Chapter 33- Margaret
The message from Callum had arrived not an hour after he’d left her.
Margaret,
Please meet me at our park bench tomorrow morning. There is something important I need to tell you.
-Callum
Of course, Margaret’s imagination went to work filling in the most wonderful—and most terrible—possibilities for his request. It had been almost as much work to fend off the hope of the best as it was to calm her racing heart from the worst. In the end, the result was predictable.
Margaret slept only in restless fits and woke up with her hair looking as if she’d wrestled a pig.
Chloe showed far more patience for the process of brushing it out and arranging it than Margaret did. She had to keep herself from bouncing a knee up and down several times, and contented herself by exhaling several puffs of impatience.
Finally she was dressed in her favorite pelisse—the sage-green one with the playful pink ribbon running through elegant lace at the edge.
Margaret figured it was the perfect outfit—one that she wouldn’t mind recollecting the rest of her life, if the meeting fulfilled her wildest dreams. On the other hand, it was an ensemble that would produce a grand flurry of skirts if she had to turn her back and stride away in a dramatic fashion.
It was still quite early when Margaret arrived at the park, though not as early as it would have been if Chloe hadn’t been required to comb a veritable nest out of her hair.
Margaret paced near the pond, her maid watching from a distance.
Margaret stomped back and forth in the damp earth until a family of ducks quacked their displeasure and waddled away.
Margaret knew that she was acting in high dudgeon, but she couldn’t seem to stop. She’d lain awake all evening, imagining intelligent things she’d say if this meeting brought the worst.
Her imagination—usually one of her favorite attributes—worked against her in this instance.
Perhaps their courtship had been nothing but a ruse all along!
Perhaps Callum was already engaged—no, married!
Perhaps he’d fathered seven children with his parlor maid back in Scotland and any forthcoming marriage would be contractual and loveless.
Margaret knew that the arguments she’d run through in her mind hadn’t actually happened, but they’d put her in a high temper all the same. If only Callum would hurry up and arrive so that she might put all her clever words to use!
Only, when Callum did arrive several minutes later, he looked far too handsome, and he was carrying a picnic hamper, besides.
Though she hardly wanted to admit it, handsome men and picnic baskets were a couple of her favorite things.
The two of them combined proved to be exponentially attractive, a fact which threatened to make her scowl.
“Good morning, Margaret.” Callum smiled. “How are you this beautiful day?”
“Fine enough, thank you,” she said rather stiffly.
Margaret hadn’t factored in the pleasantries when she’d been arguing with him in her imagination the night before. Nor had she factored in that his dark hair would still be damp and curling a bit over his collar or that he’d smell like the faintest hint of that aftershave she adored.
“Would you sit with me?” He gestured toward a nearby bench overlooking the water.
Margaret nodded, though she planned on pointing out that the birds had already claimed the bench in the most effective way possible. She was deprived of the pleasure when Callum pulled a rolled wool blanket from the basket and spread it over the markings.
A fowl-befouled bench. Certainly there was a witty joke there somewhere, and perhaps she might have attempted one if she weren’t so nervous.
“My cook is from Holland,” he said after they were both seated.
Margaret frowned. “I didn’t think the Dutch were known for their food.”
“They aren’t. Thankfully, Mrs. Bakker was trained in France. She’s really the best of both worlds—French cooking, and you won’t find a cleaner kitchen anywhere.” Callum smiled. “And she did bring a couple of sweet specialties along from her country. One of which is these.”
Margaret couldn’t help her interest. She leaned forward as Callum deftly unwrapped a small paper parcel full of what appeared like round, rather flat layered biscuits. Though they looked underwhelming, they smelled intoxicating—like caramel and butter.
“They are called stroopwafels. I remembered you once saying you preferred your waffles with butter and syrup. These are the closest thing I could transport for breakfast.”
He looked rather shy as he held them out to her. She took one gingerly. When she bit into it, Margaret felt her anger softening along with the caramel on her tongue. The outer biscuits were crisp and just a bit salty. The inside was delicious, a slightly sticky caramel.
“Your poor Mrs. Bakker,” she begrudgingly said, already eyeing a second biscuit. “How early did she have to wake for your stoopwaffles?”
