Chapter 20
Oh no. Not here. Anyone but her.
Margaret had just lifted her coffee when she noticed Lady Darren approaching with a small procession of ladies behind her. The woman wore a smile that was perfectly pleasant in appearance and entirely devoid of warmth, which Margaret had already learned was one of the Ton's favorite expressions.
Lady Darren stopped beside their table, dipping her head with elaborate politeness before allowing her gaze to settle upon Margaret. There was something expectant in that gaze, as though she had arrived hoping to find a weakness and had every intention of enjoying herself when she discovered one.
"Your Grace," Lady Darren said, placing one gloved hand delicately against the other, "Good day, ladies."
The women exchanged greetings, but Margaret stayed stiff, waiting for the daggers that she knew would soon come.
"How fortunate to run into you here. I was just telling Lady Melda here how very charitable of you to devote yourself to raising a child who is, apparently, not even your husband's wife's son." Her smile sharpened.
What does she mean by that?
Margaret's expression remained calm. "I do not believe I know your meaning, Lady Darren."
"I do hope you will forgive my frankness, but there has been considerable speculation. Poor Augusta was said to have been terrified of the Duke, and one cannot help wondering whether the little boy might have come from a rather less respectable circumstance," Lady Darren said.
The implication was so vile that for one heartbeat Margaret could only stare at her. All the breath had gone out of her lungs.
She thought of Hugh's small fingers curling around hers, his frightened eyes softening whenever she sang to him, and something fierce rose within her.
"Why I never…" Iris started with a sharp tongue as she glared at Lady Darren, ready to reprimand her.
"It’s alright, Iris," Margaret said, cutting her off. She set down her coffee with deliberate care before looking up at Lady Darren.
"How fortunate for you, Lady Darren, that your concern for my family is so profound. I should hate to think you that your life is so severely lacking in love and pleasure that you must repeat gossip in order to have some sense of fulfillment that you do not receive at home."
A few ladies behind Lady Darren shifted uncomfortably, and Margaret noticed one of them suddenly become fascinated by the sugar bowl.
Lady Darren's smile tightened. "I assure you, Your Grace, I meant no offense.
I merely thought you ought to know that people are concerned for your safety.
After all, if Augusta was frightened enough to disappear, one wonders whether you might eventually suffer the same fate.
Should you ever require assistance, you need only ask. "
Margaret felt Iris's hand lightly touch her arm beneath the table, but she was already beyond restraint. She had spent far too much of her life allowing people to mistake good manners for weakness, and she had no intention of beginning now merely because she wore a duchess's title.
"How thoughtful of you," she replied, her voice smooth enough to make the words almost pleasant.
"Though if I ever find myself in need of advice concerning the safety of my household, I assure you I shall seek it from someone whose knowledge of my husband extends beyond rumors exchanged over tea by old women. "
Lady Darren's cheeks colored. Margaret was not finished.
"As for our child," she continued, folding her hands neatly in her lap, "he is a child who has been entrusted to my care, and I shall defend him as fiercely as I would defend any member of my family.
I should therefore be grateful if you would refrain from discussing his parentage as though he were a scandalous debutante.
He has done nothing to deserve the gossip of grown women, who should know better. "
The silence that followed was exquisite. Margaret could practically hear the ladies searching their minds for a response that would not make them appear cruel, and she took a quiet sip of coffee while they struggled.
Lady Darren's mouth opened, closed, and then opened again before she finally managed a stiff little smile. "Well, I never…"
"I sincerely hope not," Margaret replied sweetly.
Camelia made a choking sound that she disguised as a cough, while Pamela suddenly became very interested in the contents of her coffee cup.
Lady Darren gave Margaret one last offended glance before turning away, and her companions followed her with the subdued obedience of a flock of startled birds.
Margaret watched them depart with their whispered murmurs and stiff backs, feeling her temper slowly settle.
Once they were safely gone, Iris stared at her across the table. Camelia stared too. Pamela looked between the sisters and Margaret as though she had just witnessed an unexpected military victory.
"What?" Margaret asked, reaching for another biscuit.
The ladies burst into laughter.
"Your Grace, that was absolute perfection," Pamela said.
