A Lady Most Lovely (31 page)

She turned sharply from the bed and hurried out, closing the door firmly behind her.

Bessie came quickly to her summons, and in no time Margaret was dressed and downstairs. When she reached the breakfast room, the butler informed her that Tom had already left the house, but not before he’d consumed a substantial breakfast. “He does like to eat,” the butler said. “I believe his words were, ‘Got a big day ahead. Got to be fortified.’ ”

Margaret sat down to breakfast alone, just as she had done countless times. This morning, however, the room held a kind of hollow silence she hadn’t noticed before. She was oddly aware of the clink of her teaspoon against the china and the quiet rustle of the footman bringing the food. She told herself she was imagining things, and tried to concentrate instead on all the things she had to do today. After months of being away in London, she had plenty of things to catch up on.

She was still eating when she heard footsteps coming down the hall. She looked up as Tom came in. His boots were dusty and his hair disheveled from the September winds. Margaret was amazed at how easily his presence could fill a room. He bent down to kiss her cheek. “Hello, my love.” His brow furrowed as he got a good look at her. “Didn’t you sleep well?”

Margaret thought the dark circles under her eyes must have given her away. She had seen them, too, as she stood before the mirror dressing. But she was unwilling to discuss her lack of sleep here in front of the servants, so she said casually, “Mitchell told me you went out. Did you go for a walk?”

“Yes. I went to inspect the barn. I want to be sure
the disease is completely gone before I bring Castor up here.”

“The stables are perfectly safe. Williams has seen to that already.”

Tom shook his head. “I directed the stable hands to do another cleaning. I want the barn emptied completely. They are going to pull out every last bit of straw and wood shavings, and wash down every surface with soap and creolin solution.”

Margaret chafed. She knew Williams would not like this directive, and she didn’t like it much either. Surely it was unnecessary work. “But you saw our horses last night,” she protested. “They are perfectly healthy. Are you going to second-guess all of our decisions?”

“Whoa,” he said, holding up a hand. “You should be glad I’m getting involved in all the day-to-day decisions. Would you really prefer a husband who took no interest at all in how this estate is managed?”

“There is a fine line between taking an interest and meddling. You don’t know this place the way Williams does.”

“Your argument makes no sense,” Tom rejoined. “You say I don’t know enough, but you would chastise me for trying to learn more about it.”

Unable to think of a reply, Margaret drained the last of the coffee from her cup.

The butler entered. “Mr. Williams is in the study,” he announced.

Margaret began to rise from her chair, but Tom stopped her by placing a hand deftly on her shoulder. “No need to join us,” he said. “Finish your breakfast.”

“But I want to—”

He pressed harder, leaving her no choice but to remain seated. “Please. I insist.” He gave her shoulder a small squeeze before releasing it.

Margaret sat, unmoving, until he had left the room. Then she forced herself to take a few more bites of food, largely for the benefit of the footman serving her. She hated to look as though she had lost control in her own house, yet indulging in a full-scale mutiny was not the way to combat this image. For now, she must look as unruffled as possible.

By the time she’d left the breakfast room, she found Tom and Williams already in the hallway putting on their hats. “We’re going out,” Tom informed her.

“You can’t leave without telling me your plans,” she protested, stepping between them and the door. “Where are you going?”

“Williams is going to show me around and acquaint me with the harvesting.” He lifted his eyebrows, his look inquiring whether she was going to give up her post.

Reluctantly she moved aside. As they passed her, Williams gave her a glance that looked both apologetic and irritated, as if to say, “I’m sorry for this, but
you
have put him in this position.”

“I won’t be back for luncheon,” Tom said over his shoulder as he and Williams descended the front steps. “I will be back for tea, however. Then we can review the finances.”

Tom strode quickly across the yard to where a groom stood waiting, holding two horses that were already saddled. Williams had to hurry to keep up with Tom’s long, purposeful strides. Margaret watched as Tom mounted the horse with an easy grace that bespoke years
of experience. Williams took the other horse, and the two rode off at a brisk trot.

