Page 5 of The Tartan Trap

Margaret grasped the edge of the padded seat as the carriage slowly lumbered over a dip on the road. The closer one got to the docks, the worse the roads were. She bit back another remark about Beatrice’s blasted bookshop preferences and said, “There you and I agree, Lily.”

“As if privacy will be an option when we’re all accepting visitors in the same parlor,” Beatrice grumbled.

If Margaret had a biscuit within reach, she would have winged it at Beatrice’s head. There was no surer way to plunge Beatrice into a foul mood than to withhold sustenance. To look at them, one might have guessed Margaret the one who became displeased at a late meal, but it was Beatrice who suffered quickest. And her sister dearly loved company when she experienced said misery.

“It’s a very large parlor,” Lily pointed out. “I daresay it will be an embarrassment the other direction—how silly it will look when we don’t have enough visitors to fill it!”

Beatrice and Margaret shared a sardonic look.

“I doubt that will be a problem,” Margaret said.

On their shopping trip today, a gentleman had pressed his face to the plate window while Lily was choosing a set of gloves on the other side. Another had run directly into a lamppost. The lady in question had never noticed—she seemed as oblivious as she was beautiful to the notice she garnered.

Margaret had once demanded that Lily admit she knew she was pretty. Lily had finally done so, but only under threat of having frogs loosed in her bedroom.

Lily canted her head. “I suppose it hardly matters how many gentlemen call as long as the right one does.” She proceeded to stare out the window with an expression that edged very close to a frown, at least for her.

Margaret’s forehead wrinkled. Ever since Lily had returned from Aunt Lucinda’s, she sometimes grew pensive like that.

“You miss her a lot, don’t you?” Margaret asked gently.

“Who?” Lily turned, her eyes large, her expression alarmed.

“Great Aunt Lucinda, of course.”

“Oh, yes. Very much.” Lily fiddled with the beading at the edge of her purse.

Beatrice pursed her lips and looked out the window, and Margaret stared back and forth between them. For a moment, she could have sworn she’d scented a secret upon the air…

“I’m certainly glad you’re not opposed to being married,” Lily said suddenly. To Margaret, her smile looked rather forced. “For apparently, there are many eligible gentlemen arriving in town as of late. There’s a rumor that the Marquess Beaufort was spotted, and it’s well known that the Duke of Ettrick is in residence at his home in Berkeley Square.”

Margaret’s shoulders lifted. If the Marquess Beaufort was back in London, then it was only a matter of time before his former betrothed would follow him back.

Daisy Knope.

Margaret hardly knew which of them—she or Daisy—was more disappointed that the marquess had called off the engagement. After all, if the marquess had married her, Miss Daisy Knope would have been out of Margaret’s life forever.

At the tender age of seven, Margaret had found her left leg tied to Daisy Knope’s right at a garden party. However, as neither girl was excellent at listening to instruction or cooperating, their three-legged race ended far short of the finish line in a pile of ribbons and pastel skirts.

Daisy had sneered with her rosebud lips and said the words that altered Margaret’s life forever.

“You’re fat.”

Margaret had been too shocked to reply. She’d released the knot that held them together, then walked, stiff-backed, to the sidelines. Her sister Claire had won the race, partnered with the Barrows boy. When they returned to the house, Margaret had gone immediately to the narrow mirror in her bedroom and stared.

Fat.

Everyone knew what the word meant. It meant there was too much of someone. Margaret had rotated this way and that, examined the dimples in her elbows, lifted her skirts to examine her knees. She quickly came to the conclusion that, though Daisy Knope was an unfeeling, spoiled little girl, she was also right—Margaret was fat.

On the heels of the realization came the question: did Margaret care?

Margaret frowned and considered, and decided she actually didn’t mind. Her legs were stout, but they did what legs should do—they carried her up stairs and through gardens and over hills with ease. Her cheeks were overfull, but they bunched pleasantly when she smiled, and Father often brushed his knuckles over one when they played chess together. Her belly was full, but it jiggled when she laughed and her dresses covered it just fine.

So what did she care if she was fat?

Margaret had tilted her head, stuck her tongue out—at her reflection and Daisy’s words, both—and ran back downstairs to find her sisters.

Margaret thought she might have grown out of it, but the fullness that had once resided in her stomach had transferred to other parts of her now—bust, hips, thighs. Perhaps someone artistic and kind might have deemed her Rubenesque, but the young ladies of her circle had been neither.