by Sara Bennett
Somewhere in the background she could hear Louis and Sibylla, but it was as if she and Dominic existed in their own cocoon.
“Miss Willoughby?”
Margaret jumped, and just like that she was back in her home, back in real life.
The cook was standing in the kitchen doorway, peering at her rather desperately, hands twisting in her white apron. The woman’s gaze went to Dominic and she looked even more desperate. Clearly some dire situation was unfolding in the kitchen.
“If you would excuse me?” she said in a voice that hardly shook at all. “I am needed.”
Sibylla had seen what was happening. “Oh dear! Has the soup curdled? Do you need help, Margaret? I assure you I am an expert when it comes to rescuing culinary disasters.”
Louis stared at Sibylla as if he was trying to picture her stirring soup. “You are very versatile, Lady Sibylla,” he said. “Surely not many earls’ sisters can cook?”
“Oh dear me, I once cooked for a room full of card sharps, in order to save my husband from being sent to prison. They claimed he was cheating.”
Louis didn’t seem to know what to think about that. He murmured, “Your husband?” as if those were the two words that had struck him hardest.
“He’s dead now, poor dear,” she answered.
Was it Margaret’s imagination or did Louis looked relieved? She found this unexpectedly funny, and then sad. What would this mean for their engagement? Would they both go into their marriage loving other people? Would they both make the best of it because they had no other choice? Where was the justice in that?
She realised she had been silent too long and rallied. “I couldn’t possibly ask my guests to cook their own luncheon,” she said firmly.
Just then the door to the sitting room opened and the vicar stepped out. “Ah, there you all are!” he said. “Please join us. Luncheon shouldn’t be too long, should it, Margaret?”
“An hour at the most,” she reassured him, hoping it didn’t sound too much like she was plucking numbers out of the air.
“Good, good. Time for sherry then.”
With some relief, Margaret watched the others join her father and let the cook lead her to the kitchen.
She was very glad to have a moment away from Dominic. Whenever he was near her he seemed to suck up the air until she felt as though she couldn’t breathe. She wanted to ask him questions, make him answer them, and she wanted to say yes and tell him she loved him too, because she thought she did. She thought she might have loved him from the first, despite how he never failed to irritate her. Perhaps her conflicted feelings had been the only thing preventing her from throwing herself into his arms at the first opportunity.
That he loved her, that he was offering her all that he could, given his circumstances, made her ache with longing and regret. The strange thing was that his being a married man was the lesser of her concerns. Yes, she would be shunned from society and her family would consider her dead to them—her father most certainly would. Whatever life she had now would be over completely.
But deep in her heart wasn’t that what she wanted? To be cast out from Denwick and throw her lot in with Dominic?
The acknowledgement of this fact shamed her. What sort of daughter was she to choose scandal as the solution to her problems? She was destined for a life far more monotone than Dominic was offering her. She would never sparkle and glow, she would never erupt into a hundred colourful starbursts like the fireworks she had seen in London.
It was time to end this nonsense. After luncheon she would find a moment to be alone with him and tell him she had made her decision and her final answer was no. Forever no.
11
Sunday luncheon was a much grander affair than usual. The earl and his sister, as well as Lady Strangeways, made for an elite gathering. The vicar was in his element, while most of the time his wife sat meekly to the side, picking at her food. Margaret wasn’t sure whether her mother had slipped back into that twilight world she seemed to inhabit, or whether, like her daughter, she was wishing herself a thousand miles away.
She nodded for the servant to clear the first course and tried not to flinch when the girl clashed some of the good china plates together. Most eyes were on the head of the table, where her father was holding forth about his school days. He and his brother had gone to a school for the well-heeled—this was before the family lost their wealth in ill-judged speculations. Although Margaret’s uncle had regained his fortune through his own clever investments, her father’s prospects remained poor. She supposed that was why he liked to portray himself in a better light, and why this move to a more prestigious parish was so important to him.
Lady Strangeways’ braying laugh interrupted her thoughts. Margaret could see that her ladyship was encouraging her father in that odious way she always did. It always surprised her how much the woman enjoyed the vicar’s stories, given how she was usually so opposed to enjoyment of any kind. Not for the first time Margaret asked herself whether Lady Strangeways was in love with the vicar, and not for the first time she pushed the idea away as simply too awful to contemplate.
Despite herself Margaret’s gaze now slid to the earl. Between her father’s reminiscences and Lady Strangeways’ lectures, he was looking bored. At least Louis was entertaining Sibylla. They seem to have enjoyed their visit to the church, and the far more vivacious Sibylla made the quieter Louis smile a great deal. Margaret, feeling as if she had the weight of the world on her shoulders, was finding it very difficult to smile.
The main course arrived. Lady Strangeways took one bite and grimaced. “You really should use the fishmongers in Alnwick,” she said, fixing her grey eyes on Margaret. “They are far superior to anyone local.”
“That may be so, but they are also far more expensive,” Margaret replied without thinking.
There was a silence and the vicar set down his knife with a clang. “Margaret, you forget yourself,” he said sharply. “Lady Strangeways’ advice was well intended and I happen to think she is right. To say this fish is mediocre is to give it high praise indeed.”
