knew them. Malcolm always urged her to keep her distance. She had, and so had they. There was no warmth in their exchanges with her. And from the first, Malcolm had let her make no changes. It was still his home, everything was done his way, and if her orders differed from his at all, they were politely ignored, and the matter never mentioned. He hired the staff himself, and most of them were Irish or English or German. Malcolm had an enormous fondness for all things German. He had gone to Heidelberg University in his youth, and he spoke the language to perfection.
Marielle wondered sometimes if the reason the staff resented her, albeit secretly, was because she had worked for Malcolm. It had been impossible for her to get a job when she came back from Europe in 1932. The Depression was in full swing, even men with college degrees were unemployed, and she had absolutely no training. She had never worked for anyone before, and her parents had left her nothing. Her father lost everything in the crash of '29, which basically had killed him. He'd been too old to survive the strain, to start over again. In the end, his heart had given out, but before it, his spirit. And there was nothing left but a few hundred dollars when his wife died six months later. Marielle had still been in Europe then, and Charles had arranged for their house to be sold in order to pay their debts. She'd been too ill to take care of it herself, and when she went back to New York eventually, she was left with nothing and had no home to go to. She stayed in a hotel on the East Side, and started looking for a job the week she'd arrived. She had two thousand dollars she'd borrowed from Charles. It was all she'd let him give her. She was totally alone. And in many ways, Malcolm had saved her. She was grateful to him for that still, and she always would be.
She had appeared in his office on a wintry February day, and the face that smiled at her across the desk was like a ray of sunshine. She had gone to him because she knew he was one of her father's friends, and she hoped that somehow he might know of a job, or someone who needed a companion who spoke French. It was all she knew other than her graceful drawings, but she hadn't drawn now in years. She had no secretarial skills at all, but after speaking to her for an hour, he hired her, and until she found a place of her own, he even paid for her hotel bill. She had tried to repay him afterward, but he wouldn't hear of it. He knew what dire straits she was in, and he was happy to help her.
She learned quickly and she worked well, as an assistant to his senior secretary, an Englishwoman who clearly did not approve of Marielle, but was al ways civil. And it came as no surprise to anyone when Malcolm started inviting her, first to quiet lunches, and then to romantic dinners. Eventually, he started taking her to important social events with him, always discreetly suggesting that she buy a new dress for the occasion, at a store where they knew him. It troubled her at first. She didn't want to take advantage of him, didn't want to put herself in an awkward position. Yet, he was always so kind to her, so intelligent, so amusing, so understanding. He never pressed her about what her previous life had been, why she had lived in Europe for six years, or why she had finally returned. They kept their conversations strictly to the present. She was surprised that she was always comfortable with him. He was so polite, and so kind, and so easy to be with. All her earlier resistance to him disappeared, and she was particularly surprised that he never made improper advances. He just seemed to like her company, being seen with a beautiful young woman in the expensive clothes he paid for. She was painfully shy then, and sometimes she still felt a little shaky. But he never seemed to notice it, and when she was with him, she always felt more confident, and surprisingly stronger than she had in a long time. She wasn't her old self anymore, but at least she was a new one she could live with.
With Malcolm, no one asked her anything. People wanted to know who she was, of course, but beyond her name, they never wanted to know where she'd been or why she wore such a serious expression. They were impressed with her because of whom she was with, and how she looked, and sometimes she even found it amusing. She felt so safe with him, he protected her from everything, and that was precisely what he offered her, when he asked her to marry him at Thanksgiving. He offered to protect and take care of her for as long as he lived, which wouldn't be as long as she lived, because he was so much older. He made no pretense of loving her, and yet in some ways, she felt that he did, because he was always so considerate and kind, so thoughtful, and so decent. In fact, she wanted nothing more from him. She couldn't have taken the risk, or been able to stand the pain, if anything went wrong, or something happened. Even the memories of Charles were still exquisitely painful, and the rest was something she still couldn't talk about, even to Malcolm. She had tried to be honest with him, to tell him that there were things in her past that had caused her great pain, but he didn't want to hear it.
