Chapter 34- Margaret
Margaret had thought she knew what the depths of melancholy felt like.
After all, one didn’t live through the debacle of having an older brother ruin the family and the younger seemingly ignore his sisters’ plight without experiencing pain.
But Margaret realized now, that although times had sometimes been blisteringly difficult in the past, she’d never before experienced her heart cracking in two within her own chest.
To make matters worse, upon arriving back at the house, Margaret successfully avoided her sisters on the main floor, only to run directly into her brother on the staircase.
She was so blinded by her sobs by that point that she bounced off him and likely would have fallen down the stairs if William hadn’t caught her roughly by the elbows.
“Margaret?” William demanded. “What’s wrong?”
“No—nothing,” she gasped, quite unconvincingly, just as another round of sobbing nearly doubled her.
William frowned down at her for a moment, then wrapped his arm around her midsection and began to assist her up the stairs.
“Do I need to call for the physician?” he asked once they reached the landing.
“No,” she sniffed. “It isn’t anything like that.”
“Do I need to send inquiries after a gentleman, then?” The way William said “inquiries” sounded like a whetstone-sharpened threat.
Margaret huffed a watery sort of laugh and shook her head. “No. I’ll be fine. No one’s injured me. It’s just…” Here she shook her head again, for there was no possible way to define how she felt—hardly to herself, and certainly not to William.
William nodded as if he understood and escorted her to her bedroom door.
It seemed the worst of her tears had passed already—a sudden and violent storm that had left her face oddly numb and her body tired and sagging.
But at least Margaret could breathe more normally, even if all her breaths now sounded like sighs. At least she could speak.
“Thank you, William. I’m fine now, truly. I’m only sorry you saw me in such a state. I never meant to worry you.”
He studied her. Margaret could only imagine what she looked like with bleary, swollen eyes and splotchy pink cheeks. She reached up and checked her hair absentmindedly, out of habit, to find that her hairstyle was still perfectly in place, thanks to Callum’s pins.
The thought sent searing pain through her midsection again. Perhaps this was only a break in the storm, then.
“Very well,” William finally said. “I’ll send you something to cheer you up. But if you aren’t feeling well enough by dinnertime, I will call the physician, no matter your arguments.”
“That’s fair. Thank you, William.”
Margaret closed her bedroom door and leaned against it for a moment.
Her room looked perfect—bed made with expensive linens and coverlet, the sofa and chairs just so before the fire—yet Margaret felt as if her entire world were askew.
She slumped upon the sofa and began to undo all the work that Chloe had done only perhaps an hour ago, divesting herself of hair pins, boots, and pelisse in a slow, dogged manner.
Chloe slipped into the room some time later with a tea tray. She arranged it on the low table with many careful side glances toward Margaret, who was sniffling into her handkerchief.
“I’m going to send the basket back to his house, Miss,” Chloe finally said. “Did you want the biscuits, or should I send them back, too?”
“No,” Margaret said, irrationally angry at the thought. For if Chloe sent the stroopwafels away, she’d never have another again. “Keep them, please.”
Chloe nodded and set the paper-wrapped package on the tray wordlessly. She’d had them behind her back, as if she’d already known what Margaret’s answer would be. And perhaps she had—they spent a great deal of time together.
Margaret waited until Chloe left, shutting the door noiselessly behind her. Then she proceeded to eat all the stroopwafels, one after another, until she thought she’d be sick.
Chloe was an excellent maid, Margaret decided.
She was flopped stomach-down on her bed, her face turned to the side so she wouldn’t be smothered by the luxurious feather bed.
Without asking, her maid had brought up a luncheon tray with a pot of very strong tea.
Margaret suspected the girl was standing some sort of guard outside her room as well, for none of her sisters had bothered her—not even Beatrice, who was exceptionally nosy.
It was now early afternoon, and except for the errant tear that trickled listlessly from the corner of her eye and dribbled off the end of her nose every few minutes, Margaret thought she was mostly finished crying.
