Chapter 24
Margaret had not expected the carriage wheels to sound so loud in the drive.
She stood at the drawing room window, hands folded loosely before her, watching as her friends stepped down one by one. Laughter carried faintly through the open air. For a moment, she allowed herself to feel something uncomplicated.
Then the footman opened the door, and they swept inside like color returning to a faded canvas.
“Margaret,” Eleanor exclaimed first, arms already outstretched. “Why on earth are we here?”
“That is a curious greeting,” Margaret replied, though she embraced her tightly.
Beatrice followed, more measured but equally warm.
“We assumed you would be abroad. Somewhere scandalously picturesque.”
“I am in Ravensmere,” Margaret said.
“Yes, we noticed,” Eleanor replied dryly, glancing around the elegant room. “Which is precisely the concern.”
They settled together near the fire, skirts arranged, gloves removed.
Anne tilted her head.
“You invited us.”
“I did.”
“During what should be your honeymoon.”
Margaret poured tea carefully, grateful for the steadiness of the task.
“That presumes there is one.”
Three pairs of eyes fixed on her. Eleanor leaned forward first.
“There is not?”
Margaret set the teapot down.
“No.”
“Not even a brief trip?”
“No,” she replied, keeping her tone even. “His Grace has responsibilities that require his attention.”
“And those responsibilities began immediately after the wedding?”
“Yes.”
“That is absurd.”
“It is necessary,” Margaret replied.
“You are defending him.”
“I am explaining. Besides, he is my husband. It is my duty to understand such things.”
“Then explain,” Beatrice pressed. “Why are you here while your husband is… where, precisely?”
“Working.”
Anne exchanged a look with Eleanor.
“Margaret,” Anne said gently, “are you alone here?”
She hesitated.
“Often, but it is not as though I am entirely without company. I have my staff.”
The silence that followed felt heavier than any accusation.
“You invited us because you are lonely,” Beatrice sighed.
Margaret did not deny it.
“That is not how this was meant to begin,” Eleanor said quietly.
“No,” Margaret agreed.
Anne reached for her hand.
“Have you spoken to him?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He reminded me that our marriage was entered with practical understanding.”
“Practical.”
“That was the agreement,” Margaret said.
“And you are satisfied with that?”
Margaret considered before answering.
“I believed I would be.”
Eliza leaned back in her chair, folding her arms.
“You deserve more than mere platitudes.”
“I did not ask for more.”
“Not asking does not mean you do not need it!”
Margaret let out a slow breath.
“He thanks me. He praises the management. He ensures I lack nothing.”
“But?” Anne prompted.
“But he does not stay.”
The words felt smaller spoken aloud. Eleanor’s expression softened.
“Does he avoid you?”
“He says he does not.”
“And what do you think?”
Margaret looked down at her hands.
“I think he has convinced himself that distance is kindness.”
“Kindness to whom?”
“I cannot tell.”
“Well do you believe he cares for you?”
Margaret hesitated longer this time.
“Yes,” she said at last.
The certainty surprised even her.
“Then why the distance?” Eleanor asked.
“I suspect he believes it is protection.”
“From what?”
“I do not know.”
Silence fell again. Eleanor reached for a biscuit, breaking it in half without eating it.
“This is not a honeymoon.”
“No,” Margaret agreed.
“You should not have to pretend with us.”
The warmth in that struck deeper than she expected.
“I told myself I asked for nothing more,” Margaret admitted quietly.
“And now?” Beatrice asked.
“And now the evenings are very long.”
Eliza moved from her chair to sit beside her on the sofa, pressing their shoulders together.
“Then we will shorten them.”
Margaret laughed faintly despite herself.
“You cannot live here.”
“Do not tempt me,” Eleanor replied. “Your home is beautiful.”
“You are not wrong for wanting companionship,” Anne reminded her.
“I am not certain I want to want it,” Margaret said.
“That is not how the heart works.”
Margaret stared into the fire.
“I do not believe he is indifferent,” she said softly. “I believe he is deliberate.”
“And deliberation can wound as easily as carelessness,” Anne said.
Margaret closed her eyes briefly.bEliza nudged her lightly.
“Does he look upon you?”
The question caught her off guard.
“Yes.”
“How?”
She hesitated, then answered honestly.
“As though he is restraining something.”
Anne smiled faintly.
“That does not sound like indifference.”
“No,” Margaret admitted.
Beatrice tilted her head.
“Then perhaps this is not neglect.”
“It feels like absence,” Margaret replied.
Eleanor reached for her hand.
“Absence can be challenged.”
