Page 13 of Indebted (Hidden Gems #2)
“ I beg you not to say that, Uncle!” Marcus finished brushing his hair and admired his reflection.
If he were prone to be vain—and he was—he would say that he could turn old Aphrodite’s head.
“But I have seen you two together. Marcus, you must marry the girl after being so intimately acquainted.”
“Only a few kisses!”
“In London society, or with a lower sort of woman, that would be permissible. With Miss Winthrop? No. Ah, here. A wire from Jane.”
Marcus took the folded piece of paper eagerly but glared at his uncle before opening it. “Please say it’s to welcome me to the district. If there is any news of an engagement, you’ll be the very first to know.”
“If you bring further shame to the name of Holcomb, Marcus, I will not give a fig for the new leaf you are trying to turn over. I shall put you out without a penny.”
With the threat ringing in his ears, Marcus hurried down to the front hall of Holcomb house. The sun was setting later each passing night as the spring turned to summer, and his guests would soon arrive. While he paced and tried to put his uncle’s warning from his mind, he opened the telegram.
Dearest Marcus
How glad I am to hear from you at last. My letters to you never earn a reply. I had almost given up hope of you, but then I got your wire.
My husband is indeed a kind and wonderful man. Patient and good. I should have written sooner, but I have only just recovered from the birth of your niece, Elsie Marie. You see, I have named her after you and Mother.
Marcus paused, his eyes wide but suddenly blind, a film of unexpected tears over them. “Uncle! Uncle Horace!” he hollered, racing back up the stairs.
“What? What is it?” The impressive, imposing master of Holcomb House hurried to meet his ward on the landing.
“Jane has had a baby! A daughter! A little girl, and has named her after Mother!”
“Oh, my goodness. Oh, gracious!” Horace tore the telegram from his hand. “We must go to see her.”
“Indeed, we must. I wonder if Miss Winthrop will come? I should like Jane to meet her.”
“She will doubtless be well enough to travel with the little one by your wedding.”
The men exchanged a battling stare, but Marcus caved first, taking the telegram back. “She is well, and the child is well. She says she is happy and that her mother-in-law dotes on her and has taken her to her heart like her own child. Oh, Uncle Horace... I am relieved.”
“To tell you the truth, Marcus, so am I. I have neglected Jane and kept track of her husband far better. I knew they lost their first child—a stillbirth—sometime last year. I am pleased this one is hearty and hale.”
“She never told me—or rather, I never knew.” Marcus blushed with shame at the thought of all the letters piling up in his old flat, some unopened, some opened but only glanced at. While he admitted he deserved a lengthy mental bashing for his thoughtlessness, he didn’t get the chance. The first guests were arriving.
“Where are the Winthrops? Miss Winthrop is to be our hostess!” Marcus fretted as a long line of carriages and traps began to fill the curving drive in front of the house. A pit formed in his stomach. “She should have been here by now.”
“WOULD YOU ALL PLEASE stop staring? It’s unsettling.” Amy elbowed Thomas in his narrow chest. “You’re sitting on my skirt!”
“You look... Have you always looked like that?” Philip asked in as tactful a voice as he could muster.
Steven smacked him on the back of his head. “You’ve only had eyes for little Constance Stanley for two years, you blind toadstool.”
“I don’t like it. It’s... Where’s the top bit?” Her father pointed uneasily to her neck and shoulders.
“It’s the new style, Father. You wouldn’t want Amy to appear at the first ball where she has a beau looking like something from a cast-off barrel, would you?” Steven said with a nonchalant wave of his hand.
“There’s hardly any sleeve to it! Just those little poofs on each shoulder.”
Amy rolled her eyes. “That’s why I have gloves past my elbows, Father. Now stop fretting. We’re already late when we were to arrive first.” Amy turned a resolute face to the side and studied the darkening landscape bouncing past. “Besides, it’s good business for the daughter of a textile manufacturer to appear well-dressed.”
