Sunday, 17 June 1866
MARGARET CURLED UP ON THE window seat of her bedchamber. Outside, the church bells pealed for Sunday service. Louise would be at Balmoral now. Her friend’s latest epistle had stated cryptically that there was no material change in her situation.
Unlike her own. At last night’s ball, Killin had informed her that he would be calling on her father immediately after the royal wedding to discuss the announcement of their betrothal. Her attempts to dissuade him in the month since Sebastian had declared himself had been to no avail. If she wasn’t careful, she could well end up betrothed to two men at once. Would it be pistols at dawn for the right to her hand?
Oh dear lord, but this situation she’d got herself into was not remotely funny. What was she going to do? Leaning her hot cheek against the windowpane, she closed her eyes and tried to calm herself. First things first. She could not marry Killin. In the quagmire that was her life at the moment, that at least was clear-cut. If she had not met Sebastian, she may indeed have forced herself to go through with it, but it would have been a huge mistake. She had to face up to the fact that she was incapable of living a life of dutiful misery. If that made her an errant, ungrateful daughter, so be it.
Her relief at finally having arrived at that conclusion was, however, very short-lived. Refusing Killin was one thing. Accepting Sebastian was quite another. The ever-present band of pain tightened around her head. She loved him. He loved her. It ought to be a straightforward decision, but it was not. A world well lost to love was a seductive vision, but Sebastian wasn’t the one who was going to have to bear the burden. That would be borne by her and her alone, and it would be a formidable undertaking. His life wouldn’t change much at all, but hers would change irrevocably. Louise’s letter had forced her to confront what she had known from the first. If she chose Sebastian, the price would be complete estrangement from everyone else, all her family and every one of her friends. His world would become hers. She would be leaving her old life behind forever. Her family would never utter her name, save in a scandalised whisper. She’d have to read about Montagu marriages and births and even deaths in the press. Her exile in Dalkeith had given her a taste of what it would be like. Only this time, it would be a life sentence with no hope of reprieve.
She couldn’t do it. The price was simply too high. Did that mean she didn’t love him enough? Perhaps, but it made no difference. Marriage to Sebastian would be, albeit in a very different way, as impossible as marriage to Killin. This simple, clear thought had the solid feel of a fundamental truth. Margaret stared, dazed, out of the window, wondering that the view remained unchanged when she felt as if the world had shifted on its axis.
The church bells stopped ringing. The duke would be working in his study. Her father was the key to unlocking the tangle she had got herself into. She had to persuade him that he must reject Killin’s request for her hand in marriage. Once that that particular sword of Damocles was no longer hanging over her head, she could buy herself time to find a way to let Sebastian down gently.
She would have to stand her ground with the duke for the first time in her life. She’d have to persuade her father that she was not, once again, procrastinating, but had made a grown-up, carefully thought through decision and that she was entitled to have a say in her own future.
Could she do that? She had to, otherwise she may as well resign herself to doing his bidding. Terrified but determined, she rang the bell to summon Molly and prepared to confront the lion in his den.
DRESSED IN A DEMURE MORNING gown of pale-blue muslin, Margaret hesitated outside the door of her father’s study. It was almost exactly a year since she had been hauled over the coals in this very room prior to her exile, and six months since her second lambasting on her return from Dalkeith. How immature and naive she had been. This time she had to be calm, logical, coherent. Knocking on the door, she entered without waiting for permission.
“Margaret!” Her father was seated at his desk, pen in hand, an account book open on the blotter in front of him. “What do you want? I’m extremely busy.”
“Good morning, Your Grace. May I?”
As she took a seat in front of the desk, the duke continued to stare down at his accounts. “Well?”
“Killin informed me that he intends to call on you after Princess Helena’s wedding.”
“Ah!” The pen was set down. The frown disappeared. “I hope you appreciate how fortunate you are to be given a second chance. Killin . . .”
As her father launched into a familiar-sounding litany of Killin’s many attributes, Margaret stopped listening. The duke’s hair was receding, she noted. He had combed it forward in an effort to disguise the fact, but the effect was to make it look as if he was wearing a hat. His mutton-chop whiskers were no longer bright red but ginger tinged with grey. His eyebrows were wildly curling and untidy, in need of a trim, and there were hairs sprouting from his nostrils. He was not omniscient and he wasn’t infallible. He was merely a man set in his ways who must be persuaded to view his recalcitrant daughter in a fresh light.
“Your Grace!” Margaret felt sick. Her hands were shaking. She laced them tightly together, digging her nails into her palms. “I have come to inform you that I am not going to marry Killin,” she said firmly. “I have tried. You cannot fault me for lack of effort, but I simply cannot persuade myself that we are suited. I cannot sacrifice myself to a marriage that would make me and, I am convinced, my husband, too, quite miserable. I know this is the last thing you want to hear, but it’s far better that you hear it now than later.”
Forcing herself to look into her father’s eyes, however, she quailed. A long, fraught silence followed. While her calves itched with the urge to flee, a tic in her father’s cheek made his whiskers twitch. Hopefully, his silence meant he was digesting what she had said. It meant he had listened, she told herself, which was a start.
“How dare you.”
She flinched but refused to drop her gaze. “I am entitled to have a say in this matter, you must see that.”
