Lord of Legends

“I promise.” She sketched a pattern across her chest just as she’d done as a little girl. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Mrs. Marron relaxed, the tension draining from her body. “You’re a good girl, Merry. Always have been. You never cared about them snooty harpies. The best of them ain’t as good as you.” She smiled again. “You remember when you was little, and I read you them fairy stories? How you loved them.”

“Yes, Mama.” She had loved them: fairy tales and all the romantic adventure stories about lost princes and hidden treasures. She’d half believed they were true. Not anymore.

Mama felt across the sheets for Mariah’s hand. “Don’t give up, Merry,” she said. “Sometimes the good things seem far away. Good things like love. But it’ll find you, my girl. Sooner or later, you’ll have to believe in something you can’t see.”

That was the old Mama. The one who had been less and less in evidence as the months and years passed. The one who never would have survived in the asylum if not for her invisible companions.

The one Mariah missed so terribly.

She leaned over to kiss Mama’s cheek. “You should sleep now,” she said. “When you wake, I’ll bring you a nice cup of tea and a few of Cook’s fresh biscuits.”

“Biscuits.” Mama slipped away again. “I wonder if they have biscuits there. I’ll have to ask.…” She closed her eyes and almost immediately sank into a deep sleep.

Mariah’s legs were trembling as she rose from the chair beside the bed. All her efforts had gone for nothing. She had been the one to insist that Mama be brought home, so she could care for her. But she’d failed. She was certain that Mama was dying for no other reason than that she wanted to go to that other place.

A place that wasn’t heaven. It wasn’t even hell. It didn’t exist at all and never had.

Mariah trudged down the stairs, hardly bothering to lift her skirts above the floor. The idea of dressing for dinner was repellent to her, but Papa would insist. He would not abandon the life he’d fought so hard to achieve, not even with death so close in the house.

“Miss Marron?”

Ives bowed slightly, always proper, as only an English butler could be. “Mr. Marron requests your presence in his office.”

“Yes, Ives. I shall be there presently.”

“Very good, miss.” Ives bowed again, passed her and continued up the stairs. Mariah wondered if Papa had sent him to check on Mama. He still loved the woman he’d married, though in truth she’d left him long ago.

Mariah continued on to the office and knocked on the door. Papa let her in, chomping furiously on an unlit cigar. His big bear paws hung in the air, as if he didn’t know whether he ought to embrace her or fend her away.

“Well, sit down,” he said, gesturing toward a chair. “I’ve something to discuss with you.”

She 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.