Chapter 2- Margaret
“What do you think it will be like?” Lily leaned forward, the feathers on her bonnet ruffling with the gentle sway of the carriage.
Margaret Theodosia Preston sat on one side of the carriage, facing two of her sisters, Beatrice and Lily.
It was a natural consequence of being the largest of her sisters—if there was the option to allow it, Margaret sat alone.
The noise of the busy street they travelled was only slightly muffled by the elegant carriage.
The calls of porters and the squeal of a crate being pried open filtered in over the steady cadence of the horses.
“What, the Season?” Beatrice wrinkled her nose. “I hardly can imagine.”
As one of the siblings directly in the center of two boys and eight girls, Margaret had lots of experience sharing. She’d grown up sharing her favorite books, her bedroom, and the last piece of bacon. It hardly registered that she’d be sharing her debut with her three elder sisters.
Margaret knew she was not the most beautiful of the lot, which could have been tolerable if she’d at least blended in a bit better. But while her three older sisters had all inherited the same ash-brown hair as their brother William, Margaret had blonde hair instead.
Some might have viewed that as an asset—after all, in an ocean of young misses, every single one was trying to stand out.
However, Margaret had not only inherited blonde hair; she’d also managed to be shorter, voluptuous, and soft.
The rest of her sisters were built like slim statues of marble, delicately carved and perfectly proportionate.
Perhaps Margaret could have compensated for the inequality in personal appearance had she been kinder, or sweeter, or milder. But though she personally thought she had an excellent heart, the only people who might describe her as mild were those who didn’t know her very well.
It was fine, truly, it was. Margaret had already determined to be happy with the outcome of the Season.
She had no doubt that her sisters would be snatched from the market within the first year.
They were exceptionally beautiful, witty, and kind—except for Claire, perhaps.
But Claire possessed such a regal, icy allure, that even she would probably be married before Margaret received a single beau.
It was fine; Margaret had braced herself.
She prided herself on knowing exactly who she was, what she was.
She’d never been the type of lady to get by on her looks.
Instead, she relied on her vivacious temperament and her determination to find something good in every scenario.
And if there was nothing good, at least to find something funny.
“You’re both sure to attract a great many suitors,” Margaret said with an encouraging smile.
She meant every word of her praise. Though Lily outshone them all with her doe eyes and perfect figure, Margaret thought that many gentlemen would find Beatrice nice to look at, too.
“I’m not that concerned about the Season.” Beatrice flicked her fingers as if the idea of a husband wasn’t at all exciting.
“I thought you wished to be married like the rest of us.” Lily turned to her in question.
Beatrice smiled. “Of course I do. I just don’t see the point in worrying about the Season ahead, that’s all. If I meet the right someone, it will be lovely. If not, I’ll continue to happily impose on our brother’s largesse.”
Margaret gave a half snort, half laugh of agreement.
Their brother was beyond generous. After he’d discovered how their eldest brother—the late Baron Cavendish—had squandered the family’s fortune through the worst kind of excesses, William had sent the eight Preston sisters to Paris while he picked through the rubble of what Richard had left behind.
In his sisters’ absence, he’d restored the family home and reputation with the creditors. Then he’d called the four eldest home so that they might have a London Season. The four youngest were still in Paris, waiting for their turn the following year.
“I can’t believe all the dresses he bought us,” Lily agreed, smoothing down her green wool walking dress. “I’m unable to choose a favorite—they’re all so wonderful.”
Margaret shook her head, smiling. “And if they’d only been half as pretty, you’d still be just as pleased, Lily.”
“Which only goes to show how truly wonderful they are,” Lily replied, her eyes wide.
Margaret smirked and looked out the window.
If Lily weren’t her sister, she might have been tempted to provoke her to see whether she truly was as patient and gentle as she seemed.
But Margaret knew full well that Lily’s kindness was no act.
It was a bit annoying that the most beautiful of them had been given a matching disposition.
“Goodness, the traffic is dreadful today.” Beatrice let the curtain of the carriage fall back into place.
“It’s hardly a wonder,” Margaret said. “We had to travel all the way across town to get to that bookshop of yours. What a ridiculous notion—a bookshop near the docks. It’s a wonder they have any books at all, with the dampness in that part of town.”
