by Sherry Ewing
“Instruct the servants to keep an eye on her when she is about the manor. I would not want her investigating the upper floors,” Sander commanded firmly as if he were addressing his troops.
“Of course, sir.”
“And have my horse saddled,” he ordered. “I will fetch her back myself.”
“As you wish, sir.” Miles held the door open for Sander so he could be on his way.
The ride to the milliner’s address where Margaret had gone to retrieve Lady Whittles’ purchase did not take long, but when he arrived, his carriage was not in sight. Where would he find the woman? He was not familiar with her day-to-day habits…yet. And those habits would need to change. He would need to keep a firm hold upon this one. Quite apart from this independent way of walking off without an escort, she seemed to think there was nothing wrong with an educated woman. By damn! Sander hoped she was not one of those blasted bluestocking women!
His horse began to slug up and down the muddy streets of town. At last, he espied Margaret with her nose practically pressed up against the window of a bookstore, of all places. Eh gads! Is she actually thinking of going inside?
“I say, Miss Templeton,” he called out, loud enough to get her attention.
“My word, Captain Morledge,” she answered as she approached the hitching ring, where he brought his horse to a halt. “I did not expect to see you here.”
Sander dismounted and reached for the hat box she was holding. “Surely you would not enter such a place, Miss Templeton? I would highly discourage you from making such a scene.”
“A scene?” she said with pursed lips. “I am not causing a scene.”
“You shall if you go into such an establishment. I forbid it,” Sander grumbled.
Her brow rose at his words. “I beg your pardon, sir,” she said, the pitch of her voice rising with indignation.
“As well you should.” He ignored the startled gasp that escaped her. Tying the string of the hatbox to his saddle, he attempted to take her arm.
She, in turn, shrugged him off.
“If you will excuse me for a moment, Captain Morledge.”
Her head lifted a notch in defiance. The chit then had the gall to ignore his well-meaning advice and enter the store. Sander opened and closed his fist, attempting to slow his breathing and force back the urge to forcibly escort her back outside. Causing an outburst in public would attract unwanted attention.
The longer Sander stood, the angrier he became, though he hid it, tipping his hat politely to several ladies as they strolled casually down the pavement. After he pulled out his watch fob for the fourth occasion, Margaret emerged from the store with a happy smile upon her face, clutching a book to her bosom.
“We can leave now, Captain,” she said cheerfully, as if she had not gone against his wishes in entering the store.
“Where is the carriage?” Sander asked tight lipped and determined to at last be on his way. They would continue their conversation behind closed doors. He took her elbow.
“Around the corner,” she said sharply, pulling away from him.
They did not walk far, and his coachman hurriedly left his perch to open the carriage door as they approached. Sander tossed the reins of his horse at the man who speedily tied the leather straps to the rear of the carriage. Once they were settled and the coach moving, he stared at the woman. Margaret kept her eyes on scenery passing by outside the window.
“Perhaps we should come to an understanding, you and I,” Sander demanded, his voice still tight with anger.
Margaret placed her hands in her lap. “I know it is my father’s wish that we wed, but we hardly know one another well enough, Captain Morledge, to determine whether we shall make a good match. I would think we must leave any decision about whether we would suit each other at least until after the weekend. I agreed to be your hostess, good sir, but I did not agree to anything more than that.”
Sander ground his teeth. She should be thankful he was offering to wed a woman of her age. Instead, she had the nerve to defy him. He forced his voice to sound calm and friendly. “Then I will look forward to furthering our acquaintance while you are my guest and continuing this discussion afterwards, my dear.”
Her brow rose at the term of endearment. She chose to ignore him, returning her attention to the view outside the window of his coach.
She might be defiant now, but he would take great pleasure in teaching her that he would require any wife of his to remain docile and cater to his every whim.
Chapter 5
Margaret awoke to the feel of her sister’s elbow in her back. She wished Sophie did not have to sleep in Margaret’s bed when she could have had a room all her own, but the little girl felt out of sorts in these unfamiliar surroundings. She could certainly understand her sister’s plight, given she felt the same. Sophie turned and began to sniffle. Reluctantly, Margaret rose and went to the dresser to fetch a handkerchief. She passed the linen to her sister, and the girl began to blow her nose loud enough to wake the entire household.
“I do not feel well, Margaret,” Sophie declared with a stuffy nose.
“I will be very cross with you, sweet pea, if you get me sick. I have much that needs my attention later this morning─ many details for Captain Morledge’s party,” Margaret said, pulling the bell cord and reaching for a dressing gown. After tying the sash around her waist, she returned to the bed to tuck her sister in what her mother used to call a princess tuck.
“But it is not my fault if I have a cold,” Sophie whined with watery eyes. “Father had Mr. and Mrs. Canton over the other day, and the poor woman was sneezing over and over again.”
“Go back to sleep and rest yourself, dear heart. You know I only tease you.” Margaret placed a loving kiss upon the young girl’s forehead. “I will have a servant bring up tea, bread, and jam for you when you awaken.”
