“Mr. Howe—Percy, if I may, I could not have chosen better for my daughter, and I can never repay you for your kindness.” At that moment, Mr. Hogart approached and extended an arm, and Percy stood. They shared a vigorous handshake, and Mr. Hogart wiped a stray tear. “And to you, it is John. I am most honored to welcome you into my family.”
“Trust me, sir, the honor is mine.” Invigorated with renewed zeal, Percy squared his shoulders. “And you mistake the situation, as I am in your debt, because you give me Margaret, and there is no sum on this earth that could equal her worth.”
The afternoon sun yielded to grey clouds, as Florence, Henrietta, and Margaret sat in the back parlor. From a delicate plate, she snatched a square of shortbread and reclined on the chaise, as she improved her acquaintance with her soon-to-be in-laws.
“I cannot tell you how thrilled I was to learn of your engagement to our beloved Percy, as I despaired he might never find a mate.” The epitome of grace and elegance, the marchioness smiled as she inclined her head. “So, how did you meet, as Percy shared naught of his interest, and I was stunned but gratified to hear the news, given he is a lifelong friend and long-suffering gooseberry.”
“That is right.” Margaret recalled a conversation she shared with her man. “I forgot the five of you grew up, together, in Derbyshire. Was there never any special lady in Percy’s life?”
“He was always a quiet, gentle soul.” Averting her gaze, Henrietta hugged her round belly and smiled. “Unlike Ernest and Barrington, Percy never exhibited much ambition, which made him an easy mark for his mother, and he was an obedient son. Indeed, he seemed content to blend into the background and to yield the limelight to his cousins.”
“We have that in common.” Margaret could just imagine him as a child, looming in the shadows of his estimable relations, so similar to her behavior, in respect to Miranda. “And although we shared an acquaintance, we only ever danced once, at the Netherton’s masque, years ago. Out of nowhere, he partnered me for the Boulanger, at the end of the night.”
“How charming.” Henrietta sighed. “Is it not wonderful that you have a special memory, to warm your heart? You know, I intended to play matchmaker for you two, at next year’s Season.”
“You did?” Margaret asked, with more than a little surprise, as she was so certain no one noticed her. “Why?”
“Because you are a diamond of the first water, and I told Ernest the very same, after I received your mother’s order for a new wardrobe.” Then Henrietta snickered. “And despite your best efforts to conceal your talents, and prove otherwise, you know how to play the piano better than you let on, because you cannot fool me.”
“I am not sure I get your meaning.” Margaret shifted her weight.
“Oh, I think you do.” Lowering her chin, Henrietta caught Margaret in a narrow stare. “While I am curious as to your motives, I am an artist, although in a different realm, and I know talent when I see it, so you cannot hide from me.”
“I apologize, as I meant no offense.” Caught in a well-intentioned scheme, Margaret compressed her lips. “But Miranda could never play an instrument or sing half so well, and I would not shame her.”
“Yours is a generous heart, thus you need not apologize.” Florence leaned forward and reached to clasp Margaret’s hand. “But I think you will do well in this family, and we are lucky to have you.”
“I concur.” Henrietta nodded, and never had Margaret known such acceptance. “Now, we are your sisters, too. Since Percy’s country estate is but three hours away, we will live our childhood fantasy, which was to raise our families, together. Indeed, that is why Ernest purchased Whitstone, as he always wanted to be near his brother and his cousin.”
“What a lovely dream.” Touched by her future husband’s sentimental nature, Margaret clutched her throat. “I hope I live up to your expectation, as I would not disappoint you for anything in the world.”
Just then, Barrington and Ernest walked into the back parlor.
“Ladies, I hate to break up your tea, but another storm is upon us, and it is snowing.” Barrington drew Florence from the chair and kissed her, and Margaret was struck by the affection he displayed for his wife, without restraint. “My love, I would journey home, before the roads become treacherous.”
“Oh, dear.” Florence rushed into the hall. “While our children are in the care of their nanny, I cannot be separated from them overnight, thus we must depart, posthaste.”
