Page 52 of The Tartan Trap

Margaret couldn’t discount her own senses—she had seen them together. If it had just been a passing moment, Margaret might have written the entire episode off, but Callum and Daisy had spoken for at least five minutes. He had escorted her down the street at a leisurely pace that spoke of friendship.

Margaret winced at the pain in her head. It was no use—despite her natural curiosity that prodded her to wait and see what state the gentlemen returned in, her headache was so intense that her stomach turned. Margaret had perhaps two terrible headaches a year, and it seemed that this was to be one of them. She looked over her shoulder at Beatrice.

Her sister stood immediately and came over; Margaret must have looked nearly as bad as she suddenly felt.

“What is it?” Beatrice frowned down at her. “I saw the duke haul the other gentleman out of here. Has that distressed you?”

“Actually, no.” Margaret squinted against the suddenly too-bright light. “I suddenly have a dreadful headache.”

“Come, let me help you.” Beatrice helped Margaret out of her chair, then assisted her toward the door. Margaret was just thinking how kind her sister was being when Beatrice added, “Let’s get you out of here before your grimace frightens away Lily’s suitors like it did yours.”

CHAPTER 19-MARGARET

The carriage delivered Margaret and the large pots of stew to the decidedly wrong side of town at half past ten on Tuesday. It had been an entire month since Margaret had been able to come personally—the Season had taken more of her time than she’d imagined. That day, she’d had to decline a luncheon invitation to make the journey.

Margaret emerged from the carriage first, followed by Chloe, and then the footmen began unstrapping the large pots from the footboard, where’d they’d been tied down for the journey. A sharp plink, plink, plink caught Margaret’s attention.

The large empty lot on the other side of the church had long been a matter of dispute for the neighborhood. Years ago, a deplorable tenement house rested on the site. Though at first the lodgings may have been respectable—the intent could hardly have been as terrible as the outcome—they soon devolved into the unique misery that overcrowding and underwashing breeds. It was home to no one but harlots, thieves, and those too poor to make their lodgings elsewhere.

Tragedy had struck in the very early morning hours a few years ago. No one knew how the fire started, though there was blame and suspicion enough to go around for all the poor souls who didn’t make it out in time. Nearly a dozen people perished, and the charred husk of the place had only remained long enough to attract rodents before it was torn down. Since then, it had been a balding spot in the neighborhood marked only by the few weeds that dared sprout on such ignominious land.

Now, however, Margaret noted that new trenches had already been dug, a stone foundation laid, and sturdy stone walls were gradually sprouting from the footings. Several teams of stonemasons crawled over the site.

Each group consisted of three workers—one man set a stone and another slopped more mortar onto the wall, while a third hammered at raw stone with a chisel, bringing it to the correct shape or size before it was placed. All around them, young boys—apprentices, most likely—carried stones from a pile in the corner to the workmen.

Margaret blinked when she realized that she recognized two of the young boys. Until recently, they had been unemployed lay-abouts who slept and ate at the orphanage. Their grouping had been an advertisement for the limitations of such an institution—though it could feed and shelter them, it couldn’t help them make their way in life in the manner parents might.

Though familiar to her, neither of the boys noted Margaret; their heads were bent to their respective tasks. She smiled at the sight. What a joy it was to see idle hands turned to honest labor!

She was still smiling as she ducked into the low entrance of the kitchen, her maid and two footmen trailing after her. Chloe carried a basket full of fresh bread; the footmen bore one of the large stockpots between them.

Though long and larger than most of the rooms in the orphanage, the kitchen was made claustrophobic by the low ceilings and the haze of smoke that never seemed to clear, no matter that the window at the far end and the kitchen door stood permanently open to entice a breeze.

“Is it not the most wonderful thing, Miss?” Mrs. Fuller said, her eyes bright as she hurried over.

Margaret jerked to a stop in her shock. She had seen the woman nearly every week for the past few years, excepting those days that had been so dark and cruel as to have seen Margaret herself go too hungry. She had never witnessed more than a half-smile upon the woman’s face, not even when Margaret had brought stew for the first time and informed her it would be a weekly tradition.

“Whatever do you mean?” Margaret asked, her head tilted.

“You haven’t heard!” Mrs. Fuller held a hand to her heart, as if in raptures that she would get to be the one to relay whatever delightful information she was privy to. “Why, the lot next door, Miss. It’s been sold.”

Margaret nodded toward the old, soot-blackened stove, indicating that the footmen might set the pot there as usual. They hefted the large thing onto the warming burner and ducked out the door to retrieve the others.

“That’s wonderful,” Margeret said.

The lot had been a blight upon the area for too long, attracting vagrants who had been ousted from everywhere else. They often lay on the ground on discarded tarpaulins until late into the morning—frightening lumps of inactivity that only attracted more of their kind.

“If that were all, it would have been enough,” Mrs. Fuller said, clasping Margaret’s hands.

Margaret looked down, stunned. It wasn’t that she felt the action impertinent—she and Mrs. Fuller had been acquaintances for years. It was more the intensity of the grip that shocked her.

Mrs. Fuller continued, “The orphanage has attracted a patron. Forgive me for being indelicate, Miss, but he is a very wealthy patron, indeed.”

“I don’t understand.” Margaret frowned.

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Fuller said, the smile sliding from her features. “How thoughtless of me. Forgive me, Miss Preston. You have done so much for us here. Bringing food, paying for the building to be repaired and repainted. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful; truly I don’t.”

“Impossible.” Margaret shook her head. “You’ve been so appreciative that I’ve been more than repaid for whatever small things I’ve done on behalf of St. Alban’s.”