“It’s damp everywhere in London,” Beatrice said, raising her chin. “Besides, they have the best selection.”
“They have a selection,” Margaret agreed wryly.
Beatrice narrowed her eyes at Margaret. “You cannot blame me for how long this excursion took, not when you needed to go to four separate shops to find the perfect journal, and Lily needed to stop at the milliners and the bootmaker.”
“Indeed.” Lily frowned as if chastened. “I could have gone to those shops tomorrow.”
Margaret rolled her eyes at her sister’s endless forbearance. Sometimes the amount of patience Lily had tried Margaret’s own.
“It hardly matters,” she said. “We’ve finished the shopping now, and we’re only sniping at one another because it’s well past time for tea.”
“You’re probably right.” Beatrice straightened and brightened. “Should we travel to the café and impose on Claire’s tête-à-tête?”
“Certainly not!” Lily’s eyes were wide. “She specifically asked us not to attend.”
“Precisely.” Beatrice leaned forward and smiled. “Which means it would be vastly amusing to do so.”
“I, for one, think that this Season will be more enjoyable for all of us if we agree to give each other as much privacy as the situation allows,” Lily said.
Margaret grasped the edge of the padded seat as the carriage slowly lumbered over a dip on the road. The closer one got to the docks, the worse the roads were. She bit back another remark about Beatrice’s blasted bookshop preferences and said, “There you and I agree, Lily.”
“As if privacy will be an option when we’re all accepting visitors in the same parlor,” Beatrice grumbled.
If Margaret had a biscuit within reach, she would have winged it at Beatrice’s head.
There was no surer way to plunge Beatrice into a foul mood than to withhold sustenance.
To look at them, one might have guessed Margaret the one who became displeased at a late meal, but it was Beatrice who suffered quickest. And her sister dearly loved company when she experienced said misery.
“It’s a very large parlor,” Lily pointed out. “I daresay it will be an embarrassment the other direction—how silly it will look when we don’t have enough visitors to fill it!”
Beatrice and Margaret shared a sardonic look.
“I doubt that will be a problem,” Margaret said.
On their shopping trip today, a gentleman had pressed his face to the plate window while Lily was choosing a set of gloves on the other side. Another had run directly into a lamppost. The lady in question had never noticed—she seemed as oblivious as she was beautiful to the notice she garnered.
Margaret had once demanded that Lily admit she knew she was pretty. Lily had finally done so, but only under threat of having frogs loosed in her bedroom.
Lily canted her head. “I suppose it hardly matters how many gentlemen call as long as the right one does.” She proceeded to stare out the window with an expression that edged very close to a frown, at least for her.
Margaret’s forehead wrinkled. Ever since Lily had returned from Aunt Lucinda’s, she sometimes grew pensive like that.
“You miss her a lot, don’t you?” Margaret asked gently.
“Who?” Lily turned, her eyes large, her expression alarmed.
“Great Aunt Lucinda, of course.”
“Oh, yes. Very much.” Lily fiddled with the beading at the edge of her purse.
Beatrice pursed her lips and looked out the window, and Margaret stared back and forth between them. For a moment, she could have sworn she’d scented a secret upon the air…
“I’m certainly glad you’re not opposed to being married,” Lily said suddenly.
To Margaret, her smile looked rather forced.
“For apparently, there are many eligible gentlemen arriving in town as of late. There’s a rumor that the Marquess Beaufort was spotted, and it’s well known that the Duke of Ettrick is in residence at his home in Berkeley Square. ”
Margaret’s shoulders lifted. If the Marquess Beaufort was back in London, then it was only a matter of time before his former betrothed would follow him back.
Daisy Knope.
Margaret hardly knew which of them—she or Daisy—was more disappointed that the marquess had called off the engagement. After all, if the marquess had married her, Miss Daisy Knope would have been out of Margaret’s life forever.
At the tender age of seven, Margaret had found her left leg tied to Daisy Knope’s right at a garden party. However, as neither girl was excellent at listening to instruction or cooperating, their three-legged race ended far short of the finish line in a pile of ribbons and pastel skirts.
Daisy had sneered with her rosebud lips and said the words that altered Margaret’s life forever.
“You’re fat.”