25 25Oh, my darling friend!” Sylvia Morton cried. “How wonderful to see you! And on this happiest of days!”
Sylvia sat in the middle of the smart little drawing room in the house her father had rented for the season. Margaret had not spent much time here—Sylvia usually came to the Ashbys’ when they spent time together—but the occasions she had been here, the room had not been quite so overcrowded by hothouse flowers.
“Where are all these from?” Margaret asked, reaching out to a Mediterranean bluebell.
“Of course you would ask about the flowers first!” Sylvia laughed. “They are from people.”
“People?”
“Offering their congratulations.” Sylvia took Margaret’s hand and led her to the sofa. Margaret did her best to not let it shake.
She had woken that morning smiling, with the calm nervousness that was borne from being in love and being loved in return. Her body felt sore, stretched, and sated. Her mind spun with all the marvelous things her day would likely hold—Rhys coming to call. Being in the garden together. Writing to her father and Helen, and then to Leticia, telling them of her joy. She suspected her father would put up a bit of a fuss about not being consulted before his daughter decided to marry someone, but Helen and Leticia would talk him around. She was certain that all the joy bubbling up inside of her was visible, and she would be revealed as an unrepentant wanton with every intention of being wanton again, as soon as possible.
Of course, the wantonness would last only until she and Rhys married. And even though no question had been formally asked, the answer was well known. It surrounded them, bound them together, making them as much one person as any ceremony and paperwork might.
When she’d rung for Molly to help her dress, she was half tempted to ask if she looked as different as she felt. But Molly had been surprisingly grave faced when she came in.
“What is it?” Margaret asked, immediately concerned. “What’s wrong? Is it Phoebe—or the baby?”
“No, miss,” Molly said, wringing her hands. “I . . . I’m afraid that there is some news. But I don’t know if it’s my place to tell it. But oh! To think of you hearing it from someone else—especially that Miss Morton, I just can’t allow it!”
A sudden thought struck her. Sylvia. While Rhys and Margaret had been declaring their love the night before, Sylvia had been left in the cold. Her evening had likely been one of quiet pain and sadness. And, once her father and family were told, rebuke.
“For heaven’s sake, Molly, you must tell me now!” Margaret cried. “Did something happen to Miss Morton?”
“Aye, miss,” Molly had barked out a pained laugh. “Yes, something happened to Miss Morton. Went and snared that Dr. Gray in her web somehow!”
At first Margaret didn’t know if she’d heard her maid correctly. It took Molly bringing in the newspaper for her to believe that she was telling the truth.
“Lady Ashby is pinch-faced about it, and Lord Ashby ain’t happy neither,” Molly had said. “When he saw the paper he went around immediately to Dr. Gray’s residence, but was told he wasn’t at home. How the man could be running errands at a time like this, I’ll never understand!”
Rhys wasn’t at home. So her first recourse, her immediate reaction to go to him and ask him what on earth was happening, was unavailable to her.
Of course, she could have sat still. She could have waited until Rhys came to her. She could have gone down to the garden and dug a hole in the earth until it was deep enough to bury herself. Because that’s what she wanted to do—she wanted to hide and ignore it until it went away.
But this . . . this was not going to go away. It had to be stared directly in the face.
“Molly,” she had said, “I need to get dressed. I’m going out.”
Molly had nodded firmly and put Margaret in her best day dress, and Margaret braided her own hair. She was not going to go into battle as anyone other than herself. Just . . . herself, wearing her nicest day dress, as trousers were not an option.
She’d come straight to Sylvia’s. During the entire carriage ride, she went over in her mind what their conversation would be. There would be questions, on both sides. There would be accusations, recrimination. But somehow, someway, she would discover why that announcement was in the papers.
But now that she sat in the drawing room, surrounded by flowers, she hadn’t a clue where to begin.
“You are here to congratulate me as well, I take it?” Sylvia said, beaming. “You see that, Alice, I told you my friends would come and see me.”
