by Cheryl Holt
“I’ve been a tad down in the mouth. You needn’t worry about it.”
“Why are you so glum? Was Egypt terrible? Was it Mr. Howell? I warned you he was a pompous prig and it would be a grave mistake to wed him.”
“Mother didn’t give me a choice, Jacob. Could we please not rehash ancient history?”
Jacob motioned to the footmen, and they tiptoed out and shut the door behind them. Not that she cared if the servants eavesdropped. They unraveled every secret and, no doubt, were fully aware of the cause of her woe.
Jacob studied her meticulously, and he appeared genuinely concerned, which was a novel development. He was thirty, and she was twenty-eight, and with their being so close in age, they should have been fond siblings, but the sad fact was that they barely knew each other. He’d left for boarding school when he was seven and had scarcely returned for visits after that.
Their mother, Esther, had been so unlikable, and Margaret had envied him for being able to pick up and flee. She hadn’t escaped until her mother had sold her to Mr. Howell. When Margaret had been introduced to him, she’d cried for three days and had sworn she’d never wed him, but Esther had prevailed in the end.
Esther had contracted the match when Margaret was seventeen. She’d been vivacious and spirited, and Esther had constantly raged that she’d inherited her father’s low morals and would ultimately wind up just as dissolute. Mr. Howell had been fifty, a twice-widowed government official who’d never sired any children.
He’d been a stern, pious, and petty man, so in Esther’s view, it had made him a stellar husband for a girl as vibrant and silly as Margaret had been.
Her friends had counselled her to look on the bright side: She’d get to travel the world with Mr. Howell, and she’d never have to slink back to her mother or Ralston Place unless she chose to. She’d taken the advice to heart, and she’d proceeded without argument.
For a decade, they’d resided in Egypt, where his job had been to arrange grain shipments to England. She’d had a lovely villa on the Nile and loads of British acquaintances, so her public life had been exotic and interesting, but her personal life had been grueling and despicable.
He’d finally died, and she hadn’t mourned or missed him.
Her brother asked the strangest question. “Do you blame me for not stopping your wedding?”
“What an absurd thought. Why would I have?”
“I should have put my foot down. I’ve always been sorry that I didn’t.”
“That’s some consolation, I guess.”
In the past, she had blamed him for the disaster. She couldn’t remember why, and it didn’t matter now. He hadn’t even been in England when Esther had forged ahead. How could he have intervened? How could it have been his fault?
“Did he bequeath anything to you?” Jacob inquired.
“No. I haven’t a single farthing to my name. It’s why I’ve staggered to Ralston Place. I didn’t have any other option.”
“Your dowry is gone too?”
“Yes.”
“The bastard.”
“Before I could even bury him, his creditors swarmed to inform me he was bankrupt. Evidently, he wasn’t adept at managing his money.”
“The grain merchant didn’t understand money? How absolutely ironic.”
They shared a smile, and Jacob said, “Are you home to stay?”
“If you’ll permit me to.”
“Of course you can stay—forever if you like. I hope you didn’t fear I’d mind.”
“I had no idea what your opinion would be. You’re about to wed, so it’s the worst time to have your destitute sister trudge in and beg for shelter.”
“This mansion is more yours than mine. You’re always welcome.”
“What if Roxanne disagrees with you? It will be her domain as a new wife. She might not be too keen to have me underfoot, and I’ve been fretting about it.”
“She won’t be allowed to object.”
“Thank you.”
Tears flooded her eyes, and he seemed disturbed to witness them. “You really are despondent, aren’t you? I didn’t want to believe it.”
“It’s just been an eternity since anyone was kind to me.”
“Oh, Margaret . . .”
He stood and rounded the table. He grabbed a napkin and dabbed at her eyes, then he clasped her hand and patted it.
“You’ll be fine,” he said. “I’m certain of it. Will I sound horrid if I declare that I’m not lamenting Mr. Howell’s death? I’m not grieving over Mother’s either. I’m glad we’re here and they’re not.”
She chuckled, but miserably. “Please keep that to yourself. We might be struck by lightning for leveling curses.”
“You should rest and heal. It’s your only task. You’ll be better soon.”
“I’m already better.”
“You mustn’t hide yourself away. I’m sure if you get out and about more often, you’ll improve quicker.”
“I think so too. It’s what Miss James advises.”
“She’s correct, and we’ll begin tonight with you joining me for supper. Apparently, Roxanne has invited the vicar and some of the neighbors. I can’t face them alone.”
“I wouldn’t be that cruel. I’ll be there with bells on.”
It was odd to have him being attentive and sympathetic. It was like having a stranger walk up and furnish assistance. She didn’t know how to accept it, and she pulled away and left him to his breakfast.
She went to the foyer and considered heading up to her bedchamber again, but for once, she didn’t. The more she locked herself away, the smaller her room felt. She sat in the window seat, staring out at the park and reliving the awful moments of her marriage. It simply increased her sense that she’d been wronged by life.
Why hadn’t she ever grown a spine? Why hadn’t she said this or done that? Why had she been such a milksop about every tiny issue?
