by Sara Bennett
It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair …
“Margaret? Are you there?”
Margaret looked toward the top of the narrow stairs. Her mother was standing on the landing, her hair down, her eyes wide and frightened.
“Mother?”
“I needed you and you weren’t here,” her mother went on, as if she hadn’t spoken. “I needed you, Margaret, because … because …” But evidently the reason eluded her and she shook her head in frustration.
“Come,” Margaret was already climbing the stairs toward her, “I’ll help you back to your room. Are you hungry? I’m sure I can find you a little something before supper. Tea and toast, perhaps?”
Once she had the older woman settled in her chair before the fire, and stirred up the coals, she found a rug to tuck around her—the room was icy—and took her mother’s frail hands in hers to rub back to warmth.
“There,” she kept saying. “Everything is all right now.”
Her mother was silent, obedient as a child. Then, quite suddenly, she looked up and her eyes were wide and aware as they rarely were these days. “Margaret,” she said clearly, “I think I am losing my mind.”
For a moment Margaret was too shocked to say anything, and then she struggled to murmur reassurance. “No, of course you’re not. You are just a little worn down, as Doctor Lowry said.”
“Margaret, this was why I wanted you to come home and marry Louis,” her mother said, still as if she hadn’t heard a word. “Because I couldn’t manage any more. I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Of course you are.”
“Lily said it was wrong and that I should go to her. She has a nice little house in Portobello, and she would take care of me, but your father will not hear of it. Besides, now you are home.”
“Yes, I am home.”
The house in Portobello sounded very nice, and just for a moment Margaret let herself imagine how much easier life would be if her father and aunt got on. “Is Aunt Lily coming for Christmas?” she asked. Some years she did, but as she had already visited this year, perhaps she would stay at home.
“Write and ask her,” Mrs Willoughby murmured.
“If you wish me to …?”
“Wish me to what?” her mother’s eyes were closing and before Margaret could answer her she had nodded off to sleep.
Margaret sat with her in silence. The disordered thoughts of earlier had quite vanished. She’d already made her choice. She’d made it when she returned to Denwick. Her mother needed her, and if that meant living under her father’s roof then so be it. She would marry Louis and live a productive and useful life, an unselfish life. Because to want more, to selfishly set her sights on her own happiness before others, was to be the sort of person Margaret could never be.
The next morning Dominic and his sister broke their fast in the private parlour at the White Boar, away from the stares and whispers of the villagers and other guests. There were a surprising number of travellers who came through the village, heading back and forth from Scotland, but Mrs Black, the innkeeper’s wife, made certain the earl was not bothered.
Dominic reached over to help himself to some more sausage and bacon, while Sibylla sat back, replete, watching him. “More coffee?” she asked, reaching for the pot.
“Thank you.”
“As your appetite is even more voracious than usual, you must be working like a navvy. Is the house nearly finished?”
Dominic had ridden into Alnwick yesterday to speak to his uncle’s solicitor. “There’s no rush, but there is a possibility it can be turned into a home for the destitute. Evidently there are quite a number of sad cases in this parish. I wonder what Cecil would have thought of that?”
“Who knows what he would have thought, Nic? I try not to think about him.”
“Well you will have to tomorrow morning. We are burying him then, remember.”
“I haven’t forgotten. A small, private ceremony, you said. I wonder if anyone told the villagers that? I believe word has spread far and wide.”
“Well the private parlour we booked here at the inn will only hold twenty, and even then it will be a crush. If there are any gawkers they will have to stay outside.”
“I can’t imagine we will need room for twenty. Great Uncle Cecil never saw anyone or went anywhere.”
Dominic set his plate aside. Once Sir Cecil was buried it only remained for him to decide on the fate of the house, then there would be nothing to keep him here in Denwick. Well, apart from Margaret.
“If I agree to turn the house into a benevolent asylum I will leave Sir Cecil’s funds in trust, to help with the running of it. In essence it will be self-sustaining.”
