Kenneth MacGregor.
It carried with it a reputation that required no elaboration.
“… it is the most advantageous course, marrying me youngest,” their father said in a voice that was untouched by hesitation or doubt. “The matter will proceed accordingly.”
And there it was. A decision made, without their acknowledgement. Margaret felt the meaning of it gather, piece by piece, until it stood whole and undeniable before her.
The lass.
The arrangement.
MacGregor.
Eleonor.
Her fingers tightened around her sister’s hand, though she did not speak. She felt as if something had stolen her ability to speak. For in that moment, there was no longer anything uncertain in what they had heard.
Eleonor was to be given.
The voices did not continue long. Whether the conversation had reached its natural end or was carried elsewhere, Margaret could not say, but after a moment there came a quiet so complete it was more alarming than the sound that had preceded it.
Eleonor did not wait to confirm it. She seized Margaret’s hand and drew her swiftly from behind the curtain, the fabric falling back into place as though it had never been disturbed. They stood in the corridor, looking and listening, but there was nothing more to be heard.
Then they ran with the urgency of those who know they could not be seen. Their steps were quick, as they turned throughfamiliar passages without pause until, at last, they reached the door of their chamber.
Eleonor pushed it closed behind them with more force than was her habit. And then, she turned. Whatever composure she had held until that moment gave way entirely.
“Nay,” she said, the word breaking from her with a force that startled even Margaret. “Nay, I cannae… I willnae…”
Her hands trembled as she pressed them to her temples, pacing once across the room before stopping again, her breath unsteady.
“I cannae marry that man,” she said, more quietly now, though no less resolute. “I willnae.”
Margaret moved toward her at once. “Eleonor?—”
“There is only one man I would ever marry,” she continued, and the words tumbled over one another as though they had long been held and could no longer be contained. “Only one and ye ken it. Stephen Allway, and nay other. And Faither will never… he would never…” This was where her voice faltered.
The certainty of it seemed to strike her all at once.
“He will never give his consent,” she divulged with the last of her strength in the matter draining. “He would sooner?—”
Margaret took her hands. “Then he must nae ken.”
Eleonor stilled. The words did not at once make sense.
“What?” she asked, her voice scarcely more than a whisper.
Margaret’s expression did not waver.
“He cannae refuse what he is never asked tae permit,” she explained.
Eleonor searched her face. The confusion was slowly being substituted by the dawning of understanding.
“That is madness,” she said, though not with conviction. “He would… if he finds out…”
“He willnae,” Margaret assured her with a calm that seemed, in that moment, wholly uncharacteristic and yet entirely her own. “Nae if it is done properly. And when he daes find out, it will be too late fer him tae change anything.”
The admission wasn’t as difficult as she thought it would be. Eleonor drew a breath. Her earlier agitation was not gone, but at least now, she was not merely fearful. She was also hopeful.
