‘I don’t want to. Know that I’m only doing it to make you—’
‘Make me happy. I know. But I can’t be happy like this.’ She turned to the fire, staring unseeing into the flames as Henry began to dress himself. Every rustle of fabric ran over her nerves, stinging her. ‘I can’t.’
Soon, silence reigned. Only Henry’s breathing punctuated the oppressive stillness of the room. When he spoke, the desperation in his voice chilled her despite the heat of the fire. ‘This isn’t the end. I won’t let it be.’
‘We shall let it be the end, and that is that.’ If she looked back at him, she’d pull him to her and everything would be over. ‘Now go.’
‘Margaret—’
‘Go!’
First, she had wept. She had wept until her throat was dry, her head pounding, her lips red and raw from biting them. Then she had slept like the dead, so profoundly that she didn’t even dream. Then, when she had woken, she wrote a letter to her friend Jane Selkirk and dispatched it with the earliest post.
Jane had come to see her as soon as she had received the letter. Tall and full-figured, with fair hair swept back from her face and pinned in a decidedly dishevelled manner, she was the very epitome of frank firmness and exactly what Margaret needed.
That didn’t mean, of course, that she was easy company. Now that her friend was in her house, leaving half-drunk cups of tea over all available surfaces and doodling equations in the corner of books, Margaret could see the many ways in which her friend and Henry were alike. They were both geniuses in their own, singular ways, both of them forthright, and both very unlikely to suffer fools gladly.
If she had developed a passion for Jane rather than Henry, things would arguably be much easier. No-one took any notice of two women living together, and no-one would gossip more than was usual. Why, she knew of at least three women living in arrangements that were decidedly unorthodox if one looked a little deeper—if she could only rearrange her mind, but it was far too late…
‘Margaret, you’re dreaming again.’ Jane rolled her eyes as she put her book down, folding the corner of the page with a severity that made Margaret wince. ‘And stop wincing at the way I fold pages.’
‘They’re not even your books.’
‘I shall buy you copies of whichever book I read, and take the dog-eared ones back to the cottage.’
‘Why do you persist in calling the manor house a cottage?’
‘I don’t know. Probably because I spent so much time in the dairy as a child, and that’s a cottage through and through. The rest of the house was less important.’
‘I didn’t have any house to speak of. One room, from what I can recall.’
‘Why are we sinking into memory rather than talking to me about Henry Duke?’
‘Because—because I don’t see how we can possibly be together, given my past.’
Jane paused for a moment. Margaret watched her think, her gaze drifting into abstraction. ‘But you told him about your past.’
‘Yes.’
‘And he didn’t give a fig about any of it.’
‘Yes, but—but he’s wrong to think nothing of it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because if it came to light, it would ruin his life and my own. I would destroy any chance of marital happiness he had if I married him.’ Margaret looked out of the window at the rain. ‘And even though I understand the basic good sense of this, I find myself mired in the most dreadful sort of misery.’
‘Thank goodness.’
‘Thank goodness? What sort of thing is that to say to a miserable friend?’
‘You’re making yourself miserable, Margaret. Desperately miserable. You’ve done it all your life, attempting to make up for a past full of necessary decisions that you’ve decided were unacceptable.’ Jane leaned down, gently cleaning a corner of the table with her sleeve. ‘Thank goodness that this crisis, this terrible conundrum of your own making, will help you realise that.’
‘You’re very comforting.’
‘No need for sarcasm. You know I’m right.’
‘My past will never not be important.’
‘It’s important to you. Not to Mr. Duke. He’s told you every way he can.’
‘But how can I stop it being important to me?’
‘By not clinging it. By letting it go, and embracing the love of a man who has truly never cared about it.’ Jane shrugged. ‘I would have assumed it was obvious. Don’t the wives of the Duke Brothers end up making the most colossal spectacles of themselves? I thought love matches were very much their line.’
‘I can’t imagine making a spectacle of myself. I wouldn’t know where to start.’
‘The Winterson Ball would be a promising start.’
‘I don’t quite know if I can interrupt a ball and declare myself to all and sundry.’
‘You don’t need to do that. You need to do what you always do. Assert your existence in the quiet, unassuming way you’ve always done, putting down your roots, and by the time anyone notices you’re not quite what you seem you’re far too entrenched to be pulled up. You’ve attained a safe, respectable place in society using that very method.’ Jane smiled. ‘I’m sure, done right, it’ll help you create a limited scandal too.’
‘I… I worry still that I’ll be found out.’
‘What can be found out? Old rumours, gossip, supposition. Memories, which are as insubstantial as thistledown. None of it is real to you anymore, Margaret–why should it be real to the rest of the world?’
