Her Heart for a Compass

by Sarah Ferguson

  Margaret gave her a quick hug. “Definitely.”

  Sebastian was late, as usual. Margaret stared out of the study window, which faced onto the street, her heart lifting when she saw his familiar figure hurrying towards her. Just before he turned into the rectory, a thick-set man dressed in an ill-fitting tweed suit jumped out in front of him, bringing him to an abrupt halt. The man had his back to her, but she could see from Sebastian’s set expression that they were not exchanging pleasantries. The dispute lasted several minutes before the stranger extravagantly and deliberately spat at Sebastian’s feet, pushed past him, and strode off.

  “Sebastian!” she said when he entered the study. “What on earth was that all about? I saw that man—”

  “Jake Briggs. He’s a local debt collector. He reckons I’m bad for business.”

  “Because you prevent him getting his claws into decent people,” Margaret exclaimed indignantly. “I thought he was going to punch you.”

  Sebastian grinned. “You needn’t worry; he’s not daft enough to do me actual harm. Doesn’t want the peelers sniffing about. He feels obliged to threaten me every now and then, but I’m not going to let some thug or anyone else drive me away from here.” Taking her hands between his, he smiled warmly at her. “Tell me, how were the coven today?”

  “Oh, they had their moments. Sally Jardine’s little boy, Alfie, has a tummy upset. So naturally she asked me to change his napkin.”

  “Don’t judge Sally too harshly; she has not had her troubles to seek. Anyway, I’m sure you handled her admirably.” Sebastian lifted her hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

  The touch of his lips made her breath catch. Their eyes met, and she sensed that he, too, felt the almost irresistible urge to close the distance between them. In her other life, the world across the Thames, handshakes were fleeting, hand clasping unheard of. Sebastian’s world was full of casual touches, arm brushing, helping hands, but only his touch made her skin tingle like this, made her feel like her corset was laced too tight, making it difficult to breathe.

  Time and again over the last weeks, lying wide awake in the dark, replaying his every glance and word, Margaret tried to convince herself that he was simply being kind, friendly, that her growing affection for him was not returned. One could not come to care so deeply for a person in such a short time, she told herself. But it had been there from the moment their eyes had first met in the market, that tug of awareness, that breathless excitement. And it grew stronger every day. When they were apart, she could convince herself that it was one-sided, a result of her overheated imagination. But when she looked into his eyes, when their hands were tightly clasped like this, she knew beyond doubt the attraction was mutual.

  And wrong. No matter how right it actually felt. Gently disentangling herself, she made her way to the desk, pulling up her own chair. “Susannah said you had a sheaf of letters for me to write.”

  Sebastian shrugged out of his coat and flung it over the back of his chair, leaving him in the waistcoat and shirt-sleeves he preferred to work in. His hair was ruffled—he had a habit of running his hand through it when he was thinking. “I even have a bit of good news to share, too, for once,” he said, taking his seat.

  “Well, don’t keep me in suspense—good news is always welcome around here.” Margaret sat down, leaning her elbows on the desk because Mama wasn’t there to reprimand her for doing so.

  “The workhouse board have finally agreed to permit Sunday visits to the infirmary.”

  “That’s marvellous news.”

  “That last appeal you wrote on the matron’s behalf was masterly. I reckon that was what swung the decision in our favour.”

  “I only highlighted the case she described to me regarding one of her patients. That poor old woman knew her time had come. To deny her daughter the chance to say goodbye because of an arcane rule is barbarous.”

  “Tell that to those pompous fools on the Board of Guardians. Or my bishop, for that matter.” Sebastian slammed his hand down on a stack of letters. “They don’t realise that people would rather suffer than ask for help, especially if they are then subjected to an interrogation or a bloody sermon. I’m sorry. My language. I shouldn’t have . . .”

  “Don’t be.” Margaret reached across the desk to touch his hand. His fingers curled around hers. There were shadows under his eyes. “The injustice of it all must be difficult to bear,” she said gently.

  “Many of my parishioners are no angels, but even fallen angels are still angels.”

