“I miss the country, actually,” Margaret replied. “And from where do you hail, Miss Lyons?”
“Ah, you must excuse us, Miss Macy,” Lewis Upchurch interrupted. “For Miss Lyons here has promised me the next dance, and the musicians are even now preparing to play.”
“Oh . . . of course,” Margaret faltered, observing with chagrin that as yet only one musician had returned to his place. “Em . . . enjoy your dance.” She again curtsied and turned away.
It hadn’t been the cut direct, but close to it. Cheeks flaming, she walked toward the door, trying not to hurry, hoping her mortification was not obvious to the milling throngs. Nor to Marcus Benton.
She escaped the ballroom and hastened across the hall to the salon designated as the ladies’ dressing room for the evening. Inside, her friend Emily Lathrop tied a cloak about her shoulders and replaced her reticule over gloved wrist.
“Emily! How glad I am to see you. Are you leaving already?”
“Yes. Mamma has a headache and wants to go home.”
“So do I, as it happens. Might I beg a ride?”
“Of course. But surely your family would—?”
“Oh . . .” Margaret feigned a casual air. “The Bentons are not ready to leave, and I do hate to spoil their evening.”
Emily touched her arm, eyes concerned. “They cannot force you to marry him, you know.”
Margaret arched one brow. “Can they not? I shall hold you to it.” She gathered her shawl and followed her friend into the hall.
There, raised voices from the ballroom drew them back to its doors. Bang. Squeal—wood against wood. An overturned chair slid across the floor. The music stopped, one violin shrieking in protest as the musicians lowered their instruments one after the other, and dancers scattered.
Emily grasped Margaret’s wrist and pulled her into the ballroom. Margaret resisted, not wanting anyone to see her dressed to depart, but Emily ignored her and stepped closer. Both young women craned their necks to see past taller gentlemen and ladies’ feathers to identify the cause of the commotion.
Ringed by the cautious but curious crowd, two men stood, chests out, hands fisted. Both were tall and dark-haired. Lewis Upchurch stood facing their direction, his handsome features sparking with shock and irritation. For one moment, Margaret thought the other man was Piers Saxby, offended at the attention Lewis paid Miss Lyons. But in the next she remembered that Saxby wore evening dress beneath his tricorn hat, while the man facing Lewis wore trim buckskin breeches, tall boots, and a riding coat.
“You are needed at home,” the man growled.
Lewis smirked. “And hello to you too.”
“Now.”
The man’s profile came into view—a black beard obscured his features, making him look twice the pirate Saxby had appeared.
“Temper, temper, Nate. Are these the manners you learnt in the West Indies?”
Margaret gasped. It couldn’t be.
“And what of your manners?” the second man challenged. “Did Father not write and ask you to return home and do your duty?”
Nathaniel Upchurch. Margaret couldn’t believe it. Gone were the pale features, the thin frame, the hesitant posture, the spectacles. Now broad shoulders strained against his cutaway coat. Form-fitting leather breeches outlined muscular legs. The unfashionable dark beard emphasized his sharp cheekbones and long nose. His skin was golden brown. His hair unruly, some escaping its queue. Even his voice sounded different—lower, harsher, yet still familiar.
Lewis grinned. “I am doing my duty. I am representing our otherwise dull family during the important social season.”
Nathaniel glanced around as if suddenly aware of their audience. “Will you step outside to speak with me in private or shall I drag you?”
“You might try.”
Nathaniel grabbed Lewis’s arm, and Lewis lurched forward, caught off guard by the strength of the pull.
Beside her Emily whispered, “Is that Nathaniel Upchurch?”
Margaret nodded.
“But he is so changed. Had he not been arguing with his brother, I should not have recognized him. He looks, well, nearly savage, does he not?”
Again, Margaret managed a wooden nod.
“If I did not know better, I would think him a pirate.” Emily drew in a sharp breath. “Perhaps he is! Perhaps he is the Poet Pirate the papers are full of!”
