A Christmas Scandal
October 2009
Chapter 1
New York , 1893
Margaret Pierce sat in the pink parlor,
a whimsical room her whimsical mother loved, hoping it
would somehow calm her. She rocked back and forth, her
hands clutched together, as she prayed fervently for
her father.
She heard the front door open, the murmurings of her
mother talking to one of their few remaining servants,
and listened as her footsteps sounded, tap-tapping, on
the marble floor. Her heart beat a slow, sickening beat
in her chest.
"There you are, Maggie" Harriet Pierce said, looking
unusually drawn. "It's done with now."
Maggie looked at her mother, afraid to ask what had
happened to her father, a gentle, wonderful man who was
going to prison. She could not bring herself to go to
the hearing, unable to bear the weight of all that had
happened, unable to look in the eye the man who held
her father's fate in his filthy hands.
She was afraid to ask her mother how long her father
would be in prison, even though she knew what the answer
would be. She'd made sure of that.
"Oh, my dear," her mother said, rushing over to sit
by her daughter, embracing her tightly, and Maggie realized
she hadn't been trying quite hard enough to hide her
feelings. "This has been difficult for you, I know. The
two of you are so close. I think that is what is so upsetting
to him, not being with you on your wedding day. For your
children when they are born."
Maggie pushed her mother gently away, staring at her
with the beginnings of terror gripping her. "It's only
a year. He'll be home with us for the wedding and certainly
in time to see his grandchildren."
Her mother's eyes welled up and she shook her head. "Whatever
gave you that idea? Oh, Maggie, it's to be five years.
Five years was always what we thought. What on earth
made you think otherwise?" Her mother straightened her
spine. "But we'll get through it. Your father is a relatively
young man. He'll still be in his early fifties by the
time he's home with us. Not so old."
"No," Maggie whispered, feeling as if she might faint,
feeling as if the world were tilting crazily around her. "One
year. It's to be one year," she said, her voice
taking on the edge of desperation.
"Oh, darling," her mother said, trying to pull her into
another comforting embrace. "The years will fly by. You'll
see."
Maggie stood up, agitated beyond bearing. "It's impossible.
He promised."
Her mother smiled up at her. "Who promised? No one promised
any such thing. Certainly not Papa. Oh, he didn't, did
he? I do declare that man would say anything to make
you feel better."
Maggie looked at her mother, her eyes wild, her breathing
erratic.
"Maggie, what are you doing?" her mother asked sharply,
looking at her wrist.
She looked down to see a row of neat little red crescents
on her wrist where she'd been digging her thumbnail into
her skin. Distractedly, she pulled down her sleeve, then
took a bracing breath. She'd nearly lost control, which
would have upset her mother terribly. Sitting down, she
grasped her mother's hand and smiled shakily. "I'm sorry.
I had this crazy hope is all. I'm just so worried about
Papa. About everything, I suppose."
Her mother visibly calmed when she saw her daughter's
smile, and Maggie vowed to never let her mother see how
terrified, how very distraught she was. Harriet had always
been an emotionally fragile person, and Maggie had always
tried to keep her life as calm as possible. With all
that was happening around them, keeping calm was hopeless,
but she did not want to add to her mother's torment.
It was almost as if the Devil, having decided to pick
out one poor family to have fun with, had picked Maggie's
and was enjoying himself immensely watching them all
suffer. For never had a family's life gone from idyllic
to nightmarish in the space that Maggie's had. Indeed,
it was difficult to believe that just three months before
she had everything a young woman of twenty could ask
for: friends, loving parents, two protective brothers,
a beautiful home, and a brilliant future.
When news of her father's arrest for embezzlement hit
the New York Times , friends disappeared, invitations
dried up, servants quit. Once on the fringes of the elite
New York Four Hundred, now the Pierce's were shunned
at best. For the worst of it was that her banker father
had embezzled money from the very people they depended
upon for the social status they had so enjoyed. One brother,
an attorney in one of the most prestigious law firms
in New York , was fired and was now working in a tiny
firm in Richmond , where no one had heard of Reginald
Pierce. Thankfully, her oldest brother was in San Francisco
, far removed from the scandal.
After her father's arrest, creditors immediately began
knocking on their door and the state demanded repayment
of an impossible sum. Everything was gone, including
their fashionable home on Fifth Avenue . They were to
be out in three days, leaving behind a lifetime's accumulation
of wealth. Everything would be auctioned.