  “I’ve never heard that expression before.”

  “It means there’s some good in everybody.”

  “Why is it that we talk of the deserving poor, but no-one ever suggests there might be undeserving rich?”

  “A very good question. I’ve a mind to pose it in my next sermon. Have I told you lately how very much Susannah and I appreciate all the help you’ve given us? I used to dread coming here to face the mountain of paperwork, but now I look forward to it. On the days you are here, at least.”

  “You work too hard.”

  “Unfortunately there aren’t enough hours in the day, but it doesn’t feel like work when you are here with me.”

  The warmth of his smile made her feel as if she was being heated from the inside. It made her heart flutter. It made her feel giddy. “I’m simply happy to be of service,” Margaret said. Did he feel the same? She couldn’t be imagining it, could she, the intensity of his gaze?

  This time, it was he who broke the spell, dropping his gaze, sitting back in his chair. “Susannah’s coterie of mothers have grown very fond of you, she tells me. I know they tease you. . . .”

  “Teasing is a sign that they accept me. It matters a great deal to me, to feel part of things here.”

  “We’re lucky to have you. I know Sue considers you her friend, and I—I don’t know what I’d do without you, to be honest. Even Esther and Molly have grown very close. Now,” Sebastian continued brusquely, picking up a stack of papers, “to work. I’ve had another of my parishioners complaining about the children’s hospital, I’m afraid. His little boy was in a dreadful accident, but there was no bed available, so they patched him up and sent him home. Don’t worry—it looks as if he’ll survive—but it shouldn’t come down to a question of blind luck. The hospital is simply too small to cope with the demand and it will get worse, for we have new families moving into the area all the time. All that can be done in this case is see what help we can offer the poor lad once he’s up and about again.”

  For the next two hours Margaret methodically worked with Sebastian through the stack of correspondence, answering queries, making cases, setting those aside which required home visits. The door-bell clanged regularly, but Esther dealt with the calls, leaving them undisturbed.

  “That’s the last of them for today, thank goodness.” Sebastian set down his pen, rolling his shoulders. “Although I do have one personal letter to write, to my sister Selina.”

  “I didn’t know you had another sister.”

  “She is married to another man of the cloth, as it happens. One rather higher up in the church hierarchy than I. It was through her husband that I obtained my living near Cheltenham.”

  “Your well-heeled parish. Don’t you ever wish you’d remained there?”

  “And married the fair Emily and had a brood of my own? Not ever.”

  “The fair Emily? Were you betrothed?”

  “No, no, nothing was ever formalised,” Sebastian said hastily. “She was Selina’s niece by marriage. She didn’t care for my choice of new parish, so that was the end of it. I couldn’t marry a woman who didn’t share my calling. I need someone at my side who is willing to muck in and help me improve the lives of my parishioners.”

  “Which is precisely what you have in Susannah.”

  “Indeed I do. Poor Sue. When Frederick died, he left her in somewhat straitened circumstances, and she was forced to return to live with our parents. It suited them, but not
her. She was bored rigid.”

  “So when you were posted here, she must have been delighted.”

  “It’s an arrangement that suits us both. She’s a practical woman with absolutely no sense of smell.” He winked. “I couldn’t ask for more.”

  The bell clanged again, and Margaret checked her watch, giving a little exclamation of dismay. “I must go. I have a dinner to attend and then a soirée. Very boring,” she added, embarrassed to have mentioned either engagement, “but I will have to change my clothes.”

  “Yes? You look perfectly fine to me,” Sebastian said.

  Her gown was one of her oldest and decidedly past its best. What was more, with its long sleeves and high collar, it was clearly not an evening gown. Sebastian never commented on her clothes. He rarely paid her any sort of compliment about her appearance and that was one of the things she liked about him.

  “I’m not going to a pie shop, Sebastian, I’m going to dinner with one of my mother’s oldest friends. If I turned up in an outdated day dress smelling vaguely of Alfie’s napkin, she would be extremely offended.”