“What I see is that you have done a damned fine job of deceiving me and your mother into believing you had reformed.”
“I have tried to do what is expected of me, but I do not want—”
“How many times, miss, do I have to remind you that your wishes are completely and utterly irrelevant? All this little speech of yours has proved to me is that you are what you have always been. Utterly selfish, completely insubordinate, and determined to do your best to ruin the reputation of our family.”
“Father! That is not fair. I want—”
“Hold your tongue,” he snapped, his face pinched with anger. “How dare you interrupt me! You have said far too much already, and none of it is news to me. You cannot like Killin. You would not make him happy. How many times must I endure this self-serving refrain!”
“I assure you this time it is different. Before . . .” Her voice wobbled. Calm, M. “I freely admit that I did not give the match due consideration when it was first mooted. I put my feelings first without taking anything else into account. However, I have been desperately trying for the last six months to allay my reservations, to persuade myself to do what is expected of me. I have concluded I simply cannot.”
“You simply won’t, you mean. I thought I made it clear after the last time that there was but one lesson I required you to learn: know your place.”
“I am your daughter, not your chattel.” Frustration made her reckless. “My opinion is every bit as valuable as yours in this regard, if not more. Marrying Killin would be a huge mistake. I won’t do it.”
For a long moment their gazes met. Momentarily, she thought she saw a tiny hint of admiration in his eyes, but it was quickly quelled. “Who has put the notion into your head that your opinion carries any weight with me?”
“I am perfectly capable of thinking for myself.”
“No, someone has been doing your thinking for you.” The duke drummed his fingers on the blotter. “These charity visits you have been making. To Lambeth, isn’t it?”
“My mother authorised those trips.”
“I am aware of that.” Her father smiled coldly. “I didn’t object because I believed them to be innocuous. Now, I wonder if I was mistaken.”
“The time I have spent in Lambeth has been extremely educational. Father Sebastian and his sister Mrs. Elmhirst are very pleased with the assistance I have been giving them. I would even go so far as to say that I have been useful.”
Her father was eyeing her as if she were a wriggling grub he had uncovered by lifting a stone. Digging her nails into her palms, Margaret forced herself to continue. “I have been helping people in a very practical way. It is Father Sebastian’s belief that one cannot nurture the spirit if the body is starving.”
“If I wanted a sermon on charity, I would have attended church this morning.”
“Seb— Father Sebastian and his sister don’t believe in dispensing charity but in finding the root cause of suffering and doing something to alleviate it. I have learned a great deal about real life from working with them. Enough to understand that I have a good deal more to learn. In that sense, you are right in saying that Lambeth has influenced my thinking.”
“In which case, your visits to Lambeth must cease forthwith.”
“Cease?” Her jaw almost dropped at this unexpected turn in the conversation. “But why?”
“Because I say so. Because I will not have my daughter roaming about Lambeth under the influence of a renegade priest. Because I shudder to think what Killin would make of it if he knew.”
“He doesn’t know. There is no reason for him to know. What Killin thinks is neither here nor there. I go to Lambeth because I would like to make a difference to the world around me. I thought you’d appreciate that, at least. Isn’t it what you yourself strive to do?”
“You dare to equate your feeble attempts with my charitable endeavours?”
“No! But I dare to suggest that there are more worthwhile endeavours than being the wife of a man who doesn’t actually care about me at all.”
“And there we have it.” Her father smiled thinly. “This wasn’t ever about philanthropy, was it, Margaret? It was all about you, as usual.”
Frustrated and furious, and most of all deeply hurt, Margaret struggled not to cry. He had no interest in her feelings or her wishes. She was his daughter, but he didn’t love her. He never had and he never would. Getting to her feet, her legs shaking, she was set only on making as dignified an exit as she could muster. “Excuse me, Your Grace.”
“Sit down. I’m not done with you yet.”
Trembling, she remained standing. “Perhaps not, but I am done with you. There is nothing more to be said. I am not pointless, but this discussion is.”
The duke eyed her with cold fury. “Father Sebastian Beckwith, do I have the name right?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Lambeth. He will come under the jurisdiction of the Archbishop of Canterbury, Charles Longley. It so happens I am reasonably well acquainted with him.”
“What has that to do with anything?”
“From what you’ve told me, the archbishop will not need much persuading to clip the man’s wings a little.”
“Clip his wings?”
“An Anglican priest, filling your head with nonsense, encouraging you to defy your elders and betters, to wilfully flout rules. Clearly he believes the teachings of the Bible don’t apply to him. Longley will bring him down a peg or two, get him to toe the line.”
“No! No, that is not fair! Father Sebastian’s methods may be unorthodox but they bear fruit. The people of Lambeth need him just as he is.”
But the duke tapped his pen on the blotter, regarding her with infuriating calm. “That is as may be. What they certainly don’t need is you. The best and only way you can demonstrate your usefulness is by marrying Killin.”
In the folds of her gown, her fists were clenched. She willed her tears to remain unshed. “For the last time, I am not marrying Killin.”
“You will cease your visits to Lambeth, and you will marry Killin before this year is out. Do. You. Understand?”
Clearly. Horribly. Painfully. “I understand that nothing I say will make a difference,” she threw at him, “but I’m not marrying Killin. Not now, not ever.”
Sick to her stomach, Margaret fled.