Chapter 28
Margaret’s breath caught as she lifted the cushion from the window-seat and found nothing beneath.
A tremor shot through her fingers as she dropped it to the floor.
She hurried to the escritoire, tugging drawers open with a force that rattled the handles, half-mad with the thought that Miss Fortune might somehow have wedged herself inside.
“Miss Fortune?” Her voice cracked, raw with urgency. “Miss Fortune!”
Her throat burned. She could not breathe properly due to the tightness in her chest. The room seemed to close in upon her as the silence was unbearable.
Beatrice stepped in at that moment. “Margaret?” She crossed quickly to her side, alarm in her eyes.
“What has happened? You look…” She faltered, seeing Margaret kneeling on the carpet, skirts pooled around her, peering beneath the table as if the creature might be hiding in the shadows. “What are you looking for?”
“My cat,” Margaret gasped. Her hands trembled as she pushed aside a chair. “She was here this morning. Oh, Beatrice, what if she has slipped out? What if she is lost?”
Beatrice dropped down beside her, taking Margaret’s shaking hands into her own. Her voice was calm and steady, a rock against the fear. “Dearest, hush. We shall find her. Cats do not vanish into thin air. Come, let us look together.”
They searched the corridor, the parlor, even beneath the stairs, calling the little creature’s name until the sound grew hoarse on Margaret’s tongue. Still, no answering patter of paws, no soft mewl.
Margaret stumbled into the drawing room, her back against the wall.
She pressed her palms hard over her eyes as though she could blot out the terror.
A sob broke loose, raw and ungovernable, and another tumbled after until she was shuddering with them, her whole frame bent under the weight.
“Miss Fortune. Oh, please…” Her voice fractured, barely sounded at all.
At last, Beatrice straightened, her patience thinning. “Margaret, it is only a cat. I’m sure she’s somewhere around. Do not make yourself ill over this.”
But Margaret shook her head violently, heart pounding in her ears. She could scarcely see for the blur of her tears. “You do not understand. If I lose her… she is all I have left…” The words broke, unbidden, before she could catch them back.
The door swung wide. Cecily appeared, cheeks flushed, her hair tumbling from its ribbon, and in her arms, supremely unconcerned, lounged Miss Fortune.
Margaret gave a strangled cry of relief, stumbling to her feet. She nearly tore the cat from Cecily’s grasp, clutching her so tightly the creature gave an indignant yowl. But Margaret pressed her face into the warm fur, her whole body shaking.
“Good heavens,” Cecily said, blinking at the scene before her. “What on earth has happened? You would think a highwayman had burst in.” Her brow furrowed, flicking between Margaret and the cat. “Is this all… because she chose my lap instead of yours?”
Margaret could not answer at once. She could only hold Miss Fortune closer, as though the cat’s soft purr might anchor her to the earth.
“Margaret.” Beatrice’s voice was gentle but probing. “This fear… it is more than for a cat, is it not?”
“No,” Margaret said quickly, too quickly. She pressed her cheek to Miss Fortune’s head as though the creature could shield her from further questions.
Beatrice studied her cousin for a long moment, her eyes clear with knowing. “It is Sebastian, is it not?”
Margaret stiffened. “No.” The word came sharp, hot. “No, Beatrice. It is nothing of the sort.”
Cecily arched a brow, folding her arms. “Then why speak as though you had lost the last living soul who cared for you?”
The words struck like a dart. Margaret’s throat closed, but she forced her lips together, refusing to yield.
Beatrice spoke first, soft as a sigh. “He cared for you, Margaret. We have all seen it.”
“Yes,” Cecily added gently. “And you cared for him. Deny it if you must, but we are not blind.”
Margaret clutched Miss Fortune closer, burying her face in the silken fur to hide the sudden heat in her eyes. They could not know how those words cut, how they opened a wound she had tried to bind with silence.
Beatrice reached, laid a hand over her arm. “You left in pain, I know. But pain does not mean it has ended. Do not close the door so swiftly. He would come for you if you but let him.”
“Yes,” Cecily said, leaning forward, her tone almost pleading now. “Go back to him. Whatever storm has passed between you, it’s better to weather it together than to wither apart. Do not tell me you mean to live the rest of your life with only that cat for company.”
Margaret’s breath hitched, her composure wavering. She looked down at the creature in her arms, purring with indifferent contentment, and the weight of their words pressed so heavily she thought she might break beneath it.