  “In that case we’d better get rid of the ink on your face, too.”

  He came round to her side of the desk, dabbing the tip of her nose with his handkerchief. “It tickles,” Margaret said, wrinkling her nose.

  “Hold still—there’s another spot just here.”

  Sebastian leaned in to dab at her cheek. She could smell the ink on his fingers, the sandalwood of his soap, the slightly musty wool of his waistcoat. His fingers fluttered down over the side of her face, down her throat to rest on her shoulder.

  “Margaret.”

  His voice sounded odd. Daring to meet his eyes, she knew with utter certainty that her doubts about his feelings were misplaced. “Sebastian.” Her voice was no more than a whisper. She had no idea what to do. If she moved she would break the spell.

  For a long moment they stood together, gazes locked. Time seemed to stop, along with her breath, until he gave a soft sigh, and she lifted her face and surrendered her lips to his. She could feel his breath on her cheek, fast and shallow, sense his nerves were stretched as taut as hers. The taste of him, the softness of his mouth, the roughness of the cheek she lifted her hand to caress, the terrified delight of being so intimate with him, shocked her. Then tentatively, he moved his mouth on hers and she followed his lead, and her shock gave way to pleasure.

  The clang of the front door-bell made them leap apart. Dazed, they stared at each other. “Good God,” Sebastian said, his cheeks colouring. “I’m sorry! That was very wrong of me.”

  “Please don’t apologise. I was just as culpable,” Margaret said, freeing her hands.

  “It won’t happen again, I swear. The last thing I wish is to scare you off. You are doing so much good here, I would hate to jeopardise that.”

  Ought she to have been frightened? Should she now be having a fit of the vapours? What she certainly, definitely should not be doing was wishing that he would kiss her again. “Let’s just pretend it didn’t happen,” Margaret said, knowing that was what she ought to say, even if it was likely to prove impossible.

  But Sebastian cast her a grateful look. “Thank you. You are an angel.”

  A soft tap at the door precluded her refuting this claim. “Begging your pardon, Father,” Esther said, “but Mrs. Powers is desperate for a word. Says it’s a matter of life or death.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Marlborough House, Home of the Prince and Princess of Wales, London, Thursday, 22 March 1866

  The drawing-room of Marlborough House was a vast space littered with gilded chairs, sofas, and chaise-longues. Artful clusters of tables were strewn with albums, Sèvres figures, and enamelled snuff-boxes. The potted palms were so tall they almost brushed the ornately corniced ceilings. The upholstery was embroidered with gold thread, the windows draped with thick velvet. Margaret and her mother had been invited by Alexandra, Princess of Wales, to take informal tea with the queen, who would be accompanied, as always, by Louise.

  “You are the only guests,” Alix informed them when they arrived. “Lady Margaret, you are to take tea with Louise separately. Her Majesty is eager to hear the details of your sister’s lying-in from your mother. You did bring Lady Kerr’s letter with you, Duchess?”

  “I have it here,” Mama said, holding up her reticule. “It is unusually frank and quite unfit for the ears of any unmarried woman. I commend your idea of seating Margaret and Louise separately.”

  “Talking of seating,” Alix said, frowning at the elaborately laid tea-table, “I am not sure where to place Her Majesty. The day is cold and I have had the fire lit, but as you know the queen does not like the room to be too hot.”

  “Oh no, she cannot abide the direct heat. I suggest you place her here,” Mama said, pointing, “and then if you have the table moved over there, you can take that seat, and I shall risk being lightly toasted by the fire.”

  “Thank you, an excellent plan.”

  Margaret watched, fascinated, as Alix summoned several footmen to carefully dismantle the elaborately laid tea-table, move it, and then replace everything, a process that took several minutes. Her Majesty’s place was marked by not one but two tea-cups and saucers, for it was her habit to pour her tea from one cup to another until it was adequately cooled.

  “My goodness, are you sure we are the only guests?” Margaret asked, her eyes wide at the volume and variety of food being set out.

