Chapter 30
The morning crept by in stillness, broken only by the faint scratch of Margaret’s needle through linen and the gentle strains of the pianoforte where Cecily sat attempting a sonata with more diligence than skill.
A wrong note stumbled here and there, yet she pressed gamely on, her brow furrowed in concentration.
Margaret sat near the window, her embroidery frame balanced in her lap, though her hand moved without care. A stem left unfinished, a flower begun and abandoned—the design faltered as her thoughts drifted, thread looping loosely as though it, too, had grown weary.
At her feet, Miss Fortune stretched herself upon the rug, paws twitching as she batted idly at the trailing thread that had fallen from the basket.
Now and then, she mewed softly, a plaintive sound that seemed almost to reproach Margaret’s inattention.
The fire burned low in the grate, giving little warmth, and the gray light beyond the window only deepened the hush within the chamber.
Cecily looked up from her pianoforte practice, her fingers pausing on the keys. “You will ruin that blossom if you stitch so distractedly,” she said with a smile meant to be light.
Margaret’s lips curved faintly. “Then it shall resemble me, a thing half-wrought, neither one nor the other.”
Beatrice, sprawled indolently in a chair with a book resting upside-down on her lap, glanced over and said with unusual brightness, “That shade of thread suits you, Margaret. You ought to wear more of it—it would set off your eyes delightfully.”
Margaret did not answer at once. She drew her thread once more, slow and uneven, as though each pull wearied her.
Beatrice glanced over from her chair and gave a light laugh. “Even Miss Fortune has more energy than you, Margaret. Look at her positively performing for attention.”
Margaret lowered her gaze, the corner of her mouth stirring despite herself as the cat sprang up to chase her own tail in dizzying circles.
A long silence stretched, broken at last when Beatrice let her book fall shut with a decisive thump.
“This is intolerably dull,” she declared, swinging her feet to the floor.
“We ought to do something positively diverting. A turn about Hyde Park, perhaps… or a visit to Gunter’s for ices.
Even an hour at the milliner’s would be preferable.
My bonnet is practically begging for new ribbons. ”
Cecily glanced up from the keys, seizing the thought with eagerness. “Oh yes! Or we might call upon the Harrows—Mrs. Harrow always contrives to make her table sparkle with laughter. Or we could ride—anything but sitting still another moment.”
Beatrice gave Miss Fortune a scratch, a smile tugging at her lips. “Yes, something to remind us we are not cloistered nuns. Anything beyond these four walls must be an improvement.”
Their chatter dwindled as both turned toward Margaret.
She had not moved, her gaze still fixed on the loose stem of her embroidery.
Her silence pressed upon them like a weight.
Cecily flushed faintly, closing the pianoforte with a gentle hand.
Beatrice looked down, her voice softer. “Forgive us. We chatter like selfish children, while you—”
Margaret forced her lips into the shape of a smile, though it touched nothing in her eyes.
“Forgive me. I would not spoil your gaiety. You should go—take the air, enjoy the day. I find I have no appetite for company just now.”
For a moment, Cecily studied her, searching the careful mask, then she inclined her head with a small, steady nod. “I understand,” she said softly. “We’ll not leave you unless you wish it.”
The words were true, and yet a quiet weight pressed in her chest. To face the bright crush of London risked running into him. Or worse, into sharp-eyed acquaintances eager with questions she could not bear to answer.
Each street, each salon, each turning might hold his shadow, and she had not the strength to weather it. Better the sickening silence of this chamber, however heavy, than the chance of meeting his gaze and breaking entirely.
Margaret gave a sad smile, looking down at the drooping flower in her embroidery hoop.
“If I stepped into society now, I fear I should shatter at the first whisper. You remember what it was like the last time we went out together—every look, every laugh turning sharp the moment we passed. I cannot weather that again. Better to spare them the spectacle.”
Cecily swallowed visibly, but before she could reply, a knock sounded at the door. The butler entered, a silver tray in his hands. “Your Grace,” he said, bowing low, “a note has just arrived, sent from Grosvenor Square. The Dowager Duchess requests the honor of your company for tea this afternoon.”
The tray gleamed as he held it out. The seal, heavy with crimson wax, pressed like a weight upon Margaret’s gaze.
Margaret took the note with steady fingers, though her heart gave a strange, heavy beat. The seal bore the Ravenscourt crest.
