Chapter 23

 

Aunt Margaret was bound and determined to go belligerently to death’s door. In fact, Death likely avoided collecting her so he wouldn’t have to deal with her unforgiving mouth while he escorted the woman to where she was going.

Uncharitable, but Maggie couldn’t help a slight chuckle at the idea. Of course, she would never wish death on anyone, but Aunt Margaret had pushed her to such an acquisitive point.

Now picking her way through the bustling streets of Boston to Tremont Row, a length of shops and boutiques for the wealthy, she couldn’t help but smile. Never before had she possessed a penny to spend, but today her coin purse was full.

Maggie Shaw, Independently Wealthy Woman. A lovely title, but such an odd sensation. Relief, mixed with a twinge of disappointment, perhaps. She had been proud she’d never asked Aunt Margaret for anything, but with this money, she’d accepted something extravagant from the harsh woman.

To be sure, Aunt Margaret’s insistence she take the money in exchange for the estate harbored cruel intent. To keep her from sullying the Hall name and house in Society. But still...

The money, to her limited knowledge, had always been promised and intended for one Margaret Hall. Not the red-headed, smart-mouthed, bastard child formerly named Maggie Flemming, now Shaw, as Aunt Margaret had pointed out just this morning. Where most women tended to grow wiser with age, Margaret Hall had taken those years to broaden the pitiless creativity of her vocabulary.

The wind picked up and the sky darkened. Garret would have warned her of an imminent storm. Had he been here, of course. Having relied on her poor weather judgment, she was ill-dressed for rain, and had unfortunately refused a carriage in light of a long walk to cool down after her most recent bitter argument with Aunt Margaret.

Picking up her pace, she dodged into the nearest shop as the first drop of water splattered on her lightly freckled forearm.

The store she’d chosen for her escape was a fine hat shop. It also boasted silk ribbons and intricate hair pins and brooches, but the main staple, most definitely hats. A monumental difference, between this store and the general store in Rockdale. No spit cans or assortments of rifles and animal pelts for sale. Nor did a stuffed deer backside hang on the back wall with an arrow pointing in the direction of the outhouse.

She smiled at the dissimilarity. No one in the Boston store talked cordially, as if they had known their neighbor all of their lives either. No one asked about harvests, sick animals or new babies and actually cared about the answer.

Some of the hats in the grandiose store were small, and of an attractive nature, but most were large, gaudy, and flowing with feathers, lace, and other such expensive delicacies. The hat in the window was atrocious, only remarkable because it displayed a rather large stuffed bird, complete with nest and three small blue eggs. A fat ribbon matching the color of the eggs with trailing tails adorned it, and an impressive assortment of plumage exploded out of the top. It probably cost more than it took to run the Lazy S for a year.

The thought pricked her. How could she pretend to be interested in such functionless fashions, much less spend money in such a gaudy place?

A glance out the window showed the rain coming down in hard fat drops, and she sighed with disappointment. Rain didn’t bother her overmuch anymore. Not since her stay in Rockdale, where crops, livestock and livelihood revered storm clouds. However, Aunt Margaret would have a heyday if she heard she’d ruined her dress, thus making a fool of herself in a public place. She’d have to wait out the weather, and hope the storm was a short one.

Two other ladies and a gentleman must have had the same idea, for they rushed into the shop, seeking escape.

The man tipped his hat as he brushed by her, and she nodded politely. Uninterested in conversation or niceties, she turned and feigned interest in the display of hair barettes behind her.

“That one would look ravishing on you,” a man said in a low voice behind her.

She almost moaned, she fought the urge to tell him to go away so hard. Instead she turned and smiled, if a little stiffly, at a handsome, sandy-haired man with deep brown eyes. “Not my style, I’m afraid.”

“I thought I knew you,” the man said. “You are Margaret Flemming. William Hall’s Ward. I’d never forget your accent, if ever I was able to forget your lovely face.”

In confusion, she looked at the man directly for the first time. Recognition made her remember his face, though his name remained in the deep recesses she was yet unable to reach.

“Robert Faraday?” he offered. “We met at Charles Harris’s party. Last season?”

He’d jogged her memory. “Oh yes! Quite sorry, I hadn’t expected to see a familiar face. You must think me quite rude.”

