Chapter Fifteen
Perhaps it was selfish, but Maggie hoped and wished with all her might that the weather would turn and the picnic would be cancelled. There were rumours of a storm sweeping in from the coast, black and heavy and decidedly ominous.
Whatever truth there was to those rumours, none was fulfilled that afternoon. The sky was clear and blue, not a single cloud scudding across its perfect expanse. The sun shone warmly; the flowers nodded in a cheerful breeze. It was, in short, a perfect day.
Maggie’s heart sank a little lower with every passing moment. She readied Emma for the outing, smiling as the little girl babbled with excitement.
“I’ve never been on a picnic before,” Emma said matter-of-factly.
Maggie paused in the act of braiding her hair. “Never?”
Emma shook her head. “Jenny wanted to take me on one ages ago, when Miss Swaddle was my governess, but she said there wasn’t any room in the schedule. She said she would think about it, but Jenny said that when adults say that, they really mean no.”
Maggie bit her lip. “Not always,” she said gently. “But at least you’re going now. Come, it’s time to go down.”
A pang of guilt settled in Maggie’s chest. What right had she to wish the day undone? Emma was a child, eager for adventure. Let her have it. Maggie would simply endure any slights that came her way.
On the landing, Emma darted ahead, and Maggie caught her own reflection in the mirror. A plain woman looked back at her—a governess through and through, in her dull gown and simple straw bonnet. Not quite a servant, not quite a lady. Someone easy to overlook.
A lump rose in her throat, but she turned briskly away, forcing a smile.
“Are you ready, Emma? They might leave without us!”
The picnickers had gathered in the foyer, all chatter and laughter. Emma wove between them, bright and untroubled, while Maggie lingered near the wall, trying not to draw notice.
She flinched when a tall, elegant woman appeared beside her.
“Lady Westbrook,” Maggie said quickly, inclining her head.
Lady Westbrook regarded her with cool amusement. “You always incline your head. It is customary to curtsey to your betters, you know.”
Colour rose in Maggie’s cheeks. “I beg your pardon if I’ve offended you.”
Lady Westbrook waved a hand. “This is my nephew’s house, and you are his servant. He’s never cared much for formality, and it is not my place to correct that. Let me speak plainly, Miss Winter.”
Maggie’s stomach tightened. She said nothing, waiting.
“You are a pretty girl,” Lady Westbrook said at last, still not quite meeting her eyes.
“And you are very good with Emma. My nephew, like most men, is susceptible to such qualities. He adores his niece, and you are attached to her. It is only natural that he should be fond of you for it. But today, I would ask that you remain quiet—unobtrusive. Let Lady Constance attend to Emma. Just for this afternoon. What do you say?”
Maggie met the woman’s eye squarely. It was clear what was being asked: to step back and do nothing, so that Lady Constance might display her sweet, feminine qualities before the duke—prove her worth by tending to the child, the surest path to his regard.
She realised that Lady Westbrook was waiting for a response. This was not a command given idly, then, but one that demanded acknowledgement. Maggie cleared her throat, summoning her composure.
“I have no wish to distract anyone, Lady Westbrook,” Maggie managed at last. “I’ll keep to myself. But Emma is my charge, and if she needs me, I’ll not stand idle.”
Lady Westbrook blinked. She nodded slowly, eyeing Maggie with open curiosity.
“Very well. A fair bargain. Good day, Miss Winter.”
And just like that, she was gone—sweeping toward the door where the party was gathering in the sunshine. The duke followed soon after, Lady Constance clinging to his arm.
Emma skipped between them all, darting back now and then to clasp Maggie’s hand.
“Hold my hand, my love,” Lady Constance called as they crossed the courtyard, extending a silk-gloved hand.
“I want to walk with Miss Winter,” Emma pouted, and returned promptly to Maggie’s side. Maggie didn’t resist; she held the little hand all the way to the hill.
The day was indeed glorious. The grass gleamed in the sun, and a soft breeze ran whispering through the trees. Below, the lake shimmered like a fallen piece of sky.
Ahead, footmen trudged up the slope, bearing hampers, chairs, and baskets. By the time they reached the crest, everyone was a little breathless. The footmen spread blankets and began to arrange the picnic.
Lord Farendale dropped heavily into a chair that immediately began to sink into the soft ground.
“Set this chair on firmer earth, you fool!” he bellowed at a startled servant.
Lady Constance ignored him, tugging the duke toward the edge to admire the view.
“Can I make a flower crown?” Emma asked suddenly.
“Of course,” Maggie smiled down at her.
“I don’t know how to make them, though. Will you teach me?”
Before she could reply, Lady Westbrook’s smooth voice intruded.
“Lady Constance is ever so clever at making flower crowns. Why not ask her, my dear?”
Emma frowned. “I want Maggie to teach me.”
Lady Westbrook’s glare landed on Maggie like an accusation. Biting her lip, Maggie forced a smile.
“I am certain Lady Constance makes ever such nice flower crowns. Better than mine. You should let her show you.”
Emma did not seem pleased, but she shrugged anyway, sighing.
“Very well.”
Lady Westbrook smiled, pleased. Emma scurried off to collect the flowers from her crown.
“Well done,” Lady Westbrook murmured approvingly.
Maggie met her gaze coolly. “I only want what is best for Miss Emma.”
Lady Westbrook’s smile wavered, just faintly. “Quite so. You may sit.”
