the size of an ordinary man. “I agree.”
All the air rushed out of Mariah’s lungs. “Thank you, Papa.”
He waved his hand, dismissing her words, and returned to his desk. “The ivory gown from Worth just arrived from Paris,” he said, as if they had never discussed anything more important than her wardrobe. “You’ll wear that one to the ball. We’ll have to use a few local couturiers until the rest arrive.”
“Yes, Papa.” Mariah drew her finger across the window-pane, watching her breath condense on the glass. “How many Englishmen do you suppose I’ll have to choose from?”
“I imagine you’ll snag a duke, Merry. How could any man resist you?”
And what about love? Wasn’t she as unlikely to find that with an English lord as with anyone in New York? Was there a man anywhere who didn’t want her only for her money?
Papa would use every means necessary to quash any current gossip about the state of Mrs. Marron’s sanity, of course. Sufficient wealth could buy almost everything. Everything but what really mattered.
Mariah walked to the door. “I’d best get ready for dinner, Papa.”
“You do that. Wear that little pink frock, the one with the lace at the bottom. Bring some cheer to the table.”
She nodded, left the office and climbed the stairs, acknowledging the nurse who was just leaving Mama’s suite. As she entered her room, she wondered if she might possibly escape marriage entirely. Papa thought her beautiful, but she knew that to be untrue. She was, in fact, a nobody. She had a considerable allowance of her own. Perhaps she could bribe the noblemen to leave her alone. Then Papa would have to give up, and she could find a way to be with Mama until the end.
But things didn’t work out as she’d planned. Halfway through the Season she met the dashing Earl of Donnington, already wealthy in his own right, and fell in love. He wanted a quiet, unassuming wife who would be content to remain at his estate in Cambridgeshire while he pursued his own interests; she could think of no better arrangement.
A few months later, Mama died. Mariah insisted on the full period of mourning, but Donnington waited patiently. A year later, she was on a steamer bound for England and the marriage her father had so wanted for her. The end of one life and the beginning of another.
And she never heard a single voice in her head.
CHAPTER ONE
Cambridgeshire, 1885
IT HAD BEEN no marriage at all.
Mariah crossed the well-groomed park as she had done every day for the past few months, her walking boots leaving a damp trail in the grass. Tall trees stood alone or in small clusters, strewn about the park in a seemingly random pattern that belied the perfect organization of the estate.
Donbridge. It was hers now. Or should have been.
No one will ever know what happened that night.
The maids had blushed and giggled behind their hands the next morning when she had descended from her room