A Lady Most Lovely (41 page)

Tom grimaced. “I appreciate your kind words, but I haven’t any right to them.” Indeed, he thought, Lizzie ought not to be thanking him. She ought to be scolding him for all the ways he had done more harm than good.

She cocked her head a little and looked at him the way she sometimes did when she was about to deliver a lecture, so perhaps that’s what she had in mind after all. “The fact is, dear brother, you tend to want to solve everyone’s problems
yourself
—unilaterally, without anyone else’s input or help. Through the years I have been guilty of encouraging this behavior, because I have always trusted you and followed along willingly.”

Tom would love to have contested this; in fact, he opened his mouth to do so. But she gave a small shake of her head, cutting off his protests. “Please do not misunderstand me,” she continued. “I know your heart has always been right. Often, I deferred to your decisions. But I am your sister, not your wife.” She laughed. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of that. The thing is, a wife is someone with whom you must have full sharing and open your heart completely. You never fully took Margaret into your confidence, did you?”

No. He had not.

“Go to her,” Lizzie urged. “Speak to her. Bare your heart. Hold nothing back.”

Geoffrey nodded to confirm the truth of what Lizzie was saying. “We know this from personal experience, Tom. Nothing can be truly resolved—and love certainly cannot grow—until you have taken that step.”

Tom tried to imagine himself and Margaret as open and loving with one another as Geoffrey and Lizzie were. He craved it, but he knew it was a vain dream. “Everything I have done, I have done for you, Lizzie.”

Even as he said this, Tom knew it was not entirely true. Yes, he had been desperate during these past weeks to save Lizzie’s reputation. But his desire to protect Margaret had started his most recent troubles and been a driving factor in all he’d tried to do.

“Things are different now,” Lizzie said. “For this cause shall a man leave his father and mother—and his sister,” she added with a little smirk. “Geoffrey and I have each other. If people shun us because of my past mistakes, there is nothing we can do about that. We can only live today as best we can. We must place our lives in the Lord’s hands, Tom. Our own are quite insufficient for the task.”

Her voice broke a little as she finished, and Geoffrey came over and put his arms around her. “Oh, my dearest,” he murmured, kissing her cheek.

They were the picture of harmony and contentment, their eyes brimming with tears of love for each other. When they turned their gaze on Tom, he stood up abruptly, running his hands through his hair, using the motion to hide the telltale sting of tears in his own eyes. “You are a sentimental one, Lizzie. The answers are not so easy as that.”

“I did not mean to imply that they were. The best
things in life rarely come easily.” She looked over at the sweet face of baby Edward sleeping in the cot next to the bed, as though to illustrate her point.

“You two were able to overcome your problems because you love each other.”

“I believe that deep down she loves you, Tom,” Lizzie insisted. “You have kept her at arm’s length. If she has done the same, perhaps it is because she has been struggling with the very same fears that you have.”

Margaret afraid? Tom could not believe this. Hard, yes. Haughty and disdainful and self-sufficient, no doubt. Lizzie’s words, if they were to be believed, would set the situation in a much different light. But it could not be true.

“You are also very proud, the two of you,” Lizzie proclaimed. “Heaven help you both.”

Tom turned and walked to the door. His thoughts were in a jumble, and there was nothing more any of them could say that would help. As usual, talking only ever made things worse.

“Will you go to her?” Lizzie asked hopefully.

Tom shook his head. It was hard to deny his sister anything, but she was asking for too much. “I need time to think.”

S
now blanketed the landscape, sparkling in the winter sun. Margaret sat at the window, deep in contemplation. Christmas was approaching, but Margaret had made no plans. She had politely declined several dinner invitations, all of which had been addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Poole. Her affairs were in limbo. On the outside, the pattern of her life looked no different than it had last winter—Margaret was alone, steeped in the quiet solitude of a country winter. Only the inner reality of her turbulent thoughts contradicted this. She was a far different person than she had been at this time last year.

“You’ve been at that window for hours, madam,” Bessie said. She was seated nearby with her sewing, keeping Margaret company. She was looking at Margaret with concern. “It can’t be healthy to sit and mope.”

Margaret turned from the window. “I assure you I am not moping. Merely thinking.”

“It’s a fine line between the two, I’d say,” Bessie said stoutly.

Margaret rose and smoothed the wrinkles from her gown. “As it happens, I was just thinking of taking a ride.”

“In this weather?” Bessie looked at her aghast.

“You can’t have it both ways, Bessie,” Margaret chided. “Come and help me change into my riding clothes.”

The day was fine, and the blanket of snow only an inch thick, and Bright Star had no trouble navigating the narrow lane. How utterly beautiful everything was. She remembered the times she and Tom had ridden this path together, and was struck with a pang of loneliness—a sensation that was becoming entirely too familiar.

So many things about the future were still uncertain; so many details had yet to be settled. Mr. Hawthorne had been writing frequently, keeping her abreast of all that was happening in London. Tom was determined to give everything to her, including a sizable amount of money. He was, it seemed, buying her off. Perhaps he was glad to be done with her. And who could blame him? She had not come close to being the kind of wife he would have wanted, and brought him nothing but problems as well.

She brought her horse to a stop at the crest of a hill and looked out over the gently undulating valley below. The trees were bare now, and although it was a half mile away Margaret could see the little cottage in the woods where Tom had proposed to her. Memories flooded her mind of the way he had kissed her that day, and every evening thereafter. She flushed with heat, breathing deeply of the chilly air in an attempt to counteract it. Somehow Margaret could not bring herself to fully believe those days were gone, that she would never see Tom again.