Margaret realized that Sylvia’s little sister, Alice, was hidden among the flowers.
“Friend,” Alice replied. “Singular.”
“I don’t understand,” Margaret said. “Who are the flowers from, if not Sylvia’s friends?”
“Exactly what I’ve been saying,” Sylvia replied. “Now, Margaret, I have no doubt you are curious as to exactly what happened.”
“Yes,” Margaret said, “I am.”
“Well, it was just so marvelous. We were at dinner with the Grays, and it was a veritable feast. I wish I could describe every course to you, but to be honest, I was far too nervous to have any appetite.” Sylvia sighed, looking up at the ceiling, as if reveling in the memory.
“Then,” she continued, “Dr. Gray—well, I suppose I should be free to call him Rhys now, at least among close friends—asked me to accompany him to the library. And there, we talked about the future.”
“The future,” Margaret repeated, trying to keep track of every word, even as her mind reeled.
“Then he took my hand, and we became engaged!” she said.
“And . . . and you told your families and everyone celebrated?”
“No,” Alice said from somewhere beyond the lilies. “She didn’t tell us anything. Kept it a total secret. Papa didn’t know until the first flowers began to arrive.”
“I am the happiest of women!” Sylvia cried. “Oh, can you believe that my dear doctor and I are finally to be wed?”
“No,” Margaret said slowly. “I cannot.”
Her friend’s jubilant smile faltered, ever so slightly. “I know, it is amazing.”
“Sylvia,” she said, “I cannot believe that you and Rhys are to be wed. Ever.”
Sylvia’s face went cold. “Why not?”
“Because I know he left you last night.”
“Oh, that!” She flushed with relief, dismissing it with a wave of her hand. “He had to go attend to an emergency. I suspect being a doctor’s wife, I will have to get used to such things.”
“He left you last night to come to me.”
Sylvia eyed Margaret frankly. Held her gaze for several seconds. Assessing.
“You were the medical emergency?” Alice asked curiously.
“Alice, I think I hear Father calling for you,” Sylvia said, never taking her eyes off Margaret.
“No he’s not.”
“Yes he is. Go and see what he wants. Now.”
Alice obeyed with all the grudging hatred of a little sister left out of the juicy parts of the conversation. When the door clicked shut behind her, Sylvia rolled her shoulders back and painted a smile on her face.
“Margaret,” she began, reaching out her hand, and putting it over hers, “I think we can agree that this season in London has been a rather whirlwind experience for us both. You have been the greatest of friends to me. I would never have been invited to Almack’s if it wasn’t for you, or enjoyed so many other teas and parties. And I am glad that you got to experience a bit of London before you go back home to Lincolnshire.”
Margaret remained silent. Waited.
“But I know that I am not your only friend. You and Rhys have been exceedingly close. Closer, I think, than you were before your little trip here.”
There was nothing for Margaret to do but nod in agreement.
“Good!” Sylvia replied. “I am happy for you.”
“You . . . you are?”
“Yes, of course. I am happy that you have a close friend, and you were able to . . . experience that closeness.” Sylvia squeezed Margaret’s hand in her lap. “But I think we both know that Rhys needs a certain type of wife. Someone who knows how to run a household, and organize a menu, and will act as his emissary to the public. And obviously, Rhys realized that as well.”
Margaret looked at the hand over hers, resting so comfortably in her lap—as if she was in charge and knew what was best. Slowly, Margaret withdrew her hand from underneath Sylvia’s.
“I do not wish to cause you any pain,” Sylvia replied. “I had hoped that you would attend the wedding as my maid of honor. But now I see that might be unfair to you.”
Margaret could not look at Sylvia’s face any longer. The way she appeared so smug, so concerned, and so full of pity. Instead she let her eyes drift over to the flowers. Dozens and dozens of bouquets. So many, some looked to be copies of others.
