Chapter 23- Margaret
Though the park across the street was less cultivated than other, larger ones in the city, Margaret was all the more fond of it for that reason.
The overlong tree branches that sometimes threatened to swipe hats from atop heads gave the narrow gravel paths a cozy, enclosed feel.
The flower beds that bled into the grass almost made it possible for Margaret to believe she was in the countryside, miles away from London.
That morning, she set out early enough that whisps of fog still hid in the hollows of the landscape and sunlight slanted at a sharp angle through the trees. The air clung to the coolness of the previous night, and Margaret pulled her fine cloak closed.
In light of the chill, the parasol she carried might have been seen as unnecessary, but Margaret liked to have a long implement in hand in case the waterfowl became too enthusiastic about her offering of stale bread crumbs.
It was hardly appropriate for an elegant young lady to walk about carrying a stick, so her parasol would have to suffice.
Though the city was not yet awake, Margaret wasn’t just walking to enjoy the quiet stillness—she was walking to try to untangle her thoughts.
Her boots crunched in the pea gravel of the path that led to the pond.
She found a familiar comfort in watching the water birds—there was a cheer that only a duck’s awkward waddle could provide—and she desperately needed it that morning.
It was difficult for her to admit, but guilt had been building for quite some time in regards to Callum.
He visited each and every day—as he had done for weeks—and spoke to her about everything. Margaret thought she was actually getting to know Callum very well indeed, for they were rarely interrupted.
Despite her best efforts, Callum was wearing down her defenses. Sometimes Margaret remembered she was meant to be repelling the man—even if it was mostly a game at this point. More often than not, however, she found herself leaning forward with interest or laughing at something he had to say.
The ball the other night had been the worst interlude yet. When she’d thought of pretending to be Matilda, she’d felt a heady anticipation, but it had been more difficult than usual to hold up her facade.
Even now, the memory of what he’d said rolled through her like a shiver. When the nights are cold and the mist rolls off the loch, you want a warm, soft woman to hold on to.
Truthfully, those words had kept her up every night since, and not because they disgusted her. On the contrary, she couldn’t decide what fascinated her more—that he’d spoken of marriage so freely, or of holding her.
Still, she couldn’t forget that the man had lied to her about his acquaintance with Daisy.
In her more vulnerable moments, Margaret threw the knowledge around her as if it were a shield.
Perhaps that was how she was using it—as an excuse not to trust him.
She reasoned that a betrayal that one saw coming would naturally hurt far less than one that came out of the blue.
Except, despite all her self-warnings, she was beginning to trust him.
If Callum’s lie was a shield for her feelings, that shield was wearing thin.
Margaret desperately hoped that there was some good reason he’d lied, something she could easily forgive.
At the same time, she gnawed her lower lip with the worry that there was no satisfactory explanation for his duplicity at all.
Margaret was so involved in her thoughts that she didn’t notice the man walking toward her on the path until he was perhaps a dozen yards away. In the end, it was the yapping that made her look up. When she did, she stopped and blinked.
It was Callum, naturally. He seemed to be everywhere she was these days—near St. Alban’s, at every ball, in her parlor. The real surprise was the little white dog prancing along at his side. Margaret frowned and narrowed her eyes.
It almost looked like the dog she’d thrust into Callum’s arms near the orphanage. Only, this dog had fluffy white fur that tufted from the brown sweater it wore, instead of a wiry, brown coat. And this pup only possessed a small hiccup in his gait instead of the hopping limp that the other had.
Callum covered the ground far too quickly for Margaret’s liking, barely giving her time to recover from the start of seeing him unexpectedly. He wore brown trousers topped with a dark green wool coat; Margaret thought she’d never seen a coat quite so handsome.
He pulled his hat from his head and smiled. “Good morning, Margaret.”
“Good morning, Your Grace.”
Callum pressed his lips together at the honorific, but there was a hint of a smile there, as if her renewed refusal to use his first name was a delightful challenge he looked forward to surmounting.
“Who’s this?” she said.