In the heat of the moment on that last terrible day before she’d left London it had been easy to agree with
Tom that they were better off parting from each other. She had been convinced that the threat to his freedom, and to Moreton Hall, had been real. And in truth, she had been afraid of him after those revelations about his past. Now that she understood everything, she knew that Tom was an honorable man who would never hurt those he loved. And now, in his absence, she truly realized how much he had come to mean to her. As she looked out over the achingly beautiful landscape, she finally allowed herself to admit how desperately she missed him.

Here, laid out before her, was all she’d fought so hard to achieve. For years her sole aim had been to keep her land and to be free of debts. She was in control of her land now, and her livelihood. But she had lost control of her heart. This was, at last, what she understood as she looked out over everything she used to hold most dear.

Slowly she turned her horse and began the trek back home. As she neared Moreton Hall, her eye was caught by a horse and rider in the distance. Her breath caught as she realized the horse was Castor, Tom’s stallion. The horse had been at Moreton Hall ever since Tom had brought him here weeks before. Had Tom returned? She set Bright Star into a trot to close the gap between them.

No sooner had she done this than she realized Tom was not the man riding the stallion. It was Kevin. The disappointment hit Margaret with such force that she pulled her own horse to an ungainly stop, very nearly falling off in the process. She was breathing heavily, pushing back the tears that tried so insistently to force themselves into the open. She sat, unmoving, as Kevin approached and stopped a short distance away.

Vaguely Margaret heard him offer a polite greeting,
but she could only stare at him, stupidly caught in her vain wish that he had been Tom. “What are you doing?” she rasped.

“Mr. Poole asked me to ride Castor regularly while he was gone. He was concerned about the horse staying in shape.” He patted the stallion’s neck. “We’re just finishing a nice workout.” Castor pranced, tossing his head, clearly still full of energy. Margaret’s eyes were on the horse, but for some reason she could only see Tom racing him down the green at Hyde Park.

Reacting to the apparently stricken look on Margaret’s face, Kevin said apologetically, “Have I done something wrong?”

“No,” she said quietly, eking out a wobbly smile. “You did nothing wrong.”

She turned her horse away, largely to hide her pain. Kevin rode a polite distance behind her as they returned to the stables. While a stable boy tended to her horse, Margaret leaned on a railing and watched as Kevin removed Castor’s saddle and began to brush him down. How many times had Tom done this task himself, for the sheer joy of it, tenderly caring for the animal that had meant so much to him.

Margaret found a particular comfort every time she looked at Castor. She’d been telling herself it was because he was such a beautiful animal. If she were honest with herself, the real reason was because she had been expecting Tom to return for him any day now. If Tom was serious about leaving Margaret, surely he would come here to fetch his horse. At the very least, this would give Margaret one last opportunity to see him.

The tiny spark of hope nurtured by this thought suddenly
lit up when she heard a wagon approaching. Perhaps he was coming back after all. She raced out to the yard, only to see a dogcart driven by one of the local farmers and carrying a passenger she vaguely recognized. He was a young man, wearing clean work clothes. He jumped down from the cart and tipped his worn hat to Margaret. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Poole,” he said, bowing his head deferentially. “I don’t expect you’ll remember me, but my name is John Turner. I work for Lord Somerville.”

“Of course,” Margaret said, trying to place him. A footman, perhaps? “All is well, I hope?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am,” Turner responded. “Lady Somerville and the baby are getting on quite well, and of course Lord Somerville is ever so proud.” He gave her a sheepish smile and looked embarrassed, perhaps wondering if he had spoken too freely.

“Can you tell me—” Margaret stopped short. She had wanted to ask about Tom, where he was and what his plans were. But a servant like John Turner was not likely to know that, and in any case, it would look terrible if Margaret could not claim a knowledge of her own husband’s whereabouts. She did at least have that much pride, if not much more. Instead she said, “What is the purpose for your visit today?”

“I’m here at the direction of Mr. Poole,” he answered. As he spoke, Margaret finally remembered where she had seen Turner—he was one of the grooms. A particular kind of dread filled her when Turner pulled a letter from his pocket and extended it toward Margaret. “Mr. Poole wants me to bring his horse back to London.”

Margaret stared at the letter. “No.” It could not be.

Turner’s arm faltered, but he kept it extended. With
an apologetic tone and without meeting her eyes he said, “Mr. Poole told me to give you this letter as proof of his instructions—just in case you should doubt me.”

As Margaret took the letter, some distant part of her brain wondered how she could stand there so stoically when the last of her hopes had fallen, shattering into countless pieces all around her. “That’s quite all right, Turner,” she said, her shock actually sending her into a numb calm. “I’m sure everything is exactly as it should be.”

*

For nearly a week after Turner had left with Tom’s horse, Margaret remained in a kind of dazed fog, unable to come to terms with the reality that Tom truly had no intention of ever returning. Over and over again she told herself this was for the best, forcing herself to rail against Tom in anger. He had been the one to lecture her about marriage, but now he was the one most anxious to bring it to an end. What right had he to use her so? She was determined to rise above it, to show Tom that she could function perfectly well on her own. She certainly had plenty of experience. She had done it for years.

She occupied herself by systematically going through every room in Moreton Hall, making list after list of the repairs and improvements to be made—from patching a drafty window to purchasing new bed furnishings. She had saved Tom’s room for last. On the day she finally entered it, she tried to look at it objectively, to concentrate on mundane things such as whether the wardrobe would benefit from refinishing. Instead, she found herself sinking onto the bed, overtaken by the hollow loneliness that echoed around the room.