That in itself was a relief. Margaret didn’t cry as others did. Lily looked luminous and lovely when she cried; Claire appeared cold and stalwart. But Margaret always appeared to have rolled down a damp hill by the time she was finished.
A knock at the door had her frowning. “Who is it?”
“It’s me, Miss,” Chloe said. “I have a delivery from your brother.”
Margaret again mentally commended Chloe, for she’d kept Margaret’s hopes from rising with the careful and quick addition of the words “from your brother.”
“Come in.” Margaret wrestled herself into a sitting position and scrubbed at her face with both hands.
It was a dreadful habit, but sometimes a good face rub was in order. Besides, Margaret had hours before she saw anyone of note.
“And me,” Rachel said, following Chloe into the room on her heels. “I’m here, too.”
Chloe’s expression was so apologetic, it bordered on mortification. “I’m so sorry, Miss. She wouldn’t let me announce her, and she wouldn’t go away.”
Margaret waved off her apology. “It’s fine, truly.”
“You look…” Rachel paused at the side of the bed and narrowed her eyes as if searching for the right adjective.
“I know how I look,” Margaret grumbled. Her hair had achieved impressive volume from rolling about in bed. She’d have to soak it in the bath to tame it.
“Did you end things, then? With your duke?” Rachel proceeded to unceremoniously untie and shuck her boots with one hand propped on the bed for balance.
“He wasn’t my duke, not really.”
“Of course he was.”
Rachel tried to climb atop the bed, but both the height and the squish of the feathers made a dignified approach impossible. Rachel gave a brisk nod of defeat, backed up several paces, and took a running leap, landing facedown next to Margaret with an undignified grunt.
“Otherwise, this wouldn’t have hurt so much,” Rachel said primly, as if her entire bed-climbing escapade hadn’t occurred.
“There’s a stepping stool on the other side,” Margaret said dully.
“I rather enjoyed jumping.”
Chloe had been dithering across the room as if she didn’t want to interrupt. Margaret lifted her chin in clear unspoken invitation.
“I didn’t lie about the delivery, Miss.” Chloe hurried over and presented Margaret with a polished black wooden box.
Rachel crowded next to Margaret to watch her open it.
Margaret undid the clasp and lifted the lid; all three young ladies gasped.
When William had told Margaret he’d send something to cheer her up, she’d expected an eclair from the French bakery across town.
Instead, William had sent her something decidedly more delicious—and expensive.
“It’s stunning,” Rachel said.
The tiara was more than the word could encompass. It was substantial and delicate all at once, wrought in curling silver metal studded with diamonds. Diamond-framed aquamarines dangled in the scrolls of the metal work. The entire thing danced and shimmered with the slightest movement.
“Oh, I adore it,” Margaret said.
She promptly closed the lid and burst into tears once more.
It took Rachel nearly an hour to get Margaret back to some semblance of normalcy.
In the end, she had the idea to order a bath.
Now, Margaret soaked in the steaming tub before the fire in her bathing room, steeping like tea leaves.
Rachel sat on the other side of a thick screen, reading from one of Margaret’s favorite books.
“You’re very handsome,” Rachel read in the breathy falsetto she’d assigned to the main character, Elise. “But my relations simply won’t approve of me marrying a pirate.”
Margaret had to begrudgingly admit that the ridiculous voice fit Elise quite well—she was a foolish, flighty thing who ended up choosing Bartholomew precisely because her relations didn’t approve.
Unfortunately, the book itself reminded her of Callum—it was the one she’d forced him to yell to her in the parlor.
“We can be together forever, if only we run away to Gretna Green.” Rachel’s mimicry of Bartholomew’s deep voice was far less successful. She often devolved into a coughing fit when she spoke his parts.
“I told you, you don’t have to do the voices,” Margaret said as Rachel cleared her throat.
“I like doing the voices. That’s the best part.”
Margaret wrinkled her nose. She didn’t have the heart to tell Rachel that the voice she used for Bartholomew was about as attractive as a carriage with a grinding axle.
“Thankfully, Bartholomew is as stupid as Elise, so he doesn’t use many large words,” Rachel said cheerfully.
