On a Cold Dark Sea(15)

Theo’s nervous attempts at conversation, once so charming, had grown tiresome, and John’s antics were those of an overgrown boy, not a man. Mr. Harper had no talent for or interest in romance, yet Esme found his steadiness increasingly appealing. Mr. Harper acted like a husband should act, with quiet confidence. He was careful with his money, and therefore he’d never want for anything. Wealth wasn’t Esme’s prime concern—she’d never have married someone she didn’t like simply because he was rich—but she did want a secure future. As Mrs. Harper, she could take trips to New York and Europe. Buy the clothes she wanted without enduring a lecture. As a married woman, she could go to restaurants and order champagne and escape the stultifying rules of her father’s house.

So when Mr. Harper invited Esme for a ride in his new Ford—and her father said she could go, unaccompanied—she knew what it meant. She pulled on her traveling coat and pinned her largest hat into her swept-up hair, artfully arranging a swath of netting so it protected her face from the dust while perfectly framing her eyes. Mr. Harper escorted her into the car and began an earnest description of the motor and how it worked and why it was better than a certain other motor—very little of which she understood. As they drove, Esme did her best to look fascinated, but her natural pleasantness was tested by Mr. Harper’s avoidance of the only subject that mattered. Had she been mistaken? Would he be eternally faithful to his dead wife?

At last, Mr. Harper pulled over by a park. They were in a part of town Esme wasn’t familiar with, a quiet, residential area that looked nearly deserted in the early November afternoon. They were alone.

“Miss Sullivan, I must speak to you on a matter of great importance.”

Esme’s heart pounded, but she kept her expression calm. Act surprised, she told herself.

“I have grown quite fond of you.” Mr. Harper said the words in a rushed monotone; he might have been addressing a meeting of his bank managers. “For many years, I have been quite content in my solitude, but I have recently contemplated a change in my circumstances.”

Esme fought back a giggle. This was a far cry from the passionate declaration of love she’d always imagined. John Moss would be down on his knees by now, summoning up dramatic tears. But she found she didn’t mind Mr. Harper’s stiff delivery. It felt honest and true.

“I have very little hope that a young woman of your charms would consider me an ideal husband. I do promise my complete dedication to your well-being, if you would but consider my offer . . .”

“What offer?” Esme asked, feigning confusion.

“I—er, that is to say, it would give me the greatest honor . . .”

“Are you asking me to marry you?”

Mr. Harper’s surprise at her bluntness gave way to relief that she’d said it. “I am. In the most bumbling way possible.”

Esme looked at Mr. Harper, her prospective bridegroom, a man she’d never addressed by his given name. She saw the streaks of gray in the hair above his ears, the creases in the skin beneath his wary eyes. All his features had a mournful cast, from the natural downturn of his mouth to the slight stoop in his shoulders. She found herself wanting above all else to make him happy.

“Of course I will,” she said simply. And the delight that brightened his face silenced any lingering doubts.

“You have made me the happiest of men,” he said.

“Silly thing, don’t you know you’re supposed to kiss me?”

Esme leaned forward and offered up her lips; Mr. Harper hesitated a moment, then pressed his mouth against her cheek. The kind of peck her father used to give her at bedtime. Esme laughed, and Mr. Harper looked at her in bewildered delight.

“I suppose I can call you Hiram now.” She sounded it out again with deliberate emphasis. “Hiram. A very upstanding name.”

“Esme.” The sound of it seemed to almost overwhelm him. “Esme, my dear girl.”

It was the same endearment her father used, which made her want to laugh again, but she repressed her amusement. His hand wrapped around hers, and she shifted her body closer, until she was pressed up against the solid mass of his hip and leg.

“When we’re married, will you let me drive the motorcar?” she asked.

He looked baffled by the thought of a woman at the wheel, and she squeezed his fingers to show she was teasing. The momentousness of what had just happened made her giddy, and she wished they weren’t in such an isolated spot. She wanted to spread the news like a town crier: I’m going to marry Hiram Harper and live happily ever after!



Esme never expected the regrets to come so soon. Her two-month engagement was a blur of parties and congratulatory hugs, and Esme thrived at the center of the storm. She showed Hiram off like a piece of new jewelry, calling him an “old dear” and “the sweetest man.” She could tell her friends were surprised someone like her had settled on someone like him, but Father’s contemporaries—who’d experienced twists and turns of fortune—were enthusiastic about a match that combined youthful enthusiasm with practical business sense.

“She’s always been headstrong,” Esme heard Father confide to a friend one night over glasses of whiskey. “It’ll do her good to have a husband who knows what he’s about. She’ll keep him on his toes, too, eh?”

Over one of many celebratory suppers, Mrs. Ayres told Esme she couldn’t be more pleased. “Hiram’s been alone too long,” she said. “I’ve been telling him that for years.”