Page 11 of Indebted (Hidden Gems #2)

“ A nd the orchestra comes in by the noon train, and they shall lodge in the servant’s quarters overnight. Agnes, Cook, Brabbage, and Hurly will come over first thing that morning to assist your staff.” Amy sat down in a gilt-edged chair, one of many ringing the floor of the ballroom.

Marcus ran his fingers idly over the ivory keys of an open-case piano in the corner nearest her. “Miss Winthrop, you’re a marvel. And I have to wait an entire week to have you in my arms? This is torture.”

“Nonsense.” Amy had not seen much of Marcus over the past two days. He and Steven had been dispatched to Manchester, where they had met one of Mr. Corliss’ representatives from London. She missed her brother terribly, for Steven had shown himself to be an unexpected ally lately, but she found that she also missed Marcus.

“We could practice.”

“Pardon?” Amy jumped out of her own thoughts with a start.

“Dancing! We could practice.”

“But—”

“We have a chaperone, after all.” Marcus pointed toward the open door of the ballroom. Uncle Horace had been flitting in and out, applauding Amy’s plans, then leaving in impatience to go act on her advice or because he was bored with leisure and couldn’t leave his precious papers and reports for more than a few moments at a time.

“We are hardly under the watchful gaze I wanted,” Amy muttered.

Marcus came to sit beside her, a grave look on his face. “Do you actually fear so much for your reputation—or is it fear of me?”

“No! No, I’m not...” Amy swallowed a confused tangle of words. Her reputation mattered, not so much that she feared being “ruined,” but she feared giving Marcus the power to claim he had done so and thus force her into marriage. But she didn’t fear Marcus as a person. “I do not want to be forced into a marriage with someone who does not love me,” she finally whispered.

Not that I do not love him.

But that he does not love me.

I don’t know that all couples begin in love, but there must be seeds that can grow into it.For all I was determined to hate him—he is too honest with me, too free with me, too kind to me for me to hate him, even though I know he only wants to marry me for Father’s money. If I should lose my inheritance, I doubt he’d stay. Still, I feel something for him.

Curse him.

Or me.

MARCUS LOOKED AT AMY’S troubled face, his countenance mirroring her own. “Come now, Miss Winthrop. I think my suit is pretty sure—and no offense to one so fair, but the other men of Barrow-on-Wood are not beating a path to your father’s door in pursuit of your hand. Steven talks—excessively when his stomach is full—and he says the district is overfilled with young ladies with empty heads and pretty faces upon them. The men you fear to wed will find you too fierce to pursue and turn their attentions elsewhere.”

Amy stared at him, saying nothing.

Oh.

“I’ve been very stupid, haven’t I?” he murmured, reaching for her hand.

“It happens more than one would think.” She managed a weak half-smile.

“You meant me? You don’t dislike me so dreadfully, do you?”

“No,” she admitted, the word dragging from her with a heavy sigh. “But you do not love me. I know that.”

“It’s not even been a fortnight. Cupid’s arrows have bounced off me far too often—and you are practically encased in armor,” Marcus crossed his arms and sat back.

Amy swept out of his reach, walking across the ballroom, her voice echoing faintly in the large, empty room. “I do not believe in love at first sight, no.”

Marcus sat for a minute, legs outstretched.

Your quarry is getting away, her money and her help in making you look like less of a fathead with it. Drat these women of principles.

He smiled.

I rather like her principles.

“Listen to me.” Marcus charged after her, catching her wrist and pulling her to him. She pushed herself away, but he only pulled her back, sweeping her into his other arm as he began a striding box step. In under a minute, they were waltzing far too close for society’s comfort, the only dancers in a silent room. “Now, listen to me,” he repeated, face close to hers.

“I’m listening. You have me as a captive audience, Mr. Holcomb.”

“Marcus.”

“Sometimes,” she admitted, that tiny half-smile flashing again, a bolt of lightning in the dark of her worried frown.

