by Robin Helm
To her surprise, Colonel Brandon did not answer her question. Instead, he looked to Mr. Thayer for direction. The young lieutenant lowered himself back into the sofa once Margaret had seated herself and said, “I am not at liberty to divulge all, but I can confirm that certain information had been retrieved about Holland’s intentions in… certain places I have been…” After a few moments of contemplation, he added, “And the men who came today wished to ensure that information did not make it to the Admiralty.”
So, there will be naval action in Java soon? Will you be required to go? Will it be where you make the fortune you feel is so necessary? Will I be allowed to accompany you if it is war?
Mrs. Berridge shifted her attention between the men and over to Margaret. “I don’t understand a word of what he said, or rather didn’t say. What information about where?”
“He cannot tell us, Mama.”
“How vexing! Men and their little intrigues…”
Little intrigues? Lives will be lost over this. It’s hardly a “little intrigue.”
“Much like women and their secrets,” Mr. Thayer agreed.
That caught Margaret’s attention. If he thought to goad her into revealing an engagement that she would announce to the world if she could, he’d be disappointed at her pleasure. “And what secrets would those be?”
“Blue dresses.”
Mrs. Berridge hid a smile behind her handkerchief. Marianne glanced at the Colonel, who winked at Margaret. A few chuckles followed—ones that made Mr. Thayer look even more confused. The Colonel finally took pity. Margaret never would have.
“If ever Margaret asks for a new dress, you know she’s vexed over something. Margaret doesn’t care for the trial that comes with the dressmaking process.”
“All the bloodletting…”
At Mr. Thayer’s confused look, Marianne said, “There would be no bloodletting if you would only stand still.”
“That doesn’t explain,” interjected the still-confused Mr. Thayer, “what the significance of blue is.”
Margaret offered him a smile she thought he’d understand. “I ask for blue when I am especially vexed.”
“Or sad,” mused their mother. “You asked for one after Marianne and Elinor married and when that young man Mrs. Jennings introduced to you went away. I never understood your need for a dress then,” she mused. “You didn’t like him.”
Margaret felt rather than saw Mr. Thayer’s interest at that one and decided to make him squirm. “On the contrary, Mama. I liked him immensely. That’s why I was sad when he left—when I had to tell him…” Discretion required she not be too frank. “I did not like him enough…”
Mr. Thayer whispered under his breath, “I imagine, then, Miss Dashwood, your young man wears blue to this day.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Margaret tossed The Lake of Killarney aside and dragged herself from beneath the library table. She hadn’t been able to read a word for the past three days—days in which Mr. Thayer had been absent the house. She assured herself that it could not be the cause of her ennui, but she also suspected that she lied.
Wandering from room to room did little to settle her, so she retrieved her warmest shawl and slipped outside before the Colonel could tease her with one of his silent looks again. The man really had become insufferable. If I did not love and respect him as I do, I’d despise him by now.
Rain threatened, but Margaret did not care. She wandered the grounds, avoiding the pond, away from the prospect that overlooked the countryside, and finally found herself in the garden at the yew arbor. Without cushions, she would not sit long, but perhaps if she closed her eyes, she could recall him giving her the story of the monkey, Jocko, and the not-so-subtle hints he’d given her as to his hopes.
What does Father Berridge say about his suit, I wonder. Will the Navy be grand enough for my step-papa? Will Conrad—that is—no, I do think I may at least think of him as Conrad, even if I cannot say it. Will he remember to not mention taking me to the Indies?
Eyes closed, Margaret tried to imagine her stepfather’s expression if he heard those two little words, “East Indies.” She shuddered.
“Are you cold, Margaret?”
The smile formed before she could prevent it—before she could even open her eyes. “No, just imagining what my stepfather would say to your suggestion that you remove me from the safety of England and drag me all the way to the Indies.”
One look at him and Margaret’s heart settled itself. “He has agreed.”
Conrad nodded. “He has promised to post the banns. Reverend Ferrars has agreed to post here as well.”
“My mother has sent for Mrs. Chalmers. She insists I need so many new things.” Margaret touched her shoulder. “I have the pricks to prove it.”
“How many blue dresses have you requested?”
“One…” She offered him a sly smile. “—per day since you left. I shall ask for green or brown or pink now.” As Conrad seated himself beside her, she added, “She has also made a list of every suitable property in the whole of both Dorsetshire and Devonshire.” At his start she added, “Are you not ready to run away to sea, never to return again?”
“Only if you agree to come with me.”
Nervous trepidation she hadn’t known she felt dissolved in those words. It was time to ask—to really know if she would sail with or ahead of his ship. Just because Admiral Croft brought his wife on voyages did not signify that Conrad would be allowed such a luxury. He was not, after all, a captain, much less an admiral. She had just resolved to ask when Conrad spoke again.
“The other morning, before our decoy of a rider arrived, another rider came and brought this letter.” He passed her the missive. “I hadn’t finished it, but after speaking with Mr. Berridge, I went for a walk and found it in my pocket. How I forgot such an important and distressing letter, I cannot imagine, but I did.”
