Chapter 6
Chapter six
Henry Lennox glanced up from his newspaper as the southbound train steamed through gently rounded expanses of grassy fields and golden-hued trees. A low stone wall or straight line of hedge here and there marked the only signs of human existence.
The London barrister felt his structured moorings slipping away.
Staring at his newspaper, he found he could no longer concentrate.
He folded the paper and put it away, the crinkling noise drawing the attention of the lad across from him.
He flashed the boy a cursory smile of acknowledgement, although there was no genuine warmth in the gesture.
He eyed the parents briefly. More than a few years older than him, they were each traveling in their own world of thought although sitting undefinedclose to each other—the husband reading his paper and the wife thumbing through the pictures in some ladies' journal.
He felt his eagerness deflate and turned again to the window. All marriages that begin with fluttering hearts end in a calm complacency, he told himself. It’s a perfectly natural process of experience and maturity.
It was precisely the quickening stabs of anxiety that disturbed Mr. Lennox, for he counted the uncontrolled swell of feelings as a sign of the foolish romanticism of youth. He prided himself on his reliance on reason and his habitual steady comportment.
Was he truly ready to put his plan into motion?
His income as a barrister was not yet sufficient to carry a family in the style he would like, but he had no doubts that in a few short years his talents would be well rewarded.
Of course, there was also the question of her resources.
There was no rush to these ends. It might even be a few years before all was arranged.
So why then was he on a train going to see her?
It was only wise to secure his future; he told himself.
As with all other planning, the earlier the lines were laid down, the better.
It would merely be a matter of timing—when to arrange it.
As for his choice, he had no doubt about his discerning taste.
He liked her intelligence. She was a sensible girl, a skilled conversationalist, and she could be very witty—even biting at times.
Her only drawbacks were her tendency to moralize and her over-fondness of the country.
He could tolerate the first—she was a vicar’s daughter after all—and he could mitigate the latter.
He would take her to the country from time to time, and she would be grateful to him for it.
He was proud of his decision and thought himself especially fortunate.
Although his brother had carried away a bride of significant wealth and unquestionable beauty, Henry believed Margaret was in some ways a more refined treasure.
She had a piercing mind for a female and had her own distinguished beauty.
She was more robust, with a flare of Roman temper that attracted him.
She was no delicate flower, like Edith. Margaret Hale’s hardier frame would likely bear him many heirs.
He smiled and cleared his throat at this thought.
He glanced over at the boy again before returning his attention to the passing scenery.
The coach driver announced they had arrived in Helstone. Somewhat perplexed, Henry looked ahead for any sign of a cluster of homes, but saw only the road continue on through a small copse of trees.
They had passed only two cottages thus far.
Perhaps Helstone was truly a hamlet, and not a tiny village as he had surmised despite her claims. He was glad he had asked for an announcement of their arrival, for now he felt the impulse to walk—to gain a more intimate sense of the place, he told himself.
If truth be told, he wished for a few more unhurried moments to prepare his mind.
Once on foot, he passed the bend in the road through a gathering of oaks.
The way opened up on one side to a great open meadow.
His gaze fastened on a figure lying on the grass, and his heart thumped more quickly as he imagined he knew the form.
He allowed, however, that he could be mistaken.
But as he drew nearer, he knew his first impulse had been correct.
He quickened his pace in the sudden alarm that she might have fallen or was hurt, but as he approached, it grew ever clearer that it was a scene of perfect tranquility.
He arrived at her side, his concern turned to wonder as he gazed at her.
She was asleep, her hand cast over her head in careless freedom as if the grass were her natural pillow.
Her bonnet was tossed aside, and sunshine poured down upon her face, which bore a trace of a smile.
Adoration stunned him into silence—Margaret of Helstone was more beautiful than Miss Hale of London.
He feasted upon the vision for just a moment more until the vague uneasiness of finding himself a voyeur prompted him to speak. “Margaret?” he ventured softly and watched with fascination as the sleeping angel stirred and came to life.