“I can’t say that I love you—oh, I could, but you wouldn’t believe me. But I think of going days without seeing you, and my chest presses in like a heavy lead block was placed upon it. I think of the people in the world I would most like to talk to—and you top the list. Are those seeds, my sweet? Tell me that you have them, too. Just one?”

Amy tensed in his arms, then relaxed. He could feel her soften against him, her corseted curves pressing into his chest as he pressed his advantage, one hand locked into the small of her back to keep her close to him.

“I don’t want any other... but that doesn’t mean you truly want me. If I were poor—you’d have nothing to do with me.”

Marcus swallowed. “But you aren’t.”

“If that matters, Marcus,” she whispered his given name, “then you are in love with my purse—not me.”

Another twirl, and she pulled free of him. “I can’t blame you, of course. I’m nothing if not practical,” she said with a soft, sad smile.

“Amy... Amy, wait!”

But she was gone, sailing from the room.

He began to give chase and then paused. What would he say? It was true. He wanted Amy Winthrop for his own, but if the choice was between a poor woman and a rich one...

“Am I being an idiot or not? I can’t even be certain,” he groaned.

“Idiotic about what, nephew? I just received a hasty goodbye from Miss Winthrop. She assures me all is in readiness for Saturday next. And the post brings countless replies—word must have reached the ears of the local gentry that there is fresh blood in their midst. A great deal of young ladies seem to wish to attend this ball, Marcus.”

“Wonderful.”

“Ladies who would shy away from you at once if they learned of your gambling debts, Marcus. Their proud papas would not have a young man in their midst who was barred from every club in St. James,” Horace Holcomb’s genial face suddenly soured.

“I don’t want those pretty, penniless women, no matter their pedigree. I want Amy Winthrop—and her money. Her connections. But... she asked me if I would want her even if she were poor, and the truth is... I want her, but the hefty settlement Nelson Winthrop intends to gift his son-in-law... It is a means to an end, Uncle, and there is no point in my trying to hide it.”

“I may not know the extent, Marcus, but you are right. There's no point in trying to hide your financial circumstances from me. And yes, you are being a fool.”

Marcus bridled but then threw up a helpless hand. “I’m sure ‘tis no surprise to anyone who has met me these last four years.”

“Perhaps not. But I can't blame you. I imagine I would do the same myself, especially considering the sort of woman Amy Winthrop is. She would not be an easy woman to wed.”

Over the wave of tired exasperation came a sudden drenching anger. “Fie, Uncle Horace. For shame!” Marcus said hotly. “You must not know her well to say such a thing.”

It was the elder Holcomb’s turn to draw up one of the gilt-edged chairs, the dainty thing looking out of place as it supported his bulk. “I know she is one of those women who will insist on speaking her mind and meddling in a man's affairs! The fact is known throughout Barrow-on-Wood. Tales of her coldness, abrupt manner, and downright shrewishness abound and have ever since I took possession of Holcomb House. That is not the sort of wife I would choose. Ah—Hold, Marcus,” Horace held up a restraining hand. “I can also see that she's a competent manager and that she has a certain beauty, even if it would be better if she were a good bit younger. In my day, she would only be picked for a widower’s second wife, as close to 30 as she must be.”

“Well then, why do you say that I am being a fool?”

“Because it is clear to me that you fancy the girl and enjoy her company. That is something that money cannot buy. All the money in the world will not change a dull woman into a fascinating month, and it is clear that she holds some fascination over you. What's more, I speak from experience.”

Marcus leaned forward, interest piqued. “What’s this? Father never mentioned a secret aunt. Or a burgeoning romance? Was this when you were very young?”

Horace Holcomb’s face seemed to age in seconds, a dullness settling over him while his eyes seemed to look into the far horizon. “No, no. I don’t think your father ever knew I wished to woo his Elsie. I saw her first. Introduced them as a matter of course.”

“Mother?” Marcus gasped.

“I was the elder brother. In terms of money, property, and inheritance, I was the wise choice. Far more suitable. I would never have strayed—from her, or from my desk. But James was handsome. Charming. The one with a glint in his eyes and a laugh in his voice. He reminds me of how you might turn out, Marcus—but my dear Elsie... Ah. I hope you turn out like her instead. She was stubbornly in love with my brother, for all the harm it caused her. I hope that you follow her path and follow your foolish heart to Miss Winthrop. There may be more suitable women somewhere in the land, but you seem to prefer her.”

