A Lady Most Lovely

by Jennifer Delamere

  Lady Somerville was seated next to Tom on the sofa, and she gently took his cup. “Thank God you survived,” she said softly. “Even after you risked your own life to save others.”

  “Oh?” said Margaret, interested to hear more.

  But Tom shook his head. For the first time this evening, his face darkened into that familiar scowl. “That is a story for another time,” he said, his voice suddenly gruff.

  Clearly his sister had touched a nerve. It was easy to imagine that Tom had no desire to relive such an awful scene, but Margaret wondered if there might be more to it. However, since they had kindly refrained from questioning Margaret about her broken engagement, she would return the favor by not pressing Tom on a subject that distressed him. To shift the conversation, she said, “Why is your horse named Castor? It seems an unusual choice.”

  This was the right thing to ask. He relaxed a little, and seemed to shake himself free from the heaviness that had fallen on him. “It’s an interesting story, actually. I took the name from Castor and Pollux, who were twin sons of Zeus.”

  “You named your horse for a Greek god?” Margaret looked at him in surprise. “How is it that you went to Greek mythology for inspiration?”

  “Oh, heavens, now here’s a story!” Lady Somerville exclaimed. “Prepare for an earful, Miss Vaughn.” But Margaret saw only genuine pleasure in her face. She was no doubt relieved to see her brother at ease again.

  Tom said, “Castor and Pollux were among the Argonauts who accompanied Jason on his quest for the Golden Fleece. During the voyage, a terrible storm arose, and Orpheus—he was another of the Argonauts—played on his harp and prayed vigorously to the gods. He was a very talented musician, you see.” Tom gave a flourish to indicate playing a harp. “And so the storm ceased.” He paused, allowing the resulting quiet in the room to illustrate the calm after the storm. “Then, for some reason that I’m not quite sure of, these stars appeared on the heads of Castor and Pollux, and because of that they became the patron deities of seamen and voyagers.”

  How on earth could a man with Tom’s poor upbringing know such tales from ancient Greece? Margaret could think of no polite way to ask, so she said simply, “I suppose you were drawn to the story because of the part about the ship in the storm?”

  “In a way. I first became curious about Castor and Pollux when I read their names in the New Testament.”

  “Really?” Margaret said, truly surprised now. “They are in the Bible?”

  Tom nodded. “After Saint Paul and the others survived a terrible shipwreck, they later got on another ship that took them the rest of the way to Rome. The sign, or figurehead, on that ship was Castor and Pollux. So that’s where I got the idea for Castor’s name. It seemed perfect, considering what me and that horse have been through together.”

  “So it is,” Margaret agreed, still astounded at the different facets of this man she was seeing tonight.

  Lord Somerville had been listening to Tom’s story with an expression of mild amusement. Like his wife, he must have heard it before. He added, “It’s interesting to note that Castor was also famous for taming horses. Often in ancient Greek art the twins are depicted on horses.”

  “So Tom has a horse named after a god that tamed horses,” Lady Somerville summed up with a chuckle. “How appropriate, given our family’s love of all things equestrian.”

  “Do you also ride?” Margaret asked.

  “She’s a natural,” Tom said. “She rides like the wind.”

  “Geoffrey is an excellent rider, too,” Lady Somerville said. “Over the years, all of the Somerville men have been known for their horsemanship.” She sighed. “How I do miss it.” She placed a hand distractedly on her round belly.

  “Patience, my love,” Lord Somerville said. “You’ll be riding again by spring.”

  “Then we can all go together,” Tom suggested. “What a jolly time that will be.”

  He looked at Margaret as he said this, including her in the family circle. The implication made her distinctly uncomfortable. The happy and carefree life they enjoyed was a far cry from the realities of Margaret’s life. Tonight had been a pleasant interlude, but tomorrow she would return to fighting for her livelihood, facing her problems alone. She could not allow Tom to think there was anything more between them than the financial bargain they had made.