There were not enough chairs for everyone, so Maggie knelt neatly at the corner of a blanket, folding her hands in her lap and wishing the afternoon would pass as quickly as possible.
Despite the steepness of the hill they had climbed up, the other side of the hill had a gentle, even slope downwards, all the way to the bank of the lake. The water could be heard from here, lapping at the shore.
Flowers grew thickly on that side of the hill, and that was where Emma had gone, scampering between clumps of wildflowers.
Food was served on delicate china plates, and Maggie found herself tasked with pouring out the tea.
“It’s a pleasant enough view up here, I must confess,” Lord Farendale remarked, holding out his empty cup towards Maggie without looking at her. She clenched her jaw and poured him a cup, resisting the urge to pour too much.
“I’ll pour my own,” the duke said abruptly when she reached for his cup. “You’re here to mind Emma, not serve the table.”
The quiet that followed was broken by Emma’s return, her arms overflowing with flowers. She ran straight to Maggie and dropped them into her lap.
“I want to make a crown for Uncle,” she said firmly. “He’ll look splendid in one.”
Lady Westbrook’s eyes were on her again, sharp as pins. Maggie swallowed and forced a gentle smile.
“Why don’t you ask Lady Constance to help you?”
Emma frowned. “I want you to help me.”
“How about this—you leave me some flowers, and I’ll make one crown, while Lady Constance shows you how to make another. We’ll see whose is best, shall we?”
Emma sighed. “Very well.”
She scampered across the blanket and deposited herself with a thump between the duke and Lady Constance.
Lady Constance threw a quick, triumphant smile in Maggie’s direction.
She thinks she has won whatever battle she believes we’re engaged in, Maggie realised with a jolt of annoyance. She believes I am conceding to her.
She felt the duke’s eyes on her, too, almost like a weight. She avoided meeting his gaze. It seemed reckless, somehow.
Suddenly desperate to occupy herself with something, Maggie picked up some of the stray blooms and began winding them into a flower crown.
Conversation bloomed around her in a comfortable buzz as she worked, the crown taking shape. Every now and then, Emma’s voice would pitch above the others.
“Oh, no, you have broken the stem!”
Maggie glanced up in time to see Lady Constance try to twist a flower into place, only to have the head pop off and roll sadly across the picnic blanket. The woman’s face was reddened and annoyed, and her flower crown was barely a few inches long, twisted and half-dead already.
Emma was watching with a pouting lip, arms folded.
“You aren’t very good at this,” she observed bluntly.
Lady Constance glared at her. “I would be, if you’d stop pulling at me! You must let me concentrate.”
“My dear lady,” the duke said mildly, “I thought you meant to teach her.”
Lady Constance forced a brittle smile, but the moment his gaze shifted, she shot Emma a look so dark that Maggie flinched.
“I’ll fetch more flowers,” Emma muttered, climbing to her feet. “You’ve ruined all of these.”
Without waiting for a reply, Emma took off at a run towards the lake. The best flowers, Maggie noticed, grew close to the edge, and she hoped that Emma would have the sense not to stray too close.
Red-faced and clearly embarrassed, Lady Constance threw the ruined flowers aside.
“Well, what am I to do?” Lady Constance demanded, brushing at her gown. “You are teaching that child dreadful manners, Miss Winter. Don’t you think so, Papa?”
“Yes, quite dreadful,” Lord Farendale grunted, thrusting his cup out again. Maggie ignored it.
“Take this as a lesson, Miss Winter,” Lady Constance went on sweetly. “You had better improve, or else—”
“Or else what?” the duke interrupted.
Silence fell over the group. Lady Constance’s eyes went very wide, and she glanced around the picnic blanket, looking for support. When none came, she gave a nervous laugh.
“Your Grace, I only meant to draw your attention to poor, sweet Emma’s tutelage. It must be said—”
“It must be said,” he cut across her, “that Miss Winter is perfectly capable of her post.” His tone was cool, even dangerous.
Lady Constance recoiled a little, but Maggie felt almost as if she wanted to lean closer, as if towards a warm fire on a cold day.
“I…”
“The task here was to teach Emma how to make flower crowns,” the duke continued, nodding towards Maggie, “and Miss Winter seems to have made quite a pretty one.”
All eyes fell upon the perfect circle of daisies resting on Maggie’s lap.
“Where is the child, by the way?” Lady Farendale spoke up. It was the first time she’d spoken all morning. When Maggie glanced at her, she had her gaze fixed on the distant lake.
Maggie rose to her feet without thinking. Emma had reached the very edge of the lake and was bending over a patch of flowers.
It was not proper for a lady to shout—that, everybody knew. Fortunately, Maggie was no longer a lady.
Cupping her hands around her mouth, she shouted.
“Emma! Stay back from the edge!”
The ladies gasped.
“Good gracious,” Lady Constance murmured. Maggie ignored her.
Emma did not seem to have heard, so Maggie stepped off the picnic blanket and began to walk briskly towards her.
“Wait, Miss Winter!” Lady Westbrook called. “Let Lady Constance—”
But before she could finish, Emma’s foot slipped. A splash rang out, and ripples spread across the glittering water.
“She’s fallen in,” Maggie said numbly. Then louder, shrill with panic: “She’s fallen in!”
She broke into a run, skirts hauled high above her knees. The distance between the lake and the picnic spot seemed to stretch endlessly before her.
Then something rushed past her in a blur and gust of wind.
The duke—Neil—tore past her, stripping off his coat as he went, and without a moment’s hesitation, plunged into the lake.