Barrington peered over his shoulder and said to Ernest, “What did I tell you?”
“I understand.” Chuckling, Ernest pulled Henrietta into his arms. “How do you feel, sweetheart? Are you not overdue for your nap? Should I carry you upstairs?”
“Ernest, stop worrying, because I am fine, and I can walk, as there is naught wrong with my legs.” In play, Henrietta swatted at him, and Margaret envied their close relationship. “Let us bid farewell to your brother and Florence, and then we can retire, and you may fuss over me until dinner.”
“I like the sound of that.” He waggled his brows. “Oh, by the by, Margaret, my cousin would have a word with you, in my study.”
“Of course.” After exchanging fond farewells with the marquess and marchioness, Margaret navigated the side hall and turned right, down a second passage. As she neared the last door, she noted a rather fervent discussion between her father and her fiancé, and she drew up short and hugged the wall.
“Sir, if you are set, and I cannot dissuade you, I will take the sum of Margaret’s dowry, until the debt is repaid.”
That singular statement gave her pause, because Percy claimed he had no need of her dowry.
“Now I must tell Beryl, although I dread it, as it will devastate her, but I do not see how I can avoid it, as she must know the truth of your engagement, as well as our dire financial situation.”
Margaret bit the fleshy underside of her thumb, to stifle a shriek of alarm.
“If you are to retrench and economize, your wife must be apprised of the gravity of your predicament. But Margaret cannot know, as I would not have her told that you bargained her hand in marriage, and I will invest the amount of her dowry, the returns of which I shall deposit in your account, keeping only that which is mine by law, based on the betrothal agreement.”
Slumped forward, she pressed a palm to her suddenly unstable belly and feared she might vomit.
“If you insist.”
“I do, John.”
“Then I should seek Beryl, once she wakes, reveal the whole, miserable situation, and I must pray it does not destroy her.”
With ears ringing, Margaret clutched her throat, as her gown threatened to suffocate her, and her worst nightmare sprang to life before her. When she realized her father neared, she ducked into a small room, the winter garden, which featured floor to ceiling windows and potted plants.
All about her, the world collapsed. The floor seemed to pitch violently beneath her feet, and heretofore-innocuous trinkets came to life and mocked her with hideous laughter.
She should have known better. Should have suspected the ugly truth—that no one could ever want her.
Once papa and Percy passed, she slinked into the hall, in their wake. Tiptoeing at the rear, she lingered in the shadows, a familiar and comforting space, until Barrington and Florence boarded their coach, and the foyer emptied.
Quick and sure, she ran across the entry and navigated the massive home, until she returned to the back parlor. It was then she doubled over and yielded to the pain and betrayal.
Tears flooded her eyes, and she gasped for air, yet relentless agony tore at her gut and ravaged her senses. Glancing about, she spied her reflection in a wall mirror and gave vent to a sob of unutterable wretchedness.
“You never should have believed in Percy.” She yanked the tight chignon of her coif and ripped her bodice. “How could anyone love you, stupid girl?” Outside, the wind whipped and howled, matching her tumultuous state, yet she studied her features. With clenched f
ists, she pummeled herself and whimpered. “I hate you.”
Turning on a heel, she stared at the handle of the terrace doors, and she loomed at the threshold before she realized she had moved. The tempest beckoned, and in the storm she found refuge from the agony of her situation. With one last check of the room, she wrenched the latch, shoved open the door, and ran into the blinding gale.
Chapter Five
The shutters beat an ominous rhythm, as beyond the windows the storm grew in intensity, the mantel clock signaled the hour, in a series of heavy tones, and Percy downed the last of his brandy. It was then he realized Margaret never came to him, despite his summons.
While he was in no hurry to inform her of her father’s dire circumstances, he remained confident in his ability to reassure her that all was well, and he would not let her family fall. Thus, he preferred to dispense with the unfortunate business, at the earliest opportunity, and put it behind them, as they planned their future. But as he reflected on the events of the day, it dawned on him that she made no appearance in the foyer, as he bade farewell to Barrington and Florence.