“It shows business is flourishing,” Thomas offered, running a cautious hand over the fabric of her wide skirt. “Is this silk? Steven, is this silk?”
“We can afford silk,” Steven’s voice was firm.
Her father grunted. “Is that your mother’s necklace?”
Amy patted her neck. She had changed her customary locket for a more ostentatious piece with garnets in small teardrops of gold. “I’ve always had it, Father, I just never... I never felt like wearing it, but the deep red brings out the shades you see in this dress when it catches the light. Steven, you did an admirable job choosing a dress.”
“See, Father? I’m not as useless as a brick in a butter churn,” Steven accepted the compliment with a smirk and an airy wave. “If Marcus Holcomb won’t have her, there will be a dozen other men who will. Amy, talk all you like of spinning mules and canal barges over steam engines. The men shall be too mesmerized by your beauty to care what you say.”
While her father and brothers laughed, Amy felt a spark of anger light inside of her.
“Maybe that was the trouble all these years. We didn’t have her in the right dress,” Philip said with a mild chuckle, his smile gentle.
The spark fanned into a flame as the carriage drew up to Holcomb House. “I am not your pretty dolly to dress up and see who will come to play with her! Let any empty-headed, self-important bachelor come near me tonight to stare at my dress and ignore the woman wearing it, and I shall... I shall push him into the orchestra!” Amy threw open the carriage door and promptly smacked into one of the Holcomb’s footmen, who had rushed forward to help her alight. “Excuse me, I am most dreadfully sorry,” she apologized, her hand to her mouth.
“Ah. Miss Winthrop. I heard a cry of pain and thought you must have arrived.”
Amy turned to see Mrs. Collier on the arm of her husband, her daughters snickering behind their fans as they stared at her and the wincing footman.
Amy returned the favor, staring at Mrs. Collier’s gaudy dress, which was dripping with black lace, far too tight, and far too low for an older matron to wear with dignity. “Indeed, Mrs. Collier, I thought I spotted mutton dressed as lamb and knew you had arrived.”
“What in the—Well, I never!”
“You watch your mouth, young lady—if one can call you that!” Mr. Collier barked.
“Oh, this is going beautifully,” Thomas muttered, seizing her elbow and hauling her inside. “We’ve only been here for five seconds, and you’ve injured a servant, insulted a guest, and started a shouting match between Father and Mr. Collier.”
“And the night is young,” Steven chortled, taking her other arm. “Well done, sister mine.”
“A DEGREE IN CLASSICS ? My, how fascinating!”
Marcus nodded politely and tried to back away from the pretty blonde with very elaborately curled hair and a very high-pitched laugh.
“Thank you, it was an enjoyable course of study,” he lied, recalling how often he had fallen asleep in lectures and been woken by a swift kick in the ankle from his classmates. “Thank you for welcoming me to the district, Miss— I’m sorry, I didn’t catch the name.”
“Miss Bellamy, Miranda Bellamy. My father is Major Bellamy.”
“How lovely. Is he here with you tonight?” Marcus looked desperately behind her.
She gestured vaguely behind her. “Yes, thank you.”
“I wouldn’t want to detain you from—”
“Oh, he’s quite all right. I drove him mad, waiting for this evening. I’m sure he’s happy to talk to Mr. Cressley and Mr. Stanley. He’s in Parliament, you know.”
“Oh?” Marcus felt a mounting sense of helplessness as he slid backward and the blonde clung like treacle. She wasn’t alone, either.
“Miranda, dear! There you are, and with our charming host. Mrs. Bellamy, how good to see you, too!”
Marcus felt dread, whereas only last month, he would have felt elation as a beaming, bosomy girl with honey-colored hair and a sunny smile attached herself to an ever-growing circle of young ladies.
“Oh, Mr. Holcomb, may I present Miss Ruth Teasdale? Of the Bolton Teasdales.” Miranda Bellamy’s mother stepped forward, briefly inserting herself into the circle closest to him in order to (with rather strained graces) present the cheerful Ruth.