“I’m sorry father,” she murmured. “I’ll remember it next time.”
“Pray do!” Naturally he had to have the last word.
Her father liked to pretend they had funds to burn, but the truth was they were as poor as the mice in the church. Margaret wondered how her mother had managed all these years because she was certainly struggling to keep up with her father’s exacting standards.
“I believe …” Margaret’s head was lowered, embarrassed at being castigated before such illustrious company, and now she looked up in surprise. Her mother had set down her cutlery and was tapping her chin with one fingertip, as if deep in thought. “I believe there were several persons who were ill after eating from that fishmonger only very recently, Mr Willoughby.”
The vicar gawped at her. “Ill?” he said. “What nonsense.”
Sibylla glanced up with her mischievous smile. “Now that you mention it, I did hear something at the inn. They had cancelled their order because of it.”
The vicar glared about him, his mouth half open to respond, but he must have felt himself outnumbered. Instead he began to eat again, but the glances he shot at his wife and daughter promised retribution in some form or other.
“You must feel relieved to be free of London society, Lady Sibylla.” It was Lady Strangeways coming to the rescue of the vicar—she certainly looked ready to do battle. Margaret tried not to groan aloud.
Sibylla cocked her head to the side, a dark curl resting against her cheek. “And why would I be relieved, Lady Strangeways?”
“Oh, only that there has been a great deal of gossip about you, has there not?”
There was an audible gasp. Dominic was awaking from whatever thoughts had held him silent until now and his dark eyes narrowed. At the same time, Louis began spluttering a defence, while Sibylla sat furious and white faced.
The uncomfortable moment drew on until it was too m
uch for Margaret. She wasn’t sure where the words came from, but her voice rang out sure and true.
“I was myself in London not so long ago, Lady Strangeways, and I assure you there was no gossip. None at all.”
Lady Strangeways turned those cold eyes on her. She gave the vicar a sideways glance, as if for direction, but he was too busy frowning at his daughter.
“I am sure you mean well, Margaret,” her ladyship said in a condescending voice. “You are championing your friends and that is admirable. But I have some advice you should heed: Take care where you place your trust.”
“I am very careful where I place my trust,” she responded instantly.
“Margaret, that is enough!” Her father’s anger was obvious, his face was turning red, but she was tempted to keep talking. She wanted to. She might well have done so.
“Margaret, did you say Lily was coming to spend Christmas with us?” Her mother smiled at her as if there was nothing wrong, and Margaret couldn’t decide whether she really believed that or she was trying to change the subject.
“I did write to her, Mother.”
“Lily is my younger sister.” Mrs Willoughby looked around the table, her gaze never resting very long on any one person, and galloping past her husband. “She lives in Edinburgh.”
Another voice entered the fray. “Lady Sibylla has offered to sing at the Christmas service and I have accepted her offer.”
Margaret turned to Louis, wondering if everyone had gone insane. He looked defiant, his fair hair a little less neat than usual, his kind blue eyes bright with determination.
There was another gasp. “You cannot—” Lady Strangeways began angrily, but the vicar interrupted her.
“Sing?” he said, as if Sibylla had offered to dance a jig with bagpipes. “I did not know you sang, Lady Sibylla.”
“She has the most beautiful voice,” Louis responded, although to Margaret’s knowledge he had never heard it. Then, in a cunning move she would never have expected of him, added, “I’m sure if you let it be known she will be singing Sir Peter would come to hear her.”
Sir Peter Grey was someone whose patronage the vicar had been trying to cultivate for years. A wealthy and important gentleman, he lived in a neighbouring parish, but Mr Willoughby was determined to see him attend Denwick church.
Margaret could see the cogs turning in her father’s brain and bit her lip, trying not to smile. At that moment her gaze met Dominic’s across the table. His mouth tipped up at the corners and he raised his eyebrows at her, almost making her burst out laughing. Oh yes, his feelings were completely in line with hers, but somehow she had known they would be.
“I will send him a note this afternoon,” the vicar announced, returning to his meal.
Lady Strangeways was staring hard at Louis, and Margaret could see she had changed her opinion of him—from a man she could dominate with ease to someone she needed to consider with caution.
Did that make the curate more attractive as a husband or less? Margaret thought more, but it hardly mattered because she knew now she could never love him. Not in the way she loved the earl.
Her eyes found him again. He was watching her, his mouth still tipped at the corners, as though he wanted to smile at her. She tried to imagine seeing his handsome face across the table every day and the idea seemed so wonderful, and knowing it could not happen seemed so awful, that all she wanted to do was put her head down in her hands and weep.
It was best to look away, she decided. Get used to not seeing him. And if she told that to herself often enough she might begin to believe it.
“There are still some bits and pieces that belonged to my great uncle I have yet to find a home for.” That deep, commanding voice would not be ignored. She took a breath and forced a polite expression of interest to her face.
“Oh?”
“I was wondering if you could offer me some advice about them, Miss Willoughby. You were very helpful with regard to his clothing. I’m not sure who else to turn to.”
