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“I have heated some stew for you, Mrs Pritchard.”
The old woman gave Margaret a sour look. Mrs Pritchard was one of the more difficult members of her father’s flock, and also one of the oldest. No one was sure how old she was, but she claimed to remember Queen Anne’s coronation, so that would make her very old indeed.
“Was a time when the vicar himself would come to visit me,” she muttered. “Not this latest vicar but the one before. He was a thoughtful gentleman.”
Margaret wasn’t sure her father had ever visited Mrs Pritchard, but she knew her mother had. Now the visits fell to Margaret.
“I heard there was nobility in the parish,” Mrs Pritchard went on, soaking up the stew with some bread.
“Nobility?” Margaret blinked. “I don’t think so. Only Sir Cecil Throckmore, who has lived here for years and years, and I’m not sure you would call him nobility.”
“Not ’im!” the old lady growled. “I mean proper nobility. Lords and ladies come in from London.” She filled her mouth with a crust of bread and worked on it, falling into contemplative silence.
Margaret dismissed her gossip, busying herself about the tiny cottage by stoking up the fire and remaking the bed. Mrs Pritchard lived on her own and had no one to care for her, and although she might sometimes be an unpleasant old woman that didn’t mean she should be treated with callous disregard.
“This stew hasn’t been salted. Did you make it?”
Margaret held her breath and counted to ten. She seemed to be doing that a lot lately. “I did make it, thank you, Mrs Pritchard. I’m sorry I didn’t add enough salt.”
The woman stared at her a moment and then sighed grudgingly, “Never mind. You do your best, Miss Margaret, I know that. The whole village knows that. We’re all hoping that you get your just reward.”
Did she mean in heaven? Margaret wondered. Because she really didn’t want to wait until then.
Afterwards, Margaret made her way back to the vicarage, head down against the flurries of snow, watching her step on the slippery and mushy ground. The number of tasks awaiting her when she got there was too long to contemplate, so she didn’t contemplate them. Instead, she thought about the Christmas play and the pleasure she’d see on the faces of the parish children who would be taking part.
Louis had gathered them together after Sunday service, and she wasn’t sure who was the most excited. They were yet to get Lady Strangeways’ approval, but there seemed to be no reason for her to object. The parish children had been taking part in the play for as long as she could remember.
Afterwards, she and Louis had discussed costumes and whether they could borrow some appropriate animals for the manger scene. It had been pleasant. She had even begun to wonder whether she might have chosen Louis for herself, had she not spent those happy months in London. But she had been away and seen how much more life could be. She had seen her cousin Olivia deeply in love, and refusing to compromise despite the difficulties involved in marrying a penniless Scottish laird. She had seen Simon Linholm fall in love with his brother’s intended, Christina Beale, and fight for her hand. And more recently she had seen her friend Lavinia Richmond’s misery when she believed she could not marry Captain Longhurst, and how ecstatic they had been when they found a way around the scandal that had kept them apart.
Margaret had seen love at its richest and fullest, and because of that she knew Louis would never have been her first choice. He was second best, and he would always be second best. She wanted the sort of love Olivia had, that Lady Richmond had, and at the same time she knew it could never be hers.
And thinking about it would only turn her into one of those glum and wretched women she despised. Thinking about him only made her restless for things that must forever be denied. Why Monkstead, anyway? It made no sense to be fixated on such a man. It wasn’t even as if she liked him! He’d always ruffled her into saying things she knew she shouldn’t, and yet, no matter what she said he didn’t seem to mind. She’d suspected once or twice that he’d even encouraged her to behave badly, no doubt for some perverse pleasure of his own.
He was also married, although where his wife lived and why they were apart remained a mystery. Gossip had it that their union was deeply unhappy for them both. However, married or not, she was not so naïve to believe he did not have other women, women who would be delighted to lavish affection on such a handsome and wealthy man. She might believe him to be a solitary creature, but the truth was she did not know anything about his private life.
For her own sake, this foolish longing for something and for someone she could never have needed to stop. She knew it. The moment her engagement to Louis was announced, Margaret promised herself she would never think about the earl again.
The vicarage chimneys were sending grey smoke into the slate sky as Margaret trudged up the path to the side door. It was no use going to the front because there was no one to answer it. Her father was busy, her mother was in her room, and their few servants were run off their feet and had better things to do than open doors.
As soon as she stepped inside she could hear voices coming from the vicar’s study.
She knew the dean was coming this afternoon but she hadn’t thought he was due until three. Besides, as her father’s superior in the church hierarchy, he would have been shown into the sitting room, where the important people were entertained.
Just then, the servants’ bell rang from the study, a furious jangling, suggesting it wasn’t the first time.
Hastily, Margaret stripped off her outdoor clothes, hanging her cloak on the coat rack with cold, clumsy fingers. That was when she noticed that there was an unfamiliar coat there. She paused to examine it, surprised by the cut and quality of the garment. Surely the dean had not found a tailor in Bond Street? Because that was where this coat looked as if it had been made.
The bell jangled again.
Margaret hurried toward the study door, smoothing her hair back into its chignon, and tucking in the wispy strands that were forever trying to escape.
Her father’s voice was droning on, although she couldn’t hear actual words. Perhaps, she thought, he wasn’t too concerned by her absence. Although that would be a miracle indeed, and so far this year miracles seemed to be in short supply.
Taking a deep breath, she tapped on his door and opened it without waiting for an answer.
Her father stood right in front of her, obstructing her view of the rest of the room. Hearing her enter, he turned to face her, and for a moment she wondered if someone else, someone who looked like her father, had taken his place. Because he was beaming as if she was everything he had ever wanted in a daughter, which she knew was definitely not the case.
“Margaret, there you are!” he cried in a hearty voice. “Come in, come in. We have a visitor.”