“How very kind of you to come, Miss Teasdale.” Marcus surveyed the circle of young women pressing in upon him and the outer layer of matrons behind them.
The frontline battalions have reinforcements coming from the rear. Amy, where are you? With mounting panic, he backed himself into a wall by the long tables of refreshments covered in snowy linen. His hip bumped the table, and pink punch sloshed perilously close to the rim of a huge silver bowl. “Will you have some punch? Refreshments?” he offered, hoping to distract the gaggle of silk-and-brocade-clad hunters ringing him.
“They look simply divine! How beautiful. How unusual!” A chorus of compliments that mingled and garbled together assaulted his ears.
“Thank you, thank you.” He nodded to each in turn, smile stretching thin. “Miss Winthrop planned the menu. She’s been such an invaluable help in tonight’s preparations. Has anyone seen her arrive?” he asked, craning his neck to look through the rapidly filling room.
The effect of his words was electric. Compliments faded. Dowagers exchanged stern glances and sniffed. Young women simpered and frowned. “Have I said something amusing?” he asked the openly giggling Miss Cressley—Esther or Emily, he could not recall.
“Dear me, no. It is only that I could never imagine Miss Winthrop assisting with anything so elegant or beautifully arranged,” she replied.
“Perhaps you are thinking of some other person?” Mrs. Cressley suggested from her place in the line of reinforcements.
“I doubt it. Miss Amy Winthrop?”
“Tall, mannish, and outspoken?” the younger Cressley suggested in a mocking tone.
The women surrounding him giggled to one another, gloved fingertips and fans hiding smiles and mischievous eyes.
“Ill-mannered and unsociable?”
“Smells of cotton dust and only talks of mills and money?”
“With rough hands and grease spots on her fingertips?”
Marcus balled his fists as the unflattering descriptions bounced from woman to woman, each adding a layer to Amy’s description.
“No, I mean a different Winthrop. Miss Amy Winthrop, of Littlewood,” he declared loudly, so loudly in fact that not only were his hangers-on shushed, but silence fell on his side of the ballroom. “Tall, beautiful, and clever. Expressive eyes and a ready wit. A smile that hides many secrets and only shares them with those she deems worthy.” He heard rustling and commotion on the other side of the room and stepped forward, relieved as the throng around him began to dissipate with shocked and disappointed faces. “Do you know her, Miss Bellamy, Miss Cressley, Miss Teasdale? Come, I’m sure you do.” He challenged, marching them backwards, taking pleasure in their sudden discomfort. “She’s an heiress, the daughter of a self-made man, with a hardworking family fortune in her capable hands. She talks of many things—the news of the world, business, trade, stocks, innovations, and inventions!” He knew his voice had taken on the maniacal edge he usually reserved for goading people into playing one more hand with a stacked deck and an ace in his sleeve. “She’s terribly exciting! She doesn’t bore a man by pretending to be weak-minded and fit only for looking at, not talking to.”
“Yes, yes, you’ve made your point, Mr. Holcomb,” Mrs. Cressley hissed nervously.
“You’ve only just arrived in Barrow-on-Wood,” Mrs. Bellamy chuckled, eyes darting back and forth between him and his companions. “You may not know her as well as we do.”
“Well, I hope to know her a great deal better!” Marcus boomed, scattering the last of his determined pursuers and their pushing mamas.
Amy stood before him, no longer hidden by the crowd.
He smiled in relief.
She returned it, her strained smile suddenly warm and wide as she walked to him, hand outstretched.
Marcus seized her gloved hand and admired her for a moment, finally taking in the dress she was wearing.
“You are matchless,” he breathed out, shaking his head in awe.
“Thank you,” Amy replied softly, curtseying with a short bob as he continued to grasp her hand. “I am sorry if I interrupted your conversation, Mr. Holcomb. We were later than intended, and I only wished to let you know that we arrived.”
