Reuniting Lady Marguerite

by Lydia Pembroke

  She almost jumped out of her skin.

  “My goodness, whatever is the matter?”

  “Two of the horses have gone lame,” he muttered. “I blame those wretched children, who were charging about this place as if they were upon a battlefield. How can this have happened?” He kicked a wooden box for good measure, grimacing at the pain.

  “Can we find two more?” Emanuel asked, glancing up from his harp.

  Drake shot him an icy look. “Do you think I have the means to purchase two new horses, Emanuel? Do you think me made of money?”

  He huffed out an exasperated sigh.

  “No, we shall have to wait until they are healed. I have already sent for the local farrier, who I am told also specialises in treating the diseases of animals. Hopefully, his visit will not result in either of my beasts being shot.”

  “How much longer do you think we may have to stay here?” Margaret kept her voice nonchalant, though inside her heart was beating faster. If they were to remain here a while longer, then she would not have to contemplate the idea of parting from Leopold just yet. It had already been troubling her for much of the morning.

  “A week or so, who can say?” Drake kicked the box again and stormed out of the tent in a fury.

  Margaret smiled secretly to herself, in the wake of Drake’s departure. As soon as the day’s performances were finished, she knew precisely where she would go, for it appeared that she had some good news to bestow on Leopold. At least, she hoped he would find it to be good news.

  Just because you know what lies in your own heart, it does not mean that he shares in it.

  She had to remind herself, for she had fallen into such a trap before. And yet, despite his surname, Margaret did not sense and cunning or deceit in Leopold’s behaviour. She had found only kindness and respect, and a shy hint of something more… the very feeling that she, herself, had begun to discover in the depths of her heart.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  “And you are certain that this is the case?” Leopold asked her, as they sat across from one another at the kitchen table. Mrs. Fellows had prepared a hearty, early dinner for the two of them and Felicity, though the girl had disappeared a short while ago to play with the children down the lane.

  Leopold wondered if it appeared proper to be dining alone with a young lady, but he supposed Mrs. Fellows provided a convenient enough chaperone. For, although she was busying herself in the kitchen, preparing bread for the morning, she kept a constant eye on the pair.

  Margaret nodded effusively. “The farrier came to look at the horses, and said that it would be at least ten days until they were better. He said it was something to with their joints, and a very specific wildflower that grows in this part of England. It is nothing that rest, and preventing them from eating that flower, will not repair, but it will take time.”

  “Will you go on ahead and leave one of your caravans behind?”

  Margaret shook her head. “The stage and tent cannot be suitably stowed away without all caravans present. It would appear that we are to remain here a while longer.” She looked somewhat disappointed, as if Leopold had not said the right thing.

  “Then… thank goodness such a wildflower grows in the fields around Waterham,” he said, with a smile. “As long as the horses are not in any immediate danger, of course.” He did not wish to appear unfeeling towards their plight, despite his selfish happiness that their injury meant that Margaret would be staying longer.

  “They are not. They are tethered away from the fields where those flowers grow, and will be well again in due course.” Her expression brightened, letting Leopold know that he had said the right thing.

  “Might you take a walk with me to my studio after we have finished with dinner, Miss Loxley?” He paused uncertainly. “Only, I should very much like to paint your portrait, if you would humour me? You have such a unique face, and I should be glad to capture its likeness. As I thought you were departing tomorrow, I did not think I would have the time. Only if you wish to be painted, of course.”

  She cast him a shy look. “Ordinarily, I do not like to be painted, but I believe I may make an exception, on this occasion.”

  As soon as dinner was over, they headed out of the house and down a wildflower bordered path towards the small, stone cottage which stood towards the back of Leopold’s land. Leopold was almost nervous to show her his studio, for he did not usually allow people to see within. He preferred to travel to wherever his work was required, and keep the studio for his own private artistic endeavours. Margaret gasped in delight as soon as she entered, which brought a coy smile to Leopold’s face. He had tidied the space somewhat, after Margaret had departed the previous day, to ensure that everything was in order in case she came back. His canvases were neatly stacked against the wall, and his tools were all set up on a wide table to the side of the room. An easel rested in the centre, with a half-finished landscape upon it.

  “This is the view from your garden,” Margaret said, approaching the painting. “Am I correct? This is your view of the town, with the manor house on the hill in the distance.”

  He nodded. “I have been attempting to finish it for some time, but I cannot get the manor house quite right. It does not seem to want to be painted.”

  “I understand the sentiment,” she said softly.

  “Have many artists offered to paint you?”

  She shrugged. “A few. I have always declined. There is something so very… intimate about being painted, and I suppose I have never trusted anyone enough to allow them that intimacy.”

  “Does this mean that you trust me, Miss Loxley?” His voice was thick with emotion, for he dearly wished to win her trust, if not her heart.

  “I imagine it must.”

  She cast a look back at him over her shoulder, an irreverent glint in her peculiar, hazelnut eyes.

