by Regina Scott
Thomas, ever the good host, managed a tight smile. “Yes, so it appears.” He turned to Margaret, deep blue eyes narrowed. “Another time, my dear?"
"Certainly,” Margaret said graciously, wishing her stepmother had been present to see the polite facade she put on. She would much rather have had Thomas show her about, and she didn't much like having to agree to Catherine's lie about inviting her to ride. But she could sense fear and loathing from the girl regarding Darton and was not about to abandon her to the fellow's dubious charms. She finished her breakfast without having to do more than smile at witticisms and went down to the stables to wait for Catherine.
The girl was a while in coming, and her puce velvet riding habit looked as if it had never been worn. Certainly it was cleaner, less crushed, and thicker than Margaret's, which was beginning to show its wear despite their maid's industrious attempts to refurbish it. The groom had saddled a small, dainty Arabian mare with a dappled coat, carefully helping Lady Catherine into the finely tooled side saddle. Margaret felt a little like a warrior maiden from some Norse myth riding Aeolus beside the girl.
Catherine rode stiffly and slowly, bouncing in the saddle despite the even gait of the Arabian. Aeolus was soon chomping on the bit and straining on the reins, ready to run. Margaret held him in check with difficulty—not from his strength but because she too longed to run along the stony tracks that led over the hillside above the house. Catherine however, seemed content to plod along, pointing out the lake, the village beyond, and the towering mass of Coniston Old Man. Aeolus let out a snort of contempt, and, not long after, both Margaret and Catherine sighed in unison. The irony of it struck Margaret, and she laughed out loud, the sound echoing off the slate hills around them.
Catherine hung her head. “I'm sorry, Miss Munroe. I shouldn't have said I'd come. Thank you for not calling me on the story. I know you do not like to lie."
"That I do not,” Margaret confessed. “And for my reward, I'd like to know why I had to. What is it about Lord Darton that so disgusts you?"
"But I sensed you did not like him either,” Catherine replied, rising her head in the first defiant act Margaret had seen.
"I cannot stand the fellow,” Margaret agreed willingly. “He is an over-confident upstart with more ambition than sense. That does not signify. Why don't you like him?
"Oh, I suppose he is a decent fellow, in his own way,” Catherine conceded grudgingly. “Thomas seems to like him well enough."
"Why, I cannot imagine,” Margaret intoned. “But that is beside the point. If you do not dislike him, why do you avoid him?"
Catherine picked at the saddle in front of her. “It ... it is difficult to explain."
"You know I prefer the direct approach,” Margaret encouraged her. “Say it straight out, and we can have a good laugh or a good cry, if we must."
Catherine took a deep breath as if about to plunge into icy water. Margaret waited for some horrible story about the fellow having taken advantage of her.
"Have you ever been in love?"
Margaret grit her teeth to keep the smile in place. Aeolus sensed the tightening in her body and trotted forward. She reined him back beside Catherine.
"My, but people like to ask me that question,” she replied.
Catherine colored. “I did not mean to pry. I meant in general, with any of your suitors."
"Of whom there are legion,” Margaret teased, relaxing. “In love, eh? Well, yes actually."
"Oh, good,” Catherine said with a sigh. “I'm so glad because Aunt Agnes never has, you see, and Thomas is a man and doesn't have the same feelings."
"So I've noticed,” Margaret quipped.
Catherine did not seem to understand her attempt at a joke. “Just so. I simply must talk about it to someone or I shall swoon!"
Margaret eyed the woman riding next to her. “Don't tell me you're in love with Viscount Darton."
"No!” Catherine declared so ringingly that the mare shied. She guided her back to Aeolus’ side with difficulty. “No, only please do not tell Thomas. I could never love Lord Darton. I'm already in love with someone else."
"Really?” Margaret asked, fascinated. “Who?"
Catherine turned to gaze at her, deep blue eyes drilling into Margaret with surprising intensity. Margaret stiffened her back.
"If I tell you, you must promise not to breathe a word of it."