Margaret barely heard her fanciful friend. Her mind was clouded with a vision of Nathaniel Upchurch as she had last seen him. Eyes wide, pained, and misty green behind smudged spectacles. His thin mouth downturned. Dejected.
Regaining his balance, Lewis shook his arm free. “Unhand me, ape.”
At the insult, Nathaniel slammed his fist into his brother’s jaw. Gasps and cries rose among the frozen guests, heating them to agitated life.
Margaret did not realize she had cried out as well, until Nathaniel’s head snapped in her direction.
For a second he stood there, stilled, one hand grasping his brother’s cravat, his other fisted. Across the distance, his gaze met hers. Margaret sucked in a breath at the intensity in those eyes. Intense not with love or longing, but with undisguised disgust. His thin lips twisted into a scowl, making his long nose hawklike.
If she had thought Lewis’s recent snub painful, Nathaniel’s reaction felt far more cutting, though not a single word had been exchanged. It was as she had feared. He had never forgiven her and could not stand the sight of her.
Margaret turned, snagging Emily’s hand and pulling her away.
“What a brute!” Emily panted behind her. “Are you not glad you rejected him when you did?”
Margaret was relieved. How fierce he looked. She had never before been frightened of him, nor had she imagined him capable of violence.
Margaret paused only long enough to whisper in her mother’s ear that the Lathrops were taking her home, then hurried away before she might object. Distracted as she was by the fight, her mother vaguely nodded. Sterling stood several yards away, his gaze trained on four guests in regimentals escorting the Upchurch brothers from the room.
A married woman could not own
property, sign legal documents or enter into
a contract, or keep a salary for herself.
—the legal doctrine of Coverture, English Common Law
Chapter 2
On the short ride to Berkeley Square, Margaret remained quiet as Emily described the fight to her parents. Her mind was preoccupied, reviewing the disturbing images, the disturbing memories, and her utter failure to achieve her ends.
The stately coach halted before Sterling Benton’s tall, terraced town house, and Margaret thanked the Lathrops and bid them good-night. The groom handed her down, and she walked the few steps to the front door. When the liveried footman opened it for her, she did not miss the crease in his brow at seeing her arrive alone. Perhaps he feared Sterling might somehow blame him for failing in his watchdog duty.
Margaret sailed past the lackey without so much as a nod of acknowledgment. Crossing the hall, she lifted her skirt to avoid tripping as she climbed the many stairs.
Reaching the third level, she tiptoed first to Gilbert’s bedchamber. She peeked through the open door, getting a little lump in her throat to see her brother sprawled across the bed, hand under his cheek and hair askew, looking very much like the little boy she still thought him. She crept inside and pulled the bedclothes to his chin. Margaret prayed Sterling would not pull Gilbert from Eton as he threatened to do. Gil needed to learn all he could if he was to go on to Oxford and into the church, as their father had always hoped.
Next she stopped at her sister’s room. More modest than her brother, Caroline’s door was closed. Margaret inched it open and peered in, finding her asleep as well. At sixteen, Caroline would be attending balls very soon. Leaning over the bed, Margaret stroked the caramel-colored hair from her sister’s brow. How innocent she looked. How sweet. A swell of love bordering on the maternal filled Margaret’s breast.
Caroline’s eyes fluttered open before drifting shut again. She murmured sleepily, “How was the ball?”
“Lovely,” Margaret whispered, having no wish to worry her. “Sweet dreams, sweetness.” Sweetness—her father’s nickname for her. How long had it been since Margaret deserved the moniker?
She slipped from her sister’s room and, taking advantage of their absence, crept down to the adjoining bedchambers Sterling and her mother shared. In Mamma’s dressing room, she was surprised not to see the miniature of Stephen Macy displayed anywhere. It had been on the dressing table not long ago, she was sure. Margaret could understand not wanting it in the bedchamber, where Sterling would have to see it. But here in Mamma’s private dressing room? Margaret opened the top drawer, and there it was, face down. How disloyal it seemed. She turned over the portrait and studied it, shaking her head in wonder. How much Gil was beginning to look like their father. “We have not forgotten you,” she whispered to the handsome, youthful image. “At least, I have not.”
