He who is not a good servant
will not be a good master.

—Plato

Chapter 33

Taking the first wages she had earned in her life, Nora Garret walked into Maidstone’s Star Hotel and purchased coach fare for London. In the small women’s lounge off the hotel’s dining parlor, she shed her apron, wig, and cap, and carefully tucked her father’s spectacles into her carpetbag.

Several minutes later, Margaret Elinor Macy emerged in a plain but serviceable blue dress, shawl, bonnet, and gloves, her blond hair pinned simply to the crown of her head. How light and free she felt without the wig and cap. How strangely vulnerable.

Soon her coach was called and Margaret went out to meet it. The guard handed her in, and she settled herself on the bench opposite an old cleric and his wife. She smiled politely but then closed her eyes to avoid conversation. She needed to think.

She spent the trip in catnaps and self debate, wondering if she had done the right thing in leaving Fairbourne Hall, and if she had any hope of preventing Caroline’s nuptials. She was determined to offer Sterling the majority of her inheritance if he would forbid Marcus to marry Caroline. If he refused, she would even offer to marry the mongrel herself, in her sister’s stead, hopefully with a reasonable marriage settlement. Though she prayed it would not come to that.

———

When the stagecoach reached London several hours later, the route ended at an inn some distance from Berkeley Square.

Margaret hired a hack to take her to Emily Lathrop’s house first. She wondered if the runner she had met—or someone like him—would be loitering about the place, watching for her. But all was quiet. She might have thought Sterling had given up, if not for that recent engagement announcement. Paying runners had likely grown too expensive and he had simply changed his methods.

The Lathrops’ footman admitted her, but before he could even announce her, Emily ran out into the hall.

“Margaret, what a relief! I despaired of ever seeing you again.” Emily embraced her warmly and led her into the drawing room. “I was so glad to receive your letter. I shared it with your family as well. I had no choice, really. Father mentioned it to Sterling, and he insisted on seeing it.”

“I suppose he denied everything?”

“Yes.” Her friend hesitated. “And considering recent events . . .”

“Recent events” meaning Marcus’s engagement to her sister, no doubt. So much for the man’s “desperate” determination to marry Margaret, as she had described in her letter.

Margaret didn’t stay long—only long enough to assure her old friend she was well and to assure herself that someone knew she was returning to Berkeley Square. As irrational as the thought might be, she didn’t want Sterling to be tempted to make her “disappear” all over again, this time permanently, to get his hands on her inheritance at last.

Emily offered to go with her. Margaret thanked her but refused. She felt she must face him alone.

“Well, I insist on sending you the rest of the way in our carriage, at least.” Emily said, asking the footman to alert the groom and coachman.

While they waited, Emily took Margaret’s hand and asked cautiously, “So . . . you have heard the news about Marcus Benton?”

Margaret nodded.

“Good. I was afraid you had changed your mind and come back for him.”

Margaret shook her head. “No.” She had not come back for him. Not in that sense. Though she did hope to end his engagement to Caroline. But that sounded too incredible to say out loud, and she hadn’t the energy for long explanations. She simply squeezed her friend’s hand and took her leave.

When Margaret arrived at Berkeley Square, the butler opened the door, his normally implacable expression cracking with surprise.

“Miss Macy! You’re . . . We were not expecting you. Uh . . . welcome. Welcome home.”

It still wasn’t home. Never would be. But she smiled at the man. “Thank you, Murdoch.”

She felt the weariness creeping into her bones, leaching her strength. She thought facetiously, My inheritance for a bath and a full night’s sleep . . .

Murdoch took her shawl and bonnet.

She asked, “Is my mother at home?”

“No, miss. She’s gone out. Only the master is in at present. Shall I announce you?”

“Not just yet, please. I’d like to change first. Is there someone who might help me?”

“Of course, miss. Right away.”

The footman, Theo, who once made a nuisance of himself following her whenever she dared leave Berkeley Square, now became a godsend as he brought in the tub and carried up pail after pail of hot water with the help of a new housemaid.

Miss Durand, her mother’s lady’s maid, bustled in, praising God in rapid-fire French for Margaret’s safe return and lamenting the state of her hair, complexion, and hands. She added rose-scented bath salts to the water and helped Margaret undress, unpin her hair, and step into the tub. Margaret was too tired to object.

Miss Durand scrubbed her back and washed Margaret’s hair. Heavenly. Her scalp felt tingly clean, her skin warm and soft. She began to feel like her old self again. Is that a good thing? she wondered.

Miss Durand helped her into clean underthings, traditional long stays, which took her breath away, and an evening gown of pink and cream silk. Then she curled and dressed her hair. As the lady’s maid powdered Margaret’s nose, she lamented the slight pink tone. “Mademoiselle has been in ze sun, n’est-ce pas? On ze continent were you? Or ze coast?”

She hadn’t the heart to tell the woman she had forsaken a bonnet simply to gather flowers as a housemaid in a Kent garden. “I shall never tell,” Margaret said mysteriously.