"Let me guess,” Margaret said with a sigh. “Thomas knows nothing about the fellow, and, if he did, he would disapprove."
Catherine nodded. “Most certainly. He is completely beneath me. Socially, that is,” she hurriedly amended when Margaret scowled at the high-handed statement. “He is French, you see, and common born. But there does not live a more noble, gentle, sweet soul, I am convinced."
"And he is willing to marry you should your brother cut you off without a cent?” Margaret asked, suspicion rising. She had heard too many similar stories from the young ladies at Comfort House, only it was generally those girls who were deemed socially inferior.
Catherine sighed, tears pooling in her expressive eyes. “He has declared he cannot marry me at all. He is urging me to accept Lord Darton because the viscount can take care of me in the style to which I am accustomed. Oh, as if that mattered!"
"Then Viscount Darton has already offered for you?” Margaret asked with a frown, thinking of the fellow's rather boorish attentions.
"Not yet. I have been able to hold him off. But since Thomas arranged for us to be wed..."
"Thomas did what?” Margaret cried. Aeolus kicked up his heels and sprinted forward. This time she let him run a few moments before pulling him in and turning him back to Lady Catherine, who had reined in her own horse. An arranged marriage? How could he be so old fashioned, so cold? Did he value love so lightly? Did he expect no feeling in his own marriage? Was that why he refused to kiss her? She forced the whirling questions aside and returned to Lady Catherine, schooling her face to impassivity.
"You didn't know?” Catherine asked.
Margaret shook her head.
"And it shocks you?"
Margaret could only nod.
Catherine sighed. “Thomas said it was only me who thought one should hold out for love. I'm glad to see I'm not the only one."
"No,” Margaret replied sadly, “you're not.
"But it is still hopeless,” she continued. “Thomas will never let me wed Christien!"
Margaret licked her lips, forcing herself to rise to the challenge. “Just how big of a social gulf are we discussing? Is he a farmer? A laborer?"
"Heavens, no!” Catherine cried defensively. “He is an artist. He paints the most expressive pictures! I'll show you the one he did of Aunt Agnes. It's as if he illuminated her soul."
"So, he has a profession, if a chancy one,” Margaret acknowledged. “And he obviously has your love. Are you sure you would be comfortable living in a set of rooms in London, say in someplace as unfashionable as Seven Dials?” She watched Catherine for any sign of concern over living in one of London's roughest districts, but the girl nodded with greater animation than Margaret had ever seen.
"Certainly,” she insisted. “You have seen me, Miss Munroe. I do not delight in high society. Time to think, perhaps to read, would be most welcome."
"There'll be no servants,” Margaret warned. “You'd have to cook and wash and clean on your own. And if you have a child, there'll be no governess or nanny to step in when you tire of playing."
"I would never tire of Christien's child!” Catherine cried. “I recognize I have much to learn, but I can do it, if it means being with Christien."
"Then,” Margaret replied, “tell that to Thomas."
Catherine quailed, paling. “But I can't! He would never understand."
Margaret was beginning to think she was right, but her believe in truth was stronger. “You are going to face the censor of half the people in London,” she told her sternly. “If you cannot tell a brother who loves you, how do you expect to hold
your head up in public?"
"But he's so set on Lord Darton."
"He isn't marrying Lord Darton, you are,” Margaret insisted. “The practice of arranging marriages is so old fashioned as to be barbaric. The best thing you can do is to tell Thomas straight out, just as you did with me."
Catherine shook her head, tears falling. “Is there no other way?"
"None,” Margaret replied sternly, though the girl's pitiful face was nearly her undoing. “Your brother is an honorable man, Lady Catherine. Even he would not expect you to marry where you do not love. Certainly, he would not do so."
"Then you are certain he loves you?” Catherine asked, choking back a sob. “He will understand my difficulties because he is in love as well?"
Margaret tightened her fist on the reins. “That I cannot promise. I do not know his mind. But if he answers you otherwise, please tell me. You see, I believe in the principle I am asking you to uphold. If Thomas does not, it is better I know now."