Returning the small portrait to its place, she wandered through Sterling’s dressing room. How impeccably neat everything was. She hoped his fastidious valet wouldn’t catch her in there.
On Sterling’s dressing table, she saw a handful of coins—guineas, crowns, and shillings.
Dared she?
As it was, she didn’t even have coach fare, let alone money for lodgings, should the situation continue to escalate . . . or rather, deteriorate. She ought to have something put by, just in case. She should not be completely at Sterling’s mercy until her inheritance came.
Yet Margaret was a vicar’s daughter. She knew stealing was wrong. But was this really stealing, she asked herself, when he had taken her jewelry?
It was a loan, she decided. She would pay him back when she had money of her own. A few coins would seem a trifle then—but now? They might make the difference between escape and a trap. She selected several, but did not take them all—that would be too obvious. How cold the coins seemed against her fingertips, as she tucked them into the pocket of her “milkmaid” apron. She felt their weight all the way back to her room.
Once there, she slid the coins into her reticule. A few minutes later, Joan came in and helped her change into her nightclothes. As Margaret climbed into bed, the distant sound of the front door shutting surprised her.
They were home early.
She quickly blew out her bedside candle as Joan gathered the discarded clothing and backed from the room, closing the door behind her.
A few moments later, someone tapped lightly on her bedchamber door. Her stomach lurched. Was it her mother, or Sterling?
“Margaret?” someone whispered.
Marcus! At her bedchamber door, at night? Margaret’s heart thumped in her breast. Surely he would not dare enter.
Candlelight flickered from under the door. Hushed voices echoed in the corridor—Marcus’s and a woman’s.
Nerves quaking, Margaret rose and tiptoed to the door.
“Yes, sir. Miss Macy’s home,” Joan said. “She’s gone to bed.”
Margaret knelt down and peered through the keyhole.
“Well then, Joan, there’s nothing to keep you from . . .” Marcus’s voice grew muffled. As Margaret’s eyes adjusted to the flickering light, she saw Marcus pressing his face into Joan’s neck, as though to whisper in her ear . . . or kiss her. Margaret’s stomach roiled. She couldn’t see Joan’s face, but she saw Marcus capture the maid’s hand and begin to tug her down the corridor.
“There you are, Mr. Benton.” The low voice of Murdoch, their butler, interrupted the scene. “Your uncle requests your presence in the study.”
Joan pulled her hand free. Marcus muttered an oath and disappeared.
Releasing a breath she had not realized she was holding, Margaret climbed back into bed. Yet long after Marcus’s footsteps faded and the house was quiet, Margaret lay awake, unsettling images circling through her mind: Sterling and Marcus. Marcus and Joan. Miss Lyons and Lewis. Lewis and Nathaniel . . .
The last image she saw before sleep finally overtook her was Nathaniel Upchurch’s look of disgust shooting across the ballroom and scorching her skin.
In the morning, Margaret entered the breakfast room, startled to find Sterling Benton eating alone. She’d hoped to avoid him, waiting until he, an early riser, would normally have departed, while his wastrel nephew would no doubt still be abed.
Sterling sat stirring a cup of coffee, although she knew he added neither sugar nor milk. With his thick silver hair, chiseled features, and confident sophistication, she understood what women like Miss Lyons, like her mother, saw in him. Still, how stunned and nearly sickened she had been when her mother announced her engagement to the man a mere twelvemonth after Stephen Macy’s death.
Margaret forced a civil tone. “Good morning.”
He looked up, piercing her with his icy blue eyes. “Is it? You tell me.”
Margaret helped herself to a plate at the sideboard, more as an excuse to turn her back on him than eagerness for food. Finding herself alone with him, her appetite had fled.
“I take it you did not enjoy yourself last night,” he said. “I did not approve of your leaving alone.”
“I was not alone. I left with Emily Lathrop and her parents.”
“And you did not dance once, although I am certain Marcus must have asked you.”
Margaret knew any offer Marcus made—whether for a dance or marriage—was made at his uncle’s behest.
