Chapter 20
“Margaret!”
Cecily all but flew across the room, her heavy skirts swishing as she seized her cousin in an embrace that nearly knocked the basket from Margaret’s hands.
“You are here at last!” Cecily cried, her voice bubbling with such delight that Margaret could not help but smile.
“I have been positively languishing. Do you know how dreadfully dull it has been without you? Mama has had nothing but sermons on posture and deportment to offer me, and Beatrice… well, Beatrice has perfected the art of sighing reproachfully whenever I so much as breathe too loudly.”
Margaret laughed, though her voice trembled with affection as Cecily seized her hands. “I have only been away a short while, Cecily. Surely London did not suffer so greatly. And if it had, I would not believe you capable of languishing. You look far too well-fed and bright-eyed for such a trial.”
“You wicked creature,” Cecily cried, drawing back only far enough to study her cousin’s face, her own expression turning mock-severe.
“Do not tease. You have no notion of my torment. How could you leave me to face London without you? Every ball, every musicale, every tea party… I was compelled to endure without my dearest conspirator. Do you know how intolerable it has been to suffer such tedium alone?”
“You did not perish,” came a dry voice from the doorway.
Both young ladies turned as Aunt Agnes swept into the room, her silver-gray silk rustling like waves on a pebbled shore.
She gave Cecily a look half fond, half scolding, though her eyes softened at the sight of her niece.
“You declared it an outrage, flung your gloves at poor Simmons, and demanded an extra slice of cake to steady your nerves. Hardly a deathbed performance.”
Cecily gasped, clasping a hand to her heart as though struck. “Mama! You wound me most cruelly. Must you always drag forth my less dignified moments? I was distressed, I assure you, and the cake was a necessity of survival.”
She leaned toward Margaret with a conspiratorial whisper, though loud enough for her mother to hear. “You see how she paints me as some greedy child when in truth I was wasting away from sisterly anguish.”
Margaret’s lips curved despite herself. Cecily had a gift for turning even a scolding into a performance.
Cecily tugged her toward the sofa, patting the seat beside her.
“Come, sit and tell me everything. Is Brighton as dreadful as I imagine? Were you wretchedly bored? Or…” She leaned closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Is it true your new husband has scandalized half the county with his hunting parties?”
“Cecily,” Aunt Agnes interjected, her tone measured but not unkind, “allow Margaret to breathe. She has scarcely removed her bonnet.”
Cecily only laughed and waved the remark aside, Margaret beside her as though they were still girls sharing secrets in the nursery. “Very well, I shall ask no more questions, yet. But you must know how dearly you were missed. London was half its usual brightness without you.”
“You have missed everything,” Cecily declared, her blue eyes alight with mischief.
“Lady Harrowby has eloped with her music master, and Parliament has been in an uproar, and Mrs. Dalloway insists her new gowns were stitched in Paris, though everyone knows they were made by Madame Fleur on Bond Street. And…” She broke off suddenly, eyes finally dropping to the wicker basket Margaret carried. “Oh, heavens. You brought her.”
“Of course, I brought her,” Margaret said serenely, though she adjusted the basket on her arm as Miss Fortune shifted within it. “Would you have me abandon her in Brighton?”
Cecily giggled. “I had rather thought dukes preferred carriages and coronets to cats in baskets.”
“Dukes may prefer what they like,” Margaret replied, lifting her chin with a faint smile. “But I will not be parted from her.”
Miss Fortune, as though in agreement, pushed her head above the basket’s rim and blinked imperiously at Cecily.
“Good heavens!” Cecily cried, reaching out to stroke the cat’s ears. “Your letters did not do her justice. She is quite the sovereign. I daresay she grows more regal with every hour. Just look at her! One could almost bow. If she were mine, I should crown her.”
“She would allow it,” Margaret said dryly. “On the condition that she sit upon the throne at all hours.”
It was then that Aunt Agnes spoke again, her eyes narrowing on the basket with amusement.
“I suppose, my dear, it is better than arriving with a cat than nothing at all. Still, a duchess ought to be seen with a child in her arms rather than lugging a creature about like a nursemaid. One wonders what impression you mean to give.”
With that, she swept from the chamber, skirts whispering over the polished floor.
Margaret sat very still, her hand resting on the wicker lid as though she might shield its small occupant from such words.
A child. How easily spoken, as though one might summon love and family on command.
She knew the truth; she was already branded mad, unlucky, and a danger to any man fool enough to care for her.
She could scarcely trust that her marriage to Sebastian would last beyond its bargain, so to dream of a child was to invite heartbreak she dared not court.
No, Miss Fortune was all she could allow herself.
A cat could not be cursed by her presence, nor disappointed by her failings.
Better to have found her now, in youth, than to sit alone in some withered age, grasping at companionship too late.
The creature’s simple affection was the only kind Margaret might ever be permitted.
The sharp clatter of the door broke her reverie. Beatrice entered, her bonnet dangling by its ribbons, her face carefully arranged into composure that fooled no one.
Margaret rose, hopeful, but her cousin only offered a curt nod.
“You are returned earlier than expected,” Cecily said, curiosity brightening her tone.
Margaret, seeking to close the distance, added gently, “How did it go?”
“A wasted afternoon,” Beatrice replied shortly, tugging at her gloves. She would not meet Margaret’s eyes, nor expand upon her words.
Margaret tilted her head. “An afternoon meant for company, then?”
Beatrice’s lips curved in something too bitter to be called a smile. “Company that found better amusement elsewhere, no doubt.”