  She stood up. “Thank you all so much for the lovely evening. I’m afraid I must take my leave. I depart early tomorrow for Lincolnshire.”

  As they said their good-byes, Lady Somerville grasped Margaret’s hands as she had done earlier. “What a shame you are leaving town. It would have been nice to see you again.”

  “Thank you,” Margaret said, oddly touched by the genuine warmth in the other woman’s eyes. “However, I think you will soon have other, more important things to occupy your time.”

  Lady Somerville’s hand strayed to her expansive belly. “Indeed I shall.” A brief spasm of something like pain or sadness crossed her face, but she quickly forced it into a smile.

  When Tom led Margaret outside, she saw that an open carriage decorated with the Somerville coat of arms was standing at the curb. “What’s this?” she asked.

  “A landau to take you home, of course,” Tom said. “I gave the order before Geoffrey and I rejoined you ladies after dinner.”

  Margaret felt a pang of guilt as he helped her into the ornate carriage, with its driver and two liveried footmen standing at the ready, just to take her around the square. “I may have spoken too harshly to you earlier,” she said.

  Tom took the seat opposite her, his expression hard to make out in the dim light. “I’m glad you spoke up,” he said. “I like to know when I’m doing wrong. I always work hard to make it right.”

  The absurdly short trip was accomplished in no time. He escorted her up the steps. When they reached the door, he said, “Thank you for coming. I know my sister was glad for your company. It was very kind of you.”

  Kind? Margaret could have pointed out that she’d done no more than keep the bargain he’d extracted from her. Yet he was smiling at her with such heartfelt gratitude that she could only murmur, “It was… my pleasure. Lady Somerville is charming.”

  “She is, isn’t she?” he said with pride. He paused. His gaze dropped to her lips, then met her eyes again with a quiet intensity. “In that respect I have been twice blessed this evening.”

  She stared back, her mouth slightly agape. His desire for her was unmasked and unmistakable. A carriage rattled by in the street, and Margaret took a step back, although there was already a respectable distance between her and Tom. Realizing she had not yet responded to his compliment, she said automatically, “You are very kind.” Her face flushed, and she felt like a fool. “Good night,” she added hastily, and went inside.

  It was a good thing she was leaving London, Margaret reflected once the door was firmly shut behind her. She could not afford to be kept off-balance as she had been tonight. She would be far better off once she had returned home to Moreton Hall.

  Chapter 11

  The draft forced its way through the cracks in the windows, the mere glass being no match for the rushing wind as the train streamed past meadows and hedgerows. The train rocked and swayed with vigor, its much-touted “smooth” ride being to Margaret’s mind nonexistent. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. It might be old-fashioned but she still preferred a coach. The only good thing about railway travel was the speed. She would be home that much sooner.

  Margaret turned her eyes to the window, trying to shake off the oppression that lay heavy upon her. All her efforts over the long months in London had largely failed. Her idea of marrying for money had proved to be a spectacular mistake, and her finances were still in a precarious position. The loan from Tom Poole had eased the pressure somewhat, but did nothing to assuage her fears. For the bitter truth was that even if she recovered financially, she would still have to marry. At the moment, the thought of becoming an old maid, growing old with
the freedom to do as she liked and run her own life as she saw fit, was extremely tempting. But then she would be left with an even greater dilemma.

  She needed children. Her grandfather had been able to break the entail on Moreton Hall, keeping it out of the hands of a distant relation who was not distant enough for her liking: Richard Spencer. A shiver ran through her that had nothing to do with the draft from the window. But without heirs, the Vaughn family heritage would pass away, dying out after two hundred years. She could not allow that to happen. She loved this land—it was a part of her very soul—but it would drive her to desperate measures.

  Perhaps she could marry someone old—someone who would leave her a widow while she still had much of her own life remaining. She certainly was not the first woman to contemplate such a thing, and she surely would not be the last. But could an older man give her the children she needed? How could she be sure?