Margaret’s brow furrowed. In fact, all the arrangements were very much alike. Same combination of blossom sizes, many had the same color schemes. Judging by the similarity of the arrangements, they were all from the same hothouse.
What were the odds that the flowers all came from the same hothouse?
“I think . . .” Margaret said, “I just realized why you have no friends.”
Sylvia’s face drew back. Lost all its pretend warmth.
“I know why I don’t have many friends. I’m hardly conventional. But you . . . you don’t have any. It’s because you’re deceitful.”
“Of course I have friends . . . all of these flowers and—”
“You sent them to yourself,” Margaret continued. “You don’t have any friends. People saw through you. Better than I did, certainly.”
“Better than you?” Sylvia said, her voice sharp. “What kind of friends would you have without me? I took pity on you. You would have stayed in your garden and never gone to any parties or balls or danced with anyone.”
“I would have been perfectly happy with that. But you wanted things from me. And that’s why you decided to keep me close.”
“Things you weren’t supposed to have!” Sylvia bit out. “I was supposed to be the one people admired! You’re awkward and practically a recluse—you didn’t even want to go out in society and you got invitations to everything! Of course, if I had blurted out I was rich beyond measure, I’m sure I would have been invited places too.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, the jealousy coming off her in waves.
“And that is the only reason people copied your style or the Horticultural Society had anything to do with you, I’m sure! Because if it was just you—strange, blunt, tall as a tree—I would have been your only friend.”
“Not my only friend,” Margaret answered calmly. “There is Rhys.”
“Rhys.” The word came out like the hiss of a snake. “Yes, Rhys is your friend. But he will never be more than that. You may exchange letters from afar about botany and skunk cabbage, but there will never be any more than that.”
“You are wrong.” Margaret met Sylvia’s eyes. “As last night proved. Rhys and I are far more than just friends.”
For the briefest moment, the confidence faded from Sylvia’s eyes. “Did he make you any promises last night?”
Margaret hesitated. “No.”
“That’s because he made them to me,” Sylvia replied, letting her breath out in a gust of relief. “It doesn’t matter what you feel, or what happened between you two.” She leaned in, let the menace drench her voice. “It doesn’t even matter if I have any friends or not. Rhys put that announcement in the paper—and that means I won.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” came the voice from the door. Margaret’s braid whipped around as her eyes found Rhys, leaning against the open door. Behind him was another man, whom Margaret did not recognize.
“Good morning, Miss Morton. I trust you are well,” Rhys said, maintaining civility. “Of course I don’t need to say good morning to Miss Babcock—after all, it’s been mere hours since we saw each other.”
Margaret’s eyes widened, but her face split into a grin. Sylvia gaped openmouthed like a fish.
“Dr. Gray!” came another voice behind him. Mr. Morton trundled in from the hall, pushing Rhys and the stranger into the room. Morton switched his cane to his other hand so he could shake Rhys’s. He squeezed his hand and pumped his arm like it was a well.
“So pleased to see you this morning. And I cannot tell you how happy you have made my Sylvia and me. Although I had expected you to speak to me before you went to her, but I suppose enough talk has passed between our families, eh?”
Rhys extracted his hand as gently as he could and stretched it. “Mr. Morton, your timing is fortuitous. I was just about to fetch you.”
“Want to have that conversation after all, eh? Well, my permission and blessing are granted, so no worry on that score, but—”
“No, sir. However, I was going to request that you resolve your dispute with my father.”
Morton blinked.
“I fully intend to, young man. Just as soon as the vicar says you are man and wife.”
“I am afraid the vicar will never say your daughter and I are man and wife. No, you are going to resolve your dispute with him, or I will have your daughter arrested for making a false claim.”
Morton’s cheerfulness disappeared immediately. “What do you mean?” he growled. “What is this nonsense!”
“Mr. Morton, I am sorry to tell you that I am not going to marry your daughter.”
Morton’s eyes narrowed. “You goddamned Grays. Is this another one of your tricks? I won’t be made a fool of. Me or my daughter!”