  “Signor Francatelli always excels himself when the queen comes to tea,” Alix informed her with a prim smile. “He was Her Majesty’s chief cook for a couple of years, and though it was back in the forties, when she was just married, he insists that no-one understands her palate as he does.”

  “He certainly panders to her sweet tooth.” The bread and butter, sandwiches, and ices would be served when Her Majesty arrived, though Margaret couldn’t see where they would fit on the table. Several bonbon dishes in the shape of scantily clad Greek goddesses holding up urns were set at carefully measured intervals. The salted almonds were at the greatest distance from the queen’s place, while the pralines and sugared almonds were closest. Italian macaroons were stacked in a pyramid, while the Naples and champagne biscuits were set out on a plate like a mosaic. The queen’s favourite chocolate sponge was three tiers high, but there was also a rich plum cake, a plain sponge, a selection of pastries, and another elaborate concoction with icing as delicate as lace.

  “Here she is,” Alix said, though Margaret had heard no announcement.

  “At least you will have the opportunity to enjoy your tea with Louise,” Mama whispered as the three women arranged themselves into a welcoming party. “I find I have barely finished my first sandwich by the time our monarch has finished her tea.”

  As ever, Margaret was surprised by the queen’s diminutive stature as she made her curtsy to the rotund, frowning figure garbed in black. Her Majesty nodded a vague greeting, but she had one eye on the tea-table and the other on Mama.

  “You brought the letter, Duchess?”

  “Indeed, ma’am, I have it here.”

  “If you will take this seat, ma’am,” Alix said, rushing forward.

  “I don’t want to be too near the fire. This room is hot.” Shedding several shawls and mantles, which were caught adroitly by the Princess of Wales, Her Majesty took her seat, and Mama waved Margaret away.

  Louise, needing no further urging, grabbed her by the hand and pulled her to the far corner of the room. “Thank heavens for your sister’s timely delivery. Now we can have a proper gossip. I take it,” she added belatedly, “that all went well with the birth?”

  “Oh yes.” Margaret took her seat at the smaller but only slightly less laden tea-table. “I have never seen Mama so relieved as when she received the letter yesterday morning. When my father said that Kerr would be disappointed not to have had the son he was hoping for, she drew him such a look. They have called the little girl Cecil, after Kerr’s mother and his sist
er who died, sadly, the day before my new niece was born.”

  “Good grief, what a tragic coincidence. Was she having a baby, too?”

  “She was a nun, Lou, so I doubt it. Thank you. No cream for me. I try to stick to lemon these days.”

  Louise poured the tea. “As you know, my sister Vicky is expecting her fifth, while Alice is already having her third, and she’s been married less than four years. It seems to be raining babies. Do help yourself to cake. Signor Francatelli makes the most fabulous coffee and walnut log. Good enough to tempt even me to sample a crumb or two.”

  “No, thank you, I’m not hungry.”

  “That has never stopped you before.”

  “The press monitor my figure even more strictly than Mama. It has rather curtailed my appetite for cake.”

  “Oh goodness, I’m so sorry. Don’t look so stricken, M. But it’s all ancient history now, isn’t it?”

  “Provided I don’t put another foot wrong. Sometimes I feel like one of those poor little insects trapped between two slides under a microscope, you know?”

  Louise chuckled. “I know the feeling, wriggling under intense scrutiny! Are you coping, M.? You certainly look very well, and that gown is most becoming; though if you don’t mind a little hint, less is more when it comes to lace.”

  “I agree, but Mama would not countenance my wearing anything plainer to come to tea with the queen.”

  “And your hair, too,” Louise persisted, “the epitome of a well-behaved coiffure with not a single wilful curl. Most impressive. I congratulate you.”

  “Never mind how I look.” Margaret pushed her tea-cup to one side and pulled her chair closer. “I have something to tell you.”

  Louise also pushed her cup to one side, her smile fading abruptly. “Do not say you have been foolish again? You have worked so hard to re-establish yourself, and I have so enjoyed having your company. I pray you have done nothing to deprive me of it.”

  “I have been making secret forays to Lambeth.”