Well, Mr. Howell was deceased, and there could be no rewriting the past, so how was her morbid rumination helping?
She had to stop focusing on what had been bad and unbearable. Nothing was bad now. Yes, she was poor, but other than that, she was a healthy, beautiful young widow. She was safe in her brother’s home, and he was eager for them to establish the bond that had never developed when they were children.
Wasn’t it time to start over? She was no longer Mr. Howell’s beleaguered wife. She could shuck off that yoke and become someone else, perhaps the woman she was meant to be.
Who was that woman? What would she be like? She couldn’t imagine, but she supposed she ought to find out.
“Could you spare me a few minutes this afternoon?”
“Not with Jacob just arriving. I’m terribly busy, so whatever the problem, it will have to wait.”
Geoffrey Sanders, called Sandy by everyone, watched Kit Boswell saunter away. He bit down on the comments he’d like to hurl at the lazy, incompetent prig. Sandy came from a lengthy line of men who’d served the Ralstons for generations, and he’d learned his lessons from them.
The snooty family wasn’t like a normal family. They were rich and important, and they pictured themselves as being far above the lowly serfs who toiled away on their behalf. They liked sycophants who would stroke their massive egos and tell them they were brilliant—despite how foolish they were being.
Kit wasn’t a Ralston, but he pretended he was, and he was the worst of the lot. He’d been brought to Ralston as a boy and had been reared as if he were a sibling. With Jacob bestowing the job of estate manager, he deemed himself protected in his spot and was positive he’d never lose it.
Sandy figured he wouldn’t. Jacob was never present, and when he was, his visits were so brief that he didn’t delve into matters affecting the property. He wasn’t aware of how useless Kit was, and Sandy wasn’t about to apprise him. He v
alued his own job too much.
Officially, he ran the stables, but unofficially, he ran everything outside the house. He supervised the employees, dealt with the tenant farmers, handled the ordering, deliveries, and payments to merchants. Kit did very little at all, except eat, drink, and travel to London frequently to gamble, carouse, and buy new clothes.
Sandy always grimly reflected, if he ever dropped dead, the entire place would cease to function, but the instant he pondered that dreadful notion, he’d remind himself to count his blessings.
There were few men in his situation who possessed such authority. He was respected and esteemed, and people recognized Kit’s shortcomings. They knew who really managed Ralston Place, and he took special pride in his achievements, all of them carried out to make Jacob Ralston thrive.
He was in the barn where he’d accosted Kit as he’d saddled up for a morning ride. It had been a surprise to see him out and about before noon, so he was probably hoping Jacob would notice and be impressed.
Unfortunately for Sandy, there were several problems that needed to be addressed, and Kit had to approve some of the solutions Sandy would like to implement. It was tricky to get Kit to focus, and with Jacob in residence, he’d have even more excuses to shrug off his responsibilities.
Sandy could forge ahead without Kit’s permission, but if he experienced difficulties later on, he’d be in trouble. Kit was an expert at wallowing in the triumphs, but blaming others for any calamities, so Sandy had to be extremely careful.
He was a widower, with two sons to raise. His position provided a good salary and a fine house, and he would never confront Kit and jeopardize his sons’ security.
He exited into the sunshine, and he stared across the park, relishing the smell of the green grass, the freshness of the summer sky. He let his fury at Kit float away. He was lucky and happy, and he had to remember he was.
He’d intended to stroll in the meadow and chat with his favorite horses, but as he rounded the corner of the building, he literally bumped into Margaret. They collided so hard that she staggered and nearly fell. He leapt to steady her.
“Oh, Sandy!” she said. “I was marching along, lost in thought, and I wasn’t paying attention. I’m sorry.”
“I wasn’t paying attention either. Are you all right?”
“I’m grand.”
She smiled a tight smile, as he quickly and furtively assessed her condition. With her blond hair and blue eyes, she was still beautiful, but she was much more slender than she’d been previously. According to the housemaids, regret and remorse were gnawing at her.
Sadness was written all over her face. It was so clear to him. He’d once known her better than anyone, definitely better than her awful, elderly husband, and she’d never been able to hide her emotions from him.
Since she’d returned to Ralston Place, he hadn’t talked to her. He’d constantly expected she would seek him out, but she hadn’t, and he’d convinced himself not to be aggrieved over the slight.
The members of the Ralston family were not a mystery to him. They were snobs, and they couldn’t help being pompous. Why wish for them to change their habits? It was like asking a cow not to moo.
When she’d decided to shackle herself to Bernard Howell, she’d been very blunt as to how she viewed Sandy. Although he’d loved her for years, he was a humble farmhand, and therefore, far beneath the sort of man she would choose as her husband.
She’d explained it kindly, but he’d often wondered if she’d ever realized how her remarks had devastated him. Probably not. In certain areas, she was blindly oblivious.
Back then, they’d been very young and stupid, and Esther Ralston had been such a shrew. Margaret hadn’t been strong enough to stand up to her. Sandy had been vain and proud, and he’d truly assumed that he and Margaret could have run away together and lived happily ever after.