Stunned by his uncle’s revelation, Marcus said nothing at first. His uncle sighed and heaved himself upright.

“How do I make her prefer me ? Without lying to her? I don’t want to be like my father—nor like my mother. No offense, dear uncle, but I don’t want to be like anyone, not even myself.”

“If I had answers for that, Elsie would still be alive, and you would be my son. I suppose I can only tell you what any industrialist would say. Keep at it and make it pay. Cut your losses if you must.”

As his uncle left, Marcus sat until darkness filled the ballroom, a thousand scenarios to woo and win Amy in his head. Money might no longer be his primary concern, but it was not entirely abandoned.

“Gray?” Marcus started when the butler entered the dark room, a lamp in his hand.

“Supper, sir. Will you take it in the dining room, or would you like a tray sent to your room?”

“I’ll join my uncle.”

“He is in his study and does not wish to be disturbed, sir.”

A long pause, and then, “He is a lonely man, my uncle.”

“Yes, sir. He keeps busy to avoid it and is most often successful.”

“I’ll come to the dining room in just a moment.”

Marcus paced the perimeter of the enormous room, imagining it as it would be in a week’s time, filled with light, song, and people.

A bright spot for a lonely man who lives in this modern castle all by himself.

London was lonely, too, filled with endless conversations, distractions, and entertainments—and yet when you needed help, you had no one in the world left to help you save Uncle Horace. Jane might have come to my aid, but it would serve me right if she didn’t.

Do you think Mother was lonely? Waiting for Father to come home to her? Wondering if he was out with another woman? Wondering if he was even carrying on with her own staff, right in the safety of her own home?

He shuddered.

Father wasn’t lonely. He made sure of it, didn’t he? Uncle as good as said it. He said he would never have strayed, and that’s telling. My father did.

Loneliness, emptiness, and helplessness wove their terrible, anxious net around him.

I want to be someone else. Not poor layabout gambler Marcus. Not my father, not my uncle, not even dear, sweet Mother.

Amy would tell me to solve the problem. Study it and try to cobble something together to solve it, not stop until I do. Like her. Writing, talking, hammering away, not caring if the entire district should blackball her.

His heart throbbed so hard that it made him clutch the door frame for support.

She’s different, yes, and so are the rarest gems, the finest jewels. Soft, young things were plentiful, as common as grass in a field.

I have to have her.

The kind of wanting he felt for Amy Winthrop went deeper than lust and far beyond his original “cunning” plan, which turned out to be as easy to see through as a piece of glass.

Well, start as you mean to go on. He heard the words in Amy’s factual, no-nonsense voice.

“Yes, I will,” he said to the empty room and then marched out of it.

“MARCUS! I TOLD GRAY to inform you that I did not want to be disturbed.” Uncle Horace looked up from a heaping plate and his copy of the Manchester Guardian .

“I won’t.” Marcus carried his plate and glass to the far corner of the room. “But we are too much alone, both in different ways.” He sat at a small round table which held a globe and a miniature. He ate in silence, and for several moments, his uncle said nothing.

As Marcus was finishing up his breast of chicken, he heard a soft rustle of paper.

“Come and see this, Marcus. There is an article about Holcomb Industries in this edition. It says we are leading the nation in fine muslin production at our Bolton mill.”

Marcus hurried over and put his plate in the little island of bare wood his uncle had made for him in his sea of papers. “What does the Liverpool mill lead in, Uncle? I know in Manchester, we take the raw cotton directly and spin it into thread.”

Horace stared at him for a moment, a smile crinkling his eyes into happy half-moons surrounded by bushy gray brows. “You are a fine fellow, Marcus.”

“Well. I will be, one day.”

“FATHER, MR. HOLCOMB invites us all to dine with him on Sunday evening. Mr. Holcomb has just said so.” Amy hurried to her father’s side as St. Gladys’ Church emptied. Her brother Philip was standing proudly with Constance and her parents. Their banns had just been read out for the first time.

