Spring Blossom

by Jill Metcalf

  With Jennifer’s departure, Margaret turned to her dressing table and perched on the delicate bench, trying to tamp down her agitation. This was just another business meeting, she told herself yet again as she reached for her brush and attacked her waist-length blond hair.

  But she knew it wasn’t.

  Through the years she had often visualized her reunion with Hunter Maguire – at first with pleasure, later with trepidation and now with icy fear. She had carefully noted the reactions of men when they were introduced to her, and she was well aware of all the signs of distress. Hunter would be no different, although he might be more deeply shocked than the others. After all, he had known her before and would expect her to be beautiful. Yes, Margaret expected his reaction to her ugliness to be quite something.

  And that was just as well. She suspected he had come for more than a peek at the grown-up Downing girl. Perhaps he was thinking of a match; she had, after all, told him she would wait for him. It would be better if he was put off immediately, for there was no sense in prolonging the agony. Margaret could not marry him. Not ever. With shaking hands she threw the brush back on the table.

  She was losing control and she didn’t understand why. She had learned to control her emotions months ago.

  But Hunter Maguire was not just another guest. He was the only man she had known as a friend and, even as a girl, she had gone out of her way to make him notice her. She had fancied him as handsome beyond anyone she had known and had even day-dreamed about marrying him one day when she grew up. Well, the time she had longed for had come, but all of her dreams had now been shattered.

  Whirling suddenly, clutching her middle, Margaret raced for the chamber pot beneath the bed and dragged it forward just as her stomach reacted to the turmoil within her.

  The faithful Florence found her on her knees beside her bed. “Margaret?” Concerned, she rushed to her sister’s side.

  But even as Florence knelt and lightly touched her back, Margaret was turning away in shame, struggling to regain control. “Please go away,” she whispered. “I’m fine now.”

  The usually reserved Florence was too worried to be put off. “You don’t seem fine,” she said. “You haven’t been fine for weeks now.”

  Margaret, who normally dealt gently with his shy, delicate sister, struggled with her impatience, needing to be alone. “I’m sorry, Florence. Don’t be worried. I am really quite all right.”

  “What’s wrong, Maggie? Why were you ill?” And then with sudden insight, she added, “You haven’t been well since father told us Mr. Maguire was coming to visit.”

  Margaret tried to laugh that off as she turned toward the dressing table again. “Don’t be a ninny, Flo.”

  “I thought you liked Mr. Maguire,” Florence whispered, truly confused and concerned for her sister’s well being.

  Margaret turned toward her, a smile pasted on her pretty lips. “Florence, darling, shouldn’t you be dressing for supper?”

  After a moment of indecision, the younger girl turned toward the door. “You will be nice tonight, won’t you, Maggie?”

  Margaret forced herself to take the comment calmly. “Of course, Florence. Mr. Maguire is an old friend and shall be treated accordingly.”

  Alone again, Margaret poured water into the floral-patterned ceramic bowl on the washstand and, dampening a soft cloth, let the cooling effect of the water on her face ease some of the tension within her.

  It was time to take herself in hand and collect her thoughts. Past experience had taught her that she always gained control and felt better after the sickness had passed. She would be prepared to meet Hunter Maguire, just as she had been prepared to meet every other man who had set foot inside her home in the past year.

  Yes, she would be prepared, and she would deal with him quite nicely.

  After all, she possessed more than one attribute that would keep him at bay.

  *

  Freshly bathed and dressed in a crisp, high-collared white shirt, beige trousers and a royal blue coat, Hunter stepped to the entrance of the parlor. He was not surprised that he was actually looking forward to this meeting now that he was here. He had been gravely concerned when he had been told that Maggie had been injured, and in such a vague way, when Alastair had spoken. But he was as eager to see her again as he had been through all the years of waiting. He had been slightly annoyed at Alastair’s reluctance to explain the circumstances of her accident, but upon reflection, he knew it would take much more than a scar to change his opinion of the light-hearted, fun-loving girl who had captivated him in her youth.