“No, no, Miss Winthrop, you weren’t interrupting anything. I was only explaining to your friends and neighbors that I would have many more years to get to know you.” He took possession of her arm and took his biggest gamble yet. “After all, I should hope a man would know his own wife after many years of wedded bliss. Come, my love, let me get you a glass of punch, and we shall toast our engagement with my new friends.”
AMY WALKED BESIDE MARCUS , but they were alone. Gossiping alarums were running through the ballroom. The group of women who had once surrounded Marcus now stood together, squawking. Some of them peeled off as fast as trot as their gowns would allow, whispering their news in thrilled horror.
“You look incredibly beautiful.”
“I’m glad you approve—since you apparently will have me as your property soon,” Amy said frostily.
“Oh, Amy, I’m sorry. I lost my head, but I mean it. I want to marry you.”
“Wanting and having are two very different things.”
“I know, I know. But won’t you consider it, my sweet?” Marcus begged, pulling her behind the long velvet draperies.
“We can’t stay back here! People will talk.”
“People are already talking. They were talking about you, when I was crediting you for your help in preparing for the ball. Those old bats and their young harpies were saying shocking things about you! I lost my head. I couldn’t let them talk that way about the woman I love! One said you only talk of mills and money, and I nearly strangled the old crone!”
“Oh, darling. That is nothing I haven’t heard before,” Amy said softly, a soft hand pressed to his cheek.
He placed his hand over top of hers, holding it there and returning the gesture, his palm cupping her cheek. “You have been... In two weeks, you have become the bosom friend I sought all of my life. I thought it had to be a man who would be my confidant and steer me aright. I don’t want to lose you to some other man who realizes your worth.”
“My worth? Oh, Marcus. You are in your uncle’s good graces now, and you are beginning to see that you can work without sacrificing all else. You will be a happy, prosperous man. You can afford to wait for love.”
“All right. Then I’ll wait.” His hand slowly fell from her cheek.
“Wait for love?”
“Yes. Although I’ve just realized that I know that I am in love with you, Amy. It struck me earlier this week and strikes harder each day. I imagine never seeing you again, never speaking to you again, never seeing you smile when I do something kind or clever. I imagine the world without you in it, and everything inside of me feels as though it’s crumbling. I used to try to imagine the girl I would marry, and I imagined how it would be to live with her. No, the trick is to imagine the one you cannot live without.”
“Marcus, that’s beautiful.”
And it’s the same for me. When I picture never hearing his voice or seeing his smile, never sharing our secrets, our rides, the little things we do together... The world empties out with just the absence of one person. I didn’t dare to believe it was love—or that it should be genuinely returned.
Years of rejection had made Amy cautious. Weeks of seeing Marcus manipulate the truth had made her wary of taking the final step and trusting in his love.
Too big of a risk for someone who hides the truth—even if he hides it for my sake.
“I’m so flattered that you should esteem me so highly,” she finally said.
“It’s beyond esteem. It’s love, just the very start, and I know it will grow!” Marcus said in an excited whisper, eyes lighting up the darkness behind the curtains. “I can wait until you return my love, dear Amy, however many years it may be. I would rather wait for you than have another. And I’m a stubborn, spoiled man, or so they tell me.” He crossed his arms and gave her a defiant stare. “I won’t stop coming to see you. Talking to you. Riding with you. Sneaking ‘round libraries, trees, bales of hay, and God knows what else to risk kissing you,” he whispered.
“Oh, Marcus, that’s very sweet and very kind, but love is bigger than simply liking a person’s company. Isn't it? It must be,” she said, half to herself. “It’s a risk that can cost everything. I know that we have—oop! Where are we going?”