“What? I’ve no time for that. Go with Thomas if you like. Steven and I have to speak to Mr. Furness about Tuesday’s order in Manchester.” Mr. Winthrop waved his daughter away with an impatient hand.

Amy knew her father always met with Mr. Furness in regards to how many thousands of bales of raw cotton he would purchase on Tuesdays and Fridays in Manchester’s Royal Exchange, where thousands of traders came to do their business.

Steven strolled past and muttered without turning his head or even slowing down, “The Sabbath is a day of rest, Father. Our standing order is enough. What’s the point of asking for him to change it?”

“More cotton, more finished product, more money!” Mr. Winthrop hissed after his son.

“But you can’t get through more cotton in a week, Father. Not without changing something.”

“Aye, well, I am. That Corliss engine you were spouting off about will be here in a month. We’ll put in three new mules in the dyeing wing.”

“Now? The waterwheel—”

“Of course, now. Be ready when it arrives.”

“I—” Amy stopped. She could tell her father that placing more strain on the current system would lead to more faults and stoppages. That would only make him angry at her for “meddling.” “Please come to supper, Father. You have to eat, do you not? And what better way to pick Holcomb’s brain? You know he owns half of the cotton in Manchester. Perhaps he’ll sell it to you at a better price now that there is some... connection between his nephew and your daughter.”

“Hmph.” Mr. Winthrop made a dubious sound. “I’ll leave your brothers to find their own way home. Philip will doubtless stay with Constance until her father pries him away. We won’t be welcome.” He gave a contemptuous sniff in the direction of the conservative Member of Parliament, Mr. Stanley.

“You did say the most shocking things about him during the last by-election,” Amy pointed out. “I’ll ride home with you in the carriage then, Father, only let me tell Mr. Holcomb that at least two of us will attend.”

Another grunt sent her on her way.

“We’ll come for supper, and thank you,” Amy smiled at Marcus. “That is very kind of you to host us when you must have so much to do to prepare for your ball.”

“If I didn’t have you about, you know I’d go mad with boredom. Miss Winthrop, when you left last night, I—”

“Oh, Marcus! There you are. Mr. Marcus Holcomb, allow me to present Mrs. Collier and Mrs. Cressley.” Horace Holcomb ushered two well-dressed matrons ahead of him—and several young ladies gathered in their wake. “Mr. Collier and Mr. Cressley are two of the most respected merchants in Barrow-on-Wood.”

“We were only too thrilled to hear that your uncle intended to throw a ball to welcome you home,” Mrs. Cressley gushed. “Emily, Esther, and Susan were simply delighted to have an occasion to see Holcomb House in all its grandeur.”

“As were Lydia and Lilian,” Mrs. Collier said in a slightly strained tone, hauling two blushing brunettes forward.

“There’s so little to do in Barrow-on-Wood at this time of year. I think a theater would be just grand, don’t you, Mr. Holcomb?” Esther Cressley managed to step through the becoming wall of Lydia and Lilian.

“Well, in London there were theaters all about, but I rarely attended them,” Marcus explained with a smile.

Amy watched the five young women (and their mothers) practically swoon.

Good. Let them swoon. Let them make fools of themselves over those laughing eyes, dark curls, and that tall, manly physique.

“Uncle, I must just speak to Miss Winthrop for a moment. I am sure that you, as a man who travels so extensively between the major cities of Lancashire, can discuss what sort of entertainments would most befit a town with the means and population of Barrow-on-Wood.” Marcus bowed and made his way to her side, shocking her.

Indeed, it seemed to shock all of Marcus’ new companions.

“Miss Winthrop! I have not seen you at a party in—two seasons? Or was it three?” Mrs. Cressley cooed with a venomous smile.

“It must be three, Mrs. Cressley. I would surely recall seeing your lovely family at any celebration,” Amy smiled with equal ill-concealed dislike.

