“Ready to go?” he asked, because he needed to say something.
Margaret nodded. She didn’t look happy. She didn’t look annoyed, as such, but she certainly didn’t look happy. He wondered if it was because of the late notice. But she looked so beautiful he couldn’t think of what she would have done with more time to get ready anyway. Was it because she thought a country party was beneath her? Abigail always threw the best parties, but it probably wouldn’t compare to the sorts of events Margaret was used to going to.
William nudged Jake’s thigh with his elbow. “You’re supposed to tell her she’s pretty!” he said in a whisper so loud the ranch hands in the main house could probably hear.
Margaret’s lips quirked up as Cora laughed across the table from her. Jake hoped she wouldn’t see the heat that was rising in his neck.
“You’re – you look very pretty,” he said, with conviction.
Oh yes, he decided, she could probably definitely see the flush in his neck. It was making its way up to his cheeks now. He looked down at his boots and winced at how dusty they were.
“Thank you, Jake,” she replied. Her clipped city accent sounded like music. “You look rather handsome yourself.”
“Thank you,” he said. There was a pause before he said: “We should – I’ve got the buggy ready, so –”
“Right,” Margaret said. She stood up and smoothed down her dress.
Jake turned his back on her so he wouldn’t have to be confronted with her beauty and led the way out of the house.
Twelve
Margaret watched him turn to go. He didn’t even offer his arm – Margaret wished that Will hadn’t put him on the spot like that. He clearly hadn’t thought much of what he saw when he looked at Margaret.
At the table, Cora shook her head disappointedly at her son’s retreating back.
“I swear he was so much smarter when he was younger.”
Will stepped forward and offered Margaret his arm. “Mama always said a gentlemen should escort ladies.”
“Your mama was right about that,” Cora said. “I wish my son listened as well as you do, William.”
Margaret took the boy’s elbow and allowed him to lead her to the front door, which was still swinging open on its hinges, and watched as Jake led a horse and small buggy towards his mother’s cottage.
As he approached, Margaret found herself clutching onto Will’s arm. Anxiety began to build in her chest. Cora had described the party that Margaret and Jake were attending as ‘a bunch of younger women who pretended to be high class while they nibble on cheese’. It sounded like the sorts of parties Elizabeth used to attend in Boston. The sorts of parties Margaret would have anxiety dreams about.
She’d pulled her best dress from her trunk – the one Elizabeth had gifted her as a going away present – and done her hair in a way that she hoped would make it seem as though she had several servants attend to her. Cora had told her that she was putting too much effort in, but Margaret didn’t want to embarrass Jake. Especially since it was Abigail Drake’s party.
Jake drove them towards the party in the gathering dark. The sweet country air drifted through Margaret’s dress and made goosebumps rise on her skin. Despite the cold, she breathed deeply. There was something fresh and clean about the air here, which reminded her by its very nature that it was different from Boston.
“Have you ever been to a big city?” she asked, wanting to break the silence that had fallen between them.
He shook his head. “Nope. Maybe I’ll go someday.” He looked at her sideways. “Do you miss it?”
“I do,” Margaret replied. “But when I miss… anything, I just make a list.”
“A list?”
“Of reasons to smile,” she replied. She didn’t know why she was telling him about it. It felt like something that ought to be private. But then, she thought, she was going to be this man’s wife soon. They should share themselves with each other.
He pursed his lips and nodded his head. “So, what are some reasons to smile?” he asked.
“For one thing, soon everyone will be wearing chickens as accessories,” she said. She got what she wanted: he chuckled. She leaned back in her seat. “It can be little things, like the way the air smells so much lighter here in Montana, or the fact that my mother-in-law is a suffragette. My mother… she wasn’t a suffragette,” Margaret hesitated. “She and my father hated what I do. They thought it was a waste of time.” And an embarrassment, she thought. But she didn’t say it.
Jake shook his head shortly. “I think Montana itself is proof enough that they were wrong, if you needed any.”
“That’s a reason to smile!” she said, giving him a winning one. She briefly wondered what she looked like in the low evening light.
He barely looked at her. There was a beat where his eyes connected with hers and a soft smile graced his lips. Then he turned his head and the smile was directed at the horse’s back.
“What are some others?” he asked.
“Your horse smells surprisingly good,” Margaret said. Then she leaned over conspiratorially. “So do you, in case you were wondering.”
He let out a surprised laugh. “That’s good to know,” he said.
“And the sun will rise tomorrow,” said Margaret, ticking it off on her hand. “Which is terribly important for crops.” He nodded sagely. “The air isn’t cold enough for me to be freezing in this dress. My escort for the evening has his own buggy, so we don’t need to walk to wherever it is that Abigail Drake is hosting this party.”
As she continued, she felt her heart getting lighter. The anxiety began to melt with each trotting step the horse took. So what if she’d never been to a party like this? So what if the most she’d done was go to suffragette meetings and stand in the back to avoid saying something stupid? When she could make Jake laugh like that and make herself smile as she came up with more and more ridiculous things to smile about, she felt her confidence increasing.