  “Would you sit for me?” He gestured to a high stool, which he had set up in the far corner of the stone cottage. The light was impeccable there, especially in the late afternoon of summer, where the bronzed sun glanced in through the windows.

  Shyly, she crossed the room and perched on the edge of the stool, her eyes meeting his. Just as I had hoped. The light surrounded her as if it came from within her very skin, illuminating her with an almost ethereal glow. He rushed towards his tools before the light could change and took up a length of charcoal to sketch her outline. Removing the landscape from the easel, he set a fresh canvas upon it, and began to draw.

  The greyish strokes of the charcoal came easily from his deft fingertips, his eyes flitting from the canvas to her beautiful face. He was careful to get every feature exactly right, from the delicate slope of her nose to the full Cupid’s Bow that dipped in the centre of her top lip, and the unruly curls that rested at the sides of her face. This way, even if he could not persuade her to remain here, beyond the time it took for the horses to heal, he would have a means of remembering her exactly. From personal experience, he knew how fickle the mind could be, when it came to recalling treasured faces.

  Even now, no matter how hard he tried, he could not precisely picture his wife’s face. Over time, it had blurred to become a suggestion of a face, rather than the living, breathing person he had known so dearly. He did not want the same thing to happen with Margaret. Even if all he could have was her portrait, he would convince himself that he was satisfied.

  This way, I will never be able to forget you… the young lady who has reminded me that I am still alive. That I have affection and warmth to give, which has lain cold for so many years now.

  For Margaret had stoked a fire within him, and he did not want it to be extinguished.

  In truth, he had thought his life and his hope of love was over when his wife died, and though his gathering feelings for Margaret did not take away from the love he had felt for his dear departed wife, he was starting to wonder if he might have one more lifetime left to give.

  And he was willing to give all of his remaining years to Margaret, i
f she would have him.

  Chapter Eight

  The week passed by in a blur of daytime visits to Leopold’s cottage, with Margaret sitting for him in his studio as he finished her portrait. As she sat upon the stool, they talked of life and the past, and everything that had brought them to this moment. And, with each passing day, the feelings within Margaret’s heart grew more certain. They were getting louder, and she could no longer quiet them. However, she found herself in a somewhat troublesome situation, for though she felt a keen affection for Leopold, she did not know if he felt the same for her.

  And, with the horses healing well, she did not know if there would be time to discover the truth in his own affections. She would be expected to leave with Drake and the others, and that would be the end of it. She would have only memories of Leopold and Felicity, and the pretty house on the outskirts of Lower Nettlefold. Unfortunately, she did not know if that would be enough to keep her content.

  “Does it grow lonely, always travelling, and never settling?” Leopold asked, as they came to the end of another afternoon of painting and talking.

  The summer sky had turned a rich, pinkish-orange as sunset threatened to sink the world into darkness. The bronzed light coming in through the window still felt warm upon her cheek, and she knew that the ride back to Waterham would be a pleasant one.

  It would have been all the more pleasant, if only she could have been certain that she would not have to leave within the next few days.

  Margaret shrugged.

  “It can be a solitary existence from time to time, but the players are as brothers to me. If I grow weary of being alone, I can always speak with one of them.”

  “So, you do not crave a more stationary life?”

  “I do, sometimes. I suppose, given my childhood, I longed to escape the confines of one single place. But now… I am starting to wonder if remaining in one town might not be such a bad thing, after all.” She glanced up shyly. “Lower Nettlefold seems to be a rather lovely place. Do you enjoy your life here?”

  “For the most part.”

  “What do you lack, Mr. Fox?”

  For she thought this house a veritable utopia. She could not think of anything which Leopold might be lacking, not anything that she would dare to say out loud, anyway.

  He sighed heavily.

  “You, Miss Loxley.”

  She gasped in surprise. “Me?”

  “I know this may sound somewhat bold, and I mean no offence by it, but this past week or so has been the most wonderful of my life,” he went on, nervously. “I have had little opportunity for personal joy in recent years, and it has warmed my heart to see Felicity take to you with such admiration. Indeed, I believe she adores you more than I do. With that in mind… I was wondering if… well, Miss Loxley, I was wondering if you might agree to remain in Lower Nettlefold to begin a courtship? I would arrange private rooms for you in the local boarding house, of course. And, if you were not opposed to the idea, in time I should like to make a proposal of marriage to you. I realise that you have no father, whom I could ask for your hand, but if you feel as I do, then I can see no reason why we could not wed.”

  She could hardly breathe as she held his gaze, for this was everything she had hoped for, and so much more.

  And yet, a doubt lingered. She adored Leopold with all of her heart and knew that he would do everything in his power to be an excellent, kind, loving husband. But it seemed impossible. After all, she had not been born under a lucky star, nor did she deem herself worthy of such happiness. In her twenty-five years, she had already had so much taken from her. She did not know if she could bear to lose him too, if this did not turn out the way that she hoped it might.

  “I have said too much.” Leopold dropped his chin to his chest, looking utterly crestfallen.

  She rose from her stool and rushed towards him. “No, Mr. Fox, you have said precisely enough. Indeed, you have said everything that I have longed to hear.”

