Chapter 3

 

Margaret sat in her father’s room, which in recent weeks had become her hideaway from the rest of London. While seated in the red, high back, upholstered chair placed between the window and the bed, Margaret could will herself to concentrate on one single, solitary thing—her father’s recovery—and stave off the bitterness and heartache that fought to overwhelm her.

The previous year had done its worst and tested the young heiress in more ways than she ever dreamed imaginable. There was once a time, when she was cooped up at The Briar, that she craved interesting things, anything to break the monotony of her country existence. She had cursed her mother’s reclusive nature and her father’s bitter avoidance of them. She had envied Peter his medical degree, which included his recently won position at the hospital, and had even spat a curse at her eldest brother, Daniel, for being so well suited to his role as the future earl. Margaret had begun to begrudge anyone who led even a slightly more entertaining life than her and, now, ten months on and possessing many stories of her own, she was ready for it to return to the way it had once been—painfully predictable and dull as tombs.

Not one month before, she had been the happiest of women, convinced the man who stole her heart would manage to steal her away as well. She wanted to go with him and had found herself counting the hours until such a time as he could whisk her away to Scotland as they had planned. She’d even packed a small valise with a modest, if somewhat austere, trousseau tucked in its folds. The bag remained hidden in the shadows under her bed, still packed. Any hope she had had of one day making a journey north with it had vanished in the days following her father’s return to London.

How could she have left him in such a state? The once noble peer, member of the House of Lords and Earl of Moncliff, had been reduced to nothing more than a murmuring invalid who could neither eat nor use the chamber pot on his own. With a deceased mother and only brothers to call family, Margaret knew rather quickly that the lion’s share of their father’s care would fall to her. At first, she did not mind. She saw it as a duty, the mere repayment of lifelong support bestowed upon her since birth, but as the days passed she feared the reality was becoming far worse than she imagined.

They could not keep a staff of nurses, once promised to them by their family physicians. Attending chamber pots and administering sponge baths was far less appealing to the current generation of young women, it would seem. Wooed to the profession by Nightingale and her contemporaries, many girls, once it was realized they would not be attending the wounds of strapping young men in uniform, left the service and took up jobs in the factories instead.

“It’s noble work, miss,” Katherine had said when Margaret met her in the hallway the evening before, “steady work with only slightly worse pay. And I won’t be expected to see to anyone else’s business, if you know what I mean. That should be worth its weight in gold, don’t you think?”

Margaret could not find the words to agree. She did not care to argue and allowed the girl to leave. She had said nothing to Peter the night before, knowing there was little that could be done for it so late in the day. Margaret had taken on so much of her father’s care that it almost seemed a blessing to do so without the distracting flutter of someone else in the room.

From her chair by the window, Margaret was granted a sufficient amount of light by which to read, which she did, out loud, as a way to quiet her mind and subdue the restless spirit of her father, who was not yet used to his immobility.

A few grunts often escaped her father while she droned on. That day he seemed particularly unsettled.

“He who repeats a tale after man,

Is bound to say, as nearly as he can, 

Each single word, if he remembers it,

However rudely spoken or unfit,

Or else the tale he tells will be untrue,

The things invented and the phrases new.”

Lord Marshall writhed and squirmed, using the good side of his body to roll to the edge of the bed. Margaret lowered The Canterbury Tales and let out a huff as she watched her father struggle with such a simple task.

“Pretty dull, isn’t it?” she asked, forcing a smile.

Lord Marshall stopped his wriggling when Margaret stood. She placed the book down on the bedside table and stepped toward him. He watched intently as she came to his side, as if mesmerized by her presence and the long shadow she cast over him. A pat of drool formulated on the edge of his dry and cracked mouth.

“I don’t have to read,” Margaret offered, stooping down to help him back into his place in the middle of the bed. Margaret could not imagine anything else she could do to help pass away the hours.

Lord Marshall’s mouth opened and closed quickly, with only short huffs accompanying them. His neck twisted in an odd way as he tried to look at her, his eyes wild.

“I wish you wouldn’t fuss so,” she said, taking a seat on the side of the bed. Using one hand, she lifted his head while the other adjusted his pillow. “Maybe we should try some more speech work, like Dr. Davidson suggested.”