Watching him disappear down the lane, Margaret felt ungrounded, like she was suddenly a visitor in her own home. Something very important was slipping from her grasp. She looked over the wide valley. It was still hers, but it wasn’t hers. A voice within her protested,
What right does he have?
But she knew the answer already. Yes, the property was still hers, but the law would certainly side with Tom, an able man and her husband, if he wished to take full control.

Margaret considered having a horse saddled and following them. But they had just four horses at the moment, and the two not being used by Tom and Williams were needed for harvest work. She would just have to occupy herself here.

Immediately she went to the study, knowing there would be a stack of correspondence requiring her attention. She would get everything organized before Tom returned to “discuss” the financial matters. Surely he could not help but be impressed at how she had managed so admirably over the years with so few resources. As soon as she entered, however, Margaret saw with irritation that Tom had already been here, too. The servants had placed the papers on her large desk just as she had trained them to do, divided into three neat stacks of bills, business correspondence, and personal letters. But to her irritation, the first two stacks had already been opened and probably read. She stood looking at the desk, feeling violated. The fact that he had not opened the letters that were clearly personal did little to appease her. Tom had wasted no time in putting his nose into affairs that, up until two days ago, were none of his concern.

It took Margaret two hours to review everything. So much had piled up in her absence. Many bills were related to the wedding preparations, and others were brought on by the running of the estate. Yet as she went over them, Margaret concluded that nothing had been in excess of what was absolutely necessary. Tom could not possibly challenge her on any of it. And yet, for all her pains, what had she achieved?

With a sigh, she dropped the last bill back in place and stood up. Looking out the large window, she could see that the clouds were gray and ominous, ready to unleash another torrent of rain. She could only hope they’d be able to get in the wheat before it rotted in the fields. Knowing they now had the benefit of Tom’s riches did not assuage her concerns. She’d seen how quickly money could drain away.

Never lose the land.
Her grandfather had drummed this into her ears time and time again. Well, she thought bitterly, she had done exactly what he had raised her to do. She’d succeeded in that, despite her father’s declaration in his final, drunken stupor, that she would fail. And yet here she was, still dependent on another man’s whims—a man who for some reason was having dealings with her greatest enemy.

If Tom’s interaction with Richard had ended at the wedding breakfast, Margaret might have been more at ease. She might have believed Tom was merely reacting to Richard’s rude intrusion. And, angry as she had been at the time, she admitted to herself now that she had taken some satisfaction in the fact that Richard had gotten exactly what he deserved. But she sensed that there was something deeper at work. Tom’s explanation of why
he had visited Richard the next day did not entirely convince her. When pieced together with his sudden desire to do business with Paul, nothing about his actions made sense.

Tom was a man of contradictions—she had known that from the beginning. He had asked her to trust him, but how could she when his actions seemed to threaten the very things she was fighting for?

She reached up to push back a stray lock from her face, and found her hand was trembling. The fears she had tried to push aside now returned sevenfold. She would use those fears as a constant reminder that she would have to remain continuously on guard to protect what was rightfully hers.

*

Tom wiped the sweat from his brow and tried to shake some of the dust loose from his clothes as he prepared to enter the building that functioned as Moreton’s little post office. He envied his horse, which was presently drinking greedily from the water trough outside. Tom was thirsty, too, and dead tired. But the day had been worth it.

He’d spent the bulk of it riding over all of the Moreton Hall holdings with Williams, meeting the tenants, helping out where he could. Time and time again the clouds had been on the verge of opening wide, threatening to rain on the wheat before they could bring it in. Each time, Tom had found himself praying with all his might and pitching in as everyone redoubled their efforts. And each time, the clouds had passed.

Even now, he noticed, glancing up once more, the sky, though gray and somber, did not threaten rain. The
danger had passed them by. He gave another silent prayer of thanks to God as he opened the post office door and went inside.

A bell on the door clanged as he entered. An older man, graying and stooped, turned from where he’d been sorting letters and parcels. He gave Tom a nod and a pleasant, if mostly toothless, smile and welcomed him.

“Good afternoon,” Tom said. “Are you the postmaster?”