“Ah, you’ll see Miss Winthrop the night of the ball, for she is our hostess,” Marcus smiled at her as if the other women ringing him didn’t exist. “I bid you farewell, ladies, but I look forward to seeing you at Holcomb House this Saturday!”

“What are you doing?” Amy whispered as he placed his fingertips on her elbow to guide her through the small crowd.

“Talking to you. When can I have another riding lesson? I promise not to ride Daisy into a tree this time.”

“Those girls are clearly after your attention, Mr. Holcomb! They sought an introduction with you,” Amy pointed out the obvious.

“Oh, I know that, but I can tell just by the way they blush and smile that I’ll be bored to death with them. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re not wrong, but—”

“Very well, then. I want to talk to you. And ride with you. And... And tell you that I’m lonely without you, Miss Winthrop. You asked if I would pursue you without money, and I have thought it over carefully.”

“Oh?” Amy’s breath seemed to absent itself from her lungs. It had come quick and sharp when he led her away, heads close together. She could feel incredulous and even disapproving stares skewering her back.

“Pursue you? No, because I am a lazy, terrible, selfish sort of person.” He stopped by a young oak, leaning against it and smiling at her, eyes slowly traveling up and down her, then settling on her face. His smirking smile brightened and reached his eyes, making them shine. “Marcus Holcomb, impoverished London layabout, wouldn’t pursue anyone but an heiress that he intended to neglect in favor of his own pleasures.”

“Ah. I see.”

“I don’t like that chap at the moment. Oh, he’s charming and fairly persuasive, but he’s lonely, angry, and apparently, he’s terrible at cards.”

“Oh, him. Yes, I met him. Too confident by half,” Amy chuckled.

“Now, Marcus Holcomb, bumbling horseman, all-thumbs textile magnate-to-be, wooer of impressive women—”

“Impressive?”

“That’s the word I’m using. I do believe the Matchmaking Mamas over there may have another word for you—and for me, too, if they bothered to learn anything about me. Anyway, this new chap—he lacks polish, but his prospects are good. He has a bit more sense and a lot less misery since meeting Miss Amy Winthrop. Money is still damned important to him—”

“Don’t swear, Marcus!”

He smiled wide, blinding her with the pure joy that seemed to spark whenever she called him that.

“He knows that if he were poor and you were poor—well, we wouldn’t be for long. Not with your brains and his charm. He has just enough sense to chase you and throw himself at your feet.” Marcus reached out and caught her hand. “Now, what do you say to that?”

“I say—that people are looking, Mr. Holcomb.” She gently pulled her hand away.

“But they won’t be looking tonight over supper. Or after, when you go to the stable with me to help me see if any of Uncle’s horses won’t buck me off and throw me.” His voice dropped, and his eyes pled. “Tell me tonight?”

“All right. Tonight.”

“DO YOU FANCY HIM?”

Amy jumped against the padded seat of the carriage. She’d been looking out the window, a happy little smile on her face. Her father sat across from her. Her brothers had remained in town for one reason or another, so she expected to ride in silence or in argument. She didn’t expect the gruff, interrogative tone to startle her. “Who?”

“You’re not stupid, Amy. Marcus Holcomb. He’s courting hard. Ought to give him a job at the mill if he’s willing to work on Sundays! Mind, I told him I was hiring him to court my daughter.”

Amy shifted in her seat, anger at her father warring with her recent thoughts on how his grief had blinded him to so many things—even her existence. “I’m sorry you thought you had to ‘hire’ someone for that task.”

Her father made a harsh sound in the back of his throat. “You didn’t answer. Do you fancy him?”

“He’s very nice.”

“Hm. I wouldn’t think he’d suit you, honestly. Oh, his position as old Holcomb’s nephew, that’s fine.”

“What? Then why... Why set him after me? To make me miserable?” Amy slammed her hand against the seat in one of her all-too-frequent showings of temper.

“No! To keep you safe and get you married off! He’s young and healthy. My money and his uncle’s money mean you’ll always be looked after.”

Amy squinted her eyes and cocked her head, confusion winning out. “Young and healthy?”

“Aye. He won’t... Well. Widows are far more common, Amy. Widowers, not as much. But still. It happens.”