Rumours, gossip, supposition. The very things she had been so frightened of for so long had been waved away by Jane as if they were of no consequence. If people found out… if people really did find out everything about her, every single unsavoury thing…
… she would still have Henry.
How strange that she had never considered it that way before.
‘Do you see now, Margaret?’ Jane was rarely patient, but she knew when not to press her case too hard. Her voice was gentle. ‘Do you?’
‘Yes.’ A deep, glorious sigh of relief came from deep within her. If she had Henry, everything would be well. Even if she disappointed the list of brides she had carefully picked for him—even if everyone spoke of nothing but her for weeks. If she had him, all would be well. ‘Yes, I do.’
‘Then you must dress. You have a ball to prepare for.’
The Winterson Ball was one of the most glittering events in the social calendar, not least because all of the most successful Barton-approved marriages had been forged there between the soup course and the first round of bridge. Henry, who had never given a damn about balls before and wasn’t planning to start now, stared around the room with a wave of dejected fury.
It was all very pretty. That he couldn’t deny. The blooming floral arrangements, the delicately arranged champagne glasses and the evident attention made to dress all made for a pleasing picture. But he didn’t care about pictures, not today—not with this bone-deep irritation growing with every beat of his heart.
He was an unreasonable person. He’d always known that. Unreasonable, incorrigible, impossible. But however impossible, incorrigible and unreasonable it was to be in love with Margaret Barton—to have been in love with her from the very instant he spoke to her, with no deviation in his constancy or fear of his sentiments changing—he couldn’t stop it, or even attempt to control it.
He would stay at this stupid ball for as long as politeness allowed, out of respect for Margaret, and then he would go to her house. He would plead his case with every ounce of skill he had; he was less eloquent than many other men, but no-one would match him for passion. He would plead, argue, beg…
… oh, what was the point of even trying to imagine a future, when he was trapped in this luxurious hell?
Margaret had filled his dance card. How bloody irritating. He wasn’t a glaring man, but he fought the urge to glower at anyone who came within a hundred feet of him as he sat crossly by the champagne.
Wome
n were looking at him. Presumably they were the women that Margaret had picked out; they all looked like the same person copied a dozen times over. Nothing like the woman he truly wanted, in all of her idiosyncratic glory.
He was normally very good at discarding a thought when it no longer served him. Some obsessions lingered, yes, but in an unsentimental way. But now he was all sentiment, every particle of him blazing with it, and if we wasn’t careful he’d lapse into absent-mindedness.
Ugh. The musicians were readying their bows. He’d need to find the first woman on his card, ‘Arabella Parr’, before the music began. Unable to countenance the idea of bowing and smiling his way through the crowd until someone took enough pity on him to introduce him, Henry raised his voice enough to silence everyone within six feet. ‘Miss Parr? Miss Arabella Parr?’
An elderly woman approached, a younger one behind her. She stared at Henry with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. ‘Mr. Henry Duke?’
‘Yes.’ Henry remembered to bow. ‘I need to dance with Miss Arabella Parr.’ He looked over the woman’s shoulder at the younger female. ‘I suppose that’s you.’
‘Is Miss Barton not here?’ Evidently his charms weren’t working on the older woman. ‘I need to discuss certain matters with—’
‘We have no time. I need to dance with your… granddaughter?’
‘Daughter!’
‘Your daughter. I need to dance with her, and the music’s about to start.’ Henry held out his hand to Arabella, ignoring the woman’s wide eyes. ‘Come now. I don’t wish to be late.’
‘Arabella.’ Her mother didn’t look at all keen on the arrangement. ‘I know you said you had to dance every dance chosen for you, but—’
‘Oh, mother.’ Arabella rolled her eyes as she moved to the dance-floor, arranging herself as prettily as she could as Henry stood opposite her. ‘You do fuss.’
As everyone in the immediate vicinity began to speak of Henry Duke’s spectacular rudeness, the music started. Henry, concentrating on not bumping into anyone, knew he had to be as clear as possible.
‘Look.’ He addressed the young woman quite sternly. ‘You seem very nice, but I’m not going to marry you.’
Arabella’s eyes widened. ‘Oh?’
‘No. I’m going to marry Margaret Barton. I understand you’re rather a gossip–do tell everyone that I’m going to marry her. I don’t want to spend the whole evening dancing with people I’m not going to marry.’
‘I–all right.’
‘Good.’ Henry frowned as a small doubt struck him. ‘Is it truly all right? Or are you simply attempting to hide how unhappy you are?’
