A Lady Most Lovely (42 page)

It was then that the answer came to her. It shot through her with such complete clarity that it left her breathless—an idea that was completely shocking and yet utterly liberating. She must have sat there for hours, turning it over in her mind, marveling that she could consider the idea at all, much less accept it so easily. But accept it she did. Tom would never return to Moreton Hall; therefore, she must leave it.

*

Margaret rode her horse through gloomy mists into town. She tied him up to the iron fence that surrounded the church graveyard, then pushed open the little gate and stepped inside. It was time to make peace with her own past once and for all.

Gray, dismal clouds sent forth a wet snow. Unheeding, Margaret continued on, taking the path to a large gravestone that marked the final resting place of her parents. There they lay, buried side by side, their names etched together on the stone, implying a greater intimacy than they had ever shared in real life. She knelt down in the snow and for several minutes did nothing more than contemplate the grave site. In time, her own tears mixed with the snowflakes lighting upon her face although her heart felt utterly sure and at peace.

“Father, I think it’s time we had a little chat.” After saying these words aloud, Margaret took one more glance around the graveyard to ensure that she was alone. No one was about; all were indoors seeking a warm hearth on such a day. She turned back to the grave. “I have something very important to tell you. You left me with land—and your debts—and the responsibility to save
Moreton Hall from disgrace. You didn’t think I would be able to do it, but you were wrong. Moreton Hall will be well cared for, and it will never go to our enemies. But now I must confess to you, that it isn’t enough for me.”

She stopped to take a breath, wiping away her tears with the back of a gloved hand.

“You see, what can be more important than love?” Hearing herself ask this question of her father brought forth a humorless laugh. “You are not the person to ask that question to, I know. You and Mama had quite a different arrangement. I had planned to follow your example in that regard, too, but now that hasn’t turned out quite according to plan. The plain truth is, I must leave here. I must go to him.”

Forsaking all others.
These words from her marriage vows had been circling in her brain for days, leading her to make the final decision.

“I know you will never understand. I only hope that in some way, you can forgive me. You see, something else that you bequeathed to me was your headstrong determination. I have made a vow, and I am determined to keep it.”

*

Lizzie’s words still echoed in Tom’s heart.
“Go to Margaret,”
she had said.
“Speak to her. Bare your heart.”

It sounded so simple. And yet with everything that had happened, how could he even hope a reconciliation would be possible? He had fallen so far short of the man he wanted to be. When he had told Margaret she was free to go back to Moreton Hall, she had been more than willing to leave. Why would she do so, unless she was content and had no need of him?

“Perhaps she is afraid of the very same thing you are.”

Tom shook his head. He didn’t believe it then, and he did not believe it now. And yet…

“I beg your pardon, sir.”

Tom turned away from the window to see the butler standing at the door. “Yes, what is it?”

“The groom has returned with your horse. He wishes for you to know that it is in the mews, safe and sound.”

His horse. He’d forgotten that he had sent Turner for it some days ago. Here would be a friendly creature, one that had been his steadfast companion. Tom ought to have gone after him sooner.

A few minutes later Tom was in the stable, surveying Castor from head to foot. The horse whinnied softly, as though he were as content as Tom was at their reunion. “You’ve missed me, haven’t you, fella?” Tom said, running a brush over the stallion’s back. Castor’s coat was still too thin for winter; it had not yet caught up to the way they had skipped the usual rotation of the seasons by their voyage up to the northern hemisphere.

Tom’s heart felt as out of place as Castor’s summer coat. Nothing was where it should be. “What would you say if we went back?” Tom asked the horse softly.

Castor snorted and tossed his head, and Tom took a quick step back to avoid the horse’s stamping foot. He moved out of the stall and shut the gate. “You’re right.”

But there were a few things Tom had to do first. He hurried through the gently falling snow. Once he had regained the Somervilles’ study, he found the current issue of the
Times
and turned to the shipping news.

W
here to, m’lady?”

Margaret looked at the cabdriver in surprise—not because of the lofty way he’d addressed her, but because he was wearing a very large and ostentatious sprig of mistletoe attached to his well-worn top hat. He must have been wearing it for weeks; it was a bit worse for wear and a few of the berries looked ready to fall off. He was a broad man; his round cheeks had a ruddy glow from too many hours out in the bitter weather.

Margaret gave him the address. “And hurry, if you please!”

“Right you are, m’lady,” he replied. “I’ll get you to that cozy and welcoming hearth in no time.”

Margaret did not bother to contradict the man, even though she was painfully aware that the hearth that awaited her might be neither welcoming nor cozy. She only knew she had to find out.

When they finally reached the Somerville house, Margaret raced up the steps and fairly pounded on the
door until someone answered. It was Mrs. Claridge, the Somervilles’ housekeeper.

“Why, Mrs. Poole!” She opened the door wide, and Margaret stepped in, relieved to be out of the biting cold.

“Where is Mr. Poole?” she asked breathlessly. “I must see him.”

“I’m so sorry, madam, but he’s gone. They’ve all gone.”

Now that she had caught her breath, Margaret was able to take in her surroundings. Her sudden arrival had taken more people by surprise than just Mrs. Claridge. An entire crew of servants were at work giving the house a thorough cleaning. Some were on hands and knees polishing the baseboards, others gently wiping down the plate on the large dining room table. All had unabashedly stopped their work to stare at Margaret. She was undoubtedly a sight, red-faced from the frost and windblown as she was.

“Where have they gone?” she implored.

“Lord and Lady Somerville left yesterday to spend Christmas at the Somerville house in Kent.”

“And Mr. Poole? Surely he is with them, too?”

