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“No, no, no!” The words sounded frantic and she tried to take a calming breath. “That is quite enough,” she scolded herself. “Stop it, Margaret.”
Did Do
minic really think they could carry on in this way and no one would find out? Was he so lacking in good sense that he couldn’t understand the scandal that would whip up about them if it was discovered they were more than mere acquaintances? Denwick was a small place and the people were always eager for gossip to pass their days. What if Lady Strangeways found out about them kissing? What if she told the vicar?
Margaret clasped her trembling hands together and told herself they wouldn’t find out because it was not going to happen again. She would make it clear to him next time they met. She would find a moment with him where she could make it perfectly plain that his attentions were not welcome and he must stop them and go home to Mockingbird Square.
It was only as the coach came to a stop outside the vicarage that she realised there was a tear drying on her cheek. Margaret dealt with it, ready with a smile when the earl’s servant opened her door for her.
“Thank you,” she said, and stepped down. The old horse was untied from the rear of the coach and returned to its stall. A moment later, Margaret was back in the safety of her home, although why she thought Dominic couldn’t reach her here she wasn’t certain.
She could hear voices from the vicar’s study, and the muted murmurs of the cook and her helper from the kitchen, while there was silence from upstairs in her mother’s bed chamber. The clock in the hall was ticking away the minutes until the next meal, and for a moment she imagined it was ticking away the minutes of her life.
Was she becoming as dramatic as Dominic? The Margaret she knew would not stand listening to the long case clock, not when she had so many tasks to perform. Where had that level-headed and serious young woman gone? What the earl had said to her, the declarations he had made, they could not be. They could never be. Surely he knew that? He was no fool, of course he did. But then why was he turning her life into a maelstrom with his kisses and making her want things she could never have?
It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair …
“Margaret? Are you there?”
Margaret looked toward the top of the narrow stairs. Her mother was standing on the landing, her hair down, her eyes wide and frightened.
“Mother?”
“I needed you and you weren’t here,” her mother went on, as if she hadn’t spoken. “I needed you, Margaret, because … because …” But evidently the reason eluded her and she shook her head in frustration.
“Come,” Margaret was already climbing the stairs toward her, “I’ll help you back to your room. Are you hungry? I’m sure I can find you a little something before supper. Tea and toast, perhaps?”
Once she had the older woman settled in her chair before the fire, and stirred up the coals, she found a rug to tuck around her—the room was icy—and took her mother’s frail hands in hers to rub back to warmth.
“There,” she kept saying. “Everything is all right now.”
Her mother was silent, obedient as a child. Then, quite suddenly, she looked up and her eyes were wide and aware as they rarely were these days. “Margaret,” she said clearly, “I think I am losing my mind.”
For a moment Margaret was too shocked to say anything, and then she struggled to murmur reassurance. “No, of course you’re not. You are just a little worn down, as Doctor Lowry said.”
“Margaret, this was why I wanted you to come home and marry Louis,” her mother said, still as if she hadn’t heard a word. “Because I couldn’t manage any more. I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Of course you are.”
“Lily said it was wrong and that I should go to her. She has a nice little house in Portobello, and she would take care of me, but your father will not hear of it. Besides, now you are home.”
“Yes, I am home.”
The house in Portobello sounded very nice, and just for a moment Margaret let herself imagine how much easier life would be if her father and aunt got on. “Is Aunt Lily coming for Christmas?” she asked. Some years she did, but as she had already visited this year, perhaps she would stay at home.
“Write and ask her,” Mrs Willoughby murmured.
“If you wish me to …?”
“Wish me to what?” her mother’s eyes were closing and before Margaret could answer her she had nodded off to sleep.
Margaret sat with her in silence. The disordered thoughts of earlier had quite vanished. She’d already made her choice. She’d made it when she returned to Denwick. Her mother needed her, and if that meant living under her father’s roof then so be it. She would marry Louis and live a productive and useful life, an unselfish life. Because to want more, to selfishly set her sights on her own happiness before others, was to be the sort of person Margaret could never be.
The next morning Dominic and his sister broke their fast in the private parlour at the White Boar, away from the stares and whispers of the villagers and other guests. There were a surprising number of travellers who came through the village, heading back and forth from Scotland, but Mrs Black, the innkeeper’s wife, made certain the earl was not bothered.
Dominic reached over to help himself to some more sausage and bacon, while Sibylla sat back, replete, watching him. “More coffee?” she asked, reaching for the pot.
“Thank you.”