“Or you could always live there yourself,” she said, a twinkle in her eyes.
“I have a perfectly good house in London, and an estate in the country. Perhaps you would consider taking it, sister? I’d offer you a good rate.”
“Very funny. I’ll never forget seeing Great Uncle Cecil lying in his bed, staring back at me.” She shuddered, and he knew how she was remembering the female servant fetching her the morning after they’d arrived, believing the old man was ill. “I don’t know why they didn’t fetch you instead.”
“Yes, I’m sorry you had to see that,” Dominic said, pushing his plate away and wanting to change the subject. “Your cold seems to have improved. Are you feeling better? You could have come with me to Alnwick.”
“Yes, I am feeling better. And I don’t need to go to Alnwick; I’ve made very good friends with one of the maids and she tells me all the gossip. Did you know that Margaret’s curate was the sort of young man everyone thinks the world of? Sweet of nature and handsome. Thoughtful and understanding. What more could a woman want? I’m looking forward to meeting him.”
Dominic stared into his coffee cup.
After watching him a moment Sibylla added, “And the vicar, of course. I am very keen to meet him.”
“Are you?” Dominic gave her a look of disbelief. “That’s a treat still in store for you then.”
“Yes, I am looking forward to it. Really,” she repeated with a laugh when he gave her another doubting look. “I’m interested in people, Nic. Even ones who aren’t very nice.”
“Well you’ll see the entire village tomorrow morning when we lay Great Uncle Cecil to rest.”
“I suppose I will. Perhaps I should have come with you to Alnwick, after all. I could have bought some new ribbons for my bonnet. Although they would have to be black, wouldn’t they? I do hate mourning.”
Before Dominic could respond the door opened abruptly and they both looked up.
Dominic had expected a servant but the woman who stood there was a tall and stern creature, with chilly grey eyes in a long face. She seemed to expect them to know her, but when neither of them spoke nor moved, she informed them in an aristocratic voice that she was Lady Strangeways, adding, “I thought it was time I introduced myself to you.”
Dominic rose to his feet and bowed politely, while Sibylla gave a little curtsey. “Lady Strangeways,” he said, smiling. “How do you do? I have heard your name mentioned by Mr Willoughby.”
“Mr Willoughby is the very best of men,” she responded, evidently not believing small talk was necessary. “He knows his own mind. So many men of the cloth are insipid sorts of fellows.”
“Indeed.” Sibylla offered her a seat and her ladyship took it. A servant appeared when Dominic rang the bell, and he asked her to clear the table and bring fresh coffee and tea. All the while he could feel the woman’s eyes on them both. What on earth was she doing here? Sibylla seemed to be wondering the same, catching his gaze and raising her eyebrows.
“I have heard of you,” Lady Strangeways said, as soon as they were alone again. The disparaging note in her voice made him think that what she had heard was not to her liking. If Dominic was the sort of man to be easily intimidated then he might be now, but he wasn’t.
“Have you?” he asked with mild curiosity.
“Oh yes,” she said, nodding her head. “The Earl of Monkstead and Lady Sibylla. You are quite a ramshackle pair.”
“Oh no,” his sister said in a fake airy tone, her cheeks flushed with annoyance. “I think you’ll find my brother is a very serious sort of man. It is I who am ramshackle, Lady Strangeways.”
The other woman flicked her a glance but otherwise took no notice of her, her attention fixed on Dominic. “Perhaps you think there is amusement to be had in our little village? No doubt we are quaint in comparison to the inhabitants of London.”
At that moment he decided he was tired of her lecturing him. “Not at all. I am here to tidy up my great uncle’s affairs. I am his heir. It just so happens there is a possibility that the house may be turned into—”
Lady Strangeways wasn’t interested. She cut him off rudely. “But you know Miss Willoughby, do you not?”
So that was the crux of the matter. He hesitated a moment, stirring his coffee. The action gave him something to do and had the secondary advantage of forcing Lady Strangeways to wait.