Even as she asked the question, her eyes fixed on the the pup’s foreleg. The dog wasn’t wearing a brown sweater, as she’d initially thought. Instead, he wore a piece of leather with padded straps running around his stomach and over his back.
Margaret squatted in the gravel path in wonder, heedless of her hem. The dog snuffled forward at her outstretched fingers, happily wagging his tail. “Is this…?”
“I named him Albie. I hope that’s okay. He’s a decidedly clever chap; he already responds to his name. Watch this—Albie, sit.”
Albie ignored Callum completely, instead flopping on his back to direct Margaret’s fingers to his stomach. She laughed.
Callum shrugged with a good-natured smile. “Close enough, I suppose. Besides, one can’t blame him for ignoring a fellow when there’s a beautiful lady about.”
Margaret shook her head at his insistence in calling her beautiful, even as she scratched at Albie’s pink stomach.
She was delighted to see he had already filled out a bit in his time with Callum.
The pup wiggled in ecstacy as she patted his belly with one hand and inspected the leather contraption with her other.
“It took me a long time to figure it out,” Callum said. “At first I didn’t realize the thing would have to wind all the way around him—stupid of me, in retrospect. But the tack maker and I finally got it right, I think. Albie seems to like it, in any case.”
“It’s ingenious,” she said, impressed despite herself. “I can’t believe you found a way to replace his missing leg.”
“Don’t give me too much credit. Pirates really are the ones to thank in this instance,” he said, his eyes twinkling.
She stood. “Pirates?”
“Because of the peg legs.”
Margaret shook her head and looked down at the dog to hide her smile.
In these moments, it was hard to remember that Callum had lied about knowing Miss Daisy Knope.
She’d given up her greatest fear—that Daisy had somehow urged Callum into courting Margaret to set up one grand, terrible reveal—but she still didn’t understand why he’d denied knowing the lady.
Callum looked up at the cloudless sky. “Looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day.”
Margaret hummed noncommittally, bending to pat little Albie’s fluffy head.
He chuckled. “You sound decidedly unimpressed by the weather.”
She frowned up at him. “Should I be? Impressed, I mean?”
“We have a different view of the sun where I’m from. We treasure every warm ray of it, for sometimes we go long spans without seeing any at all.”
“You came to England to find sunshine?” She exhaled a laugh. “Doubtless you are dreadfully disappointed.”
“On the contrary. I found exactly what I was looking for.”
His eyes were heavy upon hers, his meaning plain. Her cheeks went hot—a mixture of discomfit and pleasure, and she averted her gaze.
“Besides,” he said, dispelling the moment. “There are many things here that one cannot find in Scotland.”
“Such as?”
“The museums are nice.”
“What about the theater?”
“I'm not a fan of it, myself.”
“Whyever not?”
“The chairs are far too small and closely spaced for my liking. I’m forever having to sit like this so I don’t elbow the person next to me.
” He hunched and tucked his elbows close to his frame.
“And even still, the people behind me hiss their disappointment at not being able to see the show at all.”
Margaret laughed. “I’ve never been a bother to the person behind me. Perhaps because my brother insists on reserving a private box.”
“It’s not that; it’s because you’re short.”
“Five foot five is a perfectly acceptable height, thank you very much.”
“It’s short.” He smiled.
“Only by comparison. Would you rather I was built like you?” Margaret held her arms out from her sides and stomped forward. “A great lumbering lummox?”
Callum laughed, his eyes closed against the force of his own mirth. Margaret dropped her arms and stared. The sight of his head tipped back, his tanned throat exposed, his face split into a grin—it stunned her.
“No, I’m glad you’re not built like me. I might have fled in terror.” He recovered from his laughter enough to notice her frown. “What? What is it?”
Truthfully, Margaret’s mind was a muddle, but the issue that had consumed many of her thoughts over the past few days was clear. Suddenly, she felt she had the courage—or the desperation—to ask it directly.
“I’m just wondering why you paused the other evening at the ball, when I asked what drew me to your attention in the first place.” Margaret hoped that he didn't hear the slight tremor of vulnerability in her voice.
If Callum did, he ignored it. He swallowed deeply.