The lady’s maid’s eyes lit with the glow of new tales to share in the housekeeper’s parlor.

“Well, it is ze Gowland’s Lotion for you, miss,” she said, prescribing the popular remedy for a whole host of ladies’ complexion complaints.

Miss Durand’s accent brought Monsieur Fournier to mind, and Margaret found herself smiling wistfully. She would miss the man—his desserts as well.

Margaret regarded herself in the looking glass. She had not looked as pretty in months. She had no wish to be vain, but she did want to feel as confident as she could before facing Sterling Benton.

She fingered the neckline of the gown, wishing she might wear the cameo necklace her father had given her. She blinked back tears. Ah well.

Rising, Margaret took a deep breath, steeling her resolve. It was now or never.

———

In rose satin slippers she skimmed down the stairs and into the drawing room. Sterling sat slumped in a high-backed chair near the fire, glass of brandy in his hand, staring at the flames.

He didn’t look over but must have heard her enter. Likely Murdoch had already shared the “good news” of her return.

“Come to gloat, have you?” he asked.

She frowned. “No.” She glanced around the empty room. “Mother is still out?”

“Apparently.”

She steeled herself. “Where is Marcus?”

He turned his head and frowned at her, eyes bleary, cheeks flushed. “Do you really not know, or are you merely pouring salt in the wound?”

“Know what? Where is he?”

“On his wedding trip about now, I should imagine.”

Wedding trip—so soon? Her stomach knotted. She was too late!

“I can’t believe it.” Her mind reeled. She had missed her own sister’s wedding. Margaret found herself murmuring to no one in particular, “I did not even know . . . or attend her . . .”

Sterling’s lip curled. “We couldn’t exactly send you an engraved invitation, could we? Unless we sent it . . . what, in care of Fairbourne Hall?” He slumped back in his chair. “Surprised you’d care anyway. Didn’t know you were even acquainted with”—he said the name with distaste—“Miss Jane Jackson.”

“Jackson?”

“I know. I couldn’t believe it either. To marry an American, whose father is in trade?” He snorted. “Though Mr. Jackson is highly successful by all accounts. All Marcus had to do was marry the horse-faced daughter and he becomes instant partner.” Sterling snapped his fingers. “Furthermore, he shall inherit the lot of it through his wife when the old man dies.” He shook his head. “The fool has gone against my express wishes and ruined all my plans.”

Margaret blinked hard to clear away the dreadful images of sweet Caroline bound forever to Sterling’s puppet-nephew. How stunning to discover Marcus had shed his uncle’s influence and developed gumption while she’d been gone. “I’d think you’d be happy. You wanted him to marry a rich woman and he has.” And thank God that rich woman would not be her.

Sterling grimaced. “And he shall be rich. In America, not here.”

Ah . . . where Sterling could not wheedle his way into his nephew’s purse. She lifted her chin. “Well, good for him. And Caroline?”

“Gone back to her precious seminary, I believe.”

What a relief.

Benton rose and swayed. His cravat listed, askew. His face was less handsome when mottled and slack. “Now, Margaret. You’re a good girl. I know you will do your duty by your family. You don’t want to see us all starve, do you? I’m sure we can come to some amicable arrangement. With your money and my able management, we’ll deal very well together.”

Margaret leaned away from his foul breath and squared her shoulders. “I will help my mother, and provide for my brother and sister. But you, Sterling, will not see a farthing. I heard what you told Marcus to do to me.” She shook her head and forced a gentle tone. “If I were you, I would retrench and learn to live within my means. But if you are unwilling or too proud, then you can starve if you like. I have far more important things to do with my inheritance.”

———

Margaret went back upstairs to her room to await her mother’s return. Her relief over Caroline’s escape was tempered by the nagging thought that she had left Fairbourne Hall in vain. And without proper notice in the bargain. She rolled her eyes at herself—still thinking like a responsible servant. Worse yet, in her panic to try and save her sister—an unnecessary intervention as it turned out—she had once again refused an offer of marriage from Nathaniel Upchurch. A man she loved. Would he ever forgive her? She feared she had hurt him irreparably, that he would never ask a third time. How impulsive she had been. Again.

What should she do now? She could not return to Fairbourne Hall as a maid, nor could she return as herself—an uninvited guest. How brazen that would be. She could pay a call on Helen, she supposed. But Helen would guess her real motivation for the visit. And how could she face the servants as herself? How strange that would be.

She could write Nathaniel a letter . . . though correspondence between unmarried ladies and gentlemen was considered improper by many. Of course such a minor indiscretion paled in comparison to her other recent acts. Even if she dared write, what would she say? “Em . . . sorry about running off like that. All for nothing it turns out. Would you care to repeat your proposal?”

She consoled herself with the fact that at least she had left word where she was going. He knew where she was if he wished to contact her. She would wait.