Arthur Wright was their last hope. How many times had
Harriet thanked God for him? Thank God, thank God. Arthur
Wright, who bored Maggie to tears, whom she didn't love,
but who loved her. "I suppose it won't do for Arthur
to see me tonight with a red nose and watery eyes," Maggie
said in an attempt at levity.
"Do you think he's going to ask today? That would be
a wonderful ending to an absolutely horrid day," her
mother said, fretting her hands in her lap. Her mother,
never the calm and collected one, had lately looked rather
like a harried wash maid, her hair a mass of messy curls,
her clothing always slightly askew. Once they'd let go
almost of their servants, poor Mama could not handle
the daily ablutions required of her. She was clean but
looked as if she'd just come in from a violent windstorm.
And her eyes always darted about a room, as if the miseries
that had struck this family were tangible things she
could duck away from.
"I'm almost certain that is why Arthur is coming over
tonight," Maggie said, smiling. This, at least, was a
genuine smile, for Arthur had more than hinted that tonight
was the night they would formalize their engagement.
She knew her mother would worry until she was safely
settled, just as she knew their worries were over. She
and Arthur were already unofficially engaged; she was
awaiting only the ring and a formal announcement in the Times .
She should be ecstatic, but the truth was, Maggie didn't
want to marry anyone. At least not anyone in New York
.
"I'm so glad," Harriet said. "We really shouldn't hold
out hope any longer."
"Hold out hope for what?"
"Oh. I meant about the earl, dear. I was holding out
hope that he'd return or write. Something .
A title would have been so very nice."
Maggie let out a laugh even as her heart gave a painful
wrench. She had met the Lord Hollings over the summer
in Newport . He'd been friends with the Duke of Bellingham
who'd married her best friend then taken her away to
England , away from her. Maggie had been stupid and naïve
enough to fall in love with the earl, though thankfully
she hadn't been foolish enough to let anyone know, including
him. "The earl was just being kind to me because I am
Elizabeth 's friend. You know that."
"But those dances," Harriet said, letting her voice
trail off.
"It was great fun but nothing more than an innocent
flirtation. What Arthur and I share is far deeper. Far
more meaningful." My goodness, she was getting so good
at doing anything to make her mother feel better---which
apparently included marrying a man she did not love.
As she thought back, it seemed as if her life took a
sudden and desperate turn for the worse when Elizabeth
married her duke. Maggie was left with a world crumbling
around her, with her flailing and trying with all her
might to stop it.
"I should probably get ready," she said, attempting
to sound like her old, perky self. "Arthur is coming
for supper and he'll be here within the hour. Could you
help me with my dress?"
Only the most loyal servants had stuck with the Pierce's
after it became clear there would be no more money forthcoming.
It was something they would all have to get used to,
fending for themselves, dressing themselves, cooking
their own food. Maggie had always thought of herself
as a modern independent woman until the day she realized
she could not dress herself without help. Without Arthur
there would be no balls, no new dresses every season,
no French chef in a grand kitchen. Her mother was far
more upset about their change in fortune than Maggie
was, though she was greatly affected by her mother's
despondency.
Without Arthur, her mother would have had to move to
her sister's home in Savannah , GA. It was a dreaded
second alternative, for neither wanted to live in Savannah
.
Once she was dressed for supper, Maggie glanced at the
mirror, noting absently that it needed a good polishing.
She looked exactly the same. Exactly. No one could know
what was inside her, the secrets, the shame. She smiled
brilliantly, her teeth white and straight, her eyes sparkling.
"Of course I'll marry you, Arthur," she gushed to her
reflection. Then she let out a sigh and for just a moment
almost gave into the tears that had threatened for weeks,
that left her throat feeling perpetually raw. Arthur
did not deserve what he was getting. He deserved the
girl she used to be, carefree and innocent and full of
hope, not the girl she'd become. Guilt assaulted her
and she pushed it brutally away, knowing Arthur would
be much happier to marry the girl he thought she was,
than be told the truth. With a start, she realized she
was digging her thumbnail into her wrist again and she
looked at the crescents with a bit of vexation. She'd
ruined the sleeves of two blouses already with tiny spots
of blood that would not wash away no matter what she
tried.
She heard the rustling of skirts and her mother, her
hair in wild disarray, peeked into her room. "He's here," she
hissed delightedly. Maggie shook her head fondly at her
mother's complete glee.
"Arthur comes to dinner every Tuesday night, Mama. I
don't know why you have it in your head that tonight
is the night he will propose."
"Because if he doesn't, we'll both be on a train to
Savannah ," she pointed out. "Not that it wouldn't be
wonderful to see my sister, but Catherine's house is
so small, especially with her children and that huge
husband or hers. She's still got two at home, you know.
