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Margaret had little response, for she knew that what was considered early for Viscount Bolton was indeed very late for anyone else. Margaret could always hear the gambling taking place in the parlor and Wednesdays and Fridays.
The other nights of the week, Viscount Bolton would venture into Farthington for his gambling, and sometimes, he would travel all the way to London for a week. His love of gambling was insatiable, and Margaret sincerely wished that her father would find another hobby and not propel them into ruin.
As they passed through the lovely park, with its magnificent fountains and flowers, Margaret noted that she and Jane received a few glances. Yes, everyone in Farthington probably knew of the viscount’s habits. It pained Margaret to think that they might have a sour opinion of him or herself.
Once they’d made it through to the other side—a wrought-iron gaze showing their exit—Jane’s impatience returned once more.
“That was enough for one day.” She regarded the flowers in her hand. “Let us bring these back to his lordship and carry on with the afternoon. I’m positively famished.”
“Very well,” Margaret replied, feeling a constriction in her chest. It always made her stomach flip when she returned to Pelham Downs. When she was out and about, Margaret felt free, but she was uncertain what she might encounter once it was time to return home.
The walk back to Pelham Downs was pleasant enough. There was no need for a carriage, and what’s more, they only had one horse left at the estate, and for it to pull a post-chaise or phaeton would be too much. Margaret did not mind this so much, as it allowed her to achieve much exercise, but it also made Pelham Downs seem like something of a prison!
As they approached the grand estate, Margaret noted what disrepair it was in. Oh, when she was a girl, and Lady Bolton was still alive, Pelham Downs was quite the sight to behold! They had such marvelous parties, and dignitaries and bon ton would travel from London to stay for the weekend. But, sadly, with her mother gone—and the gardeners being let go—Pelham Downs was no longer what it used to be.
Margaret would undertake some gardening work, but it was too much for just her and Jane to handle. Every once in a while, Viscount Bolton would hire a day laborer to undertake some of the tasks, but this was quite rare. Margaret had to wonder if one day the hedges would completely overgrow the once marvelous estate.
“Hand me those flowers so that I can bring them to Father,” Margaret requested, putting out her hand. Jane handed her the flowers, and Margaret brought the bouquet to her nose, delighting in the fragrance. “He’ll either be pleased or furious,” Margaret replied with humor in her voice.
“It matters not, Margaret. What is done is done.”
Margaret often admired Jane’s resolute character. She was not fussy when it came to many things, and Margaret viewed all of this as being stoical. But still, didn’t Jane ever find Pelham Downs to be irksome? Surely, though she showed little emotion, she must have had some sense of what an impression the estate purveyed.
Once inside the great home, Margaret delighted in the cool, quiet air. Down the hall, Margaret could hear footsteps, and she assumed this to be her father. Sure enough, he walked into his study without saying a word, and Margaret quickly pursued him.
“I’ll meet you at tea, Jane.”
“Very well. I’ll prepare your afternoon gown.”
As Margaret walked down the hall, she considered how senseless it was that she even had an afternoon gown. Of course, Viscount Bolton insisted upon this decorum, but her gowns needed mending, and the fabrics were tarnished.
Upon entering the study, she was not surprised by what she saw. Her father sat slumped at his desk, a glass of brandy in front of him. Margaret sighed. It was what she was hoping not to see, but here the image was, right before her very eyes.
“I bought some flowers, Father. I’m hoping they might cheer up the tearoom.”
Viscount Bolton did not look up. Instead, he stared into his drink. “Fine.”
“Do you wish to smell them? They’re most fragrant and appealing, in my estimation.”
The viscount muttered something unintelligible.
Margaret went on. “Will you be coming to tea soon? Jane says that she is famished, and I even find that I have quite the appetite.”
“Be seated, Margaret,” he finally said, gazing up at her.
From the look in his eyes, Margaret could tell that something unsavory was about to transpire. She placed the bouquet upon a marble side table and seated herself in front of her father, waiting as he took another sip of his drink.
“What is it, Father?”
“There is an important matter that we must discuss.”
As Margaret waited for him to speak, she couldn’t help but notice her father’s sallow skin, once healthy with color. His tall frame once brought distinction to his bearing, but now, Arthur Crowley was the kind of man that slumped and had bad posture. His brown hair and eyes were much the same, although some salt and pepper was showing through.
“We can discuss anything, Father,” Margaret went on.
“I need to find you a husband. The time has come.”
Margaret gripped her chair, having expected this conversation. It filled her with a great deal of trepidation. “But… who am I to marry?”