“I’m sure I could assist you,” Lady Strangeways interrupted.
“That is most kind of you, but—” Dominic’s eyes hadn’t left her face.
Did she really want Lady Strangeways interfering, whispering tales, warning Dominic off? And besides, she wanted to agree. She wanted to spend more time with this man, despite all the reasons she shouldn’t. Margaret found her voice.
“I would be happy to offer my advice, my lord.”
He seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, though he hid it well. “Thank you. I will send the coach tomorrow afternoon and deliver you to the house. I would like to get these matters sorted as soon as possible.”
“Of course. I’m sure you’d like everything completed before you return to London.”
“Exactly.” His dark eyes delved into hers a moment longer and then he turned away as if that was all there was to be said. For the sake of her heart she wished that were true. She wished this was all a game to him, a diversion, and at the same time she was perversely glad that it was not.
After the meal was over they withdrew to the sitting room and made themselves as comfortable as possible on the vicar’s rather shabby sofa and chairs. Lady Sibylla seemed to be finding private amusement in the vicar’s pronouncements about life in general, and he, being too full of his own importance to realise she was secretly laughing at him, grew only more verbose.
Margaret was still trying to oversee their guests’ comfort and disguise the failings of the servants. After having hurried back to the kitchen for the fifth time when the maid forgot something—this time the milk—she began to hand out the cups and saucers.
“I will look forward to meeting Sir Peter Grey,” Sibylla was saying, prompting the vicar to begin a long winded explanation of who the man was, going back several generations of the Grey family.
Margaret wondered whether she should break in and change the subject. She could hardly rebuke Sibylla. The truth was she was tired and there were too many thoughts whirling around her own head to care that her father was making a fool of himself.
“Perhaps it was Sir Peter who recommended you.”
Her mother smiled at Margaret as she took her cup and there was a twinkle in her green eyes that had not been there for a long while. Before Margaret could decide what it meant, her mother spoke again, this time turning to her father.
“Recommended you for the new parish, I mean, dear.”
The vicar stopped mid word and turned to stare at her. He seemed to be trying to decide whether to tell her she was talking nonsense, as he often did, or ignore her.
It was too late.
“New parish?” Lady Strangeways’ voice was louder than normal.
Margaret watched as her mother focused on the other woman, and she could no longer pretend her mother didn’t know what she was doing. Her timing was masterful.
“Yes. We are moving after Christmas. It is very exciting.”
Everything seemed to happen at once. The vicar began to protest and Lady Strangeways turned to stare at him. Her voice rose above his. “Moving?” she repeated, a hand to her heaving chest. “Moving!”
“It is a mistake,” Mr Willoughby began, and then changed his mind halfway through. “I mean, I would have told you, my lady. I have been busy and it isn’t certain yet. As my wife knows, the Dean is yet to announce the news.” He glared at his wife, promising retribution.
“So you may not go?” Lady Strangeways managed a shaky hopeful smile.
“Oh yes, we will definitely go,” Margaret’s mother said before anyone could stop her.
Lady Strangeways stood up and walked out of the room. A moment later the vicar followed her. After the door closed, the remainder of them sat in uncomfortable silence, not sure where to look or what to say. Apart from her mother, who had a little smile on her face.
“Mother,” Margaret whispered in awe. “What have you done?”
“What I should have done years ago,” she said.
Sibylla had
set aside her tea cup and risen to her feet, causing Dominic to do the same. “We will leave you. Thank you for …” She bit her lip, and Margaret was sure she was going to say, ‘for the entertainment’. Instead she merely smiled sympathetically, and, with a glance at Dominic, went to the door.
Dominic gave a bow. “I will send the coach tomorrow as arranged,” he said, and followed his sister out of the room.
Louis was hovering and Margaret could see he wanted to follow them. He took a step and then seemed to restrain himself. “My goodness,” he said, and shook his head. “This has certainly been an interesting afternoon.”
“Yes, it certainly has.”
He seemed confused. She felt she should speak with him, but Margaret just wanted him gone. Matters were complicated enough at the moment.
“Perhaps you should go over to the church for some quiet prayer and contemplation.”
His eyes lit up. “That is a very good idea. I am rather out of sorts just now, Miss Willoughby. I’m not sure why.”
“Aren’t you?”
He looked at her and away again and then he sighed. “Contemplation,” he said, and went quietly from the room. Margaret heard the front door close behind him.
She and her mother were finally alone.
Margaret reached to take her hand and her mother squeezed her fingers. She seemed to be struggling with some internal battle. “Margaret,” she said, “I want to say something before I go.”
“Go?” Margaret was alarmed. “Go where?”
“I don’t mean physically. I know my mind is dimming. Rather like fog rolling in over the fields around Denwick. I can still see clearly enough to say what I must say, but very soon I will have forgotten. Please pay attention.”
“Oh Mother …”
“I want to tell you that you have your life ahead of you. I know you are a good girl, and you want to do what is right. You were brought up to believe in sacrifice, but I think it was always there in your nature. But I do not want you to sacrifice yourself for me, Margaret. Your happiness is far more important to me than having you by my side, not when most of the time I do not even know who you are.”