They arrived at the house, which was in the centre of town and so large Margaret initially mistook it for a hotel. There were dozens of buggies lining the street – their horses taken to rest and eat while their humans did the same indoors. Margaret was surprised. From what she knew about the Boston parties Elizabeth would attend, the horses were usually left attached to their carriages the whole night. Things must be done differently in the country.
A young man who was leaning against the wall of the house ran forward when Jake pulled up.
“Evening, Mr. MacDonald,” he said cheerfully.
“Evening, James.”
“Big crowd tonight,” the young man noted. He looked to be around George’s age, with a mess of dark red hair on his head and a curious look in his eyes as he looked at Margaret. “You must be the fiancée?” he said.
“I must be,” Margaret replied, offering her hand. “Margaret Singleton,” she said.
“James Thompson,” he replied, shaking it. “Whole town’s been buzzing about you, Miss Singleton.”
Jake jumped off of the buggy and brushed the boy aside to help Margaret down. She put her hand in his, feeling the surprising warmth there – though perhaps she was more sensitive to heat after shaking James’s cooler hand – as she climbed down.
“Thanks, James – see to Toby, will you?” Jake said.
“No problem, Mr. MacDonald. Nice meeting you!” he added to Margaret.
Margaret dipped her head at the boy. She was a little bit shaken by the information that the ‘whole town’ was talking about her. Cora had mentioned that Jake was well known, and his romance with Abigail Drake had widely been expected to end in matrimony, but this was a bit of a surprise. Margaret wondered what people were saying about her.
Jake finally offered her his elbow. She took it gratefully and allowed herself to be led towards the house.
Inside, the room was brightly lit with dozens of candles – more candles than Elizabeth’s house held on the best of days. George had once confided in Margaret
that candles were a rich man’s way of advertising his wealth: the more candles, the more money in the bank. Elizabeth’s family tended to avoid ostentatiously displaying their wealth unless it was for their comfort. The library, for example, was huge and full of well-thumbed tomes. But they only had the candles they needed to see in the dark.
The walls of the Drake’s house were painted a deep crimson. As Jake guided her towards the drawing room, the sounds of voices and piano music growing louder as they approached, Margaret noticed the chandeliers glittering above her head.
“A bit much for the entrance hall,” she muttered to herself, thinking of Elizabeth’s home with its beautiful, understated decorations.
“You’re telling me,” Jake replied. Margaret jumped – she hadn’t realised she’d spoken loudly enough to be overheard and self-consciously ran her fingers over the spot on her neck where his breath had blown. “Wait until you see the drawing room. Prepare your eyes for a lot of gold.”
He opened the doors for her.
There was a lot of gold. Faux-gold, she thought – Elizabeth’s vanity had gold melted into patterns on its surface, and it had looked much more substantial than what Margaret was seeing. But there was so much of it – gilding the walls, around the furnishings, wrapped around portraits and on the top of the piano. Men and women lounged around the room, holding glasses and ducking their heads together so they could speak over the loud music. They all looked up when Jake and Margaret entered.
Margaret shifted uncomfortably, though she tried desperately not to. Now that she was no longer thinking actively of something to smile about, she was aware that her dress wasn’t nearly of the same fashion as the ones worn in Montana. Montana women seemed to wear their sleeves longer and their skirts fuller. Margaret’s hair was probably far too intricate as well.
She stifled a groan: she was horrendously overdressed.
A woman approached them. Margaret knew instinctively that this was Abigail Drake. She had long black hair that fell in soft waves over her shoulders and a pretty button nose which wrinkled when she smiled at Jake. She reached out to take his hands, but one of his arms was being held by Margaret so he offered a handshake instead. She shook it, her smile looking a bit more strained as it left her eyes.
“Jake MacDonald, I thought we’d never be able to get you away from that ranch!” she said. Her voice sounds like bells. When she moved her dress fluttered around her in a way that only the finest materials could accomplish. Now that she was closer, Margaret could see how beautiful she was. She resisted the powerful urge to straighten her dress. “And who is this?” Abigail added when she saw Margaret.
Her tone wasn’t unkind. It was perhaps too kind. Like the tone Margaret had heard from adults when they were speaking to children. She instantly bristled.
“Margaret Singleton,” she said, speaking before Jake could introduce her. She held out her hand to shake. “Late of Boston.”
“Oh, it shows,” Abigail said. Again, not unkind. But it was impossible to tell if it was a disguised insult or innocent comment. “Welcome to my home. I’m sure it’s not much by Boston standards…”
“On the contrary,” Margaret replied honestly. “This is one of the most richly decorated homes I’ve ever been in.”
Abigail smiled as though it were the compliment she expected. She leaned into Jake then, firmly fixing her eyes on him and effectively dismissing Margaret’s presence.
“Jake, I’d love to get your help on some papers – if you have time?”
“Maybe later,” Jake said, resting his hand on Margaret’s, which was still tucked in his elbow. “I’m going to introduce Margaret around.”