Marcus didn’t answer, only pulled her from the hidden world behind the draperies back into the bustling, chaotic ballroom. Some gasped as they appeared, and others leapt from their path as Marcus hauled her across the floor at top speed, only ending when they reached Mr. Holcomb and her father, chatting animatedly with several merchants and members of the gentry.
“Excuse me, Mr. Winthrop, Uncle Horace? Could I speak to you for a moment?”
“Well, my boy, we have guests! Surely any good news you care to announce would be welcome to one and all.” His uncle smiled, gaze passing between her and his nephew.
“I am hoping to make such a grand declaration later, Uncle. Right now, if you would only indulge me for five minutes?”
“Mr. Holcomb, what are you doing?” Amy hissed at him.
“Taking a risk for the woman I have come to love and hope to love better,” Marcus said in a loud enough voice that people turned to stare.
“Come out here.” Amy’s father jerked his head to the side and turned to walk from the ballroom.
Amy followed, her heart in her throat.
Can he truly love me?
Do I truly love him?
Falling in love, to be sure, but after what Father said, is it better or worse to let him know that this match might not just be based on money and business?
MARCUS SWALLOWED SEVERAL times as he faced his beaming uncle and the scowling Mr. Winthrop. “I have something to tell you. Of late, both of you have praised my ideas and my business acumen. You’ve said I’ve been invaluable and a quick study, Uncle Horace.”
“I was never more surprised—but pleased—in my life!” he declared. “You have put forth several useful ideas, particularly the idea of this new steam engine.”
“Aye, you’ve been clever. Not so clever as you think. If you think you can hold something over me, lad, so that you’ll get a fatter cheque when you take my daughter off my hands, you’re wrong. My own sons are as smart as you, and they’re blood.”
Marcus lost his trepidation, angered by Mr. Winthrop’s dismissal of his daughter. “I hold nothing over you but the truth! Uncle, Mr. Winthrop, every good idea or sensible piece of information I’ve shared, every bit of knowledge I’ve spouted—I learned from Amy. She has been my tutor since the first day we met. She is the one who had all the excellent research and testimonials about the Corliss engine—and you,” he turned and jabbed the startled-looking Mr. Winthrop in the chest, “ you could have already had that bally thing installed if you’d listened to Amy when she told you of it, but no! You tried to burn all her letters and dismissed her hard work. Instead of saying, ‘Goodness me, you are intelligent, daughter. I know most men will be intimidated by it, so I shall endeavor to find you a bright scholarly sort of husband, or at least a right thicky like Marcus Holcomb who can at least appreciate your brains, you tried to force her to act like an empty-headed mannequin and palm her off on any single man of decent means and prospects!”
“You’ll not tell me how to manage my own family affairs, you young upstart!” Winthrop hissed between clamped teeth.
“Let the boy speak, Winthrop,” Horace Holcomb said in a voice that scared shareholders throughout Christendom.
“Thank you, Uncle Horace. Any credit you’ve given me is due to her. Uncle, I will work at any mill you choose, gladly, but Amy must be one of our advisors, even if privately. I would be lost without her. It is good business and for the profits, and surely that should matter more than her sex?” Marcus turned to his uncle and resisted the urge to pluck at his sleeve like a nervous child. “Mr. Winthrop, you should give her equal say in the runnings of your business, equal to your sons. You raised Amy to be such a brilliant person. Why should you suddenly deprive yourself of her skills because she is your daughter and not your son? Your wife would be ashamed at how you’ve treated her, all in the name of trying to ‘protect’ her.”
“Marcus,” Amy’s eyes shone, but her voice trembled. She shook her head faintly as she pulled him closer to her side.
Perhaps that was too far, Marcus realized as Winthrop’s angry flush turned to a sickly gray pallor, then a vivid purple that nearly rivaled Amy’s dress.
“You shouldn’t have said that, boy. The deal is off. You can get your money from someone else’s daughter!” Mr. Winthrop muttered in a low, thunderous voice. He reached for Amy’s arm, but she shook off his grasp.