Robert laughed. “Not rude. Forgetful, perhaps, but never rude.”

He had an easy confidence that was infectious. “Where have you been?” he asked. “I saw you the one time and then never again. I know because I looked for you at parties for the rest of the season.”

She had only danced with Robert one time as her dance card had been full for the first and only time of her life. The night she’d worn the daring red dress in a bold move to defy Aunt Margaret, who only let her attend the party because some rather pushy younger members of Society had insisted and heckled until at long last, Margaret Hall gave in and let her go.

Though heavily escorted, she’d been given enough space by her guards to enjoy herself for what had been the first time in years. They must have pitied her treatment. That, or they were simply terrible chaperones. Either way, they allowed her to dance and socialize, as if she were a normal girl who lived in normal circumstances. Robert had seemed particularly charmed by her, and had watched her much of the night.

“I didn’t go to many social events,” she said, unwilling to go into detail. “And I left town soon after.”

“You do realize your veiled answers only add to your mystery, don’t you?”

“My apologies. That is not my intention. I left for my father’s home in Texas. I was married there, and have only recently come back for a short stay.”

She’d thought the mention of her marriage would deter him. It didn’t. Robert seemed disappointed, to be sure, but in no time was talking amicably once again.

“Why has your husband not escorted you here?” he asked.

The direct way in which he spoke to her made her uncomfortable, but it was the way with American men, she conceded. The rules of conversation between the sexes were never as her mother described they should be. “He didn’t come with me to Boston. He’s terribly busy and couldn’t be spared from his duties for any length of time.”

To her relief, outside the window, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. Good enough. Time to take her leave. She excused herself and said goodbye, but Robert Faraday didn’t seem inclined to take a hint, and followed her out the door.

Robert escorted her down the street, talking in a constant stream until the window of a shop stopped Maggie in her tracks. The most appealing gold pocket watch she had ever encountered shone through the polished glass. Granted, she hadn’t looked at too many fine pieces closely, but this particular one seemed to be made for her. Well, not specifically for her, but for her to give to Garret. Surely she had known as soon as she’d stepped foot outside the cold bosom of the Hall estate, she would never spend money on herself.

She was in search of some small something to bring back to Garret. An apology, perhaps. Or a belated wedding gift for her handsome, if sometimes maddening groom? Maybe simply a token of her love and devotion to him. Whichever the reason, it didn’t matter. She only knew this pocket watch was made for a great man. A man such as Garret Shaw.

Of high quality, the watch on display was polished gold and lay open, not to the clock face, but to an intricate engraving on the innards of the piece. A golden man on a horse raced desperately against the setting sun in the background. So balanced and detailed was the artwork, the small possession enraptured her. She stood mute on the walkway, missing every word Robert Faraday said.

“Does your silence mean you accept my invitation?” Robert asked.

“Mmm?” She straightened up to try and catch onto the conversation.

“My father’s party? Tomorrow night?” he asked, one eyebrow arched.

“Your father is throwing a party and you are inviting me?”

“Say you’ll come. It promised to be dreadfully boring, but having you there would lighten things up a bit, I think.”

“That sounds...” she started, searching for an excuse not to go. “Dreadfully boring,” she finished, using his words, which elicited a laugh from her undeterred admirer. She grew irritated with the undesired attention.

“I won’t take no for an answer, I’m afraid. I shall simply have to follow you around until you concede.”

Maggie sighed, trying not to show her misery at the thought. “Let me think on it, as I will need to speak to my Aunt Margaret. She will have the final say in any acceptance of invitations while I’m staying in Boston.”

Nicely done. She hadn’t lied. She’d bring it up to Aunt Margaret as promised. All she had to do was act like she wanted to go, and Aunt Margaret would have her locked in her room for the duration of the gathering. The upswing of handing social decisions over to her personal saboteur.

Faraday finally took his leave, assuring her he’d send written word with the details of the party to the Hall estate promptly. Maggie smiled her relief when he walked away, and purchased the pocket watch immediately afterward. She headed home without delay. She’d had quite enough excitement for one day, and had no intention or desire to run into any of the other few people in town she knew. The walk home took an eternity, and she found herself desperately missing Buck. Again.

