5. Chapter Five #2
Margaret shook her head. “I haven’t been asked, Evie. Have you ever read Jane Austen?”
Evie rolled her eyes. “Those are English rules. What about American?” Before Margaret could answer, Grandmama appeared.
She strolled towards them with a gleaming smile, arms opened wide, ready for an embrace.
Her violet dress trailed behind her, and the feather in her hair bounced with each step she took.
“My darling granddaughters!” Grandmama embraced Evie and Margaret at the same time and then kissed their cheeks.
Many eyes laid upon them, making Margaret uncomfortable.
She looked down, scratching her neck. She had never been embraced so intimately in public nor been in a center among so many.
People gawked at her. Some wore smiles and some stared blankly.
The first to catch Margaret’s gaze were two middle-aged women whispering in each other’s ear, their eyes looking in her direction.
Margaret cleared her throat and turned her focus away; she’d bury those discomforting feelings away.
She wasn’t much of an actress, but this moment was crucial.
She looked over at Evie whose face flushed scarlet.
Grandmama turned away from Evie and took Margaret’s gloved hands. “Oh, my wonderful eldest. You look so much like your mother at that age.”
Margaret forced a smile. This wasn’t the first time someone told her she favored her mother.
Evie, on the other hand, had been told more than once she favored their father.
Only a few things angered Evie, and this was one of them.
She believed a woman’s greatest insult was to have her features compared to a man’s.
“Come, come, Margaret.” Before Margaret could take a breath, Grandmama dragged her away from Evie so fast that she couldn’t say goodbye.
Margaret lost count of how many guests she brushed past, and she had no time to apologize with Grandmama’s swift pace.
At last, they were out of the crowded space and in a corner where men were conversing and smoking cigars.
Grandmama stopped and wrapped her right arm around Margaret.
A man locked eyes with them as they approached, and he put out his cigar.
“Mr. Clarkson, I’d like you to meet my granddaughter, Margaret Nicholson.”
Margaret’s heart thundered in her chest, and her lungs burned as though they were running out of oxygen. This cannot be happening. Mr. Clarkson bowed as Margaret and Grandmama curtsied. His mustache curled upward as he grinned. His hair, once black, had faded into a smokier tone.
Mr. Clarkson reached out and took Margaret’s hand into his.
A shiver rolled down her spine as he unwelcomely planted a kiss on her gloved hand.
She had never been a fan of gloves, but at this moment, she had never been so grateful.
His dark eyes stared deeply into hers. She had looked forward to her first ball, but when her grandmother introduced her to a suitor her father’s age, the excitement drained away, leaving only discomfort.
“What a pleasure it is to finally meet you, Miss Nicholson. I have eagerly awaited to make your acquaintance.”
Margaret responded with a friendly smile, one she tried to make seem genuine. If only I had listened to Mama and attempted acting as a hobby like Marjorie. Margaret was then surprised by another embrace by Grandmama.
“I have another guest to greet,” she said. “Enjoy yourself, sweetheart. This is your night.”
Then Margaret was alone and trapped with Mr. Clarkson. His eyes were glued upon her, his grin continuing to grow. As he stepped closer, Margaret shuddered, a chill settling deep in her core. She rubbed her forearms while a sudden itch spread across her skin.
“So, Miss Nicholson, do tell me about yourself. How are you liking Richmond?’
Margaret cleared her throat. Her mouth was exceedingly dry, and it took a moment for her to speak. “I have enjoyed my time here, sir. I only wish it were under . . . different circumstances.”
Mr. Clarkson’s lips flattened. “Why yes. Forgive me. I’m afraid I was carried away by the lovely evening and forgot the tragedy lingering about. My sincere sympathies for your grandfather’s fading health.”
“Thank you, sir,” Margaret said. “Your sympathies are appreciated.”
“Might I ask, where is your dear grandfather?”
“Resting,” Margaret answered. “He was very insistent on tonight’s celebration. I confess I wish he could join us.”
“Forgive me for being so bold, Miss Nicholson, but from seeing you tonight, I can understand why he wanted to host a party. It is a dear misfortune to have a lovely woman like yourself out of society.”
Margaret’s cheeks flushed, sweat prickling beneath her attire. Mr. Clarkson was a very bold man, and his confidence made her cheeks rush with heat. She had never been spoken to in such a manner. Sadly, Mr. Clarkson wasn’t very amusing.