Her throat went dry, but Margaret managed to squeak out, “You wish me to read it?”
“Yes.”
Something in his strangled tones told her it brought bad news. “I—”
“Please read it, Margaret.”
Only his use of her name made unfolding the paper bearable. After one last glance at him, she tried to focus on the words.
21 High Street
Ainsmere, Norfolk
My Esteemed Mr. Thayer,
It is with great regret that I write to inform you of the untimely death of your cousin, Mr. George Gilchrist, his wife Caroline, and their son, Edmund. En route to deliver Edmund to Gresham’s, they were set upon by highwaymen. Mr. Gilchrist did not submit to their demands and was shot. The horses bolted, the coach overturned, and several others were killed, including the boy and his mother.
Another cousin, Robert Gilchrist, preceded George and Edmund in death two years ago, leaving you as the heir to Norcrist and the rest of the Gilchrist holdings.
George and Caroline Gilchrist also left a young daughter, Anne Gilchrist, aged two. As her only living relative, you are named guardian by will and familial responsibility. The child is at Norcrist now with her nurse and the rest of the household staff.
Please advise when you may come and assume possession of your property and responsibility of your ward.
Sincerely,
Albert Winston, Esq.
“Conrad… this poor child!”
He sat beside her, taking her hand in his. “I knew you would understand how important caring for her is. I would not presume to hold you to a promise made without this information, though.”
“I do not wish to be released from our engagement.” Margaret swallowed down rising unease and steadied herself before adding, “Unless you do.”
“No!” Conrad held her hand fast. “I’ve feared your response ever since I read the letter. Would you wish to become the only mama that little Anne will likely ever remember? I hoped, but…”
At her reassuring smile, he relaxed. It lasted but a few short seconds. “Of course, now I mu
st sail as soon as may be arranged. The girl will need all we can provide for her. Perhaps we will capture—”
“No, Conrad.” Margaret pulled her hand from his and drew herself up as tall and straight as she could. “Young Anne does not need pounds and shillings. She needs family—you. The need for increased income is past, is it not? You have inherited this…” Margaret thrust the paper back into his hands. “Norcrist. Is there not income enough for its upkeep? For hers?” It took a moment to steady her voice once more before adding, “For ours?”
There in the yew arbor, with a gentle rain slowly turning to a torrent, Conrad Thayer clasped Margaret Dashwood’s hand in both of his and kissed it. Her heart thudded until she felt certain he’d hear it and mock her, but he only gazed up at her a moment later and whispered, “Have I yet told you how dearly I love you?”
“I had hoped,” she replied. “But I did wonder when you did not say as much. I thought perhaps you’d only settled for a lady who would not object to your reading.”
He kissed that hand again. “And if you hoped, does that mean you might love me?”
She’d had every intention of admitting the state of her heart and affections. Alas, her tongue refused to cooperate and instead said, “I most certainly love you…rrr…” Margaret smiled. “Promised library.”
EPILOGUE
Exhaustion etched itself into each one of Margaret’s features. Her eyes drooped, and the corners of her mouth were pulled taut into the semblance of a smile that resembled more of a grimace. Conrad ached to demand the driver urge the horses faster, but that would be cruel. In minutes, they’d reach the gates as it was.
Soft, weak, Margaret’s voice reached his ears as if whispered from a mile away. “May we walk for a bit? I don’t think I can bounce for another minute without my mind tumbling out onto the road.”
Just then, the gates of Norcrist came into view. Conrad rapped the roof of the carriage and called out for the driver to stop. “We’ll walk the rest of the way. Please bring our things to the front.”
While not grand, the gates of Norcrist were large and somewhat imposing when closed. However, they stood open and welcoming. Margaret stepped from the carriage more gingerly than she had any other day of their journey to Norfolk, and it smote his heart.
“It’s lovely. The trees…”
They strolled arm in arm up the winding drive until the house came into view. Margaret came to a full stop and stared. “Conrad, is that…?”
“Norcrist, yes.”
Her gaze shifted from the house to him and back to the house again. “It’s much larger than you led me to believe. Delaford—”
“Is grander, to be sure,” he admitted.
“I beg to differ!” Without waiting for him, and as if she’d shrugged off her fatigue, Margaret strode forward at a quick pace. “I never imagined…” At that, she came to an abrupt stop and whirled to face him. “Is your inheritance insufficient to support the running of the house? Is that why you were so determined to sail again? Did I encourage you to make an unwise decision?”
Though in full view of anyone who cared to look out of the windows, Conrad pulled her close and held her. “I showed all I knew of the place and all that Winston sent me to the Colonel, my love. Your advice was best.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “We both agreed on that point. Anne will need us.”
The mention of their ward was all it took to stir Margaret to motion again, but Conrad held fast. Margaret gazed at him, her eyes holding the same searching look she’d given him that first day in the library at Delaford. What else could he do but capture her lips with his and hold them fast? With a wife such as his, what man could resist? Margaret melted into his arms and, as had happened once or twice before, she gave a sigh he’d spend the rest of his life trying to coax from her as often as possible.
