Chapter 2 #2
She likely couldn’t pick him out of a crowd, and he wasn’t too certain he would recognize her either… except he could… he’d kept track of her comings and goings… from a distance.
Oblivious to his father’s presence, he began to read, commencing with the letter he held in his hand, and found that, in the most recent, written within the past two years, there was no mention of Gabriel at all.
But he pulled out a few more and found one that was written soon after his departure.
The entire letter was an inquiry of him: How did he fare at school?
Did he ever ask about her? Did he like his new friends?
Had anyone thought to send him a blanket?
Because in winter one could never have enough blankets.
He glanced up, his gaze drawn toward the rocker, to the blanket his mother had sent him that first winter after he’d gone to school and his eyes stung.
His father seemed to understand what he was thinking. “Your mother wept for weeks after you left. When Margaret suggested sending a blanket, she commenced to stitching it at once, and she and your sisters worked night and day to complete it. It was a good idea.”
Gabriel turned to look into his father’s eyes.
They were red-rimmed over the memory he’d shared, but full of affection.
“I’ve never said this to you, Gabe. Perhaps I’ll never have the chance to say it again.
.. I love you, son. Anything we did, we did because we thought it was the right thing to do. ”
“I know, Da,” Gabriel said, as he reached into the box again, eager to learn more.
He searched for and found a few more written about the same time: more of the same page-long inquiries, only vaguely aware that his father rose from the chair.
“I realize it’s been a long time, but read them all, and I think you’ll know what to do.
In the end, a man must do what he must, son. Ken?”
Gabriel nodded, and his father left him to peruse the letters in privacy.
The majority had been written during the first three years after his departure for Eton.
And then, very slowly, they’d dwindled. By the final few years, her letters had grown sparse, nor had she asked after him any longer. A tinge of melancholy passed over him.
If he closed his eyes... he could almost remember the way she’d looked that day when she’d told him she could no longer see him... the anguished expression on her lovely face... her beautiful hair shining beneath the noonday sun, her green eyes sparkling with diamond-like tears.
He could not forget the way it made him feel.
Somehow, through all their childhood together, he’d managed to overlook the disparaging differences in the sizes of their homes.
He’d forgotten... every time she’d smiled at him.
.. that he’d had holes in his breeches, and sleeves that were much too short.
She, on the other hand, had worn silks with fragile white lace.
He’d failed to comprehend what it had meant that whilst she’d had servants to tend her, his family did the serving.
And then, for the first time in Gabriel’s life, he’d been made painfully aware of the differences between them…
that day, in his innocence, he’d promised never to forget her.
God knows he’d tried, despite his vow. She’d promised never to forget him, too…
He stared at the letters scattered over his desk now—so many letters. She’d kept her promise for so long, and Gabriel realized that he’d failed her. But he could still make amends. It wasn’t too late.
His father was right, he did know what to do. Margaret Willingham needed someone who would set her free once wed; he could be that man.
First thing tomorrow morning, he’d speak to Philip Goodman.
She didn’t seem to understand that whatever contract her agent might draw up for her, no matter how solidly worded, it would be much too easily breached.
Any man with suitable connections could render her prenuptial bootless with so little industry it would make her head spin.
As an attorney, Gabriel understood how effortless that undertaking could be.
Even after the Hardwicke Marriage Act, which effectively tightened some of the conditions for marriage, once a husband and wife exchanged vows, the wife lost, for all intents and purposes, all rights over any property she possessed.
All she owned came into the control and disposal of her husband—everything, even so far as herself—prenuptial be damned.
Gabriel was suddenly determined to ensure that Margaret was well and duly protected. He refused to allow her to lose everything when she’d labored so long and hard to earn what little her father had bequeathed her.
Neither did he need her money. Thanks to her father’s generosity and the success of his firm, he was more than comfortable.
But, knowing Margaret, she was proud and wise and barefaced, and he determined it would take nothing short of cunning to coax her into accepting his help.
Well, Goodman owed him, and with his help, Gabriel intended to present Margaret Willingham with a proposal she couldn’t refuse.
Oh, he had no illusions. After all these years, he realized he wasn’t the man she would have chosen to wed were her circumstances different.
But he wasn’t above employing whatever Machiavellian tactics were needed to bring about the one thing he hoped would redeem him.
Whatever it took, before these nine days were through, he planned to be married to her, and, in fact, he decided it couldn’t wait until morning.
He left the scattered letters where they lay, and found his coat, shrugging into it as he hurried out the door, with the express purpose of paying Philip Goodman’s London residence a midnight visit.