“Oh, of course,” Abigail said with a dazzling smile. “After all, you paid for her. You ought to show her off.”
And before either Margaret or Jake could reply, Abigail dipped into a curtsey and walked away.
Thirteen
Margaret sipped her drink and stared around the room, keeping her chin up despite the stares and the whispers, wishing more than ever that she’d had an excuse to stay home.
She and Jake had made the rounds, with Margaret smiling through her discomfort as he’d introduced her to his friends around town. Most of them were gracious. A few stared at her as though she were a whore.
Margaret wanted to scream in frustration – did these people not understand how difficult it was for a woman coming from nothing to find anything close to sanctuary and safety without marriage? Were they so blinded by their privilege that they had no idea what it was like for women like Margaret? Elizabeth knew. She was able to look down from her gilded clouds and try to give the women around her what help she could. Margaret felt more and more grateful for Elizabeth as she looked around at the bourgeois men and women in Abigail Drake’s drawing room, sipping wine that they wouldn’t know from moonshine and looking down at her.
Some of the men were kind. Other ranchers of varying ages had been invited. They were dressed simply and smiled freely, and they were clearly just as unimpressed by some of the other attendees’ behavior as she was. One of the men, Peter O’Brien, cheerfully came to stand with Margaret when Jake was pulled aside by Abigail halfway through the evening.
“You might not know of me,” he said, shifting his port wine from one hand to another. “But I met your friend Elizabeth when she came here a few months ago.”
It took her a moment to remember.
“Of course!” she said. “Cynthia’s husband!”
Elizabeth had befriended Cynthia, a local business owner and suffragette, when she had travelled to Helena to interview potential husbands for her agency. She had told Margaret and the rest of the Boston branch all about the wonderful woman who had helped her when she and Captain Sharpe had had a sizeable disagreement.
Margaret took a good look at the man in front her. He looked portly and mild, perhaps ten years her elder, and seemed to be the most friendly of this group. He wasn’t judging her – perhaps because he was well aware of Elizabeth’s plan to match suffragettes with sympathetic men, and not just sell them to the highest bidder.
He ducked his head in a pleased flush. “Yes, I’m Cynthia’s lesser half. I’m sure if she had known you’d be here tonight, she would have come – but she had to work.”
Mr. O’Brien gave Margaret a pointed look. She realised that ‘working’ was a code for ‘didn’t want to come’. She grinned. Elizabeth had mentioned that Cynthia was very self-possessed and didn’t seem to hold with nonsense social conventions.
“Perhaps I can call on her when I’m in town next?” she said.
“I’m sure she would love that,” Mr. O’Brien said. “Just ask around for Cynthia’s shop, people will steer you in the right direction – or your fiancé will know the way.”
“Speaking of my fiancé,” she said, gazing around. “I don’t suppose you saw where he went? I’m feeling a bit under the weather.”
He nodded sympathetically. “Yes, young women often come down with mysterious illnesses when Abigail Drake throws a shindig.” She covered her lips to hide her smile. “I think I saw him heading into the office over there,” Mr. O’Brien said, pointing at a door to his left. “Make sure he takes care of you. If you need anything – anything at all – you come and find me or my wife, you hear? And please, call me Peter.”
Margaret felt a rush of affection towards this man. He barely knew her, but he was already putting himself and his wife at her service. Elizabeth hadn’t exaggerated his good heart. It made her feel so much safer after Abigail Drake’s little taunt earlier.
“Thank you, and likewise call me Margaret,” she said, dipping into a curtesy and heading for the door that Peter had pointed out on the other side of the room.
She had to wade through a crowd of people, and by the time she arrived at the door she was feeling pushed-about. She knocked lightly and opened the door a crack, hoping she wouldn’t be interrupting whatever important business Abigail had needed Jake for.
Through the crack
in the door, she heard low voices. Before she could clear her throat to announce herself, Margaret caught sight of the two people in the room – Abigail in her beautiful dress pressed intimately against Jake with her hands on his chest, looking into his eyes with longing. His back was to the door, but Margaret could see his hands hovering over her hips. Abigail’s eyes flickered to the door where Margaret stood. Then she closed her eyes and pressed her lips to Jake’s.
Margaret spun away from the door, covering her mouth to smother her gasp.
He let her kiss him! He’d complained about the Drake family, about how empty Abigail was, but the moment they were alone he let her kiss him. Had he meant any of what he’d told Margaret during their talk after lunch? Or when he’d said that he had no intention of marrying Abigail, did that mean he intended to carry on an affair with her while his wife kept house?
She looked around wildly for Peter O’Brien – an assured ally, the only one she could think of – but he had disappeared.
To her horror, Margaret felt tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. She told herself that she shouldn’t be getting emotional about the kiss she’d just witnessed. Jake had made it clear from the beginning that romance between them was out of the question. That he was going to be her husband in name only. It was her own fault she’d gotten attached – that she’d enjoyed making him laugh so much, or allowed herself to feel warm when he’d smiled at her.
MARGARET: Suffragettes Mail-Order Bride (Choice Brides Agency #3) Page 7