Chapter 37- Margaret
Margaret had lost count of how many balls she’d attended this Season. Many of them blurred together—a watercolor wash of silk, pretty music, and fake smiles in her memory.
Of course, several had been more memorable than others.
Margaret had spent nearly the entirety of one ball beneath a table in an empty room with Rachel Warrington, Sylvia Barrows, Lily, and Beatrice, for example.
That had been far more fun than the telling would convey, even though Margaret’s thoughts had been as full of Callum as they were now—just in a different way.
However, of the many balls Margaret had attended this Season, tonight’s promised to be the most memorable of them all.
Margaret had dressed with the significance of the evening in mind. Chloe seemed to appreciate the magnitude as well—she had attacked Margaret’s hair with all the focus and solemnity of a general the morning of a great battle.
Margaret didn’t know if it was Callum’s persistence in telling her she was beautiful, or whether her appearance was now among the least of her concerns, but for the first time she could remember—at least since she’d reached adulthood—Margaret lifted her chin at her reflection and was perfectly pleased with it.
In fact, she thought she’d never looked more beautiful.
She wore a gown of the palest blush only a couple shades darker than her own skin tone.
It had an off-the-shoulder neckline that was cleverly draped; it hinted at her curves rather than flaunting them.
Despite all of Chloe’s efforts, Margaret’s hairstyle was stunning in its simplicity—two smooth braids crossed over and wound around the sleek chignon at the base of her neck.
Chloe had added a single, sparkling diamond barrette in the back.
Margaret endured a silent carriage ride with sisters, who seemed as preoccupied as she was. When she handed over her travelling cloak to the attendants in the entryway, she allowed herself to momentarily press a hand to her stomach to calm the nerves roosting there.
As she entered the ballroom, Margaret’s eyes scanned the crowd, looking for Callum.
The Prestons had arrived late—Lily had been surprisingly slow to get ready, and Claire had dithered over her gown choices until Beatrice sniped at her—so Margaret expected that she’d be able to spot Callum and his feminine retinue immediately.
Only, Callum was nowhere to be seen.
Margaret searched the ballroom through the first dance, wandering around the perimeter, going on tiptoe to see over those taller than her.
She knew she was probably making a spectacle of herself—to anyone paying attention—but she found she no longer cared.
Margaret wasn’t sure whether she’d borrowed some of Callum’s confidence or suddenly sprouted her own.
All she knew was that in the face of possibly losing Callum, she didn’t give a whit what society as a whole thought of her.
Margaret had debated whether she should wait for this evening’s ball to make her apology in the first place.
She might have sent a note asking to speak with him, or even showed up at his front door.
However, perhaps she hadn’t developed as much self-assurance as she’d thought, for there was a small part of her that feared Callum would simply send her away, as she’d done him.
As one dance ended and another began, Margaret circled the room again, more desperately.
Unfortunately, this ballroom also possessed a great deal many pillars.
There was one moment where Margaret spotted Miss Belsham and Miss Everly together across the room.
As they were often in the habit of trailing after Callum at such events, Margaret doggedly plowed through the crowd, heading their direction.
Yet as soon as she’d reached the spot where they’d stood only minutes prior, they’d disappeared again.
Margaret rolled to the toes of her satin slippers and located them on the other side of the ballroom, where she’d started.
She huffed a sigh and circled again, all the while rolling her hopes and fears around in her mind.
Margaret had wanted to be certain she could speak to Callum in person.
What she had to say was too tender to scratch at with the sharp end of a quill.
But now her delay—which had felt so logical at the time—seemed like a mistake.
The possibility loomed like a leviathan in her mind: what if Callum had decided not to attend this evening’s ball after all?
Finally, Margaret spotted Ellis leaning against the wall behind the punch table, surrounded by a group of young gentlemen who were similarly slouched.
They all appeared to have accepted the evening’s invitation as a matter of reluctant obligation.
Margaret’s profound relief nearly staggered her, for Ellis wouldn’t have come without Callum.
Ellis caught her stare; he gave her a meaningful raise of the eyebrow and inclined his head toward the gardens.