Margaret shook her head gently.
“I will not beg for attention. If this is what he wants, then this is how it will be.”
“No one is suggesting that,” Beatrice said calmly. “But silence is not strength.”
Margaret absorbed that. Outside, the sky had shifted toward late afternoon. The room glowed warmer with their presence.
“You should be away somewhere beautiful,” Eleanor said. “Arguing about where to travel next.”
“I am here,” Margaret replied.
“And we are here,” Beatrice said firmly.
Anne squeezed her other hand.
“You are not alone in this house, whatever you believe.”
The words settled deep. Margaret drew a steady breath.
“I invited you because I needed to remember who I was before this title,” she said.
“You are still her.”
“Yes,” Beatrice agreed. “Only stronger.”
Margaret felt the loneliness loosen, just slightly.
“I do not regret marrying him,” she said. “Regardless of whether or not it is what I expected, I cannot deny what he has done for my family.”
“Good,” Eleanor replied. “Because I would hate to plan a dramatic escape.”
Margaret laughed again, the sound lighter this time.
Beatrice leaned her head briefly against Margaret’s shoulder.
“He may think distance protects you.”
“And it does not?” Margaret asked.
“It protects him,” Anne said quietly.
Her friends filled the room with warmth, with familiar voices, with unfiltered affection.
For the first time in weeks, the house did not feel so large, and as the evening stretched on, and her friends returned home, Margaret allowed herself to admit what she had tried to dismiss. She did not want a practical marriage.
She wanted him.
Dinner ended that night as it always did. Nathaniel set his napkin beside his plate, clearing his throat in preparation for their short conversation.
“You handled the tenant correspondence well,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“The adjustments were sensible.”
“I thought so.”
A pause came, and then he rose from his chair. Margaret watched him move toward the door as he had done each evening since their wedding.
Tonight, she stood.
“Nathaniel.”
He stopped with his hand on the back of the chair.
“Yes?”
“Do not leave.”
The request hung between them. He turned slowly.
“Is something required?”
“Yes.”
The word was steady. The servants had already withdrawn. The door stood closed. The room felt smaller without witnesses. He studied her carefully.
“What is it?”
Margaret moved from her place at the table and came to stand opposite him.
“I did not agree to be invisible in my own marriage,” she said.
He blinked once, clearly unprepared.
“You are not invisible.”
“I am,” she replied calmly. “You dine with me. You commend my efforts, then you leave.”
“I have obligations.”
“I do not dispute that.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I am saying,” she continued, lifting her chin, “that while I accepted a practical arrangement, I did not agree to solitude. I did not agree to silence, nor did I agree to feel like a guest beneath your roof.”
“You are not a guest,” he said.
“Then stop treating me like one.”
The words were not sharp. They were precise. He inhaled slowly.
“Margaret–”
She lifted her hand slightly.
“I do not want apologies.”
He stopped speaking.
“I want your presence,” she said.
He stared at her as though in utter disbelief.
“I rise each morning and do my duty,” she continued. “I learn the accounts. I meet with the staff. I represent this house with care. I believed that was what you required.”
“It is,” he said.
“And yet,” she replied, “each evening I dine alone in spirit.”
His gaze sharpened.
“I am not asking for declarations,” she said. “I am asking for you to remain in the room.”
He was very still now.
“You leave before dawn,” she continued. “You return long after dark. When we speak, it is efficient. You thank me as though I am an employee.”
His voice lowered.
“That is not how I see you.”
“Then show me how you see me.”
The quiet conviction in her tone seemed to strike him harder than anger would have. He took a step toward her, not enough to crowd, but enough to close some of the space he so carefully preserved.
“I believed I was honoring what you wanted,” he said.
“You believed incorrectly.”
Another silence.
“You told me you expected nothing more than respect,” he said.
“I did.”
“And I have given you that.”
“Yes.”
“Then what has changed?”
“I have,” she answered. “I did not anticipate what this would feel like. I did not anticipate how large this house would become at night.”
He looked at her as though seeing something he had misjudged.
“You think I withdraw because I do not value you,” he said. “Is that it!”
“I think you withdraw because you are afraid of something.”
His expression flickered. She saw it.
“You are disciplined,” she went on. “You are controlled. You are careful. But I will not live beside you as though I am something to be tolerated.”
“You are not merely tolerated,” he said sharply.
“Then prove it.”
The challenge was quiet but unmistakable. He exhaled slowly, running a hand over his jaw.
“What would you have me do?” he asked.
“Join me,” she said simply.
He held her gaze.