  A younger man, on the other hand, a man in the prime of his life… The memory of Tom Poole invaded her thoughts. However, his undisguised look of relief when she had turned him down made it clear that marrying him wasn’t really an option. He would be too dangerous, at any rate. A man such as that would consume her life, and her cherished independence would be lost.

  “Is everything all right, miss?” Bessie asked, studying her with concern.

  Margaret realized she had been clutching her reticule so tightly she was crushing its delicate velvet fabric. She carefully loosened her hold on it. “Just tired. The train wears me out.”

  “It does seem unnatural traveling so fast, doesn’t it?” Bessie agreed with a nod. “Do you suppose God really intended for people to shoot over the countryside at forty-five miles per hour?” She made a tsking sound, answering her own rhetorical question. “It cannot be healthy.”

  The whistle shrieked and the brakes screeched and shuddered as they pulled into the station. “Well, now,” said Bessie, “I shall be happy to get to Moreton Hall and shake off all this dirt. I don’t know which is worse—the soot from living in London or the soot we collected during this train ride.”

  Margaret was also glad to be home. She could hardly wait to be standing in an open pasture and breathing in the scent of the late summer blooms and the freshly cut grass. Perhaps there she could find some measure of peace.

  About two dozen people were milling about on the platform, either waiting to board or come to meet the arrivals. Margaret spotted Kevin, their groomsman, right away. Although he was a welcome sight, she had been expecting to see Mr. Williams, her land steward. “Are you here alone?” she asked him.

  Kevin shook his head. “I’ve brought two footmen. They’re seeing to your baggage.” He pointed to the far end of the platform, where trunks and bags were being offloaded from the train onto carts.

  “I was speaking of Mr. Williams,” Margaret clarified. “Did he not come with you?”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, miss, but Mr. Williams asked me to send his apologies. He is much occupied at present and couldn’t get away. He said he will meet you at Moreton Hall.”

  “Occupied?” Margaret repeated with irritation. “What was so important that he could not meet me here?”

  A strange look crossed Kevin’s face just then, but Margaret could hot decipher it. “He promises he will provide a proper explanation when you get home, miss.”

  This wasn’t the first time Williams had disobeyed her request, Margaret reflected in frustration. At times she worried that he was pushing too far with the authority she’d given him. She would have to reemphasize those boundaries when next she saw him. But it would do no good to display her irritation in front of the other servants. “Very well.”

  Her footmen loaded the trunks with swift efficiency, and within minutes they were driving away from the station. She leaned back into the soft comfort of her carriage, closing her eyes and concentrating on the rhythmic sound of the horses’ hooves as they traveled the last few miles to Moreton Hall.

  She must have dozed. The oppression that had plagued her earlier returned, filling her dreams with dark whisperings of dread. She awoke with a start. Bessie was sitting across from her, placidly watching the landscape roll past.

  Margaret straightened and took deep breaths in an effort to clear her thoughts. She looked out the window and saw they were approaching the boundaries of her estate. Fields of grain, tall and golden, flanked the road. They promised a bountiful harvest, something Margaret and her tenants desperately needed. Attempting to put away her previous forebodings, she took heart that this, at least, was going in her favor. Soon she would prove beyond all doubt that her grandfather had been right in breaking the entail and ensuring the estate went to her. Her father’s ruinous ways had savagely wounded but not destroyed her. She would triumph.

  Soon they would approach the meadow where the horses grazed. Margaret eagerly anticipated seeing her gelding Dante. Tomorrow she would take a long ride, traversing all the paths and fields that gave her such joy. The wildflowers would still be in bloom, especially along the lane that led from the small stone bridge by the brook. She and Dante would have a good run across the fields that led into Moreton Village, and for those precious hours she would forget she had any troubles at all.