Children, not husbands." Maggie wrinkled her nose making
Harriet laugh. "It's not Catherine I worry about." Harriet
had often commented on the fact she didn't like her sister's
husband, found him coarse and far too opinionated. "And
I may have hinted that you would be safely married soon.
It's not that she wouldn't welcome us both. It's simply
that she's not expecting two more females for an extended
time."
Maggie lifted her hand to stop her mother's guilt-ridden
monologue. "I understand completely. Besides, we don't
have to worry about Aunt Catherine or her children or
Uncle Bert because we have Arthur. Now. How do I look?" she
asked, swishing her yellow skirts back and forth. With
her dark hair and flashing brown eyes, yellow had always
been a good color for Maggie.
"You look like a girl who's about to get engaged," Harriet
said, her eyes misting a bit. "Now hurry before he changes
his mind. He's in the pink parlor."
"Oh, Mama, you didn't. You know that men loathe that
room. He'll feel positively uncomfortable." She followed
her mother down the stairs, motioning to her silently
to stay put and not eavesdrop at the door even though
she knew her mother would.
"Hello, Arthur," she said closing the door firmly and
walking toward the tall man sitting awkwardly in a delicate
Queen Anne chair. He was all knees and elbows, her Arthur.
He stood abruptly, almost as if surprised to find Maggie
here in her own home.
"Good evening."
He didn't smile. Perhaps he was nervous, Maggie thought.
Or perhaps he'd decided that a buoyant greeting would
be inappropriate given that her father had just been
sentenced to prison.
"I'm so sorry about your father," he blurted out. Arthur
Wright was a man who did not feel comfortable in the
company of woman, for he came from a family of five boys.
He got on well with Maggie because she had older brothers
and so knew how men ticked. He'd once told her that she
was the only pretty girl he knew that he could spend
more than a minute with. Maggie took that as the compliment
it was intended to be.
Maggie swallowed heavily at the mention of her father.
She had not allowed herself to think of him locked away
in prison with all sorts of rough men. Her father, who
loved the ballet and a fine port and cigar after supper,
was not at all the kind of man who would thrive in such
a place. "I miss him already," she said, her throat closing
on the last word. She cleared his throat. "But we shall
all be fine. Mama says the time will fly."
"Yes. Five years I heard."
It was supposed to be one. One year. He could have
endured one year. "Five years will go by so swiftly," she
repeated, her smile brittle.
"Yes. But there will always be the taint," he said,
and Maggie stiffened. It was so unlike Arthur to say
such a thing, for if he was anything, he was kind to
a fault.
"I suppose there will be."
"And that's the thing. That's it, you see," he said,
sounding muddled.
Maggie didn't understand until she looked at his face,
filled with torment and real despair. And she knew, without
a doubt, that Arthur Wright had not come that night to
propose. He had come to break it off.
His face crumpled briefly, but he regained control of
his features and stood there, making her say it because
no doubt he could not bring himself to.
"You are breaking it off," Maggie said dully.
He nodded, his eyes filling with tears, for Arthur did
love her. She'd always known it, believed it.
"It's our business. I know how that sounds. You cannot
know how hard this is for me. How I fought." he broke
off, shaking his head miserably. "But my father can't
take the chance for his name to be associated with.with."
"Mine."
"Oh, Maggie, not yours. Your father's. This is the worst
thing that's ever happened to me," he said, trying desperately
to hold it together and failing miserable. "I love you," he
cried, then pulled her to him and embraced her, kissing
her hair in an almost frenzied way.
Maggie stiffened, then pushed him gently, but firmly
away. "It's just as well, Arthur. I do believe that you
love me, but you obviously don't love me enough. And
I don't love you at all." She shouldn't have hurt him,
she should not have lowered herself to such cruelty.
But then, he didn't know anything of what she'd gone
through, of what she was going through. If losing her
was the worst thing that had ever happened to him, then
he had led a pathetically easy life. She should tell
him just how awful life could get.
"You don't mean that," he said, stricken.
"It doesn't matter," she said dully. "Could you please
go?"
"How could you say such a thing? How?"
"You hurt me. And I hurt you back. I'm sorry," she said,
sounding more like some sort of automaton than an anguished
woman. "Please go," she repeated.
He bowed his head. "Of course."
He left the parlor, that ridiculous pink parlor, and
Maggie was glad that the last thing he would remember
was where she stood when he delivered the final blow
to her already miserable life.
