Some minutes later, they returned to the tent, where Leopold reached up to help Margaret down from the saddle. He felt heat in his cheeks as his hands held her waist, her hands upon his shoulders to brace herself as she slipped to the ground.
“Thank you again, Mr. Fox. I am eternally grateful for your actions.” She did not look him in the eye, a bashfulness washing over her pretty features.
“It was my pleasure, Miss Loxley.”
A figure swept around the corner and grasped Margaret by the shoulders, looking her up and down.
“Oh, thank goodness! Emanuel told me what happened. Are you well? Are you injured?”
She nodded solemnly. “I am well, Mr. Edgbaston, thanks to this gentleman here.”
Mr. Edgbaston turned to look at Leopold. “You rescued her?”
“I did, Sir.”
“Then I am grateful to you.”
Leopold bowed. “I took temporary hostage of your horse, but I have returned her, as you see.”
“Gratitude, Sir.” Mr. Edgbaston returned his gaze to Margaret. “And you are certain that you are uninjured? I have told you, so very often, that you should not ride without a chaperone. Please, I beg of you, heed my warning in future.”
“I will, Mr. Edgbaston,” Margaret replied shyly.
“Now that you are safely returned, I will take my leave of you,” Leopold said. “I very much enjoyed your performance. Do you plan to stay here long?”
Margaret looked up at him. “We will undoubtedly leave upon the week’s end.”
“Very good. Farewell, Miss Loxley. And to you, Sir.”
Leopold dipped his head in another bow and turned away, walking swiftly towards the spot, quite some distance away, where he had left his own horse. He turned back but once, to find Margaret gazing after him, a small, curious smile upon her lips.
Three days… I have three days to get to know more of you.
Chapter Three
Margaret felt uncharacteristically distracted for much of their second day in Waterham. Leopold had left a surprising impression upon her, and though the day was fine, and the crowds were full, her mind wandered like the flurry of errant dandelion fluff.
She could not forget how daringly he had chased after her, giving no credence to his own safety. She relived the terror of the horse bolting, and the reins digging into her hands as she had struggled to regain control. Although she adored horses, she had never been particularly skilled at riding. She enjoyed the freedom of it, particularly after an emotional performance, but now she was not certain if she could get back into the saddle.
“Miss Loxley?” She turned in alarm, for she had been languishing in a daydream.
“Mr. Fox, what an unexpected pleasure,” she replied, finding her voice quickly. In truth, she had not expected to see him again, for he had not been in any of the day’s crowds, and they were done with their performances until tomorrow.
He smiled. “I thought it wise to see how you were faring, after your troubles yesterday. I was passing by when I saw you here. I hope you do not mind?”
“Not at all. I was merely resting awhile.” She paused in thought. “Tell me, are you a resident of Waterham?”
He shook his head.
“I live in nearby Lower Nettlefold, but business often brings me here.”
“Oh? And what is your business, Mr. Fox?”
She was genuinely curious.
“I work in portraiture, Miss Loxley. There is a rather splendid shop here, where I purchase what I require, which Lower Nettlefold sorely lacks. I cannot get my necessary equipment anywhere else.”
“An artist?” She had not anticipated such a response, for he did not look like any artist she had ever encountered. And, in her line of work, she encountered a great many.
Indeed, she had lost count of the number of eager gentlemen who had asked to paint her, though she had denied them all.
“I suppose I am,” he said, with a cheerful laugh.
“Is there much call for portraiture here?”
He shrugged casually. “I travel to wherever I am needed, and often receive commissions for landscapes and suchlike. The London elite particularly enjoy the environment here, and I am asked for riverside pictures more often than anything else.”
“I should like to see one of your paintings, Mr. Fox.” The words came out before she could stop them.
“You would?”
He sounded stunned. She nodded shyly.
“Very much so.”
What has come over you, Margaret? She scolded herself inwardly, for this was very unlike her indeed. Although romantic offers were presented to her with alarming frequency, she did not partake in such fantastical endeavours. Once upon a time, she had dreamed of a love that would conquer all, but life had taught her a harsh lesson.
During a rare visit to Bath, she had encountered a charming young gentleman. Albert Foster had stolen her heart. He had seen her upon the stage and fallen in love at first sight. She had been equally enamoured, for she was innocent and naïve in such matters, and did not understand that the social elite were merely marionettes, dancing to the tugs of their puppet masters.
He had sworn his affections to her, and professed he wished to marry her. Chaste and virtuous, she had waited for the day she might become his wife. They had spoken of an elopement, and she had almost gone through with it. However, when the dawn arose on the day she was to wed, a message had arrived from Albert. In it, he told her how sorry he was, but that he had found himself engaged to another young lady. He was to wed her instead and was never to speak to or see Margaret again.
Heartbroken by the sudden revelation, she had sworn to cast aside all hopes of love and marriage.
In doing so, she had sealed her fate as the untouchable Songbird, who stood atop the stage and sang so sweetly and so sadly, never to hope for love again. Albert Foster had destroyed her trust in gentlemen, no matter how fine or sweet they might seem, on the face of it. And yet, she could not help but feel drawn to Leopold, eager to speak longer with him.