At last, she lifted her chin, though her hands trembled where they clutched the cat. “My marriage…” Her throat closed on the word, and she pressed her lips together before forcing them open again. “It was a joke. That is the truth of it. I will not. I cannot return.”
The sound of it startled even her. So absolute. So cold. Yet inside, the words bled like an open wound. If I repeated them enough, perhaps they would harden into reality. Perhaps the echo of his voice, the memory of his touch, would quiet at last.
Cecily shook her head. “You cannot mean it. I have seen the way he looked at you. A man does not look so if all is lost.”
Margaret gave a brittle laugh, cracked almost into a sob.
“You saw what you wished. What I saw is a life doomed from its first breath. Do you not understand? If I stay, I bring ruin with me. Madness does not keep to itself; it consumes. I will not tether him to such a fate. Better he be free of me than chained to my curse.”
Her gaze burned into the fire, though she hardly saw it. And better I be free of Ravenscourt, where shadows breed and the past whispers of blood.
Beatrice’s fingers tightened on hers, firm and imploring. “And what of love, Margaret? Would you cast it aside so lightly?”
Silence lingered, broken only by Miss Fortune’s indignant purr as Margaret’s arms tightened around her.
Margaret’s lips parted, then pressed into a thin line.
When she spoke, her voice was low, raw. “Lightly? Do you think it light to cut away the very thing that keeps me breathing? To sever my heart from his, though it tears me with every moment? I do not cast it aside. I bury it. I bury it because love is not enough to shield him from what follows me.”
Beatrice reached for her hand, her touch steady, almost pleading. “Are you certain? Or are you only afraid?”
Margaret’s eyes shimmered then fell shut as though she could hide within the darkness. Afraid. The word burned because it was true. Afraid of loving him, afraid of losing him, afraid that what she felt could not survive his world or his mother’s gaze.
She drew a shaky breath, her voice dropping, quieter now, almost breaking. “It is over. Please do not ask me again.”
The words wavered, like glass about to splinter, but she clung to them all the same.
For a heartbeat, no one spoke. Then Cecily gave a small huff, reaching out to flick Miss Fortune’s ear. “Well, if nothing else, this drama has confirmed what I long suspected.”
Margaret blinked at her through damp lashes. “What is that?”
“That this cat thrives upon chaos. She looks positively smug.”
Miss Fortune flicked her tail, as though to seal the observation. Despite herself, Margaret let out a weak, broken laugh, and at once her cousins drew closer, enclosing her in their circle.
Several days had slipped by in a blur of sameness, each one marked by Margaret’s quiet retreat from the world.
This morning, she sat curled in the window seat, absently stroking Miss Fortune’s silken ears, her gaze wandering over the garden without truly seeing it.
The little black ball purred contentedly, a weight of warmth against her lap, when the door opened without warning.
Aunt Agnes entered, composed as ever, her dark silk skirts whispering across the floor.
“Margaret,” she said briskly, her sharp gaze sweeping the room. “And you two as well. Cecily, Beatrice. Just the company I hoped to find. There is a matter that requires attending to.”
Margaret’s hand stilled in the cat’s fur. “What matter?”
Agnes folded her hands, her chin lifted in that unbending way that brooked no argument.
“Madam Ellery has written. She has a set of new muslins and bonnets just in from Paris. I cannot leave the house this morning, and the season will not wait. You three must go and select what is needed. It will not do for our household to be wanting in appearances.”
Cecily nearly clapped her hands. “New muslins! Oh, Margaret, it will be delicious to see the fashions before anyone else does.”
Beatrice’s eyes brightened with quiet triumph. “And Mother never entrusts us with purchases of consequence. This is positively an adventure.”
Margaret’s stomach tightened. She clutched Miss Fortune closer, burying her fingers in her fur as if anchoring herself. “Surely the maid could go—”
“Nonsense.” Agnes cut her off neatly. “A lady must be seen. A maid can fetch ribbons, but gowns? Bonnets? That requires an eye and a presence. Besides, the three of you will be noticed, and that will do us no harm.”
Margaret shook her head. “I am hardly fit to be seen. Truly, Aunt, I have no wish to parade myself like a mannequin for society.”
Cecily darted forward and tugged at her arm. “Margaret, you must come! We shall sit in the carriage together and gossip the whole way, and then argue dreadfully over which bonnet suits you best. You’ll not escape us.”
“I would rather stay here,” Margaret said firmly, pulling her arm back. “Miss Fortune requires my care. She has grown very attached to me, you see.”