Chapter 12
“You are late.”
“I am not,” Margaret said, adjusting her gloves as she entered. “You are early.”
Eleanor leaned across the small round table in the tearoom and seized Margaret’s hands anyway.
“You were seen yesterday.”
“By many, yes. I was walking.”
“With him.”
Margaret allowed herself to be pulled into the chair beside her. The tearoom was comfortably warm, the windows fogged slightly. A fire burned low in the grate, and the scent of sugar lingered in the air.
Across from them, Clara lifted one brow.
“Hyde Park, just after two. I was told you looked composed, though I did not believe it at first.”
“You are most kind,” Margaret replied.
“It is a compliment,” Clara said with a light laugh. “You did not appear overwhelmed, and that is a good sign.”
Beatrice smiled from behind her teacup, and Anne, seated nearest the window, watched Margaret without speaking. Eleanor, however, leaned closer.
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Do not feign ignorance. The entire park was whispering.”
Margaret reached for the teapot to give her hands occupation.
“It was only a promenade.”
“With the Duke of Ravensmere,” Eleanor said, as though she spoke of a prince.
“That is indeed his name.”
Clara’s mouth twitched.
“You know what she means.”
Margaret poured carefully.
“Yes. I do.”
Anne finally spoke.
“Was it dreadful?”
“No.”
“Was it uncomfortable?”
“Not particularly.”
Eleanor groaned softly.
“You are impossible.”
“I am being honest! It was not this great and important thing. It was a promenade. That is all.”
“That is the problem. You are honest in such a restrained way that we learn nothing.”
Margaret handed her a cup. There was no use arguing with her friends, for they always got what they wanted out of her once they knew what they wanted to learn.
“What would you like to know?”
Eleanor lowered her voice despite the fact that no one nearby was listening.
“Did he look at you as though he had forgotten the rest of London?”
“Eleanor!”
“What? It happens.”
Margaret felt heat stir under her collar but kept her expression steady. If she gave even the faintest suspicion that she thought highly of him, they would not let it go.
“He looked at me as one does during a conversation.”
“That tells us nothing,” Eleanor insisted.
Clara stirred her tea.
“Did he behave properly?”
“Yes.”
“That is disappointing,” Eleanor muttered.
Anne’s gaze sharpened slightly.
“Proper in what sense?”
“Pleasant,” she said.
There was a brief pause, then Eleanor’s eyes widened.
“Pleasant?”
“Yes.”
Clara leaned back in her chair, seemingly also aware of what Eleanor had noticed.
“You have never described a social obligation as pleasant.”
“That is not true.”
“It is.”
Margaret folded her hands loosely in her lap. She had to admit that her friends were right there.
“It was not an obligation.”
All four of them stilled at that. Eleanor’s expression softened into something dangerously delighted. Clara, more measured, studied her closely.
“You sound surprised about that.”
“I was.”
Beatrice leaned forward slightly.
“Surprised in what way?”
Margaret searched for language that did not betray more than she intended.
“He is not what I expected. The outing itself was not what I expected.”
“Well what did you expect? It was your first outing with one another, so you cannot have made too many assumptions.”
“Well, I had thought that he might be a man entirely occupied with appearances. I would not have blamed him for it, given his position.”
“And he is not?”
“He is not. If anything, it is as though he enjoys toying with them all.”
“That is not rare,” Clara said.
“Perhaps not, but having someone understand me so well after such little time is. I cannot explain it, but it is as though he has known me for years. We walked, and we spoke, and the entire time he was at ease. As was I.”
They did not say another word, but Margaret wished that they would. She wanted someone to fill the empty space. She looked down at her teacup.
“It startled me.”
“Why?” Beatrice asked.
“Because it was not supposed to happen. That is not why I entered into this courtship, as you know. I am only here out of duty.”
The word lingered. Eleanor leaned back with a satisfied expression.
“So it begins.”
“It does not begin,” Margaret said quickly. “Nothing is beginning, and nothing will. I can assure you of that.”
“Are you quite certain?”
“Yes.”
Anne studied her. Of all of her friends, Margaret sensed that she would be the most difficult to please with her match. Then again, she was not supposed to be trying to please them. They knew why she was being courted, as did she, and she could not forget it.
“And yet,” Anne said at last, “you sound as though you are arguing with yourself.”