“Content?” he whispered against her lips.
“Vastly.” She kissed him once more as if determined to have the last word. When it came to kisses, Conrad was happy to yield—even to encourage her.
Margaret stepped back slowly, one foot after the other, but she did not release his arm as she said, “Now, introduce me to our little Anne.”
They strolled together to the steps of Norcrist, and a small girl with dark curls and brilliant blue eyes watched as they drew near. Margaret gasped as the child wriggled and reached for them. She broke free of him and hurried up the steps to take Anne from the nurse who held the child. “Oh, Conrad… Look at her! She’s beautiful.”
The child nestled into Margaret’s shoulder and curled one arm around her neck. Dark eyelashes lay against a tiny porcelain cheek. His gaze shifted from Anne to his wife and his heart constricted. You’re beautiful. I never saw how much until just now.
Before he could respond, Margaret met his gaze, held it, and mouthed, “I love you.”
It was the first time she’d told him, but if the look she gave him meant what he thought it did, it would not be the last.
THE END
IN THE LOOKING GLASS
Mandy H. Cook
In the Looking Glass Copyright © 2020 Mandy H. Cook
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems — except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews — without permission in writing from its publisher and author.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Editing suggestions by Robin Helm, Larry Helm, and Wendi Sotis.
CHAPTER I
Even as a child, Fanny had been preoccupied with reflective surfaces. Plates, silver spoons, looking glasses, and shop windows could easily stop her mid-sentence. It was as if the world around her stopped, and she existed in another dimension completely for those few moments, until she was recalled to actual time and space by a family member or friend. Though the frequency of these occurrences became less often as she grew older, she was always aware of her appearance, thanks to her old friends. Unlike her sister June, who cared little to nothing for her dishevelment, Fanny cared very much and chose to model herself after her cousin Victoria, who was always precisely perfect. Given that Victoria was an only child and did not suffer pranks at the hands of younger siblings, she was noticeably more successful at her attempts.
Fanny, also unlike her sister June, had been content with her lot as a privileged female and dreamt pleasantly of the day she would find a mate and settle into a household of her own. Though she did not excel at every domestic accomplishment, she did attempt them all until she found a few she could tolerate long enough to become proficient.
On this momentous day, Fanny arose earlier than was her usual with the intention of studying her reflection most carefully. She took a deep, steadying breath before making her way across the room from her bed to the vanity. Purposefully avoiding her reflection for a moment longer, she sat slowly upon the bench and studied the items arranged upon the table. Everything was there in their usual places - the brushes, the ribbons, the hair tongs, various lotions and potions and sprays. Fanny stared at the collection, recalling the years of experimentation it had taken to perfect the use and styling of each and usually just in time for the styles to change again. But Fanny was not overcome by the frustration; she enjoyed the challenges of being female. Until today. Today, Fanny was tempted to feel defeated. She looked up, meeting the eyes of the lady in the looking glass.
“Here we are, old friend,” Fanny greeted quietly. It was strange to note that the reflection had not changed. The large, hazel eyes showed no redness, nor were there creases about the corners. The skin was cream, also unblemished, with the softest of roses on the cheeks. Fanny knew just how long to stay outdoors to inspire the complexion without breaking it. She gasped and leaned closer. “No,” she decided, not allowing herself the sigh of
relief, “not a white hair. Twas just a glinting from the light peeking through the window.” Her hair, though not the golden curls of her cousin, was much more accommodating than June’s. Fanny released the mass of thick, rich chocolate from the braid that bound it. Softly curling tendrils sprung into shape, framing the heart-shaped face that so sought perfection.
“Happy birthday, darling!” Mother greeted from the door, surprised to find her second oldest daughter out of bed. “Is anything amiss?” she asked, a faint smile hovering on her lips. Mother, though advancing in years and boasting a family of eleven children- all her own! - was still remarkably handsome. Fanny studied her mother and did not answer.
“Fanny, dear, two decades is not such an old age,” reassured Mother.
Fanny returned to her study of her own reflection.
“Two. Two decades. Sounds dreadful,” she stated. “Everyone else is married. What is the matter with me?”
“Nothing is the matter with you. Do you not remember that your Aunt Elizabeth and I were both wed after twenty?” Upon receiving no response, she continued. “And by everyone, you refer to your older sister, your cousin, and two friends.”
“Even Louisa is engaged,” mumbled Fanny.
“Louisa has known Mr. Hampton for years. They seemed to share a playful connection almost from the very beginning of the acquaintance,” Mother said in defense of the early betrothal. Louisa was two years Fanny’s junior. “Green is not a becoming color for you, Fanny,” Mother added by way of a gentle scold.
“Green is precisely what I shall wear,” Fanny decided aloud, for it was actually extremely flattering and brought out the flecks of green in her eyes.
She was sure Mother fought the urge to roll her eyes. “Happy birthday. Do try to enjoy it,” she advised sagely. Fanny watched her mother depart the room from the reflection in the glass she still sat facing.