“We each have a past, my dear.” He had smiled gently at her, as they dined at the Plaza. “But at twenty-four, I suspect that yours is still a little more wholesome.” He was so tolerant of her, so accepting. She could come to him with her past and her pain and her wounds and find solace there, and protection. It was that that she wanted from him, not his house, or his jewels or his money. He had been married twice before, and she knew from those who talked too much, that his generosity had been legend. But all she wanted from him was a port in the storm, a place to hide for the rest of her life, and that was what he promised. He sensed easily how frightened she was, although even he did not suspect how battered. And all he required of her was that she be willing to bear his children. Neither of his previous wives had, and at forty-nine, it was something he wanted very much, an heir for the Patterson empire. His money had been made in steel, and several generations earlier it had been far less genteel, but by the time Malcolm was born, the name was highly respected. And in his lifetime, Malcolm had made it even more so.
She'd been stunned by his proposal at first, and for a brief moment, she even thought he was joking. They had certainly been out together many times, and he had been unspeakably generous with her, but until then, he had never even kissed her.
“I… I don't know what to say…are you serious?” He smiled coolly at her, and took her hand in his, amused by her astonishment. She still looked like a child to him, and he gently raised her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers.
“Of course I'm serious, Marielle.” His eyes met hers, and in some ways he seemed more like a father. But that was part of what she liked about him, and more than that, it was what she so desperately needed. She had been back in the States by then for less than a year, and she had no one in the world, except Malcolm. “I want you to be my wife. I will take very good care of you, my dear. I promise you that. And if we're lucky enough to have children, I will be grateful to you for the remainder of my lifetime.” It was an odd offer, as she listened to him, and in some ways it almost sounded more like a business arrangement than a marriage. He wanted children from her, and she wanted and needed his protection. He hadn't told her he loved her, or looked at her adoringly, she wasn't head over heels in love with him. It was totally different from what she had had with Charles, but that was precisely what she wanted. Only the idea of having children frightened her now. She wasn't sure she wanted to take that risk again, but she didn't dare explain that to him.
“And if there are no children?” Her eyes searched his with a worried expression, as he wondered if there was something he didn't know. He had thought he knew everything about her.
“Then we will be friends.” He looked peaceful as he said it, and that reassured her, but she still couldn't understand why he wanted her, with so many other women who would have died to have him. And in fact, he scarcely knew her.
“But why me? There are… so many other…more suitable…” She blushed as she said the words. She had no money, no social status anymore. Her parents had been respectable certainly, but not in his league, and they had left her without a penny. But all of that was part of what appealed to him. She was a girl with no ties, no family, no obligations. She was “his” in a way, or she would be if she married him, and he liked that. Malcolm Patterson was a man who was obsessed by possessions, his houses, his cars, his paintings, his Faberge collection, his “things.” Marielle was something more for him to possess…a very important possession if she could give him children. Besides which, she was a very quiet, undemanding girl, and he liked that. She would be a dignified, attractive wife and perhaps, with luck, one day, a very good mother.
“Perhaps I should say I love you,” he said very gently, but they both knew he didn't. “But I'm not sure that's important to either of us.” He knew her well, better than she had realized. “Perhaps that doesn't matter at all. Perhaps it will be better like this, and we will come to love each other in time, won't we?” She nodded, still awed by what he was saying. And then he looked down at her expectantly, as though she knew what she was expected to say, and he was waiting for her to say it. “Do you have an answer for me?”
She hesitated, but only for an instant. “I…” She looked at him worriedly… “Are you sure?…” She was afraid for him, more than for herself. What if she was a disappointment to him? What if…what if she fell apart again? The past year hadn't been easy. The Lindbergh child had been kidnapped two weeks after her
