Page 10 of The Tartan Trap

Margaret’s eyes were wide, her face flushing. “Oh.”

Rachel’s forehead wrinkled. “I thought it a perfectly pertinent, natural question, as she’d just had Persephone. But things felt awkward between us after that, and it was but three days until she announced I was to leave for London and have a Season, so I never had the opportunity to ask again.”

Margaret could feel that her face had gone quite pink. “Well, if you truly are good at keeping secrets, I can answer your question. That is, if you promise never to reveal that it was I who told you.”

“You know?”

“While we were in Paris, our great-aunts told us. They didn’t want us going into marriage as ignorant as they had been. If you promise to keep my secret, I’ll tell you as well.”

“I promise.”

Margaret gathered her courage, determined to give an accurate accounting of what she’d been told, in service of her dear friend.

Perhaps five minutes later, Rachel leaned back, her eyes wide with horror. “That can’t possibly be correct. Why, that’s revolting. Why would any lady ever agree to such a thing?”

Margaret shrugged. “Apparently, that’s how such things are done.”

Rachel grimaced, then said, “I suppose that explains what those ducks were up to in the park the other day—I threw several pebbles, as I was convinced the one was trying to murder the other. It seemed quite determined, even when I ran at them, yelling and flapping my arms.”

Margaret tilted her head, her forehead wrinkled. “You do have a lady’s maid, don’t you?”

“Yes. Sheila. Delightful girl.”

“And she follows you about?” At Rachel’s nod, Margaret added, “Does she happen to be hard of hearing or blind?”

“I’m her first charge. Doubtless she thinks my antics are normal.”

Margaret held her tongue but privately disagreed. One only had to look round a room of other ladies to ascertain that Rachel was her own kind of special.

“It’s a wonder that no one’s thought to record such a thing in an encyclopedia,” Rachel said. “Perhaps they’re all disgusted with themselves, too embarrassed to acknowledge what they’ve done. No wonder women in such a state are cloistered away! It’s from the sheer shame of it.” Rachel blinked. “And to think that my very sister has done such—she must have done—the presence of my niece belies her guilt!”

Margaret cast about for some way to redirect the conversation, but truthfully, she’d been shocked the first time she heard it, too.

Rachel nodded pertly. “After what you’ve disclosed to me today, I’m more determined than ever not to marry.” She pulled a piece of parchment from her tiny beaded purse. “In fact, I’ve come up with a list of ways to repel gentlemen’s advances.”

“I don’t think you’ll have to repel them—you simply tell them ever-so-politely that you aren’t interested.”

“With a dowry as large as mine? Do be serious.” Rachel tilted her head with sudden thought. “Actually, your dowry is even larger than mine. You need to start working on your own list, lest you be cajoled into taking part in”—she flicked her hand and shuddered theatrically—“the process of having children.”

“I’d like to have children, eventually.”

Despite how it sounded, Margaret supposed it couldn’t be completely dreadful, as so many people had accomplished the task.

“If you’re determined to enter into the matrimonial state, I’ll not stop you. I won’t even cut our friendship off if you”—here, Rachel pressed her lips together and closed her eyes as if collecting herself for a moment— “decide to have children.”

“How gracious of you.” Margaret tried to bite back her smile, but her eyes still crinkled.

And this was the power of friendship, she supposed. Only minutes ago, she’d felt she’d never smile again. A scant quarter of an hour with Rachel and she felt almost returned to normal—if she ignored that swoop of fear in her stomach every time she remembered she’d lost an honest record of her inmost thoughts, that is.

“If you don’t wish to prepare a list of how to repel the gentlemen, then you should be making a list of the ones you wish to attract.”

Margaret wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think that’s how it works. The gentlemen are to decide.”

Rachel scoffed. “Are you truly going to let a man decide the course of your existence? Rubbish. If you won’t make a list, I shall make one for you.”

She crossed the room and sat at Margaret’s desk. It was quite in shambles, with papers strewn everywhere. Rachel carefully stacked the jumble of books and moved them from the desk to a nearby table, chose a piece of parchment and a pen from the rubble, then carelessly swept everything else to the ground.

Margaret rolled her eyes.