He held the open package out to her. “Stroopwafels, but close enough. And I think they’re her favorite sweet to make since they keep so well. She made them last night; she was probably still cozy in bed when I left.”
Margaret exhaled her incredulity at the ridiculous statement. Every cook in London was up before the sun.
For several minutes Margaret was distracted by the delicious stroopwafels.
It was one of those dangerous sweets that one could never get enough of, as they weren’t too sweet or too salty.
When she’d finally eaten her third biscuit in the companionable silence, Margaret realized that she was in a much better mood than when she’d started.
She narrowed her eyes and turned to him. “That was cheating.”
He smiled. “Forgive me for saying so, but it’s called strategic intelligence, not cheating.”
“Please, Callum. Just…tell me what you’ve come to say.” Margaret twisted her fingers together. All her determination and cleverness had fled, exposing the tender nerves underneath.
Callum winced, and Margaret inhaled a sharp breath.
“There is something, isn’t there?” A chilling certainty draped across her shoulders, weighing her down with dread. “There’s something you haven’t told me.”
He gave a slow nod. “It’s not something I won’t tell you. It’s only—when I do, I’m afraid you won’t give me time to explain myself.”
“I’m a reasonable person,” Margaret said, with some umbrage.
“Very well. You must understand, this is the one aspect of our relationship that I’m ashamed of. Though you were wrong in assuming my motives, you were right that I wasn’t completely forthcoming about why I initially sought you out.”
An icy sense of foreboding slid down Margaret’s spine. Hadn’t she been bracing herself for something like this the entire time? Yet now that the time had finally come to hear the words, she found herself breathless—how had she let her guard down, when she’d known there was something?
Callum swallowed. “I suppose I told myself it didn’t truly matter, that what you didn’t know wouldn’t hurt you.
Especially when I had always planned on telling you eventually.
But when you told me yesterday that you trusted me…
” He shook his head. “I could hardly bear to look in the mirror when I returned home.”
“Callum,” she said through gritted teeth. “Whatever it is, just tell me.”
Her heart pounded. She was already as angry as if she knew what he was speaking of, but she didn’t. She couldn’t imagine what it was, but she was braced for the worst.
Callum rummaged in his coat pocket, the set of his mouth grim. Those few seconds, Margaret felt as if tension was drawing her as thin as a wire. He finally presented the last thing she expected to see.
“My journal,” she gasped, clutching the book when he handed it to her.
Callum nodded solemnly. “Please, allow me to explain.”
Margaret hardly knew what her expression was. She was frozen, staring down at her diary. She’d thought she’d never see it again, but there was no doubt it was hers—there was the small tea stain on the cover that she’d always thought resembled Lord Byron.
Margaret had imagined a hundred different fates for her journal—tossed in a rubbish bin or thrown on a fire, mostly. She was having difficulty reconciling the fact that she was holding it in her hands again. It was as discordant as the unexpected clang of a piano when one was reading.
“Everything I’ve told you is true.” Callum’s deep-hazel eyes were focused on her. When she looked up, she became ensnared in his gaze. “I came to London looking for a wife. In my hubris, I thought it would be easy. After all, I’ve never had difficulty speaking to ladies.”
“The title. Your face,” she murmured.
He nodded. “It was only once I arrived that I realized how difficult a task lay before me. I didn’t lie to you when I told you I want a wife of impeccable character.
Someone kind and loving who will raise our children well, who’ll love me for more than what I have to offer her in terms of pedigree and comfort. ”
Margaret nodded again, her finger absently worrying the familiar scuff on the corner of her diary.
“From the first moment I stepped foot in public, the ladies in London were…” He trailed off as if searching for a gentlemanly term that could encompass what he’d experienced.
“Aggressive?” Margaret suggested. Her mild tone belied the tumult of her thoughts.
Callum nodded, swallowed deeply, and continued.
“I was in a stationer’s shop looking for a new journal of my own when I came across yours.
Of course, at the time, I didn’t know whose it was.
I opened it to the middle, started reading, and couldn’t stop.
I bought it, took it home, and read the entire thing cover to cover. ”
Margaret shook her head. Heat rose in her cheeks. She could think of four entries off the top of her head that were shameful. She had poured every caustic thought and feeling about her late brother, Richard, about their situation, into this little book.