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Chapter Eighteen
The visit was not going nearly as well as Thomas had hoped, and he was the first to admit that his hopes had not been overly high. He had thought managing his guests would be a challenge, but he quickly found that the only way to survive was to divide and conquer.
Certain pairs were virtually impossible. Lady Agnes and Mrs. Munroe could not be in each other's company for more than five minutes before Mrs. Munroe was either livid or in tears. However, Court seemed to find Mrs. Munroe interesting. Thomas could not understand how they found conversational topics of mutual interest, but find them they did. And that was to the good, for Catherine still could not abide his company and spent her time with either Aunt Agnes or Margaret, although she would settle for Mr. Munroe in a pinch. Lady Agnes plainly preferred a spirited debate with Mr. Munroe but was happy to strike sparks off Margaret instead. By carefully coupling his guests, he was able to keep the peace, at least part of the time.
His own peace, however, remained elusive. First there was the matter of the attack. He had managed to slip away for a few hours to visit the physician in Hilton. Trained in the famed Edinburgh school, the fellow could have demanded a high price in London but had chosen the quiet Lake District for its beauty. Dr. Cranwell had interviewed him, asking him a number of questions about his activities, his sleeping patterns, and his meals. As was the practice of the learned gentlemen from Edinburgh, he did not touch Thomas, but the swift delivery of questions was just as probing.
"Nothing you have said would make me believe your heart is weakening,” the physician insisted. “Unfortunately, nothing you have said would lead me to another source of the attacks. Point to where you felt the pain."
Thomas pointed, feeling the fool bothering the man with what was surely some minor ailment. Cranwell's heavy brows drew together in a frown, and he scribbled something on the paper he held before him.
"Have you heeded my advice?” he demanded. “Have you curtailed activities that might cause your heart rate to increase unduly?"
"I never thought of my life as boisterous,” Thomas replied, “but yes, I've tried not to do anything out of the ordinary."
The physician consulted his paper again. “I hear you have been courting,” he said to the parchment. “Is that going well?"
Thomas tried not to flush. “I do not see how courting signifies."
"Don't you?” Cranwell raised his gaze to study him, and Thomas felt his cheeks heating. In fact, he felt exactly as he had when his father had caught him fingering the bridle of his prize hunter and dreaming of daring exploits. Neither dreaming of hiding to the hounds nor dreaming of marrying Margaret was a heinous crime. He straightened his back and met the physician's gaze straight on.
Cranwell didn't fluster. “Scowl all you like, my lord. It is plain by your reaction that this courting is a matter of concern for you. The red in your face tells me your heart beat has quickened just thinking about it. It is quite probably, my lord, that this is the matter that is causing these attacks."
"Ridiculous,” Thomas replied with a shake of his head. “Surely modern medicine has progressed beyond the romantic notion that troubles in love result in a physical trouble of the heart."
"Do not discount the old stories,” the physician said. “I've seen healthy young widows die within weeks of their husbands from no other cause than their hearts were breaking. I've seen other robust fellows keel over at their tables in a choleric fit because they had held in anger for too long. My advice to you, my lord, is to finish this courtship of yours as soon as possible. One way or the other, it could ruin your health."
* * * *
Thomas had cause to remember the fellow's words in the days that followed, though he could not lend them much credence. Plenty of other things made his heart beat faster—in annoyance—and he did not succumb to an attack. For one thing, Court continued to try to charm Catherine, yet she avoided him whenever possible. Court, on the other hand, often used her absences to advantage, badgering Thomas about his support to the amendment.
"The Prime Minister fears to bring it to the floor,” he confided when Thomas demanded to know why he was so fixated on the measure. “Liverpool is concerned that if we lose on such a key piece of legislation, Breckonridge might call for a vote of no confidence. This could open the door for the Whigs to seize power. We cannot let the liberals control the government."
"Certainly not,” Thomas agreed. “But if the Prime Minister is so concerned, then he is right to hold up the amendment. Compromises can still be achieved that would make the bill more palatable to both sides."
"Compromises,” Court sneered, and Thomas blinked at his vehemence. “Compromises will only weaken the measure."