Standing, he checked the time, which matched his pocket watch, frowned, and walked into the hall. When he strolled into the entryway, he discovered it empty save the butler.
“Hobbes, where is Miss Hogart?” For some reason Percy could not explain, he struggled with a strange sense of foreboding. “And where is Lord Ernest?”
“His lordship and Mrs. Howe have retired to their private apartment, with instructions that they are not to be disturbed.” Percy knew, without doubt, what that meant. The manservant clasped his hands behind him. “And I am unaware of Miss Hogart’s location. Shall I check her accommodation?”
“No.” Percy was halfway up the stairs when he peered over his shoulder. “I will do it, myself.”
On the landing, he glanced left and then right, navigated the gallery, and charged forth, quickly covering ground. Of course, he knew which room was hers, because twice he escorted her to her chamber and claimed a kiss, in the dark.
Even then, he evoked the gentle tug of her hands, as she clung to him, the subtle rush of her breath, as he ravished the curve of her neck, and the whimpers she failed to stifle, as they rode passion’s tide.
At her door, he smoothed the lapels of his grey coat, adjusted his cravat, and cleared his throat. Then he rapped his knuckles on the oak panel and rolled his shoulders. When she failed to answer, he repeated the action. When the third attempt yielded no response, he turned the knob, set wide the door, and peered into her sitting room.
“Margaret, are you there?” To his surprise and confusion, she did not appear, so he wandered into her bedchamber, but she was not there.
Then a thought occurred to him, and he partly retraced his steps, except he made for the music room. Yet, his lady was not there, either. When he walked into the hall, a chill shivered down his spine, and he ran toward the foyer, but he all but knocked over Mr. Hogart in the gallery.
“Sir, by any chance, have you seen Margaret?” Percy grasped his future in-law by the forearms. “Is she with Mrs. Hogart?”
“No.” Hogart shook his head. “I waited in my sitting room, for Beryl to wake from her nap, but she snores away, so I will apprise her of our circumstances, this evening, after dinner. Why do you ask? Is something wrong? Where is my daughter?”
“I am not sure.” But Percy suspected something was amiss. He did not know why he felt that way, he just did. To a passing maid, he said, “Have you seen Miss Hogart?”
“No, sir.” She curtseyed. “I am not Miss Hogart’s lady’s maid, and I do not tend her.”
“I understand.” He raked his fingers through his hair, an irritating habit he detested, as it often betrayed his unrest. “Nonetheless, have Hobbes organize the staff and search the house, as Miss Hogart is missing.”
“Right away, sir.” The maid scurried down the hall.
“What can I do?” Hogart shuffled his feet. “Give me an errand, else I shall run amok.”
“Supervise the check of the second floor.” Percy sprinted toward the landing. “I will organize the efforts on the ground floor.”
Growing more agitated by the minute; he hunted his fiancée in the winter garden, the billiard room, the smoking room, the salon, and the library, to no avail. As he returned to the vestibule, the butler waved.
“Sir, one of the footmen just informed me that a servant found the terrace doors ajar, in the back parlor, as she cleared the dishes from Mrs. Howe’s afternoon tea.” Hobbes furrowed his brow. “I checked the hall tree, and Miss Hogart’s pelisse, scarf, and gloves remain. Do you think it possible she ventured into the garden, in the snow, without her outerwear?”
The world seemed to spin out of control, as Percy wondered, for the first time, if something upset Margaret. Given her unexplained absence, and the fact that no one could find her, it was obvious that something happened.
But—what?
“Hobbes, despite what Lord Ernest ordered, I need you to fetch him, now.” Percy snatched his heavy wool greatcoat from the hall tree. “Tell him to hurry, as the situation is grave, the sun sits low on the horizon, and we have little light left.”
In seconds, Percy rushed into the back parlor, and all was quiet. As he crossed the room, he caught sight of his reflection in a wall mirror and frowned, as a shiver of awareness coursed his flesh.
“Where are you, Margaret?”