“Father! Stop that,” Amy protested. “Marcus shouldn’t have said that, but if he did dare stand up to you when you hold such power over him—then it only proves that he is brave and that he loves me.” She moved farther from her father and snuggled into Marcus’ side. “And I do love him, in my own clumsy way.”
“There! That is all I want!” Marcus threaded his fingers through Amy’s. “I don’t want your money. I want Amy’s love, and I want her if she will have me,” Marcus declared. “We’ll make our own fortune. No, no. Ah.” He suddenly beamed at the woman he hoped to make his bride. “She is my fortune. And sir, I meant no harm in telling you that your wife would scold your treatment of Amy. I have been a prisoner of my own grief for the past four years. I have been a stranger to myself and all I ever hoped to be. I realize now that I’ve failed so many in the name of avoiding the pain that comes with losing the greatest loves of your life and those closest to you.”
Mr. Winthrop held very still. Only his eyes moved, straying to Amy and holding there.
Amy dared to address the ill-tempered tiger in the room. “Father... It really would be a wonderful bargain to get a son-in-law like Mr. Holcomb, especially since he doesn’t want whatever outlandish sum you promised to give him for the ‘trouble’ of courting and wedding me.”
“Ah, yes. The head for business is here, even now.” Horace clapped his hands once, nodding his approval. “Say you give your blessing, Nelson, and I shall give mine. I daresay we could even talk of amalgamating our businesses. We’d practically own Lancashire, a cotton kingdom!”
Nelson Winthrop’s jaw moved, but no sound came out. It hinged and creaked a few more times before a rusty squeak came out. “All right, then. If she’s happy.”
Marcus held his breath. The one longshot he had put every stake on...
Amy leaned her head on his shoulder, her arms curling tightly around his. “All right, then.”
Sound and air rushed back, reinflating his lungs and opening his ears. “You’ll marry me?”
“Absolutely.” Amy nodded, turning and pulling him into a kiss that made his toes curl.
“Enough of that now!” Mr. Winthrop said hurriedly, pushing them apart.
I could kill that man. No, no, I suppose I mustn’t.
“I agree. Time for that later,” Uncle Horace cried in delight. “Let us go in and announce your betrothal, my boy!” He took Amy under one arm and pressed his whiskered cheek to hers. “And my dear girl! What a jewel you will be to Holcomb House. You will live here, of course?”
“There's time to discuss all that.” Amy smiled, patting his hand. “Thank you for your blessing, Father. Uncle Horace.” She embraced each man in turn.
“Yes, thank you both.” Marcus held out his hand and was stunned at how quickly and heartily his future father-in-law grasped it.
“Good! Now, let us go and make that announcement! Gray! See that every glass is filled. We’re about to make a toast!” Horace grabbed his faithful butler in one beefy arm and Mr. Winthrop under the other as he surged back into the ballroom, leaving Amy and Marcus behind.
“You won,” Amy whispered.
“I hope that you will think you also claim the victory,” Marcus murmured, putting his arms around her.
“Oh, indeed, I do. I warn you, I shall be very ill-behaved tonight, kissing you in front of all the women who have ever mocked me and the men who have rejected me.” Amy smirked at him.
“And I shall be urging you to greater heights of bad manners by kissing you with shocking regularity—and putting my arm possessively around your waist. Like so,” Marcus demonstrated, placing a lingering kiss on the nape of her neck.
“I would be most grateful for your help in this matter. Another excellent collaboration,” she teased.
“We are incorrigible,” Marcus sighed.
“And I am grateful that you looked past what others said of me, Marcus, to find out who I truly am,” Amy whispered, all joking absent from her tone.
“As I am forever indebted to you, for helping me find out not only who I wished to be, but who I wished to be with. Now, how shall we enter? Would you like me to sweep you up in my arms and stride in looking heroic like some gallant knight of old?”
Amy laughed and tucked her arm through his. “Maybe for the next ball, my love.”
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