“It is not a trick. The facts are that I never proposed to your daughter.”
“That’s not true!” Sylvia cried, perfect teardrops beginning to fall. “Papa . . .”
“Are you calling my daughter a liar?”
“Interesting question,” Rhys said. “Let us ask a person with much more familiarity with your daughter. Margaret?” Margaret’s head came up. “Do you think Miss Morton is lying when she says I proposed to her?”
Margaret looked from Sylvia to Mr. Morton to Rhys. “Without a doubt, she is lying.”
“You have no say here!” Sylvia cried. “You just want Rhys for yourself!”
“Yes, and I her, but at the moment, that is irrelevant,” Rhys said, causing Sylvia to nearly swallow her tongue. “I never proposed to Miss Morton, sir.”
“Then what about the paper, eh? How did that little bit get in there?”
“Ah yes,” Rhys replied. “And now it is time to introduce you to my guest. Mr. Morton, may I present Mr. Stuart Thorndike? We knew each other in the army, and now he owns and runs the Gazette-Post.”
Mr. Thorndike gave a neat bow that was not returned by Morton. Instead, Morton came over to shove his purpling face into Thorndike’s and snarl.
“Well? Who put the announcement in the paper?”
Thorndike raised a brow and shot a quick look to Rhys, who nodded. “I received a letter late last night, signed Rhys Gray.”
“Aha!” Morton boomed out. He went over to his daughter and placed a hand on her shoulder. “I always believed you, my girl. You’ll have your place in society, mark my words.”
“Ahem.” Rhys cleared his throat. “He said it was signed Rhys Gray. However, I did not sign it. Or write it. Or send it.”
“Have a fine time proving that, won’t you?” Morton rounded on him. “Meanwhile, I’ll have charges on your father so fast he’ll have to go to America to escape judgment!”
“Actually, it is particularly easy to prove,” Rhys said, turning to Thorndike. “You brought the letter with you?”
“Indeed I did,” Thorndike said as he produced it from his pocket.
Rhys took it and handed it to Margaret. “Now, Margaret, you and I have exchanged correspondence for quite some time. Tell me, is that my handwriting?”
Margaret only needed to glance at it. “No, it very much isn’t.” Then she peered closer. “It does look familiar, however.”
“Familiar . . . like Miss Morton’s handwriting?”
“I confess I do not know Miss Morton’s handwriting,” Margaret said. “But this . . . this looks like the handwriting of Sir Kingsley.”
Rhys’s winged brow went up. “Sir Kingsley? From the Horticultural Society?”
“Yes. The letter I received from his office, moving the date of our appointment?” she clarified. “Although, it turned out to be a mistake.”
“I don’t think it was a mistake.” Rhys cocked his head toward Sylvia, who was beginning to squirm uncomfortably. “I think someone wanted to ruin your presentation.”
Margaret turned to Sylvia then. “But, why?”
“Goodness knows,” Rhys replied. “Jealousy of all the attention you were garnering, one supposes.”
“You . . . you cannot prove anything!” Sylvia snapped.
“I can very easily get the Sir Kingsley letter,” Margaret supplied. “I still have it. We can compare.”
“Still—all that means is the same person who wrote that letter wrote the announcement. And neither was me, I assure you. Maybe it was Rhys!”
Rhys just looked at her like she was pressing her luck, which, Margaret thought with a hidden smile, she very much was.
“Let me see that!” Sylvia, agitated, snatched the announcement letter out of Rhys’s hands. “Look, it even has your seal!” she crowed. “You must have written them!”
“Interestingly, my brother lost his signet seal just the other day. It was in his room before he fought a duel, and he hasn’t seen it since.”
“So the talk of a duel with your brother is true, then?” Thorndike asked.
“Yes, and please don’t print that in your papers,” Rhys asked. “And while we rarely if ever allow guests up to the family rooms, you were up there, Miss Morton, weren’t you?”