“I do know Miss Willoughby. I also know her cousin, Mrs Maclean. She lives in Mockingbird Square and we are neighbours.”
“Oh, Olivia.” She waved a hand dismissively. “She was spoiled as a girl, always expecting the best of everything. Margaret is quite different.”
“Yes,” he said, “she is.”
A flash of triumph in those grey eyes, as if she had the answer to whatever question she had been seeking.
“Nic,” Sibylla murmured a warning but he ignored her.
“In Denwick, we do not approve of London gentlemen, Monkstead. We do not approve of their ways. Margaret’s father is very keen on his daughter marrying Louis Scott because she would make a perfect wife for him. And I happen to agree.”
“Does Margaret not have a say in all of this?” he asked with deceptive mildness, his gaze never leaving hers.
“Good Heavens, no. Why should she?” She was genuinely surprised by the question. “She’s a sensible girl, she’s young, and she must listen to those who are older and wiser. I will not have her head turned by persons who do not have her best interests at heart.”
“And you do? How fortunate for her,” he mocked.
“Nic,” Sibylla spoke more sharply this time. “Perhaps we should bid farewell to Lady Strangeways. You have matters to attend to and I—”
He wasn’t listening to her. He leaned forward and his voice was the voice he used when someone dear to him was threatened, because Margaret was dear to him. “When Miss Willoughby left London she was in full bloom. Bright, somewhat argumentative it is true, but she was alive. Now she is a shadow of her former self. I wonder why that is, Lady Strangeways? And I wonder why those who have her ‘best interests at heart’ would not do something about that.”
“Ah, here’s the truth!” she cried. “I knew it. As soon as I heard you were here I knew why you’d come. I knew it was for Margaret. I’ve wondered ever since she returned home why she was so depressed, moping about. I warned her father not to let her go to London but Olivia had to have her way, and now we see what has come of it. Well, I won’t have the vicar and his family upset, my lord. I warn you, I will not have it!”
She’d risen to her feet during her speech, and now she brushed past Sibylla’s chair to the door. A moment later she was gone, and they were alone again.
Sibylla looked at Dominic. For a moment they didn’t say a word and then he ran his hands violently, several times, through his hair, making it stand on end. “That woman,” he said through gritted teeth.
“She is a monster,” Sibylla agreed. “But should you have said those things to her? She was only fishing and you have given her a big fat salmon.”
“Possibly. I can’t seem to help myself where Margaret is concerned.”
Sibylla sighed. “Poor Margaret, to be trapped here among such creatures as that. I can see why you are so keen on rescuing her, Nic.”
“I am keen on rescuing her, but mostly for myself,” he retorted. “Lady Strangeways was right in that at least. I’m a selfish creature and I refuse to see my one chance of happiness pass me by just because Margaret is so determined to die miserable. Surely any disgrace is better than that?”
Sibylla snorted a laugh. “Do you know, brother, having met Lady Strangeways, I feel a strong compulsion to help you in your dastardly plot. In fact, I intend to do my very best to occupy the curate while you work your charms on Margaret.”
He looked up at her, his dark eyes warm in a face that he knew must look weary. He was feeling the strain of the situation and he was sure that Margaret was as well.
“Am I doing the right thing?” he asked, with uncharacteristic doubt. “Perhaps Lady Strangeways is right and I should go back to London.”
Sibylla shook her head at him. “If you found a kitten drowning, would you not save it? Even if it tried to escape or claw you? Of course you’re doing the right thing, Nic.”
“Margaret isn’t a kitten, I assure you, but she does have the damnedest urge to sacrifice herself for others.”
“Then save her,” his sister told him. “Do it, Dominic. Save her.”
8
Margaret stood solemnly by the graveside as Sir Cecil Throckmore was lowered into the ground. She wondered how the grave diggers had managed to create a hole deep enough in the frozen earth, but the cellar in the inn—where until now Sir Cecil’s body had been kept cool and safe—could not hold him forever.