It was humorous, at age thirty, to recall how naïve he’d been. She’d wed Howell and had traipsed off to Egypt with him. Sandy had wed a local girl, a farmer’s pragmatic, sensible daughter who’d been from his same reduced station in life.
They’d both moved on, but now, Howell was deceased. Esther too. Sandy’s wife had passed away—several years earlier. He and Margaret were widowed adults who were free to behave however they pleased. There was no one to complain if they were cordial.
On her first arriving, he’d believed they might rekindle their prior romance, but with her never bothering to knock on his door, he’d been forced to accept that she wasn’t reflecting on the past as he’d been.
She was still a Ralston daughter, and he was still a laborer who worked for her brother. He couldn’t wrap their disparate circumstances in a pretty bow.
They stared at each other, and he recognized that he ought to tender a polite comment to smooth over the awkwardness, but he didn’t. Previously, when he’d been much more imprudent, he might have kept the conversation going merely so he’d have an excuse to tarry by her side, but any fraternization could never be on his terms. They always had to be on hers, and he wasn’t willing to be roped into her world again.
There was no advantage to any association.
“How have you been?” she asked.
“Fine. And you?”
“I’ve been better. I’ve been home for awhile.”
Seven weeks, three days, twelve hours. “I know.”
“I apologize for not calling on you, but I couldn’t decide if I should or not.”
“There was no reason to bestir yourself.”
He sounded incredibly petulant, and she frowned. “I deserved that, I suppose.”
“I didn’t mean to seem surly. I’m glad you’re back. How long will you be visiting?”
“I’m not visiting. I’m staying—for good.”
She’d confirmed the rumors circulating. Apparently, Bernard Howell had left her so destitute in Egypt that she’d had to beg pennies from her fancy friends in order to book passage to England.
Sandy was trying not to gloat over what an idiot Howell had been. He, Sandy, wasn’t the brightest fellow in the kingdom, but he wouldn’t have treated his dog that shabbily.
“Well . . . I’m sure this is a perfect ending for you,” he said like a dolt.
“Jacob told me I could remain. I’ve been fretting over whether he’d let me or not.”
“Why wouldn’t he have let you?”
“He’s marrying, so I doubted his bride would be keen to have me on the premises.”
He chuckled; he couldn’t help it. “You always worried about the silliest topics.”
“Yes, and I haven’t changed a whit.” Suddenly, she asked, “What’s your opinion of Roxanne? You’ve had a bit of time to watch her, and you’re such an excellent judge of people. Will she make Jacob happy?”
He loathed Roxanne Ralston, and the man who shackled himself to her would wind up miserable for all eternity. She was petty, conceited, and impossible to please, but she was also exceedingly beautiful, but in an icy, aloof sort of way.
He couldn’t predict if that type of female would appeal to Jacob or not. Top-lofty families pursued strange motives in arranging their marriages, and Sandy was the very last person who would comment about it.
“I haven’t met her yet,” he lied, “so I haven’t reached any conclusions.”
She scoffed. “Which I don’t believe at all. You know every detail about the estate.”
She hesitated, expecting him to agree, expecting him to supply her with detrimental gossip about Roxanne, as he would have when he’d been young and infatuated, but he was stoically silent. When she realized he wouldn’t play her game, her shoulders slumped.
“Did you need something?” he asked her. “Would you like to have a horse prepared?”
“Yes, I’d like a horse. I haven’t been out much lately, and I’m craving some fresh air.”
/> He went into the barn and hollered for a stable boy to ready a mount. He stopped an older boy too who would accompany her as a groom. Then he returned to her and said, “You’re all set. Give them a minute, and they’ll take care of you.”
“You won’t be coming with me?”
“I can’t. I’m busy this morning.”
“I understand.”
“It’s good to see you up and about. I hope you’ll ride more often. I concur that fresh air can be very beneficial.”
He walked off, and he could sense her glaring at him, her gaze beseeching him to announce he’d escort her after all. What was wrong with her? In the past, he’d loved her more than life itself, but she’d tossed off his affection, crushing him with the admission that she had to stick to her own kind.
He’d moved on, had picked a bride who’d been part of his small world and a much wiser choice. His wife had been a worker, a striver, and she’d shared his view that their simple existence suited them just fine. It was a path Margaret could never have comprehended.
He had his two sons who’d tend him when he was old and grey, so he’d never be alone. In contrast, Margaret had birthed no children, and rumor had it that she was barren, that Howell had nearly divorced her over it.
As he and Margaret aged, he’d have his sons. What would she have?
Like a besotted swain, he thought about hiding and spying on her as she trotted away, but that would be foolish and ridiculous. And he’d been over her for years.
It didn’t matter how she stared up at him with those pretty blue eyes of hers. It didn’t matter how beaten down she looked, how forlorn and dismayed. He’d never been her savior. On that point, she’d been very clear, and nothing between them had changed in the slightest.
He had chores, and he whipped away and got on with his day.
“There you are!”
Roxanne grinned at Jacob as he entered the room. She’d commandeered a rear parlor, making it into an office so she could have a quiet spot to plan their engagement party.
“You’ve been such a hermit,” she told him, “that I was beginning to suppose I’d imagined you being in residence.”