“So, foisting a man almost seven years my junior is your answer to that? You imagine I won’t be widowed?”

“It’s less likely.”

“But... What if I didn’t even like him, Father?”

“Oh, you may scare all these county set dandies, but you’ve a sweet nature underneath, Amy. You’d settle in. Don’t think you’ll ever love him, but that’s for the best.”

“You don’t want me to love my husband? Father, don’t you realize how that sounds? What about Philip and Constance?”

“Well, she’s almost ten years younger than him! Eight, I think. She’ll outlive him. He won’t have to go through— Never mind.”

“No, I do mind! Father, you want your children to marry younger spouses or spouses we barely tolerate just so we won’t grieve so if they were to die?”

“And there’s nothing wrong with that! It’s a father’s job to protect his children.”

“Father, forcing me to marry someone I dislike is far from protection.”

“So you dislike him, then?”

“No! I like him very much. I don’t love him, but I am fond of him.” Amy chose her words carefully, worrying that she might be lying—even to herself. When Marcus had deliberately chosen to walk away with her and leave a crowd of admiring young beauties behind, something inside her melted. An iron guard around her heart softened and slid away.

“He chose me, Father. Not only for the dowry you would give him.”

Her father leaned his head back against the seat and loosened his tie. “You’re a lovely girl, Amy, but let’s not talk nonsense. The money is the only reason a young, handsome fellow like that is so attentive to you.”

“You don’t think it could be because I’m worth loving?” she whispered, throat narrowing without notice.

Her father looked at her for a long, silent minute, sitting himself up again. “You deserve far better than that boy, Amy. I know that. You know that. But sometimes we take what we get, and we do what we must. Your mother wanted our first child to be a boy—but there you were, tiny, red, and howling in her arms long before the midwife could get there. Then, she wanted you to have a sister, and we had three boys after. She wanted you raised up with them, so you’d never be lonely for the little girl we didn’t have.”

“Father, stop—” Amy gasped, a tear escaping her eye.

But her father, so long silent on the subject of his late wife, couldn’t be silenced. “She wanted you to learn like a boy but act like a girl. She dressed you pretty, let you ride horses that would make most women faint, allowed you to get dirty at the mill one day, then taught you to sew and embroider like the daintiest little maid the next. Ah, God love her, I thought there was no finer woman alive than your mother, Amy, and no finer mother to daughters or sons. But she died so suddenly, without telling me what to do next. Not with the boys, but with you. The boys I could sort out. But you? You look like a beautiful woman and talk like someone on the bloody stock exchange. What am I supposed to do with that? What sort of man could raise a daughter like that alone, or find the right sort of husband for her...” He trailed off, placing his red face in his hands and heaving a sigh.

Amy wiped at her eyes. “You’re supposed to treat me the same as if she were still here! That’s all you have to do. That’s all I want you to do.”

“Maybe I’ve forgotten how.”

“I know you have, but... Marcus Holcomb wants to become a new man. You can become the old one, can’t you? Go back to how we used to be?” Amy carefully braced herself on the rocking carriage’s walls and then crossed to her father’s side, landing next to him with a fluff of skirts.

“Could you go back to how you used to be, Amy? Content to stay in the shadows, tinker and play quietly, but stay out of the affairs of the mill?”

“But, Father, I have been immersed in the industry for the past decade, I could hardly—”

“You see how it is, Amy? There are some things that you can’t go back to—even if you wish you could. But if you hate this Marcus bloke, you don’t have to marry him. I know whatever else you are, you’re honest to a fault. Do you fancy him?”

Her shoulders rose and fell. “I suppose.”

“Good. Then you’ll marry him when he asks you?”

“I never said that.”

“Can’t give me an inch, can you?” he growled, suddenly rapping on the carriage door. “Stop here! I’m walking the rest of the way to Littlewood!” he bellowed.

Amy watched her father jump from the carriage, and a sob broke inside her chest. “You think I’m like Mother—but I’m just like you. Have you ever seen that? You won’t bend—and neither will I!”