Excerpt of His One Woman by Paula Marshall

Washington, April 1861

"Are you still working, my dear? I thought that you had
promised to escort your cousin Sophie to the Clays this
afternoon. I do not like to see you constantly at your
desk. You deserve a little pleasure in your life; it
should not be all hard grind."

Marietta looked affectionately up at her father, Senator
Jacobus Hope.

"Visiting the Clays with Sophie is not my idea of
pleasure," she told him, "and I needed to catch up with
your correspondence — which I have now done. Aunt Percival
has gone with her in my place."

Her father sighed and sat down opposite to her. Marietta
thought sadly that he was beginning to look his age. For
the last seven years she had been his faithful assistant,
ever since she had decided that she would never marry
after four years of being pursued by every fortune hunter
in America's northern states.

Now, at twenty-seven, she was her father's mainstay: no
man could have been more useful to him, and, had she been
one herself, he thought that she would have made a superb
senator — but, being a woman, all such doors were closed
to her.

Knowing this, the Senator felt the most bitter regret at
having to tell her his unwelcome news, but in fairness to
her he must. He ought not to delay any longer.

"Marie, my dear child, I am sure that you are aware that
age is beginning to affect my ability to perform the
duties of my office efficiently, and only your invaluable
assistance has kept me on course for the last few years. I
have been wrong to lean on you so much, but you are the
beloved child of my old age, my last memory of your
mother. I was sorry when you refused Avory Grant seven
years ago. I know that you thought him a flighty boy, but
the years and marriage seem to have sobered him, as they
sober most of us.

"Knowing this, it grieves me to tell you that I shall not
seek office again when this term ends in 1864. Had I not
been certain that war was coming, I would not have stood
for the Senate in 1860, but, since I had long warned that
war was inevitable, I decided that I must play my part in
it when it did arrive.

"I have no regrets, I have had a long and fulfilling life,
but what does trouble me is that you have given your life
and your youth in service to me and before my term is over
I wish to see you married. I do not want to think of you
as a lonely spinster when I am gone."

Marietta put up a protesting hand at this. "Oh, Father,
you have many years yet, I am sure."

Her father shook his head. "The doctors do not think so,
my dear. It is even possible that I shall not live out my
term. I repeat, I would wish to see you married."

Marietta answered him as lightly as she could. "But who
would marry me, Father? I am twenty-seven now, past my
first youth, and I am not even pretty."

"Marie," he said, "you must know that there are many who
would want you for a wife —"

She interrupted him for once. "Fortune hunters to a man,
Father. I know that."

Indeed, all the world was aware that, as the Senator's
heiress, 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 after-noon'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.