Margaret gave a small, helpless laugh.
“Perhaps I am.”
Eleanor reached across the table again.
“You cannot expect us to remain calm if you speak that way.”
“Speak what way?”
“As though you are standing at the edge of something.”
Margaret looked at her friend, startled by the accuracy.
“I am not,” she said.
“You have been careful all Season. You agreed to this arrangement for reasons none of us will question. If you have begun to feel differently, that is not a crime.”
“I have not,” Margaret insisted.
But Eleanor’s eyes gleamed.
“You have.”
“I have not.”
Silence fell. Margaret looked at her friends, then away.
“It was pleasant,” she confessed, “but not because I felt love, or any such thing. The truth is, I enjoyed it because I did not feel invisible.”
That settled over the table with more weight than she intended.
Her friends all softened at her words, for they knew how she had been raised.
She was the forgotten daughter, the third one that had never seemed to sparkle as her sisters did.
She was dependable, and she was there, but there was very little else to her.
For once, she felt special, almost but not quite deserving.
She was not that foolish.
“He saw you,” Beatrice said quietly.
“I think so.”
“And that frightens you,” Anne said.
Margaret did not deny it. Eleanor squeezed her fingers.
“It should not.”
“It does,” Margaret replied. “Because this was never meant to matter.”
“Well, do you trust him?”
Margaret considered the question seriously. She did not want to, and given that they hardly knew one another she had good reason not to, but it was not as though she was acting within reason when it came to the Duke of Ravensmere.
“Yes.”
The answer surprised even her.
“That came from you easily.”
“I did not expect it to.”
Eleanor beamed outright, triumphant that her point had been proven.
“There. That is everything that we need to know.”
“It is not everything,” Margaret said. “It is a beginning, but that is all.”
“Of what?” Clara asked.
Margaret looked down at her tea, at the faint ripple on its surface.
“I do not know,” she admitted.
And for the first time since leaving Hyde Park, she felt the full uncertainty of it settle in her chest.
Her townhouse was quieter than the tearoom had been. The door shut behind Margaret with a soft thud, and the faint chill of the entry hall replaced the warmth of the afternoon. She had just removed her bonnet when footsteps came racing down the stairs.
“Maggie!”
Poppy nearly collided with her at the bottom step, curls escaping their pins, eyes bright with something dangerously close to triumph in the same way that Eleanor’s had been.
“You are home,” Poppy declared, as though Margaret had returned from war rather than tea.
“I believe that is evident.”
“You are yet to tell me of your promenade!”
“Did I promenade today? I believe I was merely at tea.”
Poppy groaned in frustration.
“You are impossible. We have hardly seen you, and so you have not yet told me of your promenade with the Duke of Ravensmere. You must tell me everything.”
Emily appeared at the top of the stairs, descending more slowly than the youngest.
“Leave her long enough to remove her gloves at least, Poppy.”
Poppy ignored this entirely.
“Well, you cannot actually tell me of the promenade yet, for Mama has news.”
“That sounds ominous,” Margaret said lightly.
“No, it is wonderful,” Poppy insisted. “You will see. She has asked that you see her as soon as you return. Then, you must tell me about the Duke.”
Margaret handed her cloak to the waiting maid and followed her sisters toward the small drawing room. The furniture had been rearranged again to disguise wear along the carpet. Margaret noticed automatically. She always did.
Their mother sat near the window with a letter folded neatly in her lap. She looked composed. Too composed.
“Margaret,” she said. “You have had a busy afternoon.”
“So I am told.”
Poppy dropped onto the settee without ceremony.
“Tell her, Mama.”
Their mother’s gaze shifted briefly to Emily before returning to Margaret.
“A modiste will call tomorrow.”
Margaret stilled.
“For whom?” she asked.
“For all three of you. Myself too, it would seem.”
Poppy clapped her hands once.
“New gowns, Sister!”
“For all of us?”
“Yes,” her mother replied.
Poppy leaned forward eagerly.
“Not alterations, not reworked sleeves. Entirely new gowns that we may choose for ourselves. Can you believe it?”
Margaret felt something tighten in her chest. She knew that it would come eventually, for the Duke had promised her that he would care for her family, but she had not anticipated that it would happen so quickly.
