The Paper Marriage

“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.