Beatrice leaned forward at once, eyes alight with curiosity. “From your formidable mother-in-law? That promises entertainment—or doom.”
Cecily shot her a look, but Margaret scarcely heard. She broke the wax and unfolded the paper. The lines within were few, written in the Dowager Duchess’s bold, imperious hand:
You will attend me for tea this afternoon at my townhouse. There is much to discuss.
There was no signature beyond her title, no plea, no softness. Only command.
Margaret let the paper fall into her lap. Her mouth was dry, her pulse quickening. The very thought of sitting opposite the Dowager Duchess… Sebastian’s mother… stirred unease that made her breath falter. Yet etiquette afforded no refusal. A summons from the Dowager Duchess was not a request.
Cecily reached for her hand. “Must you go?”
Margaret folded the letter once more, carefully, though her fingers trembled. “Yes. I must.”
The Wexley carriage turned into Berkeley Square at the appointed hour, its wheels rattling against the cobbles. The air pressed close, heavy despite the open window, but it was not heat that made her breath come shallow.
The townhouse loomed ahead, stately in its white stone, the Ravenscourt crest above the iron-banded door gleaming even in the weak afternoon light. The sight alone was enough to twist Margaret’s stomach.
When the carriage halted, a liveried footman descended the steps at once. He opened the door with a bow. “Your Grace.”
Margaret inclined her head faintly as she stepped down, her skirts brushing the stone. Inside, the marble-floored hall was cool and hushed, the faint fragrance of beeswax and sandalwood lingering in the air. Another servant took her gloves, and yet another guided her toward the drawing room.
The doors were opened, and Margaret entered.
The drawing room was as Margaret had expected it to be.
It held high ceilings painted with pale garlands, chairs so stiff they looked intended to correct the spine, and not a single cushion or rug out of place.
It was a room built for appearances, not comfort.
The Dowager Duchess of Ravenscourt sat already in her place, as though she had been waiting, a vision of commanding elegance in dark silk trimmed with jet beads.
A silver teapot gleamed upon the tray before her, steam rising in elegant spirals.
She did not rise, but her keen and assessing eyes fixed on Margaret at once.
“Your Grace,” she said, her voice smooth but edged, like velvet stretched over steel. “At last.”
Margaret dipped into a graceful curtsey, her heart knocking against her ribs. “Your Grace.”
“Come, sit,” the Dowager directed, gesturing to the chair opposite. “We shall dispense with ceremony; the tea is already poured.”
Margaret obeyed, folding her skirts carefully, her fingers moving almost mechanically, though her stomach roiled with tension.
“You will take sugar,” the elder lady observed, not asked, and dropped a lump into Margaret’s cup herself before lifting her own. “There are matters we must speak of plainly. I trust you understand why I summoned you.”
The china cup set before her trembled slightly in its saucer as she lifted it. The Dowager’s gaze did not waver; it pinned her as surely as a hawk fixes upon its prey.
Margaret’s throat felt tight, but she forced her voice to steadiness. “I presume it is not for idle chatter, Your Grace.”
The Dowager’s lips curved, though it was no smile. “Indeed, not. Let us speak plainly, then. The Ravenscourt name cannot weather further disturbance. Do you comprehend me?”
Margaret’s fingers tightened around her cup, porcelain warm against her skin. “Perfectly.”
For a moment, silence ruled. Only the faint clink of china broke it as the Dowager stirred her tea with exquisite leisure. Her gaze, unwavering, rested upon Margaret with the unsettling patience of one who need never hurry.
At last, she spoke. “You look pale, child. The country air does not agree with you? Or is it London that has worn you thin?”
Margaret’s lips parted, but no words came. She turned her eyes down, as though the pale steam rising from her cup required her attention. To answer either way would feel like a confession.
The Dowager made a faint sound in her throat, something between pity and disapproval. “I suppose it is natural. You have endured… a great deal. Loss upon loss. I will not deny that.”
Margaret inclined her head slightly, unsure whether gratitude was expected.
The words themselves were sympathetic, yet the tone was not.
To thank her felt absurd, yet silence seemed no safer.
She lowered her gaze to the rippling surface of her tea, pretending great care in steadying the trembling cup.
The Dowager’s sharp eyes narrowed. “Though I confess, I was surprised to find my letter answered from Wexley House. Is Duncaster House so inhospitable that you cannot bear its walls?”
Margaret steadied her voice. “I thought it best… for now… that I remain with my aunt.”