  Stepping into the room he was immediately, if distantly, aware of the presence of several people, but his attention was immediately drawn to a young woman standing in front of the fireplace. He raised his eyes briefly to the portrait above her and then allowed his gaze to fall again. If he had not known that Downing’s wife had died…

  She was standing almost in profile to him as she spoke with another young woman who was seated before her. When she became aware of his presence, she raised her eyes and turned slightly to offer him a subtle, almost shy smile.

  Hunter was entranced. It was as if the woman in the portrait had stepped down off the wall, intending to join them for supper. Here was a living, breathing replica of that exquisite beauty he knew had been his friend’s wife. This was the charming child grown up, the elder Margaret Downing’s daughter, and such a legacy to leave the world!

  The cascading silvery hair waved softly back from her face and over her bare shoulders, a perfect foil for the ice blue satin gown she wore. He had only a glimpse of her eyes before delicate ivory lids flutter over them, but that glimpse was enough to identify the large, pale blue eyes that had reminded him of the winter ice that could be found around the edge of a clear pond.

  With some disappointment, Hunter saw his host approaching.

  “Hunter, come and meet my daughters again after all these years.” Alastair clamped a warm hand briefly on his guest’s shoulder while leading him to one of the sofas in the center of the room. The two girls seated there came to their feet as the men approached.

  “You are already reacquainted with Florence, I understand.”

  Hunter smiled as he stood in front of her and when she straightened from a shallow curtsy he bowed, taking her hand, bringing it briefly to his lips. “I had the distinct pleasure of meeting and conversing with Florence upon my arrival.” And then he smiled in sympathy as the shy girl blushed profusely.

  “And this is Jennifer. You may remember her as the baby of the family…although she’s nine now, so I suppose I should stop introducing her that way.”

  “I’m almost ten, Papa!” Jennifer informed him in a stage whisper that made Hunter chuckle.

  Taking her hand and holding it for a moment, Hunter gazed down at her fondly. “You were practically a baby when last I saw you,” he said warmly. “But you are quite the young lady now, Jennifer.” He bowed over her hand while the girl smiled up at her father with something close to triumph in her laughing eyes.

  Turning to join his host as Alastair led the way around the low table between the two sofas, Hunter said softly, “Beauty seems to run in this family, my friend.”

  The older man waved the comment away with a casual yet decidedly nervous gesture. “Obviously inherited from their mother,” he muttered.

  But that was not necessarily true. Alastair was still a fine figure of a man. He had thickened around the middle a little since their last meeting, but he had not developed a disfiguring paunch, as did so many men who lived in the lap of luxury. Then, too, Hunter recalled from his youth that the senior Downings, Alastair’s parents, had been a strikingly handsome couple.

  As the men approached the other sofa, Hunter noticed that his vision in blue had moved to stand behind her sister and, although she was presented mainly in profile, he could see she was frowning.

  Surely she could not resent the attention he was lavishing on her sisters? She couldn’t have become
so petty; he refused to believe that of her. With her beauty, she had no need to resent anyone. Still, some of the most beautiful women he had met could be insanely jealous on some occasions. God, he hoped she had not turned out to be one of those vein, waspish females. What a disappointment that would be.

  “And this is Denise, my second daughter, if you will recall,” Alastair announced with a note of pride. “She is to be married before the year is out,” he added.

  The young woman stood and dipped into a graceful curtsy. Hunter smiled before bending over her hand. “Denise,” he said warmly, “a pleasure to meet you once again.”

  Denise smiled. She obviously accepted herself for what she was; a reasonably attractive young woman approaching seventeen who had inherited her father’s auburn hair and gray-green eyes. Her most notable feature was her mother’s ivory complexion, which glowed with a natural blush of pleasure.