“Mr. Lennox!” she exclaimed as soon as the drowsy fog had lifted enough for her to recognize him. She sat up, hastily, snatching up her bonnet. A faint blush warmed her cheeks.
“Is Edith all right?” she asked as she rose from her grassy bed, suddenly recalling that he had accompanied the newlywed couple to Scotland.
“Yes. Yes, of course. I have come for my own pleasure. To see this wonderful Helstone which you suggested I should see for myself,” he answered, amused at her bewilderment. “As to your cousin, I have a letter which I promised to deliver,” he added, pulling the folded paper from a coat pocket.
Margaret took the letter with a word of thanks. There was nothing to do but ask him to the house for lunch. She took a moment to tie her bonnet, tucking in a few stray strands of loose hair before leading him through the wooded path toward her home.
He delighted in walking with her. He was more interested in the shape of her figure and the lilting sound of her voice than in any passing scenery she pointed out.
The vicarage was larger than he had imagined.
It was very probably the grandest house in the hamlet, he supposed with satisfaction.
Ancient creeping vines reached to the very roof of the structure, and towering wild rose bushes surrounded the front perimeter, crowding the pathway to the door.
It looked the very centerpiece of centuries of customs as ancient as nature’s order, far from any disturbance of the modern-day world.
“I don’t believe papa is home at present, but I’m sure he will be back for dinner,” Margaret said as she pressed the latch and opened the heavy oak door. Henry stepped over the threshold to follow her into the dim parlor.
“I’ll tell mamma that you’re here,” she announced before disappearing through another doorway.
Hat in hand, Henry surveyed the vicar’s drawing room.
A dusty beam of sunlight revealed the ragged edges of the patterned carpet.
The furniture reflected the occupant’s position: sturdy and simple, reminiscent of centuries of tradition.
There was a certain country elegance to the embellishments, but nothing particularly grand or of the latest fashion.
The chintz curtains had faded, and the lace draped over the back of the sofa did nothing to hide the threadbare condition of the seat cushions.
He estimated the value of the furniture in his sight and sighed at this brief assessment.
He swiftly reminded himself that he would surely make up for any deficiency in wealth.
It would not deter him from his plan, but only delay the process.
He now knew he could expect very little in the way of a dowry.
He smiled at the quaint setting as he realized how well she rose above it all.
He had well noted how she moved among London society.
At all the various social functions she attended in her cousin’s circles, she always maintained perfect poise and grace—even a regal air, which belied her humble origins.
She would do very well as a London bride.
Mrs. Hale came out with Margaret to greet their guest and invite him to dinner.
When she had retreated from the room, Margaret proposed her plans for the intervening time.
“I thought we might draw. It’s a very clear sky today, and I wanted to capture some of the season’s views,” she explained. “Will you join me?”
“I would be delighted to,” he replied, happily following her back into the sunshine of the day.
They occupied themselves for a few hours. Margaret’s work was left unfinished, for she abandoned her artwork when she saw one of the old cottagers and went to speak with him—unaware that Henry thoroughly enjoyed adding her into his penciled landscape from afar.
It seemed too soon to Henry when Margaret announced that they should return to the cottage to dine. And as they walked back to the house, his mind was full of calculations of when he might begin the conversation that would change their lives.
Margaret, however, could only wonder if her mother had sufficiently calmed her agitation over this sudden visitor from London. Dixon and Charlotte would be busy fulfilling her mother’s anxious requests to set up as impressive a table as could be managed under the time and circumstances.
Mr. Hale greeted them at the gate and led them to the back garden, where a table had been set out for their dinner.
Margaret knew at a glance that the outdoor setting had been her father’s idea, for she saw the harried look behind her mother’s smile.
But all was prettily arranged, and the simple lunch was perfectly suited for the occasion.
Such a pleasant day in October was not a time to be wasted indoors.