Margaret brought her face inches from her father’s and began to form shapes with her mouth, imitating some of the easiest sounds of human speech. “Mmmm,” she repeated slowly before pausing to give her father a chance to reply. “Mmmmargaret.” She smiled at the thought of hearing her father say her name again, but the eager anticipation vanished when haggard sounds came from him, none of which sounded like an ‘M’.

She patted the side of her father’s cheek, as if to subdue his frantic attempts to speak. “It’s all right, Father,” she said, fighting back tears. “Dr. Davidson did say it would take time.”

Dr. Davidson had said a great number of things, most of which Peter disagreed with. During the family’s first meeting with him, Ainsley practically embarrassed her with all his pointed questions and contradictory theories.

“Peter, calm down. Who’s the doctor here?” Aunt Louisa had said, raising an eyebrow and wriggling in her seat, eager to restore the doctor’s evaporating patience.

The truth was the doctor knew only slightly more than Ainsley, who quickly devoured any book referencing the condition. The family soon realized not much was known about apoplexy. Some suffers regained mobility and speech while others where chairbound, requiring nearly constant care. Their father’s attack had been significant. Lord Benedict had said the Barbadian doctors suggested Lord Marshall had suffered several attacks in quick succession. This would complicate his recovery. The Marshalls had started off hopeful but grew less so with each passing day. Conversations changed from discussing his recovery to deciding what would ultimately make him more comfortable. All the while, Lord Marshall looked on, frustration building in his eyes and contorting his lax facial features into a near permanent scowl.

Margaret tried not to look at her father with pity. She knew it must unsettle him to see so many people look to him as if he were a disappointment and not the man he was.

“Perhaps we should have a turn in the garden,” she said, pulling forth a lighthearted tone. “I’d go for a walk along the pavement—”

Lord Marshall’s eyes popped open in a panic.

“—but Daniel said there was some sort of commotion a few houses down. At the Talbots’, I think.” Margaret had pressed her brother for the true reason, but she wasn’t about to relay that to her father, who already had enough worries. “I’ll have Cutter and Maxwell come help get you in your chair.”

She squeezed his hand, a ritual she performed each time she meant to leave the room. Sometimes she lingered a moment or two longer in the hopes that he would squeeze back an acknowledgement, but he never did.

It did not take long for Cutter and Maxwell to respond to her summons. Within minutes, they plucked Lord Marshall from his bed and transferred him to a high back wheeled chair fitted with cushions for both his underside and his backside. A strap had been fitted, however, to hold up his torso and keep him from tumbling out, which had been a common enough occurrence in the early days.

With Lord Marshall in his chair, Cutter and Maxwell went down the stairs to ensure a clear route, free of obstructions to the back garden. Margaret fetched a blanket to place around her father’s legs but stopped herself just before tucking it in. “The day is so hot,” she said with a weighted laugh. “I don’t think you will be needing this.”

A knock sounded from the front door. With curiosity, Margaret slipped from her father’s room and stopped when she reached the second-floor landing. She stood in the shadows and listened as Maxwell allowed Blair Thornton entry.

“I’ve come to call on Lady Margaret,” he said, somewhat formally. “Is she receiving visitors?”

Before Maxwell was able to give the standard regrets in Margaret’s place, Aunt Louisa’s voice billowed into the foyer and reverberated up to where Margaret eavesdropped.

“Mr. Thornton! What a wonderful surprise! Margaret was just speaking to me about you this morning at breakfast.” Aunt Louisa’s voice grew louder as she drew closer to the front door, and Margaret’s stomach hardened at her words. She had not spoken with Aunt Louisa at all that day, nor would she ever converse about her troubled relationship with the man who had recently saved her life.

“Was she?” Blair’s voice betrayed his surprise.

“I know she has been wishing to speak to you and so it is very serendipitous that you should come to call today.”

Margaret inched forward and peered around the corner. Blair Thornton was a very striking man, with a tall physique and broad shoulders. They had known each other as children, each growing up on their abutting country properties near Tunbridge Wells, and had become reacquainted recently. It was apparent, given his numerous enquiries and letters, that he meant for them to remain in contact. Margaret had never meant to lead him on, at least not this far. Her intention was to lay bare her relationship with Jonas Davies long before Blair developed an attachment.

“I heard of the unfortunate events down the street and thought I should come to make sure everything was all right.” Blair looked up and Margaret sprung back, praying he had not seen her. “Do you think Margaret will see me?”

“Oh absolutely, Mr. Thornton.”