Sophie gave her a lopsided grin before closing her eyes and returning to the land of the dreaming. Since the sun had just begun to greet the day, Margaret took the opportunity to catch up with her diary. She had neglected it for some time.
10 December, 1811
Dearest Diary ~
There has been much going on in my life of late, although I have not been permitted enough time to take pen to paper as I know I should. I will forgive myself these hastily scratched words as I get myself up to date.
Father has taken it upon himself to see me wed. I must admit the circumstances that find me just outside of London are most unusual, for I am acting the hostess for a man to whom I am not wed or even engaged. It is odd, but true. As I write this, I am sitting in the home of Captain Sander Morledge, with whom my father wishes me to make a match. I decided to be the dutiful daughter to make him happy and complied.
Captain Morledge seems the sort of gentleman that any young woman might wish to marry. Charming, handsome, a man focused on his career. He would undoubtedly be gone for long periods of time on one campaign or another, or so I reason. If we were to wed, his absence would allow me the freedom to delve into any number of my beloved books at my leisure, and also to visit the local museums, libraries, and bookstores that can be found in and around St. James Street.
On my first day in London, I encountered the one individual I hoped not to see. I must admit my heart near burst with both excitement and sorrow, if such emotions were possible to have at the same time. You know of whom I speak, because you know who would cause such a reaction, do you not, dear diary? You would be correct, for I ran into none other than my childhood friend, Frederick Beacham, while at the Bond Street Bazaar viewing the art galleries. I would not confess this aloud but I cannot help but write how well he appeared. As I stood there with him, the years seemed to vanish away and I realized just how much I had missed his banter.
We began a friendly-enough conversation, but already I could hear the whisperings of several ladies nearby at my speaking with a gentleman when I was, for a brief moment, without escort. How could I forget that the Ton could be so c
ruel and turn the simplest situations into something worthy of The Morning Post gossip column? It is no wonder I prefer the country life.
Needless to say, Freddy asked why I was in London this time of year, for it was most unusual. He did not like my answer, and has voiced his displeasure at a match with the good captain. Freddy has yet to give me any validation or proof that I should doubt Captain Morledge’s character or true nature. Until then, I shall keep an open mind about whether we shall suit. The way Captain Morledge spoke when he came to meet me in town yesterday gave me pause, but perhaps he was merely concerned, and certainly he was all affability afterwards.
Freddy has always been a tad possessive of me, and that has clearly not changed because I refused to wed him due to my station in life. He is nobility. I am nothing more than a vicar’s daughter who does not have the place and rank within society his parents would demand of his wife. My heart may have wished for our situation to be otherwise, but I am not foolish enough to think such a match would, in truth, work to our advantage.
But enough of Freddy for now. I have already filled several diaries over the years with nothing but words of despair about my dear Lord Beacham. I know he is completely out of my reach, and my despair and sorrow over that fact is much of my own making.
With my mother’s dear friend Lady Penelope Whittles acting as my chaperon, we have now settled at Captain Morledge’s manor house so I may act as hostess for the ball he plans to celebrate the start of the advent season. We will stay here over the next week and then I will return home to Edington.
Already, I feel this may be longer than I truly wish to visit. There is something odd about this house, or so it appears on the surface. I have felt an eerie sense of being watched while I go about instructing the servants and making sure all is in order for the scheduled festivities. Those same servants skitter about, whispering behind my back when they think I am no longer within listening distance, and constantly steer me away from the third floor. I thought I was to meet the Captain’s children. They have been motherless since his poor wife’s demise, but I have yet to encounter them.
I am afraid my curiosity may get the better of me. I am intrigued about what I might find if I were to venture up to the next floor of the manor. I almost gave in to the impulse, but Captain Morledge espied me while I had only one foot upon the stairway. He was clearly displeased, and of a sudden, I felt a premonition that perhaps Freddy was indeed right. Perhaps I should not marry the man.
I must make haste, as I have duties to attend to, but will write more if or when time permits while I am still here.
Margaret
Margaret finished her entry, closed the book, and skimmed the leather journal with her fingers. So many of her feelings had been poured out over the years into a diary such as this one.
She would need to reach deep down inside her to attempt to forget Freddy, although how this was going to be possible when he was staying here for the weekend was beyond her comprehension. She was not sure her heart could bear it if the guest he brought was female. Why had Captain Morledge invited Freddy only confused her. It had been apparent from their encounter at the bazaar that the two men were hardly civil to one another, let alone good friends.
A discreet knock upon her bedroom door reminded Margaret she had a busy day ahead of her. Her breakfast had arrived, and with it any number of commitments until she could once more escape to the privacy of her room. With a heavy sigh, she hid her journal amongst her clothing, closed the dresser and plastered a confident smile upon her face. She then admitted the housemaid to serve her tea. She would need her strength to get her through the day and her upcoming encounter with Lord Beacham.
She slowly sipped her tea, savoring the taste. She must take better care of her thoughts. She should have been musing about her possible betrothed, instead of the one man who had always held her heart.
