Susan Wiggs - The Hostage

Dear God. What had Philip told her father?

Bile rose in her throat, and she could not speak until she managed to swallow. “What did he tell you?”

Arthur spread his hands. “He told me about the way you behaved at the opera last night. I’m ashamed of you, Deborah. Purely ashamed.”

This was the last thing she had expected. She hadn’t imagined Philip would complain to her father, of all things. She gaped at him, then found her voice. “Ashamed of me? But what did I—”

“Philip says he’s willing to overlook your outrageous behavior, thank God,” Arthur said. He turned away from her and began pulling boxes of bills and certificates out of the safe.

“ My behavior?” she asked. She tried to cling to a sense of outrage, but in spite of her resolve, shame crept in. She had no idea what to say. All her life she had been provided with the best governesses, tutors, teachers and companions in the country. Yet not one of them had prepared her to deal with her own father.

“Your immaturity and foolishness are going to cost me dearly,” he blustered. “He wants me to double your dowry settlement. And I have no choice but to do as he asks.”

She forced out a dry, bitter laugh of disbelief. Philip Ascot IV had laid waste to her dreams last night, and as a reward, he expected twice the bride price he and her father had settled on. “Then you will be pleased to know that you won’t have to pay him a cent,” she said, keeping her voice firm even though she wanted to die. She loved her father, honored him, on occasion felt close to worshiping him. The times she had crossed him were few and far between, but now was one of those times.

“What in tarnation do you mean by that?”

“I’ve decided not to marry Philip,” she stated.

That got his attention. He froze in the midst of ramming notes and certificates into the leather satchel and turned to face her. “That’s not amusing, Deborah.”

“I’m not trying to be amusing. I’m trying to—” She paused. What was she doing? Her future, indeed her entire existence had been defined by the fact that she was going to be the wife of one of the most socially prominent men in the country. Without that, who was she? Until now, that question had never occurred to her but suddenly the answer seemed vital. Closing her eyes, she took a leap in the dark. “I won’t marry Philip Ascot.”

“You’re getting cold feet before the wedding,” her father said reasonably, his face softening with an indulgent smile. “Common enough in a bride, or so I’m told.”

She tried again. “It’s not a matter of cold feet. My mind and my heart have changed. Irrevocably. Until yesterday…I thought marrying Philip was the future I wanted. I didn’t know any better. I…I’m sorry.”

“The wedding will go forward as planned,” he snapped, his temper pushing through fatherly indulgence. “You’ll learn to govern your infantile tantrums and behave like a true woman. Everything is settled. The guest list includes everyone up to Mrs. Grant herself. You don’t simply tell the First Lady—”

“I’ll tell her myself,” Deborah promised, though the prospect terrified her. “We’re talking about the rest of my life, Father. I won’t live it with Philip Ascot.”

Anger blazed in his eyes. “You’ll live your life as I say,” he stated. “I have always acted in your best interest.”

“I know you believe you have,” she conceded. “But this time, I must trust my own judgment.”

“You will trust me. Haven’t I always given you the best of everything? Haven’t I spent a fortune turning you into the sort of young lady a man of quality dreams of marrying?”

“What about my dreams?” she asked, but she spoke so softly that he didn’t hear.

“You have no understanding of what your life would be if I simply let you have your way,” he went on, his face flushing a deep, unhealthy red. “You’d be hopeless, no better off than a saloon girl or a farm wife. Thanks to me, you’ll never know struggle, never know hardship. Your children will have the world at their feet. But only if you provide a proper family background—as an Ascot.”

Deborah began to pace the long, carpeted room. “You arranged this marriage with no regard for my wishes. Do you realize I was never asked? You and Philip met over brandy and cigars, and the next day I was presented with this.” She held up her hand, pale in the gaslight, a very large diamond winking obscenely.

“You seemed perfectly delighted,” he pointed out.

“Because you were, Father. I should have objected long ago.” But she hadn’t. She had been as dazzled by Philip’s good looks and charming flattery as her father had been by his social standing. “Don’t you see that when human hearts are involved, you can’t simply make things happen?”

“Balderdash. What are they teaching you at that school?”

“Clearly not enough to help me make you understand,” she said.

“Arranged marriages are the hallmark of a civilized society. Love doesn’t happen overnight. You must show patience and understanding, and above all, obedience to those who know what is best for you.”

“I will never love Philip. Ever.”

“The opportunity to marry into the Ascot family doesn’t arise very often. Philip’s an only child, and he has no cousins. You need this marriage, Deborah.”

“No, you need it. And Philip needs it. For all his blue-blooded pedigree, he is nearly destitute. He has the name. You have the fortune. Together the two of you have everything you want. I can’t imagine why you even need me. Just make him your son and be done with it.” The words burst from her, and the moment they were out, she wished she could catch them from the air and somehow make them disappear. But it was too late.

Her father stood staring at her, and his face bore the shocked expression of a man who had just been stabbed in the back.

Although he would never admit it, Arthur Sinclair had always felt inferior because his money was considered “new” by the upper crust. And to her father, the opinions of the socially prominent mattered greatly. He yearned for the one thing his money could not buy—the patina of generations-old gentility. In his mind—and in the minds of those he strove to impress—there was a particular quality to inherited wealth that was lacking in the fortunes of a self-made man. He would never be able to achieve that quality, but he could take a step closer by marrying his only daughter and heir to the flawlessly aristocratic Philip Widener Ascot IV.

They had never spoken of this, of course, and the fact that Deborah had brought it up was a measure of her desperation. Remorseful for having hurt him, she said, “You’re a good man, Father. The best there is. Whether or not I marry Philip will not change that.”

Slowly his coloring returned to normal. He no longer looked harsh or angry, just immeasurably disappointed.

“Father, I didn’t come here to quarrel with you,” she said quietly.

Moving as if his bones hurt, he lowered himself to his chair. When Deborah looked at him, she always saw a titan of industry, a man who was larger than life, larger than legend, even. Yet tonight, something was different. He simply looked like a man worn down by weariness. She couldn’t tell if the change was in her, or in him.

“Did I ever tell you what your mother said to me the day she died?” he asked after a long pause.

Deborah didn’t follow the sudden switch in topic, but he seemed calmer now. She owed it to him to let him make his point. “You’ve said so little of that day,” she said. “I know it must have been painful for you.”

She had been just three when her mother died giving birth to a stillborn son. Deborah had exactly one memory of her mother. It was just a flash of awareness, not really a full-blown memory. She had been too young for that. But that made the faint, flickering awareness all the more important to her.