  “Then why do you hesitate?” He sounded sad.

  “Because it is a great deal to take in, all at once.” She chuckled softly, resting her hand on his shoulder.

  “So, you are not entirely opposed to the idea?”

  “On the contrary, Mr. Fox. I should very much like to accept.”

  “Does that mean you will?”

  She smiled shyly. “I suppose it does. Although, I must discuss the situation with Mr. Edgbaston first. He is the closest thing I have to family, and I will have to inform him of my decision to remain here, with you.”

  “Shall I come with you?”

  She shook her head. “That will not be necessary. I believe it will be much better if I speak with him myself, and then come to you when it is done. We had plans to leave the day after tomorrow, so he may not be in the most peaceful of minds. But I am certain that he will have no cause to detain me. He does not own me, nor does he hold any contract over me. My life is my own, and I choose to spend it here, at your side.”

  She beamed with pleasure as she looked upon the face of the man she would marry, feeling entirely happy. For here was a good man, at long last, who wished to take care of her and love her, and be everything she had sought, all these years.

  Not only that, but she would be able to become a mother to Felicity— a thought even more wonderful than the prospect of marriage. In the last week, she had grown exceptionally close to the young girl, and she did not know if she would have had the heart to abandon such a sweet creature, after forging such a bond.

  “Will you speak with him tonight?”

  Margaret nodded.

  “The moment I return to the caravans.”

  “Then I must not detain you any longer.”

  He covered her hand with his and leaned down to kiss her slender wrist. It was a sweet, tender gesture that made her cheeks flush with warmth. It spoke of wondrous days to come, in which they would be man and wife. And she could not wait for such a day.

  “I will return in the morning, as soon as everything is settled,” she said.

  “I will wait for you, my dearest Miss Loxley.”

  He rose from his seat and kissed her gently on the cheek, her hands pressed to his broad shoulders. With that, he led her from the studio and walked with her towards her horse. He helped her up into the saddle and gazed lovingly into her eyes, as she took hold of the reins. They shared one last, longing smile before she turned the horse around and set off towards Waterham, where she hoped Drake would be agreeable to her request. If he was not, she did not know what she might do.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  As she rode along in a contented daze, a shadowed rider emerged from the nearby trees. He wore a hood low over his face and had been waiting in the cover of the woodland. Wariness and suspicion had drawn him away from Waterham, and this excursion had done nothing to quiet the simmering bitterness in his heart.

  He trailed her all the way back to the caravans, keeping a stealthy distance. Although his eyes never left her, they were fixed on their mark and would not waver. He had heard every word that had been exchanged between Margaret and Leopold, and he did not like it one bit.

  The Songbird sang solely for him. He would not have it any other way. And if this upstart gentleman thought he could steal Margaret away, then he was sorely mistaken. He would not permit it, no matter how fervently Margaret pleaded.

  You are mine, Miss Loxley. You will not forget that again.

  Chapter Nine

  Margaret gathered her courage as she walked towards Drake’s caravan, wearing the violet gown that he had purchased for her. She still did not care for it, but she knew it might make him more amenable to her request. She had returned from Lower Nettlefold half an hour earlier and taken the time to prepare herself. For, in truth, she was dreading the encounter. She knocked nervously on the door of his caravan and waited for his reply.

  “Come in,” he said.

  Taking a shaky breath, she entered. “Mr. Edgbaston, might I speak with you a moment?”

 
“Certainly.” He gestured to a chair, where she duly sat. “What may I help you with, Miss Loxley?”

  “It is a somewhat delicate matter, but I hope you will not be too cross.”

  “Why should I have reason to be cross with you?” His eyes glinted darkly, unnerving her.

  “Well… do you recall a gentleman by the name of Mr. Fox, who came to my aid when my horse bolted?”

  He nodded slowly. “What of him?”

  “He has asked for my hand in marriage, and I have agreed to remain here with him.” She paused. “He has promised me a comfortable life, and I adore him very much. You have been nothing but kind to me, Mr. Edgbaston, and I thank you for taking care of me whilst I have been part of the Halcyon Players. However, I believe it is time that my life took a different path. I cannot remain upon the road for the rest of my days, and I am certain that this is the right choice for me.”

  “Do you love this man?”

  “I do, Mr. Edgbaston.”

  He chuckled. “You are young. What do you know of love? This gentleman is as likely to abandon you as that last fellow. Or have you forgotten?”

  “I have not, but I know that Mr. Fox is not of the same character. He is different. He loves me, and he wishes me to be his wife, and I should like nothing more.” She held her ground, feeling chastened by his curt remark about her past romantic endeavours.

  “I cannot allow it.”

  She stared at him, wide-eyed. “You cannot prevent me.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I am not your possession, Mr. Edgbaston. I may live my life as I see fit. I came here as a courtesy to you, for your generosity over this past six years. And I am sorry that I have disappointed you, but this is my decision and you will not change my mind.” She thought of Leopold and Felicity, and let it bring her courage.