Chapter 6
Frederick and Digby entered the manor house and shrugged out of their coats. An ever-vigilant servant accepted their garments and hats while ushering them into a receiving salon. A welcoming fire burned in the hearth, and the two men warmed themselves, having braved the bitterness of a winter storm in the making to reach Morledge’s.
Digby held out his hands towards the flames, frowning. “Tell me again why I am here?”
Frederick leaned an arm upon the mantle that was decorated in green holly with bright red berries. “I needed reinforcement from someone who knew the situation for what it is.”
“Since you did not deem it necessary to inform me of any details about this situation, when you all but dragged me out of my townhouse, I am afraid I am unaware of how I will be of use,” Digby drawled as he began smoothing down the fabric of his cravat.
“I need you here,” Frederick replied stiffly. Only half his mind was on the conversation; the rest was alert for the sound of Margaret’s voice. He hated being uncertain about how she would take his attendance. “Is it not enough that your friendship was required and I asked a favor of you?”
Digby held up his hand in defense. “No need to get testy with me, Beacham. I am not your enemy.”
Frederick shoved his hands behind his back so he did not throttle his friend. “My apologies. I thought since you knew the lady, you would be good for reinforcement. At least you will be entertained here. There will be more than enough willing ladies present to keep you amused. It is only for one weekend, and will certainly not be a hardship.”
“Ha! Amused, you say? More likely, they shall want to see me caught in a parson’s mousetrap with them.” Digby laughed before composing himself. He took his finger and pulled at the fabric cravat that he had just a moment before tidied. “I swear I can almost feel the noose being tossed about my neck.”
“Stop being so dramatic, Digby,” Frederick laughed. “You know good and well that any woman you take to wife will need to meet the approval of your father. I do not think the Marquess will take it lightly if you fail to follow his dictate son the type of woman you should one day marry.”
“At least I am not my cousin, inheriting the title of duke,” Digby stated cheerfully. “Can you imagine me with all that responsibility? Eh gads…I would sooner be some outcast from the family than saddled with all the demands of running so many estates. The only possible situation that might be worse than inheriting a dukedom would to be saddled with a wife. Can you imagine the disruption that would bring to the carefree life I prefer to live?”
Frederick chuckled. “Such a lifestyle might certainly curtail your time at White’s or with your current mistress, no doubt.”
A loud commotion outside announced another group of guests. They entered the manor in a burst of chaos, luggage, titled gentry, and servants bombarding the entryway. The only thing missing was a dog or two to add to the disorder. Then two barking blood hounds came bursting into the hallway and began to shake the snow from their coats. One of the guest’s servants quickly grabbed the pair by their collars and guided them out of sight.
Frederick maintained his position while people were ushered through the vestibule. Some of the ladies retired upstairs while the gentlemen asked if Morledge had a billiards room where they could partake of a good brandy and cigar, their voices echoing throughout the house. Frederick was preparing to join them when he heard footsteps descending the stairway. The two gentlemen in the receiving room turned to see who would be greeting them, and Frederick took a step forward.
His breath left him. It always did, whenever she walked into a room. She lit up the gloomy day with her presence, and if the sun had been shining outside, it surely would have shone a little bit brighter just to please her. He executed a formal bow, and she returned it with a curtsey.
Before Frederick could say a word about how lovely she looked, Digby gave the woman his full attention.
“Why, Miss Templeton, how good it is to see you.”
“Digby,” she said his name in a breathy whisper. “How long has it been?”
She marched right up
to Digby and kissed both of his cheeks. Digby, of course, reddened at such a display. “Miss Templeton, you should not─” he began.
Frederick’s heart lifted with her laugher. “Oh, Digby, do not be ridiculous. Have we not been like family all these years? I did not expect to see you here, of all places, but I am glad for it.”
“Freddy invited me to join him during his stay here.”
Margaret’s attention now turned to him.
“Welcome, Lord Beacham.” If her voice stirred him when she spoke Digby’s name, it was nothing compared to what it did when she spoke his own.
“No first name for me, Miss Templeton?” Frederick asked, following her lead and keeping their greetings formal. A pained expression flashed briefly across her face and she winced, before the mask she wished to show him fell back into place.
“It is probably for the best,” she murmured, lowering her eyes.
“As you wish.” He took a look around the room to disguise his consciousness of her wringing her hands. “You have done wonders decorating the house for Christmas…that is, I assume this is your work.”
“Thank you, and yes, it is. Father is here, and I am sure he will be pleased to see you both.”
“And Sophie?”
Margaret gave a timid smile. “Yes, she is here as well but has come down with a sniffle. I will keep her to her room tonight to make sure it passes. I would not wish the captain’s guests to become ill with her cold.”
Frederick held back a snigger. “No, of course not.”
Digby laughed. “Little Sophie must be getting to be a young lady now, all grown up. I do hope there is some sledding planed. I remember how she enjoyed the snow.”
Frederick raised his brows. Was his friend becoming a child before his eyes? “Are you not a little old to be sledding?”