Marietta stood to inherit a vast fortune in dollars, land, property and investments.
‘Yes, Marie, but not all men are fortune hunters, and you are a clever woman—I would trust to your judgement to choose the right husband. I blame myself for not encouraging you to marry after you refused Avory, but you were adamant and I was selfish. Go more into society, my dear, and the suitors will come running.’
‘You mean when I am available for sale in the market again,’ she said bitterly. ‘I don’t want that, Father.’
‘It would be preferable to a lonely old age. Do you wish to be like Aunt Percival, Marie? Even your dollars would not sweeten that fate.’
He could see that she was rejecting his advice, well-meant though it was—but he could also see that he had touched an unwelcome chord. He sighed, and turned to go, but before he left her to attend a Congressional committee, he murmured, as gently as he could, ‘I beg that you will consider most carefully what I have just told you, Marie.’
The door closed behind him.
Marietta rose, and sank into an armchair beside the empty hearth. Unwelcome thoughts raced through her brain. Had she been foolish, not clever, when she had rejected Avory Grant? He had seemed so young and callow, and she had wanted someone to whom she could talk, who would share her inmost thoughts, and Avory had certainly not been that ideal man. Had she been too discriminating, too certain that he had been marrying her for her money and not because he had felt any real desire or affection for her?
Alas, she had no illusions about herself. She was Marietta Hope, the only plain member of a bevy of beautiful Hope cousins, all of whom sported the blonde ringlets, pink and white faces, and hour-glass figures which mid-century Americans considered to be the acme of female desirability. Instead, she possessed a face which was clever rather than pretty, glossy chestnut-coloured hair, and a body which was athletic rather than curvaceous.
But what she lacked in beauty she made up for in intellect and commonsense, which she dismally knew was not what young men looked for in their future wives.
‘Good God, never say she’s cousin to the Hope beauties,’ had been the first remark she had heard when she had attended her come-out ball at the age of eighteen—whispered behind her back, of course. ‘What a sad disappointment she must be for her poor papa.’
‘Oh, never mind that,’ had been the unkind answer. ‘All his lovely dollars will make her plain face seem pretty.’
Useless for her father to tell her that she was pretty—after a fashion which, alas, was not now in style. After two years of misery in ballrooms where her cousins were enjoying themselves, she had retired from frivolous society in order to be her father’s companion and, until now, she had never regretted doing so, for his political career had given her life meaning and point.
In three years, perhaps sooner, that life would be over, and what would be left for her then? She would become Aunt Hope, the spinster sent for when needed or, if not that, she might become one more of the wealthy and eccentric old Yankee women who toured Europe, bullying their servants.
No, she would not think of the future—other than to contemplate what the evening’s duties held for her. She was due to attend yet another White House reception in company with her father and her young cousin Sophie, to whom she was acting as temporary chaperon. Well, at least she had avoided this afternoon’s tedium at the Clays, and that was something for which to be grateful.
She pulled out her watch. Time for tea—and not in the study. The room suddenly seemed oppressive. She would go downstairs and play at being an idle lady, a role she would have to take up when her father retired. She would sit on her own, and Asia, the new black maid, would bring in tea and cakes, English fashion as Aunt Percival liked. She would indulge herself for once and not think of maintaining her admirably firm figure. Perhaps becoming plump might make her fashionable!
But her desire to be alone was destined not to be fulfilled—an omen, perhaps—for when she entered the front parlour there was a strange man standing before the window, his back to the room, until he turned to see her as she came through the door.
They faced one another, both surprised. Marietta walked towards him, her face a question mark—a polite one, to be sure, but still a question mark.
‘I see that we have a visitor, sir. You came to see me—or my father? If so, you were not announced.’
He bowed.
‘I believe that there must have been some mistake, madam. I came to visit Miss Sophie Hope, but the little maid who admitted me left me here some time ago, and has quite abandoned me.’
Marietta sighed. ‘Asia,’ she said cryptically; as one of his eyebrows rose, she added, ‘Our new maid: she is only half-trained, I fear. Alas, I must disappoint you. My cousin is out for the afternoon, and so Asia should have informed you.’
He had moved from the window and she saw him plainly now. He was tall, but not remarkably so, being barely six feet in height, she guessed, and well built. He was, after a strange fashion, handsome, with laughter lines deep around his mouth and eyes. His eyes were remarkable, an intense blue. His hair was ordinary, being sandy and straight. His carriage was as good as his clothes, but his accent was strange. He appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties. She was a little intrigued by him. What was he doing, this unknown man, calling on Sophie at tea time?
He seemed to read her thoughts. ‘I am, perhaps, a little beforehand,’ he explained cheerfully. ‘I have met Sophie on several occasions in the last fortnight, the latest being last night when she asked me to call, but gave me no fixed date. Since I had no engagements this afternoon, I decided to accept her invitation.
‘My name is John Dilhorne, madam, and I will take myself off with my apologies,’ and he bowed again.
Marietta surveyed him, and his undoubted self-possession, coolly. ‘The apologies are due from us for wasting your time.’
She made a sudden surprising decision: a decision which was to alter her life and his. ‘Since my cousin Sophie is out calling, with our Aunt Percival, and you are here, and I was contemplating afternoon tea on my own, then I would take it as a favour if you would join me.’
It was his turn to assess her. This must be the plain cousin, the bluestocking, of whom Sophie had spoken last night. Senator Jacobus Hope’s daughter, secretary and good right hand, now almost a recluse, Sophie had said, forswearing normal social life. She had left Aunt Percival to escort her last night, which was a blessing, Sophie had remarked with a laugh, since her aunt was not as severe as Cousin Marietta.
He had first met Sophie at a grand ball given by the Lanceys and, attracted by her looks and vivacity, he had pursued her with some assiduity. He was now a little disappointed that he was to be entertained by the only plain Miss Hope, for so he had heard her called.
Not, he thought, that she was remarkably plain. She made little of her striking hair, and her expensive but dark clothes did her no favour, being more suitable for a woman of fifty rather than one of not yet thirty.
Where women were concerned Jack Dilhorne was both fastidious and discriminating, and the thing which he valued most in a woman was a good body. Unfortunately, the fashions of the day often denied him the opportunity to discover whether those he met possessed one. On more than one occasion he had found that a pretty face was allied to a lumpy or flaccid figure.
His assessment of Miss Marietta Hope told him that—despite