Mrs. Claridge shook her head. “I don’t rightly know. He left in a separate carriage at a very early hour.”

One of the men who had been cleaning the baseboards took a step forward. “If I may be of help, Mrs. Claridge?”

“Yes, Peter?”

“I heard Mr. Poole’s valet telling one of our footmen that they were on their way to the docks. Said the ship for Australia was leaving at midnight with the tide, and he had to get there before it left. I can call the footman if you’d like to question him further—”

Margaret held up a hand. “No, thank you. You’ve been very helpful. And thank you, Mrs. Claridge.”

“Mrs. Poole, if I may also add—”

But Margaret didn’t wait to hear the rest. She dashed back to the cab, which was still waiting for her along with her baggage. “Do you know the way to the docks?” she asked.

“Why, of course, madam. Which pier?”

She looked at him, confused. “I don’t know. I need to find a ship bound for Australia. One that’s leaving tonight.”

He nodded. “Right then. To the port authority.”

The roads were dark now, nearly deserted. A thin layer of snow covered the streets, just enough to cause the horse to slip occasionally on the cobbles. Those who were about were hurrying as though to reach their warm hearths, whether grand or meager.

As the carriage approached the port authority building, Margaret tried to collect herself, to plan what she would say and how she would ask about Tom’s whereabouts. She was spared from having to go inside, however. Her heart leaped when a man walked out, closing the door swiftly behind him. She knew immediately that it was Tom.

Her cheeks flamed from excitement and embarrassment. She stepped out of the coach, glad for the way the soft snow fell against her cheeks, cooling them.

He paused, spotting her instantly, in that way he had, that awareness of her presence, whether in a crowded room or an empty house, that always made her spine tingle.

The cabbie stood still, watching them both. It was as
if he knew that she and Tom were to meet here, on this night. She was sure he was able to sense the heat and electricity passing between her and Tom at this moment. She half wondered that the very gas lamps around them did not grow brighter. A breeze blew the gently falling snow into small swirls and lifted the sprig of mistletoe hanging on the coachman’s top hat.

Margaret took two steps forward, wishing with all her might that he would spread his arms wide in a gesture that would invite her into the comforting warmth of his embrace.

But he made no move at all. He stood, watching her, his expression guarded, but unable to hide the piercing yearning. “What are you doing here, Maggie?”

Margaret’s heart did a tiny dance that he could still think of her as his Maggie. “Yes, well, I…” she stammered.
I love you!
she wanted to cry out.
I will thank God to the end of my days if I can only be yours once more.
These thoughts ran riot in her head but could not seem to find their way to her mouth. Instead she stood, helplessly silent, barely able to breathe, much less speak.

Everything within her stilled, however, when he added coldly, “Have you some business for me, then?”

Perhaps the yearning she thought she saw in his eyes had been a mere trick of the gaslight. Snow settled on his hat brim and his lashes, and his face was set hard as stone. Margaret’s legs trembled, but she dared not move, not wanting to show her desperate fear that he might be gone from her forever. “Yes, I do have business.” Her voice was, happily, not as shaky as her legs.

She gestured back toward the carriage. “I’ve brought some papers with me that I need you to sign.”

He closed his eyes briefly, and Margaret was sure she saw pain shoot across his face. “What do you have for me now?” he said. “Something to do with the estate, I expect. Is it more money you’ll be wanting? I thought we were done with this.”

“No.” As the frost formed around her breath as she exhaled, Margaret hoped it would give a corporeal force to the meaning of her word. “I don’t need more money. I need—”

Just Tom.

What if he laughed her to scorn? Told her she was a fool? Refused to take her back? What if her land would slip away from her forever, but without Tom in return? She must risk it. Better to lose all in the attempt than to regret not having taken the chance. She licked her lips, a habitual gesture, but here in the chilly evening it made her lips sting. “I wish to sell the land to Mr. Innes.” Tom’s eyes widened, but Margaret pressed on, desperate to get the words out before she lost what remained of her courage. “I wish to sell the land—the entire estate, all of Moreton Hall—to Mr. Innes. He has been keen to buy it for some time. But I cannot do it without your signature on the bill of sale.”

Tom shook his head in disbelief, as though trying to dislodge cotton wool that had somehow gotten stuck in it. “You wish to sell the land,” he repeated flatly. “But why? You love Moreton Hall. It means everything to you.” His expression was coolly blank. “As well I know.”

Because I love you. I want to be with you, anywhere in the world, rather than alone at Moreton Hall.
Why could she not say the words aloud? She licked her lips again, hoping the frost nipping at them as a result could
spur her to speak. “He’s offered a very good price, you see. Far more than you had paid to get it out of debt. You will come out ahead.”

“You are still trying to pay me back. You don’t wish to be beholden to me.”

“No,” Margaret said. She took two faltering steps forward, unable to fight the desire to get closer to him, her entire body sending him an appeal. “I can never repay you. I can only offer you my love, and hope you can love me in return.” Her words came out quiet, but sure.

“Maggie,” he said softly. His breath seemed to catch on the word. Something flickered in his eyes now—something that this time had nothing to do with the gas lamps, kindling hope in Margaret’s heart.

She threw herself against him, wrapping her arms around his neck, her face pressed hard against his broad chest. “I want only to be with you,” she sobbed. “Anywhere you are, that’s where we will make our home. Please, take me with you to Australia.”

“No.” The word was not spoken harshly, but with certainty. “You would not like Australia, Maggie. You are better off here.”

She clung to him more fiercely, feeling a fool, and yet not caring that every last scrap of her treasured dignity and reserve was now completely gone. “Please,” she begged.