Chapter 33- Margaret #2
After it had been lost, she’d told herself that perhaps it was for the best. For who could ever read such a thing and think good of her? She didn’t know if she could bear to re-read it herself.
“You must think I’m a terrible person,” Margaret croaked.
Callum’s forehead crinkled. “On the contrary. I felt I had insight into a young woman of deep feeling who showed admirable inner strength and a determination to go on when things were difficult. The author thought more highly of others than she did of herself and continually prioritized the needs of her siblings.”
Margaret shook her head.
Callum looked at her in wonder. “Margaret, I fell in love with the author of that journal before I’d even finished reading it. I was desperate to find its owner, but you left so few clues.”
Margaret jolted. He loved her?
Callum didn’t seem to notice that the earth had tilted beneath Margaret’s feet. “It wasn’t until the very last pages that I found out you resided in London, that you gave me two small, concrete clues to ascertain your identity.”
“What? What were they?” She’d thought she’d been so careful.
“That you were blonde and one of eight sisters. I asked a few casual questions, and Ellis pointed me toward you.”
“Ellis knows?” Margaret reflexively clasped the journal to her chest.
He sighed. “He didn’t know then, but he snuck into my room later and figured it out.”
“Did he—he didn’t read it, did he?” Margaret felt the distinct urge to stand and run.
Callum grimaced. “He only read one page before he realized it wasn’t the scandalous novel he’d thought it was.”
Margaret stared down at the book in her hands. She thought she should feel relieved, but all she felt was a pit of shame deep in her stomach. All of what Callum must have read, all of her doubts about why he’d chosen her, came flying back at her in formation.
“But it was scandalous in the end, wasn’t it?” she said weakly.
“No, Margaret. It was honest and beautiful. Like you.”
“Stop saying that,” she said.
“But it’s true.”
She raised her watery eyes to his. “How can I trust you when you’ve read every shameful detail of my life for the past several years and didn’t think to mention it?”
He frowned. “There was nothing in your journal that made me think less of you.”
Margaret shook her head. Amongst all of her warring emotions, anger was the most convenient. She jabbed her finger onto the cover. “But you knew that I sold my hair, that I took in strangers’ washing.”
Callum’s forehead creased. “You say these things as if you should be embarrassed of them. I disagree. You did everything you could do within the bounds of propriety to provide for your sisters. That’s admirable, Margaret.
That in itself would have been worthy of my love.
Yet you did so while retaining your sense of humor, your bright outlook.
The woman in those pages never wavered. That’s who I want by my side. ”
“I did waver,” she argued. “If you knew how many times I snapped at my sisters. Well, you read it yourself,” she said, her cheeks in the full bloom of a blush. “How often I complained about our reduced circumstances! How many names I called Richard.”
“From my standpoint, he deserved each and every one. The point is, Margaret, I felt I loved you before I even met you. And then I saw you and…” He shook his head, blinking as if entranced by the memory.
“You’re beautiful. Stunningly so. I couldn’t have imagined a woman I’d want more.
And I know I won’t want another for the rest of my life. ”
Margaret shook her head, her eyes misting. “How can you say such things?”
“Do you doubt that I mean them?”
“I…I don’t know.” She felt her anger slipping from her shoulders like an ill-fitting cloak.
But if it fell completely, she’d be without cover—exposed and vulnerable.
It simply wouldn’t do. “None of this matters, Callum. You may not have lied to me directly, but you certainly didn’t tell me the whole of the truth. ”
“I’m telling you the whole of it now.”
“When the Season is nearly over! You came to me under false pretenses and you thought you already knew me. You began courting me with an unfair advantage—you had personal information about me.” Margaret hardly knew what she was saying. She felt cornered, bare, desperate…
“Yes, I had personal information about you. Perhaps that makes me a cheat. But make no mistake, Margaret—even without the journal, I would have noticed you. I would have singled you out. We would have ended up in the same position—with me loving you and wanting to marry you. You are kind, honorable, charitable. Your wit is playful, your mind keen. And if that weren’t more than enough—which it most definitely is—you’re also the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. ”
“Stop saying that! Stop saying that when it simply isn’t true.” Margaret felt the sting of unwanted tears in her eyes.
Callum studied her for several moments, a grim set to his mouth.
The corners of his jaw ticked. “This isn’t about the journal at all.
It’s about how you insist upon seeing yourself.
” He leaned forward. “Margaret, if I could make myself shorter and less desirable to other ladies, if that’s what it would take for you to believe that I truly want you for you, then I would do it.
But short of chopping off my legs or giving up my title—both of which would make it more difficult to help those who are under my protection—I cannot do it.
It’s not me who needs to change, it’s you. ”
Her fingers were shaking; she tightened them around her journal to stop them. “What a strange way to apologize for invading my privacy.”
“The journal wasn’t private at the time, Margaret. It was lying out in public where anyone might have read it. I think that if you give yourself time to reflect, you’ll be grateful—”
“Grateful? That you read all about me before I even knew your name? That you invaded my—my private thoughts?”
With patience that made her want to tear his hair from the roots, Callum lowered his voice and said, “If you give yourself time to reflect, I think you’ll be grateful that it was I who found it, instead of someone like Lord Gavin Nelson, who would have used it to his own ends—”
“Didn’t you?” she snapped. “Use it to your own ends, I mean?”
“If by my own ends you mean falling in love with you, then yes, I did.”
“Stop saying that.” Margaret was afraid of what she might do or say if Callum told her he loved her again. His words had done nothing to calm her—indeed, they had only stirred up more agitation.
“I won’t stop telling you until you believe it.”
“It’s making me very uncomfortable. You have made me very uncomfortable. I…I think you should leave, and I don’t think you should visit me anymore.”
Callum sighed and looked down. Long moments stretched between them. Finally he murmured, “Is that truly what you want, Margaret?”
“Yes, it is.” She wasn’t lying. She could recognize the signs—the storm of her tears would land shortly, and she didn’t wish to cry in front of him.
“Very well.” Callum stood and gave a tight nod. “Good day, Margaret.”
Margaret didn’t look up as Callum left. She didn’t think she could bear to see his stiff-backed exit without hiccuping an embarrassing sob.
After he left, she sat for a full minute staring out across the pond.
Then she stood and walked a quick distance away, giving Chloe room to hurriedly bundle the blanket and the remainder of the stroopwafels into the picnic basket.
Then Margaret strode back toward her house, nearly blind with her tears and avoiding Chloe’s concerned gaze.