“That is unnecessary,” she said carefully.
“It is not,” Emily reminded her. “Appearances matter.”
“They have always mattered.”
“They matter more now.”
Silence stretched between them. Poppy looked between her mother and sister, impatience flickering across her features.
Poppy would simply believe that it was meant as Margaret being on the arm of a duke, and therefore them all being under more scrutiny, but it was more than that.
It was a reminder to Margaret that she had to act accordingly, and not to question anything when so much was at stake.
“Then the gowns are a celebration,” Poppy beamed. “My sister’s good fortune means goodness for all of us. We are grateful to you for that, of course.”
“Yes,” Emily sighed, “so very grateful that you shall be a duchess. Truly, the sacrifices that you have made for us.”
She had meant it in jest, but Margaret took it personally.
She did not like the way that Emily had changed of late.
She had always been more aware of what was happening than Poppy, but never outwardly upset by any of it.
Suddenly, that had changed a great deal, and Margaret did not know quite what to do about it.
She went to her room, her sisters on her heels. They joined her in her room, and Emily leaned back slightly against her chair, clearly unconvinced by it all but unwilling to press further in front of Poppy.
“So?” Poppy asked. “What was he like?”
Margaret felt heat rise unexpectedly beneath the simple question.
“Composed,” she said.
“Stern?” Emily asked.
“No.”
Poppy leaned forward again.
“Did he hold your hand?”
Margaret hesitated only a fraction too long. She wanted to say no, but she could not lie to them about something so intimate. Poppy gasped, clearly thrilled.
“He did!”
“It was for appearance,” Margaret replied quickly. “That was all.”
Emily watched her closely.
“And how did that feel?”
Margaret rose and crossed to the window, looking out at the narrow street. A delivery cart rattled past. It was easier to look at that than at her sisters, one that was too pleased about it all and the other far too skeptical.
“It felt different than I expected.”
Poppy sighed dreamily.
“That is how it begins.”
“You sound like Eleanor.”
“Good. I like Eleanor.”
Emily stood, joining her at the window.
“And how did you expect it to feel?”
Margaret looked at her reflection in the glass before answering.
“Manageable.”
“And it was not?”
“It was more.”
Poppy laughed softly behind them.
“You are falling in love.”
“I am not,” Margaret said, though the denial lacked force.
“Have you not decided what you feel yet?”
Margaret finally turned toward her. The truth was that she was not in love with him, but she would have been lying if she said she had not considered it. He was a man that she could grow to love, and that brought only trouble to everything.
“You are both far too serious,” Poppy huffed when there was no response.
Emily folded her arms loosely.
“Someone must be.”
“That is not fair! Our sister is being courted by one of the most eligible gentlemen in the ton. We should all be overjoyed, yet here you both are questioning the tiniest things.”
“It is my future, Poppy,” Margaret reminded her. “I wish to be certain, as does Emily. That is all it is.”
“But you are as happy as I am, yes?”
Margaret was convinced that there was not a soul in England as happy as Poppy, but that was not the answer that her sister was looking for.
“Of course. This will mean the most wonderful things for us, Poppy, and I am thrilled, but I must also consider all that is to come. Does that make sense?”
“I know. Well, I shall speak with Mama about it, and help her design her gowns of course.”
She disappeared, but Emily remained where she was.
“Maggie,” she said softly, “if this is for us–”
“It is not a burden,” Margaret interrupted gently.
Emily held her gaze.
“You would say that even if it were.”
Margaret did not answer. Poppy’s excitement rang clear and uncomplicated beneath them, and suddenly nothing else mattered. Emily’s glance back at her, however, carried something heavier.
“I do not want to spend the rest of my life knowing you did something that you did not want to do for my sake,” Emily continued. “We would manage fine without all of this.”
“Which should give you confidence that I am happy to do it.”
But Margaret knew more than Emily did. If she wanted a future at all, it had to be with a man that she did not know, and one that seemed to know everything about her without revealing anything at all about himself.
It was pleasant, she had told her friends, more than she expected.
When she was alone, she pressed her hand lightly to her wrist, remembering the warmth that had lingered there. Everything was changing, and for the first time, she was no longer certain whether she was guiding it or being carried.
And if she was not in control, then that meant she was at someone else’s mercy, and the thought of it terrified her.