It was true. In fact, as far as Margaret could tell, Bartholomew’s large, muscular arms were the extent of his charms.
It was a stark contrast to Callum, who had impressive arms and a character to match. Margaret shook her head. She wished she could write him off as a knave, but he wasn’t. He was a kind, caring man who…who hadn’t told her the full truth. She frowned down into the bathwater.
“I can hear you ruminating on the other side of the screen,” Rachel said in a warning tone. “Am I not entertaining you?”
“It’s not you.” Margaret stood abruptly from the bath, water sluicing from her skin. She briskly dried herself with the towel warmed by the fire, then dressed quickly.
She finally emerged from behind the screen, tightening the sash of her quilted dressing robe.
Rachel still sat on the chair. She’d been reading silently but looked up when Margaret appeared. “I’d say there’s already been an improvement.”
“Oh yes, now I look like a drowned rat. Quite the improvement.”
“But you haven’t cried for nearly half an hour. That must mean something.”
“That I’m sick of listening to myself, probably.”
“You do sound rather like someone stepped on a faulty bellows when you cry. I’ll admit it took me some time to place the sound.”
Margaret sat at her dressing table and began to comb out her hair.
Rachel appeared behind her in the reflection of the mirror. “Would you like to try on your tiara? That might cheer you up.”
“No, thank you.” After a moment, she added, “Though you’re welcome to try it on, if you’d like.”
“Yes, please.”
Rachel wasted no time in donning the exquisite piece, then paraded about the room nodding and preening as if she were greeting foreign dignitaries in her mind. In spite of everything, the sight made Margaret smile.
“Are you ready to tell me what happened?” Rachel asked.
Margaret sighed. “I’m just so embarrassed.” And heartbroken, but she figured that part went without saying.
“What happened?”
“Do you remember how I lost my diary prior to the Season?”
“Of course.” Rachel checked her reflection in the full-length mirror, then dropped into a low, careful curtsy.
“Apparently, Callum had it this entire time.”
Margaret nibbled her lip, wondering if it was still appropriate for her to call him Callum. What was their relationship now that she’d told him not to visit her any longer?
“And that’s why he courted you so determinedly?” Rachel’s eyes were bright. “Why, that’s wonderful.”
“By what stretch of the imagination?” Margaret’s brow wrinkled. “He’s read every one of my private thoughts from the past three years.”
“That’s precisely my point.” Rachel tilted her head; the tiara listed precariously with the motion. “He’s read every one of your private thoughts and still wishes to marry you.”
Margaret frowned. When Rachel put it like that, it shone a different light on things.
“I’m embarrassed,” she argued, far more feebly than before.
“What precisely do you think marriage is?” Rachel demanded, her hands on her slim hips.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s sharing a life together, Margaret.
Which hopefully includes sharing your deepest fears and joys, your highest highs and lowest lows.
Marriage isn’t like courting—you aren’t going to get all dressed up and sit in a parlor together and make polite conversation.
He’s going to see you looking as you are now. ”
Margaret glanced at her reflection. Her hair hung limply down the front of her dressing gown and her eyes were still puffy and red, as was her nose.
“I suppose you’re right,” she murmured.
“Now, tell me. Other than knowing you—and loving you—for exactly who you are, has the duke done anything wrong?”
Margaret felt a creeping sort of dread that perhaps it was she, not Callum, who was in the greater wrong.
In a weakly defensive tone, she said, “He wasn’t completely honest with me.”
Rachel exhaled derision through her nose. “Are you claiming you were completely honest with him? For I seem to remember him chasing you across London’s ballrooms while you avoided him instead of having an honest conversation.”
Margaret pursed her lips. She had done that. “Perhaps I have overreacted.”
There was a knock at the door and Chloe entered, frowning. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Miss, but there’s a visitor in the library who says he won’t leave until he’s seen you.”
Margaret’s heart leapt with something that felt very much like hope. She turned toward the mirror and grimaced. “It will take me some time before I’ll be presentable.”
Chloe nodded. “I’ll help get you ready, but there’s no rush. He quite clearly stated that he’d wait for hours if he had to.”