The group around the grave was small but there was a larger straggle of onlookers in the churchyard, and even outside on the road. She suspected they were here to ogle Monkstead and his sister rather than pay their respects. It shouldn’t have surprised her, but it did. Sometimes she forgot just how astounded these people must be that a wealthy and fashionable London earl was staying in a little village like Denwick.
The vicar had almost finished the service. Mrs Willoughby shivered, and Margaret held firmly to her arm. She would take her mother back to the vicarage and then she would attend the gathering at the White Boar out of respect for Sir Cecil, but she was determined to say nothing more to Dominic than was necessary. Her speech, which she’d been practicing ever since she decided she must warn the earl off and send him back to London, would have to wait a little longer.
He was staring at her. She blinked, realizing that she had caught his eyes even while she was telling herself she would have nothing to do with him. She should have looked away, but the weariness in his handsome face made her wonder what had kept him awake at night. Dealing with his great uncle’s effects? Or because of her?
“Monkstead! That went well,” the vicar declared in a pleased voice, and came to stand between them. With a sigh of relief, Margaret turned to take her mother back inside.
By the time she returned the churchyard was empty and the crowd had gone home or moved to the inn. Quickening her steps, Margaret entered the building with its creaky sign of a rather fearsome white boar. Inside, the inn was cosy, and mixed with the odour of wood smoke was an aroma of hops and mulled wine.
“Miss Willoughby.” She was greeted by Mrs Black. “The earl’s party are in the private parlour.” The woman leaned closer, her eyes bright. “What a handsome man he is. Most of the girls in the village are already in love with him, and their mothers too. Is it true that you are well acquainted with him?”
“Yes, I—I do know him.” She smiled, feeling both uncomfortable and something else she did not wish to investigate. “In here, you said?” She gestured toward the door at the end of the narrow corridor.
“His valet said his master is as rich as a king and has all his clothes made in Bond Street. No wonder he looks so smart.” She sighed. “I wish I could go to London like you did.”
“I’m sure you are better off here in Denwick,” Margaret replied.
“You can say that, Miss Willoughby, because you’ve already been,” she retorted. “Do you think you’ll go back there one day soon?” The sparkle in her
eye was uncomfortably inquisitive. “Perhaps you might stay at the earl’s estate?”
“I doubt it.” Margaret smiled and brushed past her. “Excuse me.”
The woman’s curiosity had unsettled her. The idea that the females in the village, young and old, had their eyes fixed on the handsome earl, imagining themselves in love with him, made her quite cross. He wasn’t theirs. Although he wasn’t hers either, she reminded herself. She had no rights to him and no reason to feel jealous.
The door opened to her knock and Mr Black stepped back to allow her entry. He was beaming, no doubt because of all the extra custom coming his way at what was usually a quiet time of year.
The room was panelled in dark wood, and in the centre a long table was spread with pastries and pies and other small treats, all of which smelt delicious. A jug of ale was ready for those who required it and pots of tea and coffee for the rest. It was noisy in here, as if the guests were so glad to be out of the cold that they’d forgotten this was meant to be a sombre occasion.
Margaret saw Lady Strangeways with other women from the vicar’s circle of helpers, as well as the vicar himself and several other men. Some of the strangers looked more prosperous than others, and she supposed they were either friends or business acquaintances of Sir Cecil.
“Miss Willoughby! Margaret!” Suddenly she was enveloped in a warm, fragrant hug. It was Sibylla, exuberant as ever.
“Lady Sibylla,” Margaret smiled with genuine affection. “I hope you are well? I heard you were ill with a cold.”
Sibylla pulled a face. “I was, but I am much better, thank you. I know you called, but I did not wish to share my affliction with you.” She looked about the room, searching the faces. “I cannot see my brother. I think he had some business to discuss, and my great uncle’s solicitor could not stay very long. I assume they have found themselves a private corner somewhere.”