Chapter 18

In his chair in the darkened study, Edward Sullivan was roused at last from his drink induced stupor by a banging at the front door of the house which seemed to come from inside his very skull.

Blast it. Who comes to disturb me now?

Edward was not a bad man; indeed, there had been a time when he had considered himself to be a very kind man — a time when he and his wife had lived happily with their beloved daughter, Marian, wanting for nothing.

But those times were gone. Now, as Edward pulled himself reluctantly upright, he had a vague memory that Marian had been here, arguing with him. Had that been today or yesterday? He knew not. And as the drapes in the room were suddenly pulled apart to admit a shaft of blinding sunlight which hurt his eyes, Edward did not care to think further on the matter.

"Beg pardon My Lord, but you have a visitor."

Mrs. Grant, the housekeeper, stood by the window, looking in despair around the room. It was true that the place was in no fit state to welcome company — and nor was Edward himself for that matter — but there was no time to think of that either, for before he could gather his wits, the door opened, and he found himself face to face with Robert Sinclair.

Blast and damn.

"Robert, my boy," Edward said warily, hoping his words did not sound as slurred as he feared they did. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

He wished it were a pleasure to see Robert; he was, after all, the son of Edward's oldest friend, the Earl of Sinclair. In truth, though, Edward had never warmed to Robert. He had been a mean little boy — the kind who would tread on insects and push smaller children roughly out of his way — and Edward feared he was no better as a man, despite the sheen of good manners which he had acquired to make him seem quite the gentleman.

"I wish I were here simply for the pleasure of your company, Sir," Robert said now, taking a seat without waiting for an invitation, "but, alas, I come on more serious business."

"And what might that be?"

Edward had a very good idea what kind of business Robert Sinclair might have with him, and sure enough, his suspicions were proved correct.

"It's Marian, Sir. You know how much I feel for her and have always felt for her. I'm sure the affection I hold for your sweet daughter cannot have escaped your notice."

"Indeed. I am aware of your… affections… for Marian."

If that's what you wish to call it.

"Then I'm sure you must know why I'm here," Robert said simply. "To cut to the chase, Sir, I wish to marry her. And I come to ask for your help."

"My help? Or my permission? Marian is a grown woman, Robert — and one with a mind of her own, like her mother. She will make up her own mind on such things. Surely you know that?"

"I do, Sir." Robert smiled obsequiously, and Edward shivered, despite the warmth of the fire he sat next to which Mrs. Grant had not allowed to go out. "And that is why I ask for your help. Your permission alone, I fear, would be of little use to me, for I have asked Marian for her hand before. Alas, she has turned me down."

"Then the matter is at a close, surely?" Edward raised his eyebrows in surprise. "If she has said no, that's the end of it. I cannot force my daughter to do anything if she has set her mind against it. I would not even try."

"Ah, but is that really the end of it, Sir?" Robert's voice had acquired a dangerous tone which even Edward in his alcohol-soaked state was able to detect. "Is that really what you want for her? To see her become an old maid, stuck here without prospects? Or, worse, forced into service as a governess, perhaps, once the money runs out? Tell me, Sir, how many weeks do you estimate you have until the money is gone? How do you propose to support your daughter — let alone yourself — when that happens?"

Edward swallowed nervously, his throat suddenly dry. He reached out for the bottle that always sat by his elbow and finding it empty, returned his trembling hands to his lap.

"How… how dare you speak to me thus?" he said, making an attempt at dignity. "How dare you raise the subject of my finances like this? I shall… I shall tell your father of your impertinence."

"I shouldn't trouble yourself, Sir," Robert said lazily. "Your situation is well known in the county. You must have noticed that my father hasn't been around you for months now. He is too ashamed, I suspect. Or too afraid that you might embarrass yourself by asking him for a loan. You've thought of that, I suppose? I cannot imagine you've simply been sitting here, drinking away your daughter's dowry without a thought for her future? Or yours for that matter?"

Edward reached again for the bottle, sending it crashing to the ground in pieces. Wearily, he rubbed at his head. In his more lucid moments, Marian's father could not deny that he had worried about what was to become of them — and to Marian, in particular. He knew the future was bleak for a young woman without fortune, and there were no relatives to whom he could send her when the money finally ran out.

But to allow her to marry this buffoon? No. He could not stand for it.

"My daughter is my own concern," he said with as much dignity as he could muster. "Not yours. Now, I will thank you to leave."

Robert frowned, realizing his plan had not worked then he abruptly changed tactic.

"Come, Sir," he said, speaking more gently now, "I do not wish to offend. I want only to help."

Sweeping the broken bottle out of the way, he rang the bell to summon a maid, and when the housekeeper appeared, Robert asked her to bring a new one. Mrs. Grant looked at her master uncertainly then when he made no objection, she heaved a deep sigh and left the room, returning a few moments later with a fresh bottle of brandy.

Once the broken glass had been cleared up, and the two men were once again alone, Robert filled two glasses and passed one to Marian's father, who took it gratefully.

"You must know, Sir, that you cannot continue like this," Robert said sadly. "If you allow me to make Marian my wife, I can help you. She will be safe and comfortable for the rest of her life; she will never have to worry about making her own way in the world or trying to earn a living. Why, can you imagine Marian as a governess? It does not bear thinking about!"