“Perhaps such a thing may be arranged, before you depart?” Leopold suggested.
She smiled. “I should like that.”
“May I sit awhile with you?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
He sat down on the dry grass beside her and toyed with the petals of a lone daisy.
“You said that you did not have a surname of your own, and, I confess, that has perplexed me somewhat since our last meeting. How can it be that you are not in possession of one?”
Her heart lurched, for she never spoke of her past.
“I was abandoned as a child, Mr. Fox. I must have been five years of age, when I was deposited upon the steps of a convent in Hexham, Northumberland. I do not remember much of what went before, though I suppose that must be a good thing. If I have striven to forget it, then perhaps there is nothing worth discovering within the annals of my past.”
It was true that she could not remember much before being left with the nuns at Hexham Abbey. Sometimes, whilst she slept, she saw vague images and heard the whisper of lost voices, but she had no clear recollections.
Her dreams were often peppered with the acrid scent of smoke and the crackle of shadowed fire, but she did not know what it could mean. A woman and a man were often present, though their faces were hazy and unclear.
“So, you are an orphan?”
She nodded.
“According to the nuns, yes. The people who left me at the Abbey were neither my mother nor my father, so I suppose that must be the case. Nobody has ever sought to find me, which only makes it more likely.”
“I am sorry for that, Miss Loxley.”
“I have come to terms with it, Mr. Fox. It does not trouble me as it used to.” That was not entirely true, but she did not wish to feel more vulnerable in his company. He already made her feel somewhat exposed, as if he were reading right into the depths of her soul. “And you? Do you have family?”
A sad expressio
n came over Leopold’s face.
“I have a daughter.”
“Oh?”
So, he is married. Then I have little to fear. Although, learning that, she wondered what his intentions could be, in speaking so freely with an unattached woman. She had thought him honest, but now she was not so sure.
“Her name is Felicity, and she is the dearest creature to me.” He smiled at the mention of her name, which softened Margaret’s resolve.
“And her mother? Is she dear to you?”
He nodded slowly. “She was, but she is no longer of this earth. I lost her some years ago, when Felicity was but five years old. She is eight now, so it has been a long while, but the wound does not heal. I doubt it ever will, for me or for my daughter.”
“I am sorry for your loss, Mr. Fox.” She meant it from the bottom of her heart. At least she could not remember losing her parents. It must have been so much harder, she supposed, to be able to recall that wrenching separation.
“As am I.”
“And what of your mother and father? Do they live still? Have you siblings?” She wanted to coax the sad expression away from his face, but it only deepened at the mention of such people.
He sighed. “They live still. And yes, I have three brothers.”
“Do you see them often?”
“I do not.” A bitter note lingered in his words, which piqued Margaret’s intrigue. There was some pain there, she could tell, but she did not dare to press the matter further. He did not seem eager to discuss it, and she did not wish to cause him further upset.
“Well, if I find the opportunity to come and witness your portraiture before I depart, I should very much like to meet your daughter,” Margaret said, breaking the silence between them.
He smiled once more. “She would adore you, I am certain.”
Chapter Four
“Excellent news, Lady and Gentlemen!” Drake announced, as he strode in to join them over a hearty breakfast of bacon, eggs, and thick, buttery toast. Theodore, another of the troupe’s key members, was a superb cook, ensuring that they never went without. He always added extra to Margaret’s plate though she, in return, always dispersed it amongst her adopted brothers.
Margaret chuckled at Drake’s dramatic entrance. “And what news is that, Mr. Edgbaston?”
“We have received an invitation to attend the local Baron’s Ball this evening, and I have duly accepted. I believe he wishes us to perform a short piece, with a few songs thrown in for good measure. And then, we shall have our own revels, in the company of fine folk.”
“But I have nothing to wear,” Margaret protested, for she did not like to attend such soirées. The throngs of people, the heat, and the music always unsettled her greatly. It always felt, to her, like a performance in and of itself, with everyone pretending to be someone they were not, in the hopes of financial or social gain.
Truly, it was remarkable what an onlooker could discover, by moving discreetly through such events. Conflicts and ploys were easy to spot, for the anxious mothers and aunts often spoke a little too loudly after a glass or two of champagne. She often felt sorry for the poor, beautiful young ladies who were paraded before potential suitors, useful only for their ability to bear children, with no consideration for what lay in their hearts.
“I have already arranged a gown for you, Miss Loxley. I will bring it to you before we leave for the Baron’s manor house, and I am certain you will find it pleasing,” Drake replied, with a dark smile. “Indeed, men, we shall all have to chase the erstwhile suitors from Miss Loxley’s presence, for she is likely to cause quite the stir.”
The players chuckled and cast sympathetic expressions towards Margaret. She knew they would do so, protecting her as if she were their true sister, but she could not shake the twist of anxiety that gripped her stomach into knots. Singing upon a stage was a very different situation to singing before a host of eligible, well-to-do gentry.
She contemplated protesting once more, but a warning look from Drake held her silent. He decided where and when they performed and, if she wished to continue on with them, she could not defy his direct orders.