Beyond the terrace doors, the wind whistled and thrummed, and snow blanketed the earth, as he donned his coat and secured it at his throat. With his hand on the latch, he peered into the storm, ducked his head, and stepped onto the flagged surface.
“Margaret, are you there?”
Following the path, which the snow partially obscured, he scanned the rose garden but could find no sign of her.
“Margaret.”
Shielding his eyes, Percy surveyed the vicinity and sheltered near a tall hedgerow. Trailing alongside the natural barrier, he scoured the topiaries and continued to a tiny gazebo, which nestled near a line of trees. A flash of color caught his eye, and he discovered his fiancée, unconscious, beneath the canopy of a large oak.
Just then, Ernest called to Percy.
“Over here.” In haste, he doffed his coat, draped it over Margaret’s lifeless form, and lifted her in his arms. “I found her, but I need help getting her back to the house.”
“Where are you?” Ernest replied.
“Near the gazebo.” Stumbling, Percy tried to manage her weight, but the fierce winds buffeted them, the biting cold gnawed at his muscles, and he made little progress.
Soon, a yellow glow signaled his cousin’s arrival, as Ernest carried a lantern, with Mr. Hogart slogging alongside.
“This way.” Ernest veered to the right, as Mr. Hogart attempted to assist Percy. “We can cut through the north terrace to the front door, as it is much faster.”
By the time Percy and Mr. Hogart carried Margaret into the foyer, he was frozen, and he could only imagine what she endured.
“My baby.” Mrs. Hogart wailed. “What happened?”
“Do not worry.” Henrietta draped an arm about Mrs. Hogart’s shoulders. “We can send for a doctor.”
“Not in this weather.” Ernest skipped up the stairs. “I cannot, in good conscience, risk it, as it grows dark. We must tend her, ourselves.”
“Quick.” Percy tracked his cousin. “Stoke the fire in her room, as we must get her warm.”
“First, we need to get her out of those wet clothes.” Henrietta snapped her fingers and to a servant said, “Bring plenty of fresh towels, hot tea, and some marrow broth, immediately.”
“How long do you think she was out there?” Mr. Hogart retreated and clutched his wife’s hand. “And why did she do such a thing? What could have happened that she would be so careless with her person? Could it have been the news you shared with her?”
“No, and I have no idea.” Percy strode through the sitting room and progressed into the bed
chamber. With care, he eased Margaret to the four-poster and brushed aside a lock of her brown hair. “Because she never met me in the study, so I had no chance to tell her.”
“But I sent her, as you requested.” Squatting, Ernest tended the hearth. “She bade farewell to Barrington and Florence and, I surmise, she did as I asked, as I saw her make for the study.”
“Oh, dear.” Mr. Hogart rubbed the back of his neck. “We were discussing her dowry. Do you believe she heard us?”
“I cannot say.” As he recalled the conversation, Percy studied her pale complexion and cupped her cheek. “But it would explain her behavior, and I owe her an apology, as I should have told her the truth, from the beginning.”
“It will have to wait, as I need to undress her, and put her to bed.” Henrietta clapped twice. “Please, gentlemen. I need you to vacate this chamber.”
“All right.” At the footboard, Percy gazed at his heartbreakingly beautiful fiancée and vowed to set things right at the first opportunity. “But I will be back, and I will stay with her until she wakes.”
A familiar tune teased her ears, and Margaret seized on the melody, as it led her back from the land of dreams. It was Bach’s “Largo,” from Piano Concerto Five in F minor, the very composition she hummed as Percy led her in a waltz about the gallery, and she opened her eyes.
“Hello.” Holding her hand to his chest, as he perched beside her, Percy smiled. “It is good to see you.”
She wanted to say something—anything. Instead, everything came rushing back to her, and she burst into tears.
“No, sweetheart, do not cry.” He scooted closer and wrapped his arms about her. “It is all right. You are safe, and you appear to be none the worse for wear, which is the answer to my prayers, because I have been so worried about you.”
The Nutcracker Reimagined: A Collection of Christmas Tales Page 22