Sylvia didn’t know where to look now, so her eyes darted all around the space, hoping to land on something, anything that would vindicate her, but it was futile.
“You were there, helping my mother as she worried about Daniel. Sent to fetch tea from the kitchens and books from the library and anything else she might need. I would wager that on one of those trips you found your way into Daniel’s room.”
“That . . . that is so silly.” Sylvia gave one last attempt. “Why would I take a signet seal?”
“I can only postulate,” Rhys said.
“For this,” Margaret said. “For this exactly here. Because before we went to the Ashbys on that day, you and I were discussing the gossip. And you asked me if the rumors about Rhys and me were true. You were worried Rhys was pulling away from you. And you thought you might need to push things along somehow.”
“If we were to search your things, Miss Morton, do you think we would find a signet seal?”
Sylvia worried her hands, breathing hard and red with pent-up anger.
“Sylvia,” her father said, his hand still on her shoulder—but it was no longer protective. Now that hand clasped her tight, as if trying to pin down a wily fox. “Answer the question.”
She pursed her lips and sucked in a huff. “What do you want from me?”
“I want you to tell everyone what happened in the library last night.”
All eyes turned to Sylvia. She chewed on her lip. “Fine,” she bit out. “Dr. Gray made it clear that he thought we would be a compatible couple—”
“But,” Rhys added, forcing her onto the correct path.
“But he no longer thought we would suit. He said that if circumstances were different . . . So I thought I would simply make circumstances different, and in time, he would accept his fate.”
“Goddammit, Sylvia,” Morton bellowed. “Did you really think you wouldn’t get caught?”
“By all means, let’s ignore the fact that she thought to trap a man into a marriage that he didn’t want and instead focus on the bumbling way she did it,” Rhys said.
“Rhys,” Margaret said gently.
“Yes, of course, my dear,” he said immediately. “You are right, that was unkind.”
Thorndike swung his gaze between Margaret and Rhys. “Suppose I’ll be putting in an announcement for you two soon enough, then.”
Margaret turned red, but Rhys was all droll civility. “Of course. I have it written up if you’d like to take it now.”
Margaret’s eyes went wide. “Are you asking me to marry you?”
Rhys’s brow came down. “Did I not do that already? Oh dear, it seems I missed a few steps.” Then he walked over to her and kissed her hand. “Hold on for just a few more minutes, and let us finish with this madness, and then we shall proceed down that particular path.”
Then he moved over to Morton and Sylvia. Sylvia’s face was twisted into a mask of such intense dislike; Margaret had never seen her that way. But she had a feeling it had always been there, just beneath the surface.
“The afternoon edition of the Gazette-Post is going to print a retraction,” Rhys said. “What you do now determines what that correction will say.”
Morton kept his hand on his daughter’s shoulder and his eyes on Rhys.
“Either it says that there was a misprint, and it is the paper’s fault. Both families jointly say that there is no engagement. Or it says that the act was willfully done by a deceitful Miss Morton, who is facing the law for such scurrilous behavior.”
“I imagine,” Morton said after a few moments, “that a misprint is more easily explained.”
Sylvia looked like she was about to explode, but still, she stewed in silence.
“Excellent,” Rhys cried. “And now, you will write to my father, and to my father’s lawyers, affirming that you will never pursue charges against him.”
“I won’t have him crowing over me from across our property lines, make that clear to him.”
“Don’t worry, I have a feeling he will take his time in coming home. But removing the fear my family lives under will make my mother happy. And let my sisters make their debuts.”
Morton set his jaw. “You know, Doctor, out of all the Grays, I never thought ill of you.”
“Nor I you,” Rhys replied, and extended his hand. “I hope we can keep it that way.”
Morton grudgingly took Rhys’s hand and gave it one short, hard pump.
“Miss Morton, Mr. Morton,” Rhys said as he held his hand out to Margaret. “I think it is time that we bid you good day.”