  As Denise resumed her seat, Hunter felt heightened anticipation as he stepped to his right to follow Alastair around the end of the sofa. As he came to stand behind her, his vision in blue turned slowly, and with great dramatic effect, to face him.

  He knew, even though he had been warned, that he had not been able to repress a fleeting look of shock, and in those first few seconds of seeing her, Hunter realized that was exactly what she had wanted. Maggie had set the stage in such a fashion that anyone would be forced to display surprise. He wondered if this was a game she played often, or had she acted simply for his benefit? Did the awkwardness of the moment give her a perverse satisfaction? No awkwardness on her part, he noticed. She stood regally before him, a cool, disdainful smile on her beautiful lips. And Hunter felt his anger overcoming his initial shock and sadness.

  “And, of course, you remember, Margaret,” Alastair announced, not so much with pride this time as with wariness.

  Margaret did not curtsy as her sisters had but held out her hand to him, an almost triumphant smile on her face.

  He dutifully kissed her hand briefly before she snatched it away. He did not smile when he straightened but crossed his powerful arms over his chest as he stared at her; waiting.

  “I believe you made some comment about our beauty, Mr. Maguire?” she challenged stiffly.

  “Margaret!” Alastair cried, aghast.

  The combatants ignored him.

  “Indeed, you are exceptionally beautiful, Miss Downing,” Hunter returned softly, “but would you have believed me if I had told you so?”

  Margaret’s eyes flashed as she stated evenly, “As I do not believe you now!”

  “As you wish,” he returned, gazing into her ice-blue eyes. “I am considering withdrawing the comment at any rate,” he said after a moment’s reflection. “True beauty is not found only on the surface.” With that he turned to his host. “I believe you mentioned a drink earlier, my friend,” he said in a voice that sounded more steady than he felt.

  Embarrassed by his daughter’s behavior, Alastair cleared his throat, obviously unsettled by the confrontation that had taken place between his eldest daughter and his guest. “Yes! Yes, of course.”

  As Hunter followed his host across the room he wondered if he had reacted too harshly, but after brief consideration, decided he had not. His only regret was the dead silence that now hung over the room; the younger girls were obviously uncomfortable with what had taken place.

  The scar was a damned shame, he admitted to himself, an unsightly interference with perfection, but it was made ugly only by the way Maggie drew attention to it.

  The mark ran jaggedly along her right jaw line for a length of approximately two inches. It was pink in comparison to her complexion, but not livid as it would have been when new. In truth, it did little to mar her exquisite beauty.

  Now he believed Maggie felt the scar was a bigger issue and that is why she had plotted to put him off guard.

  “I must apologize for Margaret’s behavior,” Alastair murmured as he prepared their drinks.

  “Margaret is no longer a child, Alastair. She should apologize for her own behavior.” Cocking his head slightly to one side, Hunter smiled ruefully at the older man. “But somehow I don’t believe that happens often,” he added softly.

  Alastair looked briefly across the room to his eldest daughter as he shook his head. “No," he said. “But it is not a minor blemish in her eyes, you see.”

  “I’m sure it’s not.”

  “In the beginning I was relieved that Margaret was not going to hide herself away in embarrassment and shrink from others. Still, I have never seen her act quite so hostile. I do apologize.”

  The man’s voice was tinged with regret and almost unbearable sadness. Hunter had the distinct impression his host was afraid to challenge his own child and wondered at this attitude. But that was really no business of his, he decided. If Alastair could not discipline his children that was his own problem, but he need not expect Hunter to stand meekly by and allow Margaret Downing to make him a fool. She had caught him unaware once; she would not have a second chance to do so.

  And still he wondered about the old Maggie. Surely she existed somewhere?

  *

  Across the room, Margaret was collecting herself. He was arrogant, she decided. Why had she not seen that all those years ago? He was obviously not a gentleman, and she wondered how she could ever have thought of him as one. On the heels of that thought, she scoffed at herself. Most men were not gentlemen. They only presented a display of manners when they were guests in someone else’s home. Although Hunter was no gentleman, at least he was more brave then most. Others she had met had shriveled in embarrassment and revulsion upon seeing her for the first time, and it gave her some satisfaction to see them squirm. After all, they were the reason she was disfigured.