His expression was grave when he said, “I confess I haven’t been completely honest with you.”
“So you admit it, then.” She blinked. “You’ve been lying to me.”
Margaret felt a strange pairing of emotions—a tiny thrill of vindication that she’d been right all along, quickly swallowed by a much darker disappointment that she didn’t wish to examine too closely.
She wished to escape both feelings; she suddenly wished she hadn’t asked the question at all.
She strode forward, her parasol clutched in her hand.
Callum walked with her as if he hadn’t noticed she was attempting to flee. “I’ve never outright lied to you, Margaret.”
“Yes, you have! And what’s worse, I should have known better than to believe you!” She exhaled a bleak laugh. “Heaven’s sakes, you’ve even told me you think I’m the most beautiful lady in the ton.”
“Because you are the most beautiful woman in the ton,” he said calmly. “At least to me.”
“What are you getting at?” she snapped, rounding on him. “You’ve already admitted you lied, so what do you hope to get from continuing this little game of yours?”
His forehead creased. “I’m not playing a game, Margaret. I’m exceedingly serious.”
Margaret hardly heard him. “Calling me beautiful. Bringing me flowers. I don’t find it funny.”
“Neither do I, I simply—”
“Lavinia Bleecher has a dowry almost as big as mine, and she’s twice as pretty. Go bother her.”
“Please,” he said, his palms outstretched in a placating gesture. “Calm down.”
If those words had ever had their intended effect when a gentleman spoke them to a lady, it certainly wasn’t in this instance.
Margaret’s anger flared pure and bright; she thwacked Callum in the knee with her parasol. A little too hard, perhaps, as there was a splintering sound. Margaret gasped; her eyes went wide.
Callum’s brow furrowed in concern and he cupped a large hand at her elbow. “Are you quite all right?”
“Me?” Her voice sounded as dazed as she felt. Most of her anger had somehow been leeched from her body by the warmth of his hand. “You were the one just struck.”
“Ach, you couldn’t hurt me with that little bit of lace.” He smiled, but there was hint of wariness to his features. “Margaret, I haven’t lied—I’ve meant every single compliment I’ve ever given you. Why do you insist on believing I’m having fun at your expense?”
“Because—because…” Heat flooded her cheeks.
Margaret could hardly tell him the truth—that she couldn’t imagine a world in which a man like him was courting her seriously.
Callum was tall and broad and deliciously masculine.
When he walked through a ballroom, all the fans fluttered in his wake—out of necessity, as the ladies were just trying to cool themselves.
And though Margaret liked who she was on the inside, she was acutely aware that there was simply more of her than there was of other ladies. She wasn’t too short, but she was definitely plump. Chairs were always placed too close together for her liking, and her dresses required more yardage.
Margaret sighed.
If anything, Callum’s look of concern grew.
“You truly believe I would treat you in such a way. Why?” He paused as if considering his own question for several moments.
A positively lethal expression took hold of his features.
His eyes narrowed, his head cocked ever so slowly.
“Has someone made sport of you in such a way before?”
Margaret momentarily couldn’t speak; she just shook her head.
Callum fairly growled, “If you point me in his direction, I swear that past wrong will be swiftly rectified.”
She fought a shiver at his words. It wasn’t just because they were spoken in that deep voice of his—it was because she suspected Callum truly meant them.
Margaret felt that if she were but to speak a man’s name, that man would meet with some sort of calamity in the near future.
There was a small barbaric part of her that found that exceedingly attractive.
“No.” She shook her head. “There’s no one.”
“Then what is it? Do you not wish to marry?”
“That isn’t it,” she said reflexively. Then she cursed herself a fool, for if she had been smarter, quicker, she could have told him she didn’t, and the whole thing would have been ended. The trouble was, Margaret didn’t think that was what she truly wanted—not anymore.
“Is it me that you object to?” he asked.
Margaret shook her head and barely kept from rolling her eyes. How was she to put such a thing into words?
“Just tell me,” he said, and there was something so earnest about his wheedling tone that, to both of their surprise, she did.