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Thinking about the course of action she’d set in motion, and wondering what the devil was taking her agent so long, she rapped the tip of the quill on the old desk, uncertain why she was writing this silly letter. That poor man rarely responded.He didn’t know how to read. Dear George would often hold her letters until the parson came to visit, because the few times he’d replied, his parson had composed them. It was simply that, even after all these years, she felt a stronger connection with that silly old gardener than she ever had to anyone else.
How sad was that? How utterly and despicably miserable.
Frowning, she studied the room—her office now. It once was her father’s. All the somber colors—the deep-blue hues and dark golds—along with the heavy drapery had always given her a strange sense of ambivalence. On the one hand, they were familiar and comforting, on the other… they made her feel like marching across the room and ripping them down, if only to let in a bit of sunlight. At the moment, she had them open as far as they would go—not far at all—revealing the vivid green lawns and the sunlit rose beds, far less glorious now than they once were.
She sighed wistfully. Once upon a time she would have braved that thorny weald, ripping her yellow taffeta gown on ravaging bushes, knowing good and well that, once she was situated behind them, despite all the pricks and scrapes, she and Gabe would be safe, and no one would come looking. They’d talked for hours and hours behind those prize roses, laughing behind their hands when his father came peeking through the garden searching for them—usually at the behest of her father. And, of course, that never boded well.
She shook off her reverie, then set the pen down with a huff.
Devil take that man. Why should she now have to wed only to keep what was already hers? All of this was unbearable. How could her father have put her in such an untenable position? How could he have cared so little? Lord knew, all Maggie had ever wished to do was please him—her mother, too, though neither of them were ever particularly satisfied.
Or rather, to put it delicately, her mother had been a delicate woman, striving so hard to win her father’s affection, but never quite succeeding in the endeavor. Her greatest sin had been to bear the man a daughter, and then cock up her toes before she could bear him a son. Her father never forgave her for it—Margaret either. Until the day he’d breathed his last, he’d lamented his lack of a male heir to carry on the family name. With his dying breath, he’d wept for that nonexistent son. All the while Margaret had remained by his side, brushing the damp wisps of hair from his florid face. And regardless... not for an instant had she suspected he would turn against her so completely.
Her father had never spoken an ill word to her, though he’d never been a doting father. He was a man who’d abhorred weakness of spirit and had determined that if he couldn’t have his male heir, he would, at least, force his only child to rise above abhorrent female failings—and, truly, Margaret tried so hard to rise to his expectations. She’d studied her letters and exercised her numbers until her eyes crossed and her head ached. Under her father’s tutelage, she’d even managed the household accounts—and managed them well. Her reward had been a handful of pats upon the head, and an occasional, “Good show, Margaret.” And much to her shame, every precious ounce of her self-worth had depended upon those rare pats of approval. On the day they read his will, she’d realized the utter folly of her pride. All hisgood showshad amounted to flapdoodle, and in the end, he’d preferred to entrust his estates—all of them—to a brother he abhorred, or some unworthy stranger, rather than to a daughter who’d labored all her life to be all that he’d wished of her. Quite simply, if Margaret should fail to wed before midnight on her twenty-fifth birthday, she would surrender every farthing to her uncle.Everything. Not only the inheritable estates—which had already been forfeit—buteverything.
But that wasn’t the worst of it; it was the fact that one way or the other, she would lose her freedom as well. So, then, her choice, it seemed, was to lose some of it now to a husband she no more wanted than she wanted chin hairs, or later, to an uncle who would take nearly as much joy in caging her as her own father had.
Given such a straight comer, there was no choice to be made... none at all. At the stroke of midnight, precisely two weeks hence, for better or worse, Margaret would, indeed, be wed—but under her own conditions.
And still...
She worried her lip as she reconsidered, for she was far from finding a suitable candidate. She shouldn’t have put off the search so long. She had done so, knowing there were plenty of greedy souls out there, but time was growing short, and it simply didn’t seem fair that if a man chose to, he could live his life as he saw fit, answering to no one but himself, while a woman had few respectable options.