“I am. That is, if you could give such a grand name to the little tasks I perform here.” He indicated the small pile of mail he’d been sorting. “I don’t get a whole lot of work.” He smiled self-deprecatingly. “But it gives me something to do, and my wife, Nelda, says it’s good to be rid of me for a while each day.”

Tom offered his hand for the man to shake. “I’m Tom Poole.”

“Very glad to meet you,” the old man said, returning his handshake. “I’m Jim Rawlins. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Have you?”

“Don’t need a telegraph—my wife is attached to all the gossip. You’re the new owner of Moreton Hall.”

Tom had heard pretty much the same thing from everyone else he’d met today. But there was no point in telling them that he and Margaret were sharing the ownership of the land. “Yes, I’m privileged to be there now. I look forward to becoming a part of this community.”

“Well, I wish you both much happiness. Mrs. Poole is beautiful, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she is.”

“My Nelda was quite a beauty in her day. Still is, of course, where it counts.” He gently tapped his heart,
and Tom had to smile. “I’m happy to see Mrs. Poole so well married,” Rawlins continued, studying Tom with appreciation.

“You do me much credit.”

“Well deserved, I’m sure—based on everything else we’ve heard about you.”

“About my time in Australia, do you mean?”

“That’s right. The gold mines, the shipwreck.” He grinned broadly. “What stories you have to tell, I’m sure!”

“There are plenty,” Tom acknowledged.

“Mrs. Poole has had some difficult years, you know. Ever since she was a child, there has been so much uncertainty, a lot of speculation about the land. A lot of bad blood between her and her cousins.”

“Do you know the Spencers?”

“I’ve met ’em.” Rawlins’s expression turned dark. “Wouldn’t give tuppence for the whole lot. I’d be happy if none of them ever sets foot in Moreton again. That’s why we’re glad you’re here.” He straightened as much as his hunched back would allow, and the smile returned once more to his face. “God willing, you’ll have fine young heirs, and the Vaughn line will continue—in blood, if not precisely in name.”

Tom appreciated the man’s frankness. If everyone felt as Rawlins did, it would explain why the tenants had greeted Tom so hospitably today. “Thank you, Mr. Rawlins. I’ll do my best to live up to your high hopes.” Tom would of course have to take Margaret into his bed before this much-anticipated heir could arrive. However, just as the good folks of Moreton did not need to know the details of the land ownership, they certainly did not need to know about his and Margaret’s conjugal arrangements.
Or lack thereof. He cleared his throat. “Mr. Rawlins, I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Of course,” the man replied without hesitation. “What can I do for you?”

“I may receive some correspondence that will be marked to be held here until I call for it. I would appreciate it very much if you would keep an eye out for those letters and hold them aside as directed.”

To his credit, Rawlins didn’t even blink. No doubt he’d handled plenty of confidential matters in his day. “You can count on me, Mr. Poole.”

“Thank you,” Tom said with a grateful smile. “I’d also like to add—although it goes without saying, I’m sure—that I’m counting on your absolute discretion in this matter.”

“I won’t breathe a word of it,” Rawlins assured him. “Not to anyone.”

*

Margaret sat in the parlor, with the tea growing cold, waiting for Tom. She tapped her foot impatiently while she distracted herself by gazing out the window. All day long, as she’d gone about her tasks, she’d been amazed that the looming rain never arrived. That must be why Tom was late. With the rain holding off, the workers would be taking advantage of every minute to bring in the crops. Perhaps Tom was spending the day in the fields, harvesting like some common laborer.

When the parlor door finally opened, Margaret turned, not to see Tom as she’d expected, but Williams. “Hasn’t Mr. Poole come back with you?” she asked in surprise.

“No. We split up about an hour ago. He was on his way to town. Said he had some business to attend to there.” He dropped into a chair, and Margaret thought she had never seen him looking so dusty and out of sorts.

“What kind of business?”

“He didn’t tell me. He asked me to come to the house and tell you he’d be along ‘directly.’ ” Williams’s manner of delivering this message showed both what he thought about being an errand boy and about Tom’s choice of vocabulary.