  Margaret closed her eyes briefly as she took a small sip of sherry, trying to blot out the next thought. Thoughts about the true nature of men and what she had learned. She made certain the same beliefs were echoed in her thoughts every day in the hope that she would be totally convinced of them. But the exercise was always ruined by a remembered childhood dream and a hollow, empty feeling she could only describe as an ache somewhere in the vicinity of her heart.

  She knew she must keep trying to convince her stubborn mind that a liaison with a member of the opposite sex was not at all desirable, that such relationships were not at all like the dreams she’d had as a girl.

  She glared across the room at the tall, dark visitor who was quietly talking with her father. She wondered what her father had told him; and feared the worst. Margaret had never discussed the ‘accident’ with anyone, and her father would not allow anyone at Treemont to mention it. She did not even think about it anymore. She hadn’t for a long time now. But she remembered the lessons.

  She walked around the end of the settee to sit beside Denise.

  Denise was already a lost cause, proclaiming herself madly in love with that young doctor from Williamsburg. She was still a child, and yet she was to wed within mere months. Margaret was saddened by thoughts of the harsh lessons that Denise would have to learn. It was so senseless, when they could all be perfectly happy living out their lives at Treemont. As the girls matured, they would come to understand that a life without men could be gratifying and peaceful.

  Denise leaned close to her sister and spoke softly. “I believe he has become even more handsome, it that’s possible.”

  Margaret groaned and turned her head to frown at her sister. “Really! Watching Florence gush and coo is bad enough. I thought you had more sense.”

  Margaret did not frighten Denise. She ignored her sister’s old-lady behavior, for the most part. She even boldly teased her on occasionally, hoping that Margaret would one day come to her senses.

  In view of this latest little tirade, she merely shrugged away her sister’s attitude. “I state only obvious fact, sister.” Denise paused and took a delicate sip of sherry. “I believe he must be very brave also.” Another pause…another sip from her glass. “You did rat
her misjudge this one, Margaret.”

  Margaret narrowed her eyes and primly straightened her spine, turning her head away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “He didn’t become all flustered and tongue-tied, did he? He didn’t back away as you have so often forced others to do.”

  “You’re being ridiculous,” Margaret hissed, her narrowed eyes once again piercing her younger sister's challenging gaze.

  “Not at all,” Denise returned calmly. “You present yourself as if you were some ugly beast and treat every man who comes near you as if being a man was a sin and he was somehow, personally, responsible. You like to shock and startle and grimly enjoy the results you achieve.”

  “You have no idea what…”

  “Oh, do I not? Well you are not ugly, Margaret, and all men are not responsible for that silly scar. When are you going to realize that?”

  “This is neither the time nor the place for this discussion,” she said in her most condescending voice. But she saw that Denise was not to be stopped and, as she wondered what had gotten into the girl, Margaret began to fear that she was losing all authority over her siblings.

  “When is the time?” Denise pressed as she looked quickly around the room before once again devoting her attention to Margaret. “We are all family here, with the exception of Mr. Maguire, of course, and somehow I feel he would enjoy a heated discussion of your attitude toward men.”

  “My attitude toward men is the only sensible one, as I have tried to tell you.”

  “Oh, yes, you’ve tried,” Denise said sadly. “Margaret, do you really want to wither away here at Treemont?” In her anger, her concern, Denise’s voice had risen.

  Suddenly Alastair was before them. “What is going on between you two?” he demanded in a hushed, authoritative tone.

  Margaret then realized that their conversation had grown intense and they had been near to shouting. She looked up at her father and then across the room at Hunger Maguire. He was looking in their direction, of course, and the man was smiling. Suddenly concerned over how much he had heard, Margaret experienced a creeping sense of mortification.