"Or strengthen it,” Thomas said quietly. “I think I understand your passion on this one, old fellow. It is your first bill. But there is no shame in compromising, if all win."
"An easy statement, DeGuis,” his friend returned sharply though Thomas could see the viscount was considering his words. “Your political career is not at stake."
"Neither is yours if you will but see it,” Thomas corrected him. “There will be other opportunities to make your mark."
"I haven't given up on this one yet,” Court informed him before striding from the room.
Much as the viscount's determination concerned him, however, Thomas had another matter far more troubling to deal with. Since the morning of the day after his guests had arrived, Margaret had distanced herself from him. He had feared the intimacy of the estate would force his hand, but she did not push him. Indeed, in the first week they had been there, she had spent more time with Catherine than she had with him. He supposed he should count it a blessing—without being alone with her, he was not put in the position of kissing her. That would certainly have increased his heart beat. However, he missed their moments together. And he wondered whether he had done something to offend her. Accordingly, the morning of the second week of their visit, he determined to rise with the sun in hopes of catching her before she started on her morning ride. Unfortunately, the day proved cloudy, and he jerked awake barely ten minutes before eight. Thrusting his protesting valet aside, he hurriedly donned shirt, trousers, and boots, and, grabbing his cravat in one hand, dashed down to the stables.
One glance about the wood-framed stalls told him he was too late. Aeolus was nowhere in sight. He threw the cravat onto the straw in frustration. Trust Margaret to do something out of character, just when he was trying to make amends. He turned to start back to the house and heard the sound of pounding hooves. He melted into the shadows as Margaret rode through the doors of the stable.
She patted the horse as he slowed, head bobbing and snorting, obviously ready to keep running. Thomas stepped from the shadows, but before he could speak, she slid from the saddle.
"I don't suppose you'd care to join Nicodemus and me in a ride?” he asked. Then he started as she turned to stare at him.
He was sure his eyes must h
ave been just as wide. Gone was the worn blue velvet riding habit he had seen so often. In its place were a pair of men's leather breeches, molded to her frame; a lawn shirt, buttoned over her magnificent chest; and a pair of Hessian boots well dusted from use. Her hair was braided down her back, silver running like ribbon through the black. The gentleman's saddle, which Court had commented upon, lay firmly in place across Aeolus’ broad back. She had clearly gone out early so no one would see her.
But as she continued to stare at him, he realized he looked no less disheveled. Without the cravat, his own lawn shirt was open at the neck and hastily crammed into buckskin breeches. He hadn't even troubled to comb his hair, and his cheek must be shadowed with a morning's growth of beard. His unkempt state did not seem to trouble her. In fact, if the blush creeping over her cheeks was any indication, she was as fascinated by his appearance as he was with hers.
She shook herself awake with obvious difficulty. “Good ... good morning, my lord,” she stammered.
"My lord?” he asked, stepping closer. The gelding shook his head in warning and flattened his ears. Thomas halted. “I thought we had graduated to Thomas."
"No,” she replied, licking her lips. “This morning we are definitely back to my lord."
He wasn't sure whether that was a compliment or a complaint. He decided to follow her usual forthright lead. “Have I done something to offend you?"
"No, nothing,” she said hurriedly. Had she been anyone else, he would have thought she was dissembling. With Margaret, he could only take her at her word. She obviously sensed his confusion, for she hurried on. “It's simply that I'm not used to seeing you, that is I've only dreamed, that is you look so...” she trailed off lamely, patting her horse and avoiding his gaze. She cleared her throat. “Aeolus and I would be delighted to join you, Thomas."
Grinning, he hurried to saddle the Arabian. A groom poked a sleepy head from the overhead loft, and, seeing Thomas, scurried down to help. Within minutes, he had the dun ready. Margaret turned the massive black, and Thomas followed her out of the stable into the morning light. The groom hurried forward to help her to remount. Thomas wondered how she had managed to get on the brute of a horse alone, but he did not intend to let her do so again. He elbowed the groom aside.