“I was not in the mood for dancing,” she said, thinking, since Lewis Upchurch never asked.
Sterling sipped his coffee. “You left before the most interesting part of the evening.”
“Oh?”
“Nathaniel Upchurch returned from the West Indies as wild as a heathen. He struck his brother, Lewis, without provocation in front of the entire assembly.”
Margaret had heard snatches of the argument and surmised there had been some provocation—at least in Nathaniel’s mind—but she remained silent.
So Sterling had not seen her come back into the ballroom. The thought that Sterling’s eagle eyes were less than perfect felt somehow comforting.
“Your mother tells me he once courted you,” Sterling continued.
Margaret blindly placed a muffin on her plate. “That was years ago, before he left England.”
“And you rejected his suit?”
“I did.”
“Very wise, my girl. Very wise.”
It certainly had seemed wise—then and more so now, after last night’s violent demonstration. Still the smug tone irked. “And why is that?”
“Because you are free to marry Marcus. As it was meant to be. You cannot fight destiny, my girl.”
He rose and stood beside her, his long manicured fingers pressing into her arm. “I would not advise fighting destiny, Margaret. Destiny always wins. And so, my dear, do I.”
Margaret shivered but made no reply.
With a last warning look, Sterling left her.
Sighing, Margaret sat down to a solitary breakfast of tea, egg, and muffin. Her stomach churned, and she pushed away the food, sipping the tea instead.
It would not do her any harm to miss a few meals. She always put on a bit of weight during the season, with all the rich food and midnight suppers. Did Lewis Upchurch prefer willowy women like Miss Lyons? Apparently so.
Leaving her breakfast untouched, Margaret returned to her bedchamber. From the bottom of her dressing chest, she lifted out the mahogany writing box where she kept mementos of her father. She raised the beautifully carved lid and breathed deeply. The aroma from a sachet she had made of her father’s pipe tobacco enveloped her in its earthy, spicy familiarity. Oh, Papa. How I miss you. . . . She fingered her father’s things—his New Testament, two letters he had written to her, his spectacles, and an old pair of his gloves. She gripped the limp leather fingers. What she wouldn’t give to hold his hand once more.
That afternoon, Margaret bid a poignan
t farewell to her sister as her mother and Sterling looked on.
Caroline was returning to Miss Hightower’s Seminary for Girls, where Margaret herself had attended years before. Loath to stay in the town house alone with the Benton men, Margaret offered to ride along.
Her mother hesitated. Joanna Macy Benton was a tall, handsome woman, though her once fair hair had darkened to a mousy brown and fine lines marred her face. She was a few years older than her dashing new husband, and all the complexion creams in London could not disguise that fact. Nor could her thin smile belie her deep unhappiness. For though Sterling Benton had pursued her with determined admiration and charm, both had quickly faded after the wedding, leaving the new bride confused and desperate to right whatever it was she had done wrong.
Her mother’s eyes, wide and vulnerable, shifted to Sterling before returning to Margaret. “My dear, you know I would enjoy your company, but the barouche would be far too crowded with Caroline and her school friend. Not to mention their many belongings.”
She glanced again at Sterling, eager for a look of approval. The two of them clearly had other reasons for wanting Margaret to remain in Berkeley Square.
A few hours later, her brother was packed and ready to leave as well. Gilbert had plans to spend the final few weeks of his term break at a friend’s country estate, riding and shooting, until both boys had to return to Eton in early September. Margaret was happy for him, knowing he missed country life as much as she did, but sad for herself. How lonely she would be.
Blinking back tears, she embraced him and kissed his cheek.
“What’s all this then, ey?” Gilbert protested her tight hold and grimaced at her tears. “Come on, Mags. I’m not going away forever. I shall see you at the end of next term.”
She forced a smile. “Of course you will. I am only being silly.”
He winked at her. “Well, nothing new there.”
Although they did not speak of it, Margaret knew her young brother was aware of the tension in the house. She did not want him to worry, so she socked him on the shoulder on his way out the door, as any good sister would.
The Maid of Fairbourne Hall Page 2