They were halfway out the door when Rhys turned around and said, “Oh, and when you find my brother’s seal, he would appreciate having it back, if you don’t mind.”
As the drawing room door closed behind them, the anguished caterwaul of a thwarted Sylvia Morton rent the air. Followed by the distinctive sound of vases breaking.
“Oh—those poor flowers,” Margaret murmured.
“I know it is your nature,” Rhys replied. “But perhaps the flowers should not be your first concern at this very moment.”
Once they stepped outside, they breathed a deep sigh of relief. Thorndike was close behind them. “I admit, that bit of drama would sell a lot of papers,” he said with a wink.
“I trust you’ll stick to what was laid out—a misprint, and all that?”
“For the good turn you did my nephews, talking them out of dueling?” Thorndike replied. “I’ll let my paper take the blame for as many engagements as you like.”
Then he tipped his hat to them both and climbed up into his well-sprung gig. “Give my regards to Ashby when you see him,” he said. “Never saw a man with that much luck in my life.”
“Oh, that’s not true,” Rhys said, squeezing Margaret’s hand, sending a flood of feeling through her. “You’ve seen me.”
Thorndike grinned as the gig drove off. Leaving Margaret with Rhys, holding hands on the street in front of the Mortons’.
“Now what do we do?” she asked, a little shy for the first time since he’d burst into the drawing room.
“Well, I rode over with Thorndike, so I was rather hoping you had a carriage. Although it’s a lovely day, would you rather walk?”
“No, Rhys,” she said, smiling as she shook her head. “I mean, what do we do? With each other?”
Rhys blinked twice. “Of course! We suspended our conversation in the middle. Damn it all, this is the second time that I’ve forgotten to propose to you. I have to warn you, I can be forgetful when I am focused on something.”
“Such as proving your innocence?”
“I was thinking more like when I’m mixing chemicals for a medical treatment, but yes, this morning applies too.”
She laughed. And he laughed, and then he pulled her closer.
“I was wondering, Miss Margaret Babcock,” he murmured, holding her hand up to his lips, “if perhaps you would like to marry me.”
She felt the kiss he placed on her hand all the way down to her belly, where it glowed. “I . . . I have some concerns,” she said, biting her lip.
“Did you want me to get on my knee?” he asked, making to lower himself to the cobblestones.
“No, but . . . I worry that we are not suited. Or rather, that we are too suited.”
“Too suited?” he asked.
“You say you become forgetful when you are focused on your work. Well, so do I—I can lose whole days, trying to track sunlight across a room or a soil’s moisture dispersal.” His thumbs began to rub over the back of her hands, making her calm and more nervous all at once. “And Sylvia brought up a good point that you need a wife who can keep your house. I am absolutely atrocious at it. I cannot make a menu to save my life, and I have no idea where the linens are in my father’s house, and I’ve lived there my entire life. You think I would have found them by now. I am afraid I am not very good wife material.”
Rhys threw back his head in laughter. Then he came forward and kissed her temple. “Oh, my sweet girl. Is that what worries you? Well, fear not—I earn a good enough living that we can hire people to do all the keeping house.”
“But you need someone who can go out in society, and can act as your hostess as your career progresses and I—”
“I don’t care about any of that. I have no grand ambitions to be the most sought after lecturer in London.” He held her face in his hands and pulled her eyes to his. “I have the life I want. Except that there is this space that needs filling.”
“Tell me about this space,” she said, stepping into his embrace.
“Well, it’s tall,” he said as he placed a gentle kiss on her jaw. “With a long braid down the back.” He gave her hair a gentle tug. “And we understand each other, like only soul mates can.”
“Soul mates?” she asked.
“What do you think the best of friends are, if not soul mates?” Then he smiled, and let his forehead drop to hers.
“Will you marry me, my very best of friends?”
She did not need to give an answer—he knew it, like he knew his own heart. But she did anyway.