By the time she reached the Hall estate, she was drained, bedraggled, and thanks to the moisture in the air, her hair had adopted the look of a wild animal. What she did not want, to deal with more of Aunt Margaret’s treachery.

“Mrs. Maggie! It’s important I talk at you right away,” Berta screech-whispered as Maggie removed her fitted jacket.

Alas, one didn’t always get what one wanted.

That Berta had finally called her by her preferred name was good, but her friend’s tone had been worrisome. Berta ushered her into the hall, and then into a secret panel leading to a hidden hallway, usually only used by the servants so they could appear as if by magic when summoned. The lighting was dim, and the pathway between the walls narrow, but it was private enough.

“Mrs. Maggie,” Berta said breathlessly. “You must be more careful, girl. Mrs. Hall has spies everywhere. Everywhere, do you hear?”

“Whatever are you talking about? I have done nothing wrong,” she whispered, baffled.

“Someone saw you talking to a man in a hat shop, Mrs. Maggie. Rode straight here and told Mrs. Hall, who had me pen a letter for her straight away. She wanted me to write a letter and send it to Rockdale.”

“Oh dear,” she breathed. “It wasn’t as if I wanted to talk to the man! He recognized me from a party and wouldn’t leave me alone.”

“Oh, I know.” Berta smiled wickedly in the dim light. “Mrs. Hall’s eyesight is fading, so she didn’t notice what I was actually writing while she fabricated some story about you having found a new man of attractive means.”

Maggie gaped at Berta in shock. “What did you write in the letter?”

“Well, mostly I wrote down next week’s kitchen list, and after I ran out of food I started reciting old nursery rhymes me mum used to sing to me. Your man will be right confused when he receives that letter.”

“You sent it?” She stifled a giggle.

“Had to. Mrs. Hall insisted we send it out before you returned home. No harm done, but I thought you should know what the old bat is up to.”

“Well, thank you, Berta. I know you took a great risk.”

Berta smiled wide. “Don’t mention it. No really, don’t mention it,” she finished with a wink.

“Mention what?” she asked innocently.

“Good girl. Mrs. Hall is ready for dinner and has asked you join her when you are returned home.”

She repressed a groan. “Fabulous.”

Leaving Berta to the secret passageway, she went to her room to freshen up before meeting Aunt Margaret for dinner. Goodness forbid, her moist and muddled appearance should be the thing that sent her aunt into an even earlier grave.

* * * *

Maggie studied her small bed. It was such a simple thing. It wasn’t extravagant as the other beds in the sprawling house. Though her room was large, it had the barest of decor and comfort offered. Growing up, she’d always wondered why even the lowest paid member of the house was afforded more luxury than her, but these days, she suspected it a ploy by Aunt Margaret to keep her feeling her place in the house. Uncle William had fought for more extravagant trinkets and decorations, furniture even, for her room. But from the loud and bitter battles between him and her aunt, and the continued cold and impoverished feel the room took, it was clear who won most often. A part of her wished Garret had been able to accompany her so she could show him where she grew up, the good and the bad, and he would have a chance to see where she came from.

She knew how much he was needed at the ranch. It was dependent on him and he couldn’t be spared for even a day, but she missed him terribly. As frustrating and boorish as he had been most of their time together, she couldn’t get the sweet, almost tender moments out of her head. Maggie lived for those moments.

The bed reminded her of the last night she’d spent with him. Before everything had gone horribly wrong and she’d found the crushing letter. That night, for the first time it had seemed as if everything had come together perfectly to give her a life she could be devastatingly happy in. She didn’t know why the bed reminded her of Garret. His bed and hers neither looked nor felt anything alike. This small, lumpy pallet lacked the warmth she’d found in Garret’s.

Her lip trembled, and she tore her gaze away. The gravity of her situation was overwhelming. She couldn’t imagine spending another day away from the beloved home she’d found in Rockdale, much less an unnamed length of time with the one person bound and determined to bring her to her knees. Would she survive her aunt’s cruelty? Would she eventually make her way back to Garret broken and unrecognizable? Would she be so shaken that she would become only a shade of the woman she knew she wanted to be? A person only had the capacity to bear so much. The fear of losing herself was a constant struggle in such a dreary place.

