Page 30 of The Spinster’s Stolen Heart (Willenshires #5)

The carriage ride home was cold, in more ways than one.

Goldie, wrapped in rugs and exhausted from dancing all night, fell asleep quickly, her head resting against Margaret’s shoulder.

“We should have stayed longer,” Lady Keswick said, voice flat and emotionless.

Margaret glanced over at her mother. “Goldie’s tired. It was the right time to leave.”

“If you say so.”

Lady Keswick was a remarkably good-looking woman for her age, and the rich black velvet of her mourning clothes only seemed to improve her figure and face. She was tall and graceful, with none of the stockiness that afflicted her oldest daughter. She had sharp, beautiful features, and an air of authority that seemed to make crowds part for her.

Or at least, it had done, before her husband died of a sudden apoplexy and left the Molyneaux house notably low on its finances. Lady Keswick had not seen fit to burden her daughters with the details, but Margaret was not a fool.

“You ought not to call her Goldie in public, you know,” Lady Keswick suddenly said. “It’s a rather childish nickname.”

Margaret bristled. “Mama, she is a child.”

“Nonsense. Marigold might be married by the end of the year, a woman grown.”

“She doesn’t wish to marry yet.”

Lady Keswick turned to look out of the window, although it was dark outside and surely all she could see would be her reflection, pale and hazy and staring back.

“I have been meaning to speak to you about something rather serious, Margaret, and I suppose that now is the best time.”

This was not a good sign. Drawing in a deep breath, Margaret steeled herself. At least Goldie was asleep and would not have to overhear anything troublesome. Margaret knew that her younger sister was fragile and tended towards anxiety. She was kind and wanted to alleviate everybody’s suffering all of the time.

Regrettably, the world was not fashioned in such a manner. Gentle and amiable young ladies like Goldie were often devoured and discarded, or at the very least, subjected to the advances of gentlemen like Lord Tumnus.

Who, apparently, had been introduced by Lady Keswick herself.

No, this “conversation” would be nothing good, Margaret was sure about that.

Lady Keswick took her time, fidgeting with her gloves and cuffs. For a moment, Margaret wondered whether her mother was actually nervous .

“It’s no secret that your father left us in a dire predicament,” she blurted out, quite suddenly. “The money is all but gone, and that’s before we take into account the debts he racked up. Your father was not a bad man, or a cruel one, but he was certainly foolish. There’s no dowry for you girls, not a penny. There is some money set aside for me, as a widow, but not much. Not enough to save us.”

Margaret swallowed. “I had guessed as much.”

Lady Keswick passed a hand over her face, and Margaret realised with a jolt that her mother’s hand was shaking.

“You are very clever, aren’t you, Margaret?”

She flinched. It didn’t sound like a compliment.

“Always guessing , always figuring things out,” Lady Keswick continued, a definite hint of bitterness creeping into her voice. “Well, let me tell you this. If you were pretty rather than clever, then perhaps you might have made a great match and saved us all. As it is, you can barely hold on to Arthur Green, the most unimportant son of a mediocre house. An offer from him…”

“…is not likely,” Margaret interrupted. She wasn’t entirely sure what drove her to say as much, only that her mother was likely to find out sooner or later, and it was probably best to just get it over with. “Lady Alice Bow took him away, and I fancy he’ll be dreaming of her for a while now.”

Not that Alice would think twice about a man like Arthur Green, even if he was too foolish to see it. Margaret felt sorry for him, even though she should probably keep her pity for herself.

“Wonderful,” Lady Keswick said, voice heavy and tired. “Well, Margaret, you are nearly three-and-twenty and have never been beautiful. You are clever, although that does not particularly work in your favour. You have never applied yourself to catching a man’s attention, and it’s too late to try now. I think it’s fair to assume that you are destined for spinsterhood."

Margaret avoided her mother’s eye and picked at her skirts. It was last year’s dress, the plum-coloured muslin, and seemed to suit her worse than it had then. There were a few discreet darns on the hem, but they could not afford to replace the gown. New gowns for Margaret were a waste, anyway. As Lady Keswick had reminded her frequently, nobody would look at her.

“I think so, too,” she said at last, when it was clear that some response was expected. “And we have years before Goldie can be expected to make a decent match. If we can just…”

“Not necessarily,” Lady Keswick interrupted. “There is a gentleman very interested in Marigold at the moment. She can marry at once, you know. Seventeen is not so very young.”