“You flatter me, Mr. Clarkson,” Margaret replied, imagining it would be something Marjorie would say. She only prayed he wouldn’t take it as a manner of flirting.
The music paused for a moment then started again with a slow melodic violin solo.
Pleasing to the ears, it made Margaret’s forearms sprout with bumps.
It was a different contrast to the heat of discomfort from the crowds and the forced company of Mr. Clarkson, but his leaning close and brushing her arm with his hand made the pleasure disappear.
“Would you care to dance, Miss Nicholson?” Mr. Clarkson asked.
Margaret desired to depart from Mr. Clarkson’s company, but her parents and sisters were nowhere in sight.
Where could she go without seeming rude?
Margaret peered at the dance floor from her peripherals.
One dance wouldn’t hurt. After all, it was her night.
She couldn’t let the magic die by being in an uncomfortable position.
Perhaps Mr. Clarkson wasn’t too bad of a dance partner.
“I’d be delighted, sir.”
Mr. Clarkson’s smile broadened as he extended his arm to Margaret.
She grasped it, and he led her to the open dance floor.
Margaret was taken aback by how quickly Mr. Clarkson wrapped his arm around her waist, nearly knocking her breathless.
This close, intimate contact with a man, especially one of his age, was entirely new to her.
She attempted to reassure herself by imagining her favorite fictional characters.
He’s not that bad, Margaret. Just close your eyes and pretend he’s Mr. Darcy or Mr. Bingley.
However, he resembled neither of those charming fictional characters.
Perhaps he was more like a Mr. Collins, a thought that made Margaret quietly chuckle.
To her surprise, Mr. Clarkson was an exceptional dance partner, his movements smooth and delicate. He wasn’t as terrible as his profile and persona.
“So, Mr. Clarkson, what do you do for a living?” Margaret asked, trying to lighten the mood.
“I own a textile factory in Norfolk,” Mr. Clarkson answered. “It was my father’s. When he passed, it went to me.”
“How lovely.”
“You know.” Mr. Clarkson scanned Margaret from head to toe. “That dress you are wearing is quite the eye-catcher. I am almost confident it came from my factory.”
Margaret stifled a gasp. Being so close to a stranger and being exposed by his close scanning—her bare shoulders and the tight outline of her figure on full display—made her shudder. The dress that made her feel confident and beautiful was now her curse.
“Oh, what a small world.” Margaret bit her lip as the conversation continued, praying she wouldn’t bite so hard she’d bust her lip.
Instead of enjoying the orchestra, she heard each detail about the business from the past to the present.
Apparently, it struggled during the war but was becoming popular again, creating lightweight and cheaper fabric.
Mr. Clarkson’s speech about women’s clothing and her figure made Margaret pray for deliverance.
The song was longer than usual. Five minutes had passed, and then another two went by. Still, Mr. Clarkson’s factory details went on and his admiration regarding Margaret’s appearance became tiresome. Margaret observed the other guests in the room, watching them converse and taste the refreshments.
Guests had parted ways, and one man stood in the left corner, speaking to two other gentlemen.
He moved his hands as he spoke animatedly.
Smiles were etched across his acquaintances’ faces as they nodded, absorbing each word.
Margaret wondered what the topic of conversation was and longed to be a part of it, at least to be entertained.
Margaret carefully studied the man and his features.
His dirty-blond hair was neatly combed, and it glistened under the lights.
He stood remarkably tall compared to the men he was conversing with, their gazes barely reaching his chest, while his broad shoulders added to his imposing presence.
At last, his eyes traveled towards the dance floor and locked with Margaret’s.
She quickly looked away, her cheeks burning.
The music had stopped. Margaret curtsied to her partner, and they walked side by side away from the floor.
“I hope my dancing skills were to your liking,” Mr. Clarkson said.
Margaret gave a tight nod, curtsying ever so slightly. “Yes, very much so.”
“Miss Nicholson,” a deep voice uttered from behind.
Margaret averted her attention to a heavier man with a trimmed beard and spectacles. His thin auburn hair was parted on the far side and combed over, covering his balding spaces. Margaret forced a smile.
The man bowed. “My name is Dr. Walter Fairfax. I have looked forward to making your acquaintance, ma’am.”
Margaret curtsied. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Dr. Fairfax.”
Mr. Clarkson moved closer to Margaret. His hand brushed against hers, causing her skin to prickle.
“I was hoping . . . if it’s not too much trouble . . . that I might take a turn to dance with you,” Dr. Fairfax stammered.