She changed quickly and re-pinned her hair. Not perfectly coiffed, but it would do if Aunt Maggie’s eyesight was as bad as Berta hinted. Finished readying herself, she hurried down the halls to Aunt Margaret’s room, sure she would get a verbal lashing for tardiness.

Surprisingly, Aunt Margaret was in a jovial mood. Surely due to her recent secretive, or so she thought, letter of betrayal. That Aunt Margaret thought she’d gotten away with ruining any chance of her happiness in Rockdale burned, but it would do no good to get Berta in trouble. Surely Aunt Margaret would figure out where the information came from and punish the maid accordingly.

So Maggie suffered through dinner and absorbed all her aunt’s not-so-veiled insults. The ailing woman was weak and had trouble eating solid foods so a young maid named Beatrice spoon-fed her broth. Maggie ate dinner in the chair furthest away from Aunt Margaret until she bid her come closer and take over feeding her. Beatrice gave Maggie a sympathetic look when she left, taking her mostly untouched plate of food with her.

Aunt Margaret complained, ever the impatient patient, about everything. The broth was too hot, and then too cold. Maggie spilled too much of it, prolonging her dinner. Maggie’s hand shook like a beggar’s. Upon close inspection, she looked disheveled and her hair wasn’t quite tidy enough. She looked too thin, and breathed too loudly. Aunt Margaret was reaching.

To shut her dear old aunt up, Maggie told stories of her adventures in Rockdale. What began as a boring story of almost every memorable moment in her travels to Rockdale, turned into something more, and Aunt Margaret piped down and gave her space to talk. Maggie finished feeding her, and continued talking, finding the story somehow comforting. As if she were there again. She left out the finer details about Garret, and how their marriage came to be. Aunt Margaret tarnishing such an intimate memory would be unbearable and she was afraid the woman would see how much she really cared for him, hurt her with the knowledge. Instead she told her aunt of Lenny and Cookie, and of Buck.

Aunt Margaret’s eyes drooped, and she struggled to keep them open. At the description of Lenny, she perked up. “You met an Indian?”

Of course that would interest her. In the cities, Indians were more romanticized than in the country, where battles for land and resources still occasionally took place as the Comanche fought the government’s broken promises and the unfair pressures of the reservations. To the sheltered they were thought of as exotic, the sight of natives being much rarer in Boston’s shopping districts and social circles.

“Yes. She has become a dear friend. I’ll take my leave now, Aunt. You must rest.”

“You’ll leave when I tell you to leave, girl,” Aunt Margaret spat as she struggled to sit up straighter.

Having endured quite enough of Aunt Margaret’s disgraceful manner, she wheeled on her. “You’ll rest, and if you are as kind as your bitter heart will allow toward me, I’ll tell you more over supper tomorrow.”

Aunt Margaret gasped. “How dare you talk to me in such a way, you ungrateful little whelp. Your mother would turn in her grave if she knew you had such a devilish tongue on you. I always told William you were not to be trusted. Never trust that redheaded little demon, I said, but he wouldn’t listen—”

“Enough!” Maggie yelled. “I’ll not be treated thus anymore, or I will not be taking care of you like you have required. I’ll leave you here to die alone and uncared for, consequences with the estate be damned. Have I made myself clear?”

The muscles in her aunt’s jaw tightened and worked, and she glared, eyes bloodshot and angry.

A soft knock came on the door and a servant entered carrying a silver tray with a small envelope on it. She brought it to Aunt Margaret and opened the letter. The girl read its contents into the ailing woman’s ear.

Aunt Margaret smiled; such a predatory thing. “Why dear,” she said with an air of innocence, “it appears you have been invited to a party. By Mr. Faraday, hmm? I feel as if you should go. Respond with her acceptance right away,” she barked at the servant.

Maggie whirled and left the room before she lost her temper still further. As she tramped out the doorway, she was accompanied by Aunt Margaret’s weakened but chilling, cruel chuckle. Even the long fit of coughing which followed the soft laughter didn’t diminish the callous delight that had been in the woman’s voice. For logically, how many battles did one have to lose before losing the war altogether?