  She’d been so caught up in this reverie that it was several minutes before she realized that the horse pastures were empty. All appeared peaceful and serene, but there was not a single horse in sight. “How strange,” she murmured. She slid across the seat and looked out the opposite window. The smaller field was rarely used, but it was shadier. Perhaps Garvey, her head stableman, had put the horses there to give them respite from the summer sun. But that field, too, was empty.

  Where were the horses? If Garvey was keeping them penned up on such a day, she would give him a sound piece of her mind. Had all her staff planned a mutiny while she was gone? “Stop the carriage!” Margaret ordered.

  Bessie looked at her, startled. “Beggin’ your pardon, miss?”

  Margaret took hold of an umbrella lying on the seat and banged on the carriage roof to get the driver’s attention. When the carriage did not slow down, Bessie opened one of the windows. “Kevin, Mistress wants you to stop!” she shouted.

  At last, the carriage rolled slowly to a stop, almost as if Kevin had been reluctant to do it. Margaret threw open the door, waiting impatiently for one of the footmen to set down the steps. When he had done so, Margaret got out and stalked to the front of the carriage.

  Kevin finished securing the reins and jumped down from the driver’s seat. He doffed his cap. “Is something wrong, miss?”

  Margaret looked beyond him and noticed, for the first time, that the four horses in the harness were unfamiliar to her. She’d paid them no attention at the station, since her mind had been preoccupied with other things. Now she pushed past Kevin and inspected them more closely. “These are not from our stable.”

  “You are correct, miss,” he said, lowering his head with a guilty air, as though he’d been caught doing something wrong.

  “Where are our coach horses? And where are the others?” She waved a hand, indicating the empty fields. “Where’s Dante?”

  To her consternation, Kevin remained silent. It was unlike him not to answer a question.

  “Come on, Kevin,” Bessie prompted softly. “Answer Miss Vaughn.”

  Reluctantly, Kevin lifted his head. “I’m afraid I can’t say, miss, and I do beg your pardon.” His voice was low and filled with entreaty. He gave a quick glance to the footmen, who also wore strangely guilty expressions.

  These men had been with her for years, staying on even when their pay had been spotty at best. It was not like them to disobey her. Something must be seriously wrong. “Kevin, take me to the stables immediately.”

  “Please, miss,” Kevin implored. “Mr. Williams asked us to bring you directly to the house.”

  “I should think my orders carry more weight than my land steward’s. I want to know what is going on.”

  A look passed between
Kevin and the footmen. Margaret could tell, clear as if they’d spoken aloud, that they were trying to decide between themselves what to do.

  Finally, Kevin spoke. “We can’t take you to the stables. That is—” Kevin looked strained, as though every word cost him. “It isn’t safe.”

  These words, and the stricken look on her men’s faces, reawakened the sense of dread she’d been fighting earlier. If something had made the barn unfit for humans, then the horses must be endangered, too. “What’s happened? Tell me!”

  “Mr. Williams wanted to explain it to you himself,” Kevin said, speaking in a rush now. “He wanted to wait until you were home. He made us swear not to tell you—”

  “No!” she shouted, not to the men, but toward the deceitfully peaceful-looking meadow, which now seemed to taunt her with its emptiness.

  Bessie took her gently by the elbow. “Won’t you please get in the carriage, miss?” she urged. “Surely it would be better to wait and see what Mr. Williams has to say.”

  Margaret took a deep breath. The pain on her servants’ faces did not escape her, and she reminded herself that her trust in Mr. Williams had always been justified. She would wait, and allow him to explain himself. “All right. Take me home. But do not waste one minute.”

  For the rest of the journey home, Margaret turned over a million scenarios in her mind for what could be happening at the barn. None of them were good.

  At last she heard the crunch of gravel under the carriage wheels and knew they were on the drive to Moreton Hall. Once they had pulled up to the front door and the footman had helped her down, Margaret went straight inside to the library and threw open the door. Her steward, John Williams, was seated in one of the chairs. He stood up as she entered.