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He thought she might be hurt and he’d have to apologise, but if she was she didn’t show it. Instead she pulled a face at him. “At least I made my own decision without interference from our father, and most of the time I was happy.”
He grunted and took another sip of the brandy, swirling the remainder in his glass, watching the colours change in the light from the only lamp still burning. It reminded him of Margaret’s hair in the candlelight, and suddenly she was so present to him he could hear her voice and see her smile.
It was going to take him some time to regain his usual equilibrium, time and quite a few glasses of brandy.
“Goodnight, Sibylla,” he muttered pointedly.
She closed the door.
2
Winter 1816, Denwick, Northumberland, England
The air was brisk, and every breath Margaret sighed out was cloudy white. She hurried across the village square, which was small and mean compared to Mockingbird Square, making her way toward the vicarage. Her father would be waiting and she was already late, and that meant he would notice her.
Mr Willoughby, the Vicar of Denwick, was very much the poor relative when compared with his brother, who had made himself a tidy fortune in trade and manufacturing. He had hoped to rise high in the church hierarchy, but despite all his efforts it had never happened, and he was stuck here in a poverty-stricken parish. It made him a disappointed and embittered man, who used every opportunity to make those around him miserable as well. He seemed to find pleasure in it.
Since she’d returned home two months ago, Margaret had tried to be invisible when it came to her father. That might have sounded like an impossible task for an only daughter, but it was amazing how, if she worked away at her allotted tasks in the background and said very little, and if there was nothing in his day to irritate him more than normal, he barely paid her any attention at all.
The situation was not ideal. Far from it. But even when the vicar was at his worst, she still had her private thoughts to escape to. Since she’d left London she had found that the faces of the people she knew there had become clearer. She suspected that with time they would fade, of course they would, but for now they were her companions in adversity.
A month ago, her cousin Olivia’s visit had lifted her spirits. Olivia, accompanied by her husband Rory Maclean, had been on her way south to Mockingbird Square from their castle at Invermar. But when they left to continue their journey, Margaret had fallen into a melancholy. She’d wished so much that she could go with them—Olivia had even tentatively suggested it. But how could she leave? She felt as if that avenue of escape had closed forever and she was trapped in this humdrum reality. Some days she felt as if she couldn’t breathe.
Margaret had never been a dramatic girl. She was sensible and thoughtful, and rarely let a situation overwhelm her, so this new intense Margaret made her apprehensive. As well as struggling to breathe under the weight of her family’s expectations, she felt as if she only had two choices—explode in frustration, or wither away into a husk of her former self.
“There you are, Margaret. You’re late and we’re all waiting.”
Any hope she’d had of slipping inside without a fuss was dashed. The vicar was standing in the sitting room doorway, frowning. Hastily, she divested herself of her outdoor clothing.
“I’m here now, Father.”
“The fire needs feeding. I have rung for a servant, but either they are completely deaf or the house is empty.”
“Servants are always deaf,” Lady Strangeways murmured as Margaret entered the sitting room. “Margaret, you are looking peaky. I fear the bloom of youth is well and truly behind you. What is your age again, girl?”
“Twenty-three,” Margaret said, although she doubted her ladyship expected an answer. Sometimes it was best to say nothing. Lady Strangeways was a force to be reckoned with in the
parish and a woman the vicar deferred to far more than his wife or daughter. A middle aged widow with the coldest grey eyes Margaret had ever seen, the woman was a bully and everyone knew it.
Her father had a larger group of parish ladies than usual gathered in his sitting room today. They were meeting to organize the Nativity play which was to take place on Christmas morning, in only a few weeks. There were sure to be arguments caused by the usual push and pull between the stronger personalities, each wanting to get their way. Margaret suspected her father enjoyed ruling over his little kingdom and granting favours to those he deemed worthy.
Rather like the Earl of Monkstead. The thought popped into her head, surprising her.
As Margaret moved to the fireplace and busied herself in adding fuel to the flames, she tried to imagine Dominic Frampton seated among the ladies of the parish of Denwick. What would he do while they argued among themselves? Would he sit back like the vicar and enjoy the disharmony, or would he step in and create order? She had a feeling that the earl would soon have them agreeing to everything he said. He might even find a new husband for Lady Strangeways.
No, she told herself with relief. The earl was nothing like her father.
“Why are you smiling, Margaret?” Lady Strangeways demanded. “I distrust people who smile. It shows a sad wont of gravity.”
“Yes, why are you smiling?” the vicar asked. Then, with a vindictive smile of his own, said, “My daughter has developed the habit of day dreaming since she returned from London. I have told her she must break herself of it.”
“Rightly so,” Lady Strangeways said. “I shall lend her my Sermons to Young Women. I’m sure that will occupy her.”
“Have you a copy of Glenarvon?” Mrs Black, the inn keeper’s wife asked excitedly. “I believe it is all the rage in London.”
Lady Strangeways pursed her lips. “I do not read romantic novels and neither should you. They corrupt the mind.”
Margaret bit her lip to stop another smile, and moved to take her seat at the desk by the window. She had read Glenarvon herself, while in London. The story, about a naïve innocent bride degraded by an aristocratic rake, was certainly racy. She wasn’t sure it had corrupted her, as Lady Strangeways seemed to think it might, but it had certainly kept her thoughts occupied. One evening, alone in the town house and with nothing else to do, she had even found herself trying to imagine herself in the role of the girl. She had asked herself who might play the rake, and Monkstead had sprung to mind. But it seemed too silly to imagine him behaving in such a fashion. Monkstead, she’d decided after much thought, was more likely to be the silly girl’s husband, a much more appealing figure.