Margaret hurried to the hallway and headed out a set of glass doors without hesitation. Despite all the warnings she’d heard about being caught in the gardens at a ball, she needed to speak to Callum. To apologize.
She’d scoured his journal and was more convinced than ever that she loved him beyond all measure.
His written word had exposed far more self-doubt than his presence had ever implied.
Callum truly meant it when he’d called Margaret beautiful, over and over again.
She’d wept when she’d read the entry he’d written after seeing her in the park the first time.
Oh, if only she could see herself through his eyes! Margaret discounted the thought as soon as she had it, for if she saw herself as Callum did, she would soon become insufferable. It was enough for her to have him at her side for the rest of her life—more than enough. It was all she wanted.
The night was still and mild, the gentle coolness of the gardens a refreshing change from the warm ballroom.
Margaret’s heart pounded with her reckless risk.
If she were spotted alone—or even worse, if a gentleman were to chance upon her—she and her sisters would be subjected to the scandal that followed.
Such possibilities paled in comparison to the idea of losing Callum forever.
Margaret strode forward along a gravel path until she heard the echo of a lady’s voice. On instinct, she veered that direction.
The path led to a garden room ringed in a tall, neatly trimmed green hedge that allowed privacy for whoever wished to sit on the wide lip of the fountain in the center. Cobblestones ringed the fountain, and stone goddesses holding urns stood in small alcoves flanking the space.
When Margaret stepped into the garden room, it took but a glance to assess the situation. She had finally found Callum, but he wasn’t alone.
Daisy was facing Callum, her back turned to Margaret. She was speaking to Callum in a tone so low that Margaret couldn't quite make out the words. However, she was able to quite clearly make out Callum's reply.
“Miss Cope, please, I beg you, step back. Surely you don't wish to do such a thing. Surely you have a higher view of yourself than this.”
“This is my only hope,” Daisy snapped.
“There must be a better option available to you.” Callum spoke in a low, cajoling tone usually reserved for growling dogs or skittish horses.
“I hardly think it's fair that females bear the brunt of social expectations. Perhaps it's time for a gentleman to be caught by a scandal.”
Callum’s hands were raised as if to defend himself. However, instead of allowing him to move away, which was obviously his desire, Daisy pressed forward until his hands met her shoulders.
“I dare say we'll be very happy together,” Daisy said.
Callum's eyes lifted and widened when he spotted Margaret. She was already in motion. She strode forward in righteous indignation, heedless of the irony that this time it was she who was appearing out of the greenery to interrupt Daisy at the worst possible moment.
Rage coursed through Margaret—she hardly knew what she’d planned to do before she’d already taken Daisy firmly by the shoulders and pushed her roughly away from Callum, right into a nearby bush.
Daisy fell with a little shriek, though the bush cushioned her fall quite nicely. Margaret rather wished it hadn't.
“I’ll not let you entrap him,” Margaret hissed, her chest rising and falling with agitation. She planted herself squarely between Daisy and Callum, as if the lady might rise and attempt to pounce on him any moment.
“This is none of your concern,” Daisy snapped. She rocked side to side in the bush, searching for a way to dislodge herself. “This is between me and the duke.”
Margaret looked over her shoulder at Callum. “Are you quite all right?”
He wasn’t given the time to reply. Two elderly widows rounded the far corner with wide eyes.
“What on earth is going on here?” one of them demanded.
Margaret recognized them as Lady Blythe and Lady Burnett.
They were exactly the sort of ladies one wanted to avoid when wandering the gardens at a ball.
Both had looked around at their lives and, finding themselves in want of something to do now that their children were reared and their husbands dead, had taken up the mantle of gossip under the guise of being defenders of propriety.
“I was with the duke—” Daisy lifted a shaking finger and pointed at Callum as if there might be any question as to whom she meant.
“What luck that I was also present and there was no impropriety whatsoever,” Margaret interjected quickly. “Miss Knope tripped and fell, and we rushed to her aid.”
Lady Blythe lifted her nose—she looked like a thin hound scenting gossip on the air. She narrowed her eyes at Margaret. “Yet you admit that you were walking alone in the gardens with His Grace?”