Wait for what? To reach her twenty-fifth birthday, gain her inheritance . . . and then what? Yes, she still looked forward to providing for her brother and sister. But her mother? She was less certain that relationship could be restored. Margaret felt betrayed—disappointed that her mother had fallen in with Sterling’s schemes. On the other hand, her mother might very well be disappointed in her, for endangering herself and the family’s reputation by running away.

A soft knock interrupted her reverie. Her heart lurched until she reminded herself that Marcus Benton was on a ship bound for America.

“Come in.”

The door opened slowly, and her mother appeared, expression cautious, still clad in walking dress and pelisse, from whatever errand had taken her out that afternoon.

“Margaret,” she breathed. “How glad I am to see you, safe and sound.”

Joanna Macy Benton hesitated at the door, making no move to embrace her daughter, perhaps unsure of her reception.

“I want to apologize, Margaret,” she said. “I am so sorry you did not feel safe under our roof. That you felt you had no choice but to flee. I don’t know what I could have done, but I should have done something to make certain Marcus paid you no improper attention.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Her mother winced. “You can’t have lived with me this last year and not know why. It’s no excuse, but you saw how Sterling was, how disapproving and critical. I have tried to work out what I did wrong to lose his good opinion. I’ve done everything I could think of to win back his approval, his admiration, to no avail.”

“I know.”

“He is my husband, Margaret. But there comes a point when a woman must protect her children even in the face of her husband’s displeasure. I did not stand up to him when that point came, and I am sorry. I hope someday you will forgive me.”

What could Margaret say? “You did nothing wrong, Mamma, beyond marrying him in the first place. Beyond failing to make it clear your modest marriage settlement would remain modest, that any rumored inheritance from Aunt Josephine would not end in his pockets.” But Margaret could not come out and say Sterling had only married her for money, money that would never come. It would be too cruel.

Her mother clasped her hands together. “I am relieved neither you nor Caroline has married someone who would not love you for yourself.”

Margaret nodded. The poor woman knew too well what that felt like. “How is Caroline?” she asked.

“Heartbroken. Disillusioned. Angry with Marcus, with us. But she is young, and she will recover.”

“I was so relieved to hear the news.”

“As was I. My introduction of Miss Jackson turned out to be quite propitious.”

“Your introduction?”

Mrs. Macy-Benton sighed. “Yes. I introduced her to Marcus, Mr. Jackson being an old acquaintance of your father’s. I was almost sorry to do so. But I saw Marcus’s marriage to her as the lesser of two evils. And if I don’t miss my guess, Miss Jackson will keep him on a short tether from now on.”

Margaret stared at her, impressed.

Her mother retrieved something from her reticule. “This is the card of the solicitor handling Aunt Josephine’s estate. The time has come for you to make your wishes known to someone outside our family. You are a grown woman now, Margaret, and there is no need for Sterling or me to act as your guardian any longer.”

She twiddled the card in her fingers. “I went to see Mr. Ford myself this afternoon and made him aware that, regardless of what my husband has told him in the past, Sterling is no disinterested party who will objectively advise you. Mr. Ford and his partner will be happy to fill that role.”

How careful, how nearly timid she was. It smote Margaret’s conscience.

She reached out to take the card from her mother, gently grasping her outstretched hand. Her mother looked up in surprise.

“Thank you, Mamma.”

Tears brightened her mother’s eyes, and Margaret felt her own fill in reply.

“I forgive you,” Margaret whispered. “And I hope you will forgive me for not sending word sooner, for worrying you.”

“Oh, Margaret.” Her mother held out her arms, and Margaret entered the long-missed embrace.

Margaret went to see the solicitor the very next day.

The grey-haired, bespectacled man rose when she entered. “Ah, Miss Macy. What a pleasure to see you. You gave us all a scare, disappearing the way you did.”

“I am alive and well, as you see.”

He regarded her with small, kind eyes. “I have not seen you since the reading of your great-aunt’s will. You have changed, my dear, if you will allow me to say so. You look very well indeed.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ford.”

They spoke for half an hour about the inheritance, investment options, and the necessary steps to set up a trust for Gilbert and a dowry for Caroline.

“If you would be so good as to return on your birthday to sign the paper work,” he said, “I will have all I need to deposit the funds into an account in your name at the bank of your choice.”

“Thank you. I would be happy to return on the twenty-ninth. Would two o’clock suit?”

“Perfectly.”

She rose and pulled on her gloves.

He stood as well. “In the meantime, is there anything else I can do for you?”

She looked up at him, bit her lip, and considered. “There is one thing. . . .”

When she returned to Berkeley Square, Margaret asked Murdoch if there was anything for her in the post.

“Yes, miss. Three letters.”

She shuffled through them, mood sinking. None from Maidstone.

Murdoch cleared his throat. “And several gentlemen have called for you as well. I told them you were out, but one insisted on waiting. I’ve put him in the morning room.”

Margaret’s heart leapt. “Who is it?”

He handed her several calling cards on a silver salver. She flipped through them, her elation fading. She wasn’t interested in any of these men. None were Nathaniel Upchurch.