Margaret imagined her aunt turning to Maxwell as her tone changed. “Where is my niece?”

“She is preparing to escort Lord Marshall for a turn in the garden, ma’am,” Maxwell answered.

“Excellent. You should join her then, Mr. Thornton.”

Margaret’s eyes closed as her heart sank. She had been successfully avoiding contact with him for the last few weeks and now there was no way around it.

“What are you waiting for then?” Aunt Louisa said, her commanding tone returning. “Go fetch my brother and niece. They have company.”

Moments later the sound of Maxwell’s shoes could be heard heading up the stairs. Margaret stepped back into her father’s room before they reached the landing.

Panic struck almost instantly as Margaret reached for the bubbly, purple scar at her collar and realized she was not wearing her scarf to hide it as she used to. The weather had been so hot and so seldom did she leave her father’s room that she had become used to removing it, and often ended up leaving it in various places. Crossing the room, she plucked it from the back of her reading chair.

When she turned she saw her father’s eyes upon her from his chair. He really did look like such a pitiful creature with his lip trembling and his hand shaking. For all the curt words he had ever said to her, all the snide remarks and harsh rebukes, the only thing that she wished to see in his eyes was the love he had for her; love in place of a thousand apologies.

She received neither.

“I’m so sorry, Father,” she said, tucking the ends of her scarf into the collar of her bodice. “We won’t be walking alone today. Aunt Louisa has made a decree.”

 

The rear garden at Marshall House was not expansive, but it was filled with enough foliage and a high canopy of trees, so that it gave an illusion of seclusion. An area at the centre of the yard was allotted for a small iron table and two chairs, ornately sculpted with filigree leaves and other organic accents. A path circled around the shaded space, meandering through flower beds and a finely manicured lawn. There remained a few stone sculptures that Margaret’s mother had once chosen as a young bride and which had since grown green with fine moss and intruding ivy. She tried not to look at them, afraid of the memories of her mother enveloping her yet again.

As Margaret took a turn around the yard, Blair inched along slightly behind her.

Thrice Blair tried to begin a conversation and each time the topics introduced petered out. Margaret was not purposely trying to make their meeting uncomfortable but, circumstances being as they were, theirs was an uncomfortable relationship.

“Your father is doing well, I see,” Blair said, gesturing to Lord Marshall in the wheeled chair ahead of them, pushed by Cutter along the path. “All things considering.”

Margaret smiled. It was a perfectly ludicrous thing to say. Her father had not been doing well and he showed only slight improvement. She had turned away enough inquisitive busybodies who only came to spy and later gossip about her father’s misfortune. She was in no mood to accept such rude behaviour from Blair as well.

Blair drew a breath. “I only mean…well, that my regard for him and your family has not diminished in any way since…well…you understand.”

Indeed, Margaret did understand. A cripple, even an exceedingly rich one, was still a cripple. “How is your mother, the Duchess?” Margaret asked, purposely changing the subject. “She must still be in the depths of mourning.”

“I have no doubt you have heard,” Blair said, his jaw tightening somewhat. “London society is famous for its tittle-tattle.”

Margaret stopped and turned. “I have not heard anything beyond these walls,” she said, meeting his gaze squarely. “Not that I would care to hear about any trite, slanderous gossip. I would never keep company with anyone who speaks ill of the Duchess. She is like a mother to me. When I ask, ‘how is Lady Thornton?’, it is exactly what I mean.”

She saw his eyes dart to her scarf before forcibly bringing them back to her face. He had seen her with if off once and Margaret had been very careful to not let that happen again. She began to walk and realized her throat had gone dry. No longer did she have patience for any of this. She wished he would go and that others like him would not think to ring their bell again.

“Forgive me,” Blair said. “In no way did I mean you had participated in such gossip. You must understand how difficult the last few weeks have been on my family.”

Margaret suddenly felt ashamed. The Thorntons had lost a son, Blair’s brother, with whom he was very close. She stopped. “I did not mean…” Margaret floundered, angered by her narrow view of the world. She had spoken of her own suffering, forgetting the suffering of others. Besides, this wasn’t precisely the gratitude she should be showing to the man who saved her life.

She took a breath and made an effort to smile. “I’m glad you came to visit,” she said, restarting their conversation. “What brings you to London?” Without thought, she slipped her arm into the crook of his elbow and together they walked side by side through the garden.