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18
It was mid-morning when they returned to Denwick. All the way, Margaret had been asking herself if this was a mistake. Even though they would only be staying for a moment, really just to reassure her that everything was all right, she worried. What might she see when they arrived? What if she was once more caught up in the turmoil she had left behind?
There was music coming from the church, and together they walked to the porch and Dominic opened the door. They peeked in.
Sibylla was singing. Her voice soared, just as Margaret remembered from that last evening in Mockingbird Square, and the congregation sat listening in rapt silence.
As the last notes fell there was a hush and then a gasp and cries of pleasure. A moment later, Louis was hurrying toward Sibylla, his blue eyes shining with love and appreciation. Much had happened since their leaving, it seemed.
“Lady Sibylla, that was glorious, thank you so much! Now, children, are you ready to begin the play?”
Margaret stepped into the church, staying in the shadows by the door, and saw her father. He was seated in one of the front pews, glaring sullenly as the children began to take their places. Several animals had been brought in for the occasion, and there was laughter as a rooster began to crow.
Margaret looked about anxiously, then relaxed when she saw her mother. Aunt Lily was seated beside her, and the two sisters were smiling at the children.
Dominic leaned close and murmured, “All is well. You see?”
She turned and smiled at him, blinking the tears from her eyes. “Yes, Dominic, all is well.”
They were about to leave when Sibylla noticed them. She opened her mouth to call out, only to glance over her shoulder toward the vicar, and close it again. Her smile was enough to show them how happy she was for them.
Outside, the coach was waiting.
“I think we will go to Italy first,” he said, walking briskly, tugging her along with him, her hand in his. “At least there the sun will be shining.”
Verona, Italy
6 months later
The sun was shining, and Margaret fanned herself languidly, watching as Dominic returned from the bakery that sold the pastries she so adored. He strode along the narrow street as if he owned the world, just as he always did, his dark hair tussled and his white shirt open at the throat. His boots were still shiny but there was a devil may care brashness about him that Margaret found very appealing.
In Mockingbird Square he had always been so immaculately dressed. Such things did not seem to matter here in Verona.
The window of their villa faced onto the street, so Margaret had taken to watching life pass her by. She preferred the evenings, when it was cooler, when she and Dominic could stroll to a café. He would hold her hand and kiss her lips, and soon they would return to their villa and he would make love to her until they were both exhausted.
“My love!”
The door opened and there he was, pulling her up into his arms, holding her as if she was the most precious thing in the world. His grip seemed particularly tight though and with a worried frown she tried to see his face.
“What is it?” she demanded. “Dominic!”
He sat her back down, leaning forward with his hands on the arms of her chair, caging her in. His face was inches from hers, and she was right, his dark eyes were a whirlpool of emotion.
“There was a message from Sibylla.”
Sibylla had married Louis Scott two months ago, and they were safely ensconced in a parish of which Dominic held the living. One of the perks, he’d said, of being a wealthy man in a feudal country.
Margaret’s father had taken up his place in the parish he’d hoped for, but his wife was now in Portobello with her sister. Dominic had tried to persuade Mrs Willoughby to move south and live at the Abbey but her health had deteriorated, and it seemed best to leave her with her sister, where she was happiest.
“What does she say?” Margaret asked.
He stared at her a moment longer. “My wife is dead. She died six weeks ago, quietly, as she lived. Sibylla said it was a relief to everyone.”
“Oh.” Margaret reached up to cup his cheek with her hand, smoothing the rough beginnings of a beard he hadn’t bothered shaving off. “I know being married to her was never your choice, Dominic, but I think you were fond of her.”
He smiled sadly. “I was fond of her. She made me see life in a way I never had before. She changed me for the better. I hope she knows that now.”
Margaret leaned up to kiss his lips gently and for a moment they were quiet, thinking of the past.