Margaret hesitated, smoothing her skirts as though the folds might supply her with words. “Perhaps… perhaps he was called away on some pressing matter?”
Beatrice gave a low laugh, devoid of mirth. “Do not gild it, Margaret. A gentleman rarely forgets what he wishes to remember.”
Cecily frowned and linked her arm through her sister’s. “Perhaps he was unworthy of your company.”
“Or perhaps,” Beatrice said, her voice taut, “I am simply too much… or not enough. Whichever it may be, I cannot seem to get it right.” Her arms folded tight across her bodice, a shield against the room, and she turned toward the window as though the glass might hold an answer.
Margaret spoke gently. “I think I understand more than you know.”
Beatrice gave a sharp, brittle laugh. “You? Forgive me, but how could you? You claim you understand, but you are pitied before you open your mouth and feared before you have done a thing. You do nothing but hide behind your madness, your cursed reputation, and still you manage to snare a duke. I give everything, I could dance myself ragged, speak until my throat breaks, and no one would see me. It is never enough.”
The chamber cooled with her tone, silence pressing heavy between them. Cecily shifted, her gaze darting between her sister and Margaret, but she found no footing in the frost that lingered.
“You mistake me, Beatrice,” Margaret said softly, shaking her head. “What I have is no gift. It is a burden I would lay down in an instant if only I could.”
At length, a soft thump drew their notice. Miss Fortune had leaped gracefully onto a nearby chair, her tail curling like a plume. Cecily seized upon the diversion at once.
“Good heavens, Margaret,” she exclaimed, reaching out to stroke the cat’s ears. “She follows the turn of our voices so intently. I almost believe she understands us.”
Beatrice turned at last, drawn not by their voices but by the cat’s steady, regal stare. Something in her gaze faltered; she crossed the room slowly, then, without a word, sank to her knees.
“Your letters did not do her justice,” she whispered, her hand hovering before daring to touch the silken fur. “She looks… content. Safe. I wonder what that feels like.”
The confession slipped free like a secret. Margaret’s heart ached at the rawness of it. She reached out, laying a gentle hand on Beatrice’s shoulder.
“You are not failing,” she murmured. “We are each pressed in ways no one sees. Mine differ from yours, but the weight can feel the same.”
Beatrice’s hand stilled in the cat’s fur. For a moment, her eyes darkened, her lips twitching with the start of a scowl—but it faltered. “I have been cruel to you. Harsh, when you least deserved it. Forgive me. My temper is no armor, though I wield it as one.”
Margaret touched her sleeve. “We are all more brittle than we wish to appear.”
Beatrice gave a hollow laugh, low and bitter.
“Brittle, yes. That is what I am. A brittle shell that must always gleam as if untouched. I smile, I laugh, I nod in all the right places… and every day it grows heavier. They tell me I am fortunate, that I ought to be content with so much comfort and so many opportunities. But what does it avail me when none of it leads where it ought?”
Cecily had grown restless halfway through the conversation and slipped out, trailing after the cat who had padded disdainfully toward the corridor. Margaret scarcely noticed her departure, too intent on Beatrice’s strained voice and the glimmer of unshed tears in her eyes.
Beatrice’s fingers twisted the velvet cushion as though wringing out her own thoughts. “I am nineteen, Margaret. Do you know how the matrons speak of that age? How they look at me as though I were fruit too long left upon the branch?”
Margaret said nothing, and Beatrice’s voice sharpened in the silence.
“For a time, I even believed it was you who spoiled things. That cursed shadow that clings to you… I thought, perhaps, it infected me too. No offence, Margaret. But then you left… and would you believe? Matters grew worse. I am watched more closely than ever. It is as though your absence has left me naked to their judgment.”
She lowered her eyes, voice trembling. “Even Cecily… Cecily, who is but seventeen, already has admirers putting in good words with Mama.” Her chest rose and fell with a sigh. “And I… I have none.”
Margaret’s heart ached at the tremor in her cousin’s voice, but she stayed quiet, letting Beatrice spill what had long festered.
Her throat worked as she swallowed, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “I am tired, Margaret. Tired of trying to be perfect, tired of fearing I am failing, tired of believing that perhaps I am simply not wanted.”
Margaret’s chest ached. She slid closer, gathering her cousin’s hand between both of hers.
“Beatrice,” she said softly, “you are wanted. Perhaps not in the way society demands, perhaps not yet in the way you dream, but you are not invisible nor unloved. If they cannot see your worth, it is their blindness, not your failure.”
The words startled her as they left her mouth, for in truth, she hardly believed them herself. Nothing good ever lasted for her. And yet—when she looked at Beatrice, pale and undone beside her, she found she wanted to believe it, if only for her sister’s sake.
Beatrice gave a shaky breath, tears slipping down her cheeks. “You sound so certain.”
“I am not certain of anything,” Margaret admitted with a faint, rueful smile. “Except that you are more than enough, whether the world chooses to acknowledge it or not.”
For a moment, silence lingered between them, softened by the rhythm of their breathing. Then the door creaked, and Cecily tumbled in with the cat in her arms, the poor creature hanging like a fur muff, legs splayed in every direction.
“Look,” Cecily announced triumphantly, “she loves me best. Miss Fortune of Brighton loves me.” The cat gave a miserable yowl of protest.
Both sisters stared—and then, quite against their will, a laugh broke from Margaret, joined almost instantly by Beatrice’s. The sound, wet with tears yet bright all the same, filled the chamber until even Cecily giggled, oblivious to the heaviness she had disrupted.