Her brow furrowed as she lifted the quill, once again setting it to paper, not daring to consider the true reason she was writing. And nevertheless resolved, she finished drafting the letter to the old gardener, hoping that in detailing her abominable position to her sweet old friend, it might bring answers to light.
… forgive me, dearest sir. It is not my intention to burden you. At times like this, like a mathematical equation, it helps me to see a problem drawn out upon paper. The solution should present itself shortly, no doubt. And I’ve an agent working on the matter as well. Never fear.
Delicately tapping out a period at the end of her sentence, Margaret reached up to dip the quill again, and some movement caught her gaze on the lawn.
Behind a distant oak, she spied two figures embracing.Lovers.Modesty should have compelled her to turn away, but curiosity held her fast. It was difficult to say at such a distance, but she thought it might be Robbie, the new stable boy, and perhaps Bethany, the cook’s daughter.
Bethany ducked beneath and away from Robbie’s embrace, hiding herself behind a tree. The two of them circled that tree as Margaret watched, lovers at play, and her heart squeezed. She’d never been one to woolgather all that much, and she prided herself on her pragmatism, but at this very moment, she couldn’t help but feel wistful over all that could have been and now would never be—doubtless a result of her circumstances, because it had been a long, long time since she’d daydreamed of stolen kisses... or hiding behind rose bushes with devilish little boys.
Glancing down at the pen in her hand, she chastised herself for a fool. Such things were better not even considered at this late hour. It was much, much too late for girlish fancies, and she wouldn’t be marrying for love, at any rate.
Silly chit, she chided herself—Did she know anyone who’d married for love? Certainly not her mother or father.
No, no, no… such musings were best left for giggling young schoolgirls—something she was no longer.
Alas, but once...
Her memories drifted to an age when she might have leapt from her bed every single morning, eager to be away and discover all the mysteries the day should hold... eager to share each jewel of discovery with a sweet boy with whom she’d fancied herself in love.Gabe. Gabe Smith.The gardener’s son—a black-haired boy with an adorably wicked face and eyes that twinkled with life and mirth.
What a silly little twit she had been.
Waving the memory away, she peered down at her meticulous script. Dare she ask after Gabe? Even considering such a thing, something like butterfly wings fluttered within her breast. But it wouldn’t be the first time, and such inquiries had never served her. Every time she’d ever asked about Gabe, George’s response was always the same: “He is well, thank you for asking.” And Gabe himself never sent regards.
Margaret sighed heavily, her gaze returning to the window, to the sprawling lawns beyond the leaded glass. The faint, but distant ring of laughter reached her ears... laughter that brought a sting to her eyes.
So much for promises.
Blinking away the threat of tears, she forced her gaze away from the window, blaming the glare for her watery eyes, and then, shaking herself free of such pointless reverie, she penned a brief closing to her letter, signed her name, and finally sprinkled a bit of sand to set the ink, then set the letter aside. There was no time to waste with frivolity when she still needed to pen the letter to her agent.
She trusted Mr. Goodman well enough to manage the inquiries and initial interviews. He was already aware of what she expected of a suitor; she needed only draw out a list of her requirements—foremost, he must be a commoner. If her father had imagined for one instant that Margaret would marry some distinguished bore, he’d been mistaken. After all her years of dealing with pompous men of every age—popinjays who wanted nothing more from her than quick, sweet smiles and dutiful silence, Margaret intended to marry whomever she damned well pleased. Call it revenge if you like, call it defiance, but there it was. Her father’s willhadn’tspecifiedwhoshe must wed, only that she must, and she intended to have the final say in this matter.
Never again would any man manipulate her life. Not if Margaret could help it. She only hoped her father would turn in his grave over what she was about to do, and the thought ofthatmade her giggle beneath her breath.
Resolved, she opened a drawer and drew out another sheet of paper. Arranging it before her on the desk, precisely so, then she dipped the quill into the inkwell, and began a very explicit letter of instruction to her agent, after which listed her requirements…