Edward smiled weakly, feeling his resolve soften.

"I can help you, too," Robert went on, taking advantage of the other man's silence. "I have money enough to allow you to live the rest of your days in peace and without worry. I will look after you both. I ask only that you help me in return."

Edward took a large sip of his brandy as he considered all of this. His head was throbbing in a way that made it hard to think straight, and already the alcohol was making its way into his bloodstream, allowing his body to relax in a way that was impossible to him when sober.

How I wish I could sleep. How I wish I could forget all of these worries of mine for a little while, at least.

But then again, Robert was offering to help him do just that, and not just for a while but for the rest of his life. Perhaps he should at least consider the man's offer?

Marian is a good girl. She will understand what must be done. And she has known this man since she was a child. He is at least familiar to her, and I know he is rich. I know he can keep his promise to look after her — to do as I cannot.

Edward sighed wearily as he finished his glass. Immediately, Robert reached out and refilled it for him, a small smile playing around his thin lips.

"Do we have an agreement, then?" he asked, raising his own glass as if in a toast.

Edward looked at him through an increasing fog of brandy.

If only there was something else I could do. If only there were some other way.

But there was not. It was the truth he had been using alcohol to escape for many months now. The fact was, he was as good as ruined. In a few more weeks, he and Marian would be forced to leave this house, their home, and… and do what? Edward had not thought that far ahead. He had not been able to. But now, Robert offered him a means of escape: a way to keep his home and his servants and above all, to keep his daughter safe from the harsh realities of the world. Edward knew he could not do this alone and that the future for him and Marian most likely involved the workhouse — or worse.

"Very well," he said reluctantly, raising his glass to Robert's. "I suppose we have an agreement."

As the other man smiled and drained his glass, Edward felt an increasing sense of unease.

We have an agreement. But is it for better or for worse?

He supposed only time would tell.

"No! I will not do it! You cannot make me!"

Marian had returned from her outing with Charlotte a short while later to find her father awake for once. The hope she had felt at seeing him more sober than usual, however, faded as soon as he told her his news.

She was to be married to Robert Sinclair. And sooner rather than later, it would seem.

"But you cannot do this," she wailed, falling to her knees beside her father's chair as the news sank in. "Surely, I must have some say in this? Surely, I should be allowed to choose the man I wish to marry?"

"How I wish it were so, Marian," said her father wearily. "How I wish you could marry for love as I did. It is what your mother wished for you, I know. But we do not live in a world where women are free to choose their futures. That is the sad reality of the matter."

"That is not true," Marian argued hotly. "I am not some slave that you can buy and sell as you wish. I am your daughter! Your flesh and blood!"

"And it is because you are my daughter that I must do this," Edward said, despairingly. "It is the only way to assure your future. Marian, I had hoped to protect you from this. I had hoped it would not come to this, for it is the last thing I want. But you must know that I am virtually penniless. There is nothing left. The only way to save us both from destitution is the way offered by Sinclair. I'm sorry, my dear. Truly, I am."

Marian looked up at him, trying to swallow back her tears. The news of her father's financial ruin was not, of course, nearly as much of a surprise to her as Edward assumed it must be. She had known perfectly well that the money could not last forever, especially not if her father continued to gamble and drink it away at his current rate. She had always known some solution must be sought; she had just not expected it to happen this quickly. Or for it to involve Robert Sinclair.

"But Robert Sinclair!" she cried now, the reality of the situation hitting her afresh. "You know I cannot bear him, Papa! How am I to marry a man I don't even like, let alone love?"

"Come, my dear," said Edward uncomfortably. "It is not as bad as all that, surely? You have known him since you were both children. And what can you know of love in any case?"

Marian bit her lip, the memory of Andrew's face and the way he had looked at her when they said goodbye filling her mind.

"I know far more than you could ever imagine, father," she said impetuously. "And now I wish I did not; for how can I, having felt so much for someone, bear to push those feelings aside forever and commit myself to spending the rest of my life with a man for whom I feel nothing at all?"

"I know not what you mean, Marian," her father said, slurring slightly. "You're talking nonsense. I must ask you to stop."

Marian glanced irritably at the table by his elbow, noting the almost empty bottle beside him. She would get no sense out of him now, she knew. But she must try.

"Please, father," she begged, looking up at him beseechingly. "You know not what you ask of me. To live my entire life never again knowing what it is to love someone or be loved… I cannot do it. I do not have it in me. Why, I would rather starve!"

"Enough, Marian," Edward said, rousing himself. "You have lived a privileged life until now. You do not know of what you speak. You do not what it is to truly struggle, and you never will. Not while I have breath in my body and the power to stop it. Robert Sinclair is a good match for you. Indeed, it is a match his father and I had always hoped for. Perhaps not under these circumstances —"

He trailed off, his words drowned out by Marian's sobs. She was so upset she could barely think straight, let alone speak, but her father's next words silenced her altogether.

"In any case," he said, slumping back in his seat to signal that the conversation was at an end, "the matter is decided. Sinclair has already applied for the marriage license; he had done it even before he came to seek my permission. And as soon as he has it, the wedding will go ahead."