There was a moment of silence between them.

“I hope you do not mean Lord Tumnus,” Margaret said at last, voice strained.

Lady Keswick had the grace to look embarrassed. “He’s a rich man, Margaret. He doesn’t care that Marigold has no dowry. He might seriously consider marriage with her.”

A wave of nausea rushed over her, making Margaret genuinely afraid that she might vomit up the mixture of champagne, lemonade, and biscuits that were all she’d eaten in the past few hours.

“You cannot let Goldie marry that man,” she managed at last. “You can’t. He’s… he’s awful. Didn’t you hear that rumour about him and some poor, friendless girl out in the country? He’s a monster!”

Lady Keswick sighed. “Men are just like that, Margaret.”

“She was fifteen!”

“Girls mature faster, my dear, you know that.”

“Nonsense. Nonsense!”

“Keep your voice down,” Lady Keswick hissed, nodding at Goldie. “Unless you want to wake up your sister and discuss it with her. She is not of age, and I am her mother, and that means I shall decide what is best for her. I have a legal and a moral right to do so.”

“You cannot believe that Lord Tumnus is going to be the best for her,” Margaret hissed. “Even you could not believe that. Goldie is terrified of him, don’t you see?”

“And what would you have me do, Margaret? It’s not as if you are going to save us all. I don’t think you understand just how close we are to disaster. It’s not simply a case of having no money anymore. We are destitute . Despite having let go most of the servants and selling off all the land we can, while we can, we are going to lose the house. Your father’s creditors are drawing near, much like hawks surveying their territory, and it won't be long before one of them takes decisive action. Once they sense an opportunity, the situation could deteriorate rapidly. And then, Marigold will be vulnerable, and prey to far worse men than Lord Tumnus. I can assure you that there are worse men than him, and you will have no way of defending her from them.”

Lady Keswick fell silent after this impassioned speech, spots of colour burning in her usually white cheeks. She sat back against the carriage seats, staring blankly out of the window.

Margaret found that she was holding her breath, and a pain was spreading across her chest. A headache throbbed between her temples, and she felt sicker than ever. It could be a combination of the sickly lemonade and her own tension, or it could have been the jerking and rattling of the carriage. The coach was in dire need of re-springing, as well as reupholstering, a thorough scrubbing, and a proper re-lacquering. Alas, they found themselves lacking the funds to undertake even a fraction of these necessary repairs.

“I see,” Margaret said at last. “It doesn’t seem fair that we’re left to deal with Papa’s debts.”

Lady Keswick shrugged. “It isn’t fair, but the money and land were all his. Now that he’s dead, his creditors have the right to take a piece of the estate before it passes to us. We’re women, my dear. We don’t really own anything, not even ourselves.”

Goldie shifted against Margaret’s shoulder, sighing in her sleep. Margaret’s heart clenched.

Not my sister, she thought, feeling ill. I can’t let this happen to her. I have to save her. I must save her. Nobody else will.

I can’t save her.

“So what do you propose?” Margaret said at last. “We push Goldie at Lord Tumnus, who may or may not deign to marry her?”

Lady Keswick was quiet for a long moment after that.

“Not exactly,” she said at last. “Not yet. Only a few hours before we left, I received this ,” she withdrew a letter from her reticule, holding it up in something like triumph.

“And what does it say?” Margaret asked tiredly. She was thoroughly sick of her mother’s sense of drama.

“Let me give you a little context. One of your father’s creditors has written to me about the debt, seeking repayment. As he is – apparently – a gentleman, I thought I might try and throw myself on his mercy. I explained the situation, and waited to see what would happen.”

“A true gentleman wouldn’t chase a man’s widow and daughters to reclaim a debt,” Margaret snapped.

Her mother continued as if she had not spoken. “Imagine my surprise and curiosity when the gentleman wrote back, requesting to meet with me – and both of you – to discuss the matter further. He says – and I quote – that a mutually beneficial arrangement might be met.”

Lady Keswick sat back, smiling triumphantly. A sense of unease prickled in Margaret’s gut.

“That could mean anything. It could mean that he thinks we have valuable things in our home, or that he is our only creditor. He might be less of a gentleman than you think and have some nefarious scheme in mind.”