‘...No. I’m not unhappy. I’m confused, but—but that’ll pass.’ Arabella blinked, evidently adjusting herself to the new reality of things. Once the wounded maiden side of her personality had been usurped by her ardent love of gossip, she held herself a little more securely. ‘You’re truly going to marry Margaret Barton?’
‘If I can possibly help it.’
‘You know what they’re beginning to say about her, I suppose. That she isn’t a very good matchmaker.’
‘I don’t care about any of it.’
‘Oh. Well—that’s nice, I suppose.’ Arabella smiled. ‘Terribly nice, really.’
‘I’ve loved her ever since the first moment I saw her.’
‘Oh, that’s tremendous!’
‘Yes. I thought so. That’s why I’m going to marry her.’
‘How lovely.’
‘Thank you.’ Henry paused as a particularly complex sequence of steps came, but managed to perform them unscathed. ‘You may be the first person who seems happy about it.’
‘Is Miss Barton not happy about it?’
‘I think she is happy about the idea of it, but frightened about the execution. But she’s a brave woman—the bravest I’ve met.’
‘How wonderful.’ Arabella’s eyes shone. ‘Will you propose to her tonight?’
‘If I have time to visit her after the ball.’
‘Visit her? She’s here.’
‘... I beg your pardon?’
‘She’s here. She came a little while ago. I believe she’s spent most of her time speaking to the Wintersons themselves.’ Arabella smiled, almost missing her place in the dance as she clapped her hands excitedly. ‘I—look! She’s behind you!’
Henry turned. He couldn’t help it. A gentleman bumped into him, glaring as the dance line fell briefly out of order, recovering in a limping wobbly way as she stared at Margaret.
She was in the crowd, speaking quietly to a young woman with red hair. She was wearing that rose-pink dress she had worn to dinner; she glowed in it, more beautiful than everything he had ever seen.
‘I could leave at the next turn.’ It was clear that Arabella had never been involved in anything so exciting. With a sharp tug of his sleeve she pulled him back into the dance; Henry closed his eyes for a moment, regaining the rhythm of it. ‘She could take my place.’
‘Will it attract attention?’
‘… No.’
‘Are you lying?’
… Yes.’
‘It’s a good idea either way.’ If this was how dances were done, ladies should be organising the movements of the military on the Continent. ‘Please do.’
‘I wish you all the best.’
‘Thank you.’ How was he supposed to return to compliment? ‘I… I hope you don’t die a spinster.’
Arabella’s face flickered, but the smile soon returned. ‘You’re an unusual person, Mr. Duke.’
‘I know.’ Henry concentrated on turning her, counting the beats of the music in his head. ‘But there’s nothing wrong with that. Not at all.’
He bowed his head as Arabella took a step backward. In the brief chaos of music, dance, forgetting his steps and a stab of anxiety about the prospect of a life spent alone, he almost lost the beat of the dance entirely as another turn came.
Then, in a cloud of rose silk and fresh, intoxicating scent, Margaret was in front of him.
‘Like this.’ Her voice, soothing, sure. How he’d loved it ever since the first time he’d heard it. ‘One to the left, and—and there.’ A pause. ‘Now it’s us. Only us.’
Us. He and Margaret, dancing in front of the Winterson crowd. If only his brothers were here, if only everyone was here to see her dancing with him, smiling at him, looking as lovely as she did.
She truly was magnificent. He’d known it since the beginning. How wonderful to be certain about something from the start, and have that certainty so perfectly rewarded.
‘You took Arabella’s place.’
‘I did.’
‘You’ve caused the most tremendous uproar.’ Henry looked at all the wide eyes and chattering tongues. ‘This is normally what I do.’
‘I don’t think you could cause a worse uproar than this one.’ Margaret’s cheeks were flushed with excitement, her eyes shining. Her dress flowed out from her hips, a waterfall of rose. ‘Which is not by any means encouragement to try.’
‘I don’t need to make a public scandal when I can fulfil a private need. Marry me, Margaret Barton.’ Henry made sure to remember his steps; a public proposal and a dance were difficult things to combine, especially in the middle of a crowded ballroom. ‘Please.’
‘And if we realise we dislike one another?’
‘We won’t. But I’ll grant you a divorce.’
‘No–no woman in England has been divorced!’
‘You’ll make a perfect first example.’
‘I don’t want to be the perfect first example. I want to marry you, and let that be that.’
‘Good. You finally see it my way.’ Henry smiled, the music of the string quartet a lively companion to the happiness deep in his chest. ‘I’ve been trying to tell you that since we first met.’
THE END
KEEP EXPLORING
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