"I have never been so proud," Camelia said.
"Indeed. I should hope to never cross you, dear," Iris laughed.
"I was merely defending myself." Margaret smiled.
Iris exchanged a glance with Camelia before looking back at her. "Were you?"
"Of course I was."
Camelia's lips twitched. "It sounded rather more like you weren’t defending yourself; you were defending your family."
Margaret frowned. "What is wrong with you two lately? Is it not perfectly normal for me to defend my family?"
Her sisters exchanged another look, and Margaret became increasingly suspicious. "Stop doing that," she demanded, pointing between them. "Whatever that look means, I do not like it."
"It means nothing," Iris said innocently.
"It means everything," Margaret muttered.
She leaned back in her chair and tried to understand why her sisters were behaving as though she had confessed to something extraordinary. Hugh was her husband's son, and therefore her family.
Was it truly so remarkable that I had wanted to defend him?
She thought again of his smile beneath the sunlight, the way he had settled in her arms, and the fierce affection that had appeared in her heart before she had even had time to question it.
Maybe she had been a duchess for only a short time, but somewhere along the way she had begun thinking like one.
More importantly, I have begun thinking like Hugh's mother.
The thought left her strangely warm.
Then she remembered Lady Darren's insinuations about Pierce, and the warmth vanished beneath a fresh flood of indignation. She did not know whether Pierce was cruel, misunderstood, impossible, or some maddening combination of all three, but she knew one thing with absolute certainty.
No one was going to insult her family while she sat quietly and listened.
Apparently, being a duchess came with responsibilities Margaret had never anticipated.
Defending the people she cared for was becoming one of them.
But was there any truth in the gossip? Was Hugh’s mother some other woman and not Augusta?
* * *
Over the following week, Ravenfield House acquired a rhythm Pierce had never expected to hear within its walls. Hugh's cries no longer seemed to echo through every corridor, and the nursery had become less a place of distress and more a place of warmth, sunlight, and Margaret's soft voice.
One morning, Pierce entered the nursery to find Margaret sitting beside Hugh on the carpet while the child attempted to place a wooden horse into a small wooden cart.
Hugh succeeded only in knocking the horse over and immediately looked towards Margaret as though expecting some terrible consequence.
Margaret smiled and picked it up. "There we are, darling. Nothing dreadful has happened. Your horse has merely decided he prefers walking."
Hugh reached for it again, and Margaret glanced at Pierce as he approached. "Come and sit with us."
Pierce looked at the carpet as though she had invited him into a battlefield. "On the floor?"
"You survived marriage to me," Margaret replied, raising one eyebrow. "I am certain you can survive a carpet."
He lowered himself beside them with as much dignity as a duke could manage while sitting cross-legged beside a one-year-old.
Hugh stared at him suspiciously, then looked towards Margaret.
"He still thinks I am frightening," Pierce murmured.
"He thinks you are unfamiliar," Margaret corrected, gently guiding Hugh's hand towards the wooden horse. "There is a difference."
Pierce watched his son. "What should I do?"
"Talk to him," she said.
“I do talk to him.”
“You interrogate him and panic when he cries."
Pierce frowned. "There is a distinction?"
"A considerable one." Margaret smiled as Hugh pushed the horse into Pierce's boot. "Try telling him something that does not require an answer."
Pierce looked down at his son and cleared his throat. "The Duchess would say I am hopeless at this."
Margaret's expression softened. "I would never say that."
"You have said worse."
"Only because you deserve it."
Hugh giggled, and Pierce stared at him. The sound struck him with such force that he nearly forgot Margaret was there.
"Did you hear that?" he asked quietly.
Margaret smiled. "He likes us talking to each other."
Pierce swallowed and reached out, allowing Hugh to grasp his finger. "Maybe," he murmured, "he is simply beginning to understand that I am not entirely useless."
"You are making progress," Margaret assured him.
It should have pleased Pierce merely because Hugh was happier, yet some deeper satisfaction accompanied it. Margaret had taught him how to reach his son without demanding obedience from him. It was a lesson Pierce had never imagined needing to learn.
By the middle of the week, another change had become equally apparent. Pierce had relaxed several of his household rules.