It is another performance, nothing more.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
As darkness fell upon the sleepy town of Waterham, Margaret surveyed her reflection in the full-length mirror that hung from her private caravan.
Drake had deposited the gift an hour earlier, with a note saying: A rare jewel, for a rare jewel. She did not much care for the deep violet shade of the bombazine, nor did she think the sloping neckline suited her. And yet, what choice did she have? Drake had instructed her to wear it, and she had to obey. His vision of his Songbird was clear.
“Miss Loxley?” Drake’s voice called from outside her caravan.
She peered out into the gloom and saw him on the ground below, dressed smartly in tails.
“Yes, Mr. Edgbaston?”
“Are you ready to depart? The carriage has arrived for us.”
“I am, Mr. Edgbaston.”
She descended the narrow steps of her caravan and stood before him. A smirk curled up the corners of Drake’s lips as he observed her, admiring his creation.
“You look remarkable.”
“Thank you,” she replied shyly, dipping her head.
Some minutes later, she found herself within an elegant carriage, which had been sent from the Baron. She tucked herself against the window, for Drake had taken the liberty of sitting a little too close.
Turning her gaze away as the gentlemen chattered amongst themselves, she let her gaze move across the moonlit fields beyond. It was still warm, after the day’s balmy heat, and she permitted the tepid breeze to wash over her face as she took in her surroundings.
Before long, the carriage drew up outside a fine sandstone manor house, the windows illuminated with a soft glow. Doric pillars stood proud along the front of the building, with stone vases filled with beautiful shrubs and colourful flowers, in their full summer bloom. A group of equally beautiful ladies were making their way into the house, in a sweep of bright colours and glittering jewels.
Handsome gentlemen accompanied them where appropriate, looking refined and charming in their own way.
Nerves gripped Margaret’s heart as she stepped down from the carriage, reluctantly taking Drake’s hand as he helped her to the ground. Her pretty satin shoes crunched on the gravel as she made her way into the building, immediately struck by the overwhelming noise of the crowd of people speaking at once.
An undercurrent of music rippled beneath. Margaret focused on that as she followed Drake and the others along a wide hallway, cramped with revellers, heading for the ballroom. They were not due to perform just yet, giving them a short while to grow accustomed to the soirée. Already, Drake had reached for a passing glass of champagne, sipping it as he cast his eyes across the room. A few young ladies caught his gaze and giggled mischievously.
Margaret wished that she could warn them of his darker nature, but they were too entranced by his mysterious good looks. Needing some fresh air, she made her way to the edge of the room, where the French windows stood ajar. A light breeze whipped in, filling her lungs in the most refreshing way. Pulling aside the cream curtain, she peered out at the gardens beyond, taking in the heady scent of roses and violets.
She paused a moment later as she saw a figure, sitting on one of the benches outside. Casting a discreet look back at Drake and the others, to make sure that they were suitably distracted, she slipped out into the darkness and approached the figure. Impulse urged her onwards, for she did not know if she would have the opportunity to see this gentleman again. With two days left until they were to depart Waterham, time was running out.
“Mr. Fox?” she said, prompting him to turn around in surprise.
“Miss Loxley? I did not expect to see you here.” A small smile turned up the corners of his lips.
She chuckled wryly. “Nor did I. It is not every day that such people as us are invited to grand events, thou
gh it is not entirely rare. I believe that the Baron wished us to perform, after seeing us in the town.”
“Do you not care to dance? I am certain there shall be some very disappointed gentlemen if you hide yourself out here all evening.”
“I needed some fresh air. Although, indeed, I am not one for dancing.” The idea of being so close to a strange gentleman made her nervous beyond all reason.
“That is a great shame.”
She closed her eyes to the moonlight and drank in the last of the summer heat. “Might I ask what brings you out here, Mr. Fox? Surely, there will be some very disappointed young ladies within, if you hide yourself out here all evening?”
He laughed.
“I am not one for these events either, though I attend in the name of business. It is the perfect location to acquire new clients, but I always forget how loud and oppressive they can be.”
“I agree.” She eyed him curiously, wondering if that was the only reason he was here. “Although, it is rather peculiar that an artist should be invited to a grand Ball such as this, is it not? I mean no offence, I am merely intrigued by your presence.”
“I was something else prior to becoming an artist,” he admitted. “Indeed, I was one of their ilk. I suppose I still am, in a way, though I do not have the title to support it any longer.”
“I do not understand?”
He sighed wearily.
“You remember I told you of my family, and that I do not see them often?”
“I do, Mr. Fox.”
“Well, there is a reason for that.” He paused, as if hesitant to continue. “You see, I used to be the second son of an Earl, destined to inherit something at least, with all the usual trappings of society’s upper echelons. And then… well, two things occurred to change the course of my future. First, I married against the wishes of my mother and father. I chose a kind, intelligent, beautiful milliner’s daughter, where they would have had me wed the daughter of a peer.”
“But you loved her?”
He nodded sadly.
“Very much. I hoped that they would forgive me, in time, and allow me, and my wife, to return to the family fold. But then, not a year later, my mother passed away from an ailment of the lungs. It caught her in the depths of winter and did not relinquish its hold.”
Reuniting Lady Marguerite Page 2