“ Nefarious scheme ? Goodness, Margaret, you read entirely too many novels. Still, I happen to know that this gentleman is single, and a duke . Imagine if he were to fall in love with Marigold?”

Margaret sighed. “Well, that isn’t likely to happen, is it?”

Her mother sniffed. “Stranger things have happened. Men of his calibre, my dear, do not need to marry rich women. Why should he not marry the pretty, young little thing?”

“Because Goldie is a child, Mama.”

Lady Keswick shook her head. “Not in the eyes of many men, my dear.”

That was an unsettling thought, and Margaret stayed quiet for a while after that. Only ten minutes later, they reached home.

***

Molyneaux Manor had once been a very fine place, the pinnacle of fashion and good taste. Of course, that was back when Margaret assumed that everything in her home was properly paid for, properly owned by them.

She was wrong about that. Only days after the funeral, the house had been stripped of its valuable things, which it turned out they had never properly owned at all. Lady Keswick had rushed around the house in a mad dash, trying to collect the things she wished to save before they could be taken by blank-faced men with notebooks. They marked off everything they took, noting its value beside.

Now, the place was emptier than before, dustier than before, and noticeably quieter. They hadn’t entertained since before Lord Molyneaux died.

Margaret was vaguely aware that she ought to miss her father, but then again, it wasn’t as if she’d seen very much of him before he died, except at the occasional suppertime. At times, it felt as though he’d never been there at all.

Goldie was put to bed almost immediately, yawning and stretching and entirely unaware of the conversation which had gone on over her head, about her future and theirs.

Upstairs, Margaret retreated to her own bedchamber. She had no lady’s maid, of course. The head housemaid used to do her hair and Goldie’s, and take care of their clothes, but the woman had put in her notice months ago, citing unpaid wages. Margaret felt guilty over that. She had gone to her jewellery box, intending to take something to sell to pay Lucy’s owed wages, only to find that the box was empty.

Her mother had taken it all, half a year ago, and admitted to it freely. They had had a shouting match over that.

She undressed quickly, shivering in her night things in front of the empty grate. Firewood, of course, was expensive, and not to be wasted on bedroom warmth. She would warm up quickly enough once she was in bed.

Margaret did not, however, get into bed right away. After a moment’s thought, she seized her candle and ventured out into the dark hallway. Almost all of the lights were off, except for her mother’s room at the end of the corridor, a beam of light making its way out into the hall.

Lady Keswick sat at her dressing table, applying a cold cream to her cheeks. She glanced briefly at Margaret in the mirror.

“Not asleep yet? I thought you were exhausted; you were so keen to come home. Did you want to borrow some of my cream? It’s very good for the skin. Very smoothing, very whitening,” she paused, glancing over at Margaret again. “You could certainly benefit from a night-time cream, I think. Some cream, or perhaps a powder…”

“I’m here to talk about that creditor,” Margaret interrupted. “I assume you’ve already told him to meet us.”

“You are right. He is coming tomorrow, so I expect Marigold and you to wear your nicest gowns and to be on your best behaviour.”

“You truly think he’ll agree to a deal? Even if he does, we’ll still have other creditors to worry about.”

Lady Keswick shrugged. “It’s an opportunity, is it not? I think he may be willing to help us because… well, because he’s a rather odd man. I don’t believe he’s been in Society these last few years, and he had a reputation as being somewhat harsh.”

“Then how do you know he won’t demand his money at once and throw us out?”

Lady Keswick screwed the cap back onto her little pot of cream, turning her face this way and that to admire her skin. She gave a small pout into the mirror, and Margaret was reminded for the thousandth time that her mother had been described as a Great Beauty when she was young.

“He is unpredictable, from what I have heard,” she continued, thoughtfully. “I think that if he was simply going to demand his money back from us, he would have sent bailiffs and collectors to do so. I believe he’s done so in the past. This meeting means something, Margaret. It isn’t a formality, or a courtesy. He’s not a man given to either. He wants something from us, and it’s not the money we owe him. I, for one, want to find out what it is.”

Margaret swallowed hard. Suddenly, it seemed colder than before, her nightdress even thinner and more flimsy than when she’d left the bedroom. The wooden floor was ice cold under her bare feet.

“Who is he, then, Mama? What’s his name?”

Lady Keswick sighed. “I imagine you’ve heard of him. It’s the Duke of Stonehaven.”