Katherine pressed her lips together. “No name change, but I would thank you to forget you ever heard mine.”
He lifted one eyebrow. “I never forget anything.”
The look he shot Margaretta’s way made her sweat.
Mrs. Lancaster popped up from the rocking chair. Nash rose slowly as well, his eyes staying on Margaretta the entire time. She’d come to learn his different expressions in the past month, but this one was unreadable. What was he thinking?
“As long as we’re all making confessions here this evening,” Mrs. Lancaster said, stepping closer to the chairs where Katherine and Margaretta sat, “we might as well get one more out of the way. Then we can all start to move on from this secrecy.”
Margaretta didn’t know how she felt about the word confessions. Uncovering of secrets was probably more accurate, since none of the parties involved had given their information voluntarily, but if Mrs. Lancaster had something she felt she needed to say, Margaretta certainly wasn’t going to stop her. The woman had been a blessing, and she deserved peace if some secret was tormenting her.
“Of course,” Margaretta said. “You can tell us anything. I believe everyone here can say they owe you loyalty.”
Nash and Katherine both nodded, their faces mirroring the concern and confusion Margaretta felt.
“That’s nice of you, dear, but it’s not my confession.” She smiled as if whatever she said next would be the best news in the world. “It’s yours.”
Margaretta’s mouth dropped open as she looked in Mrs. Lancaster’s kind, smiling eyes. The woman looked almost excited about putting Margaretta on the spot. Or was it the news she expected to hear that made her so happy? Margaretta’s attempt to swallow almost choked her. The shopkeeper knew. How long had she known? How long had she suspected?
“I . . . I . . .” Margaretta looked over at Nash but quickly dropped her gaze to the floor. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“It’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” Margaretta could hear the frown in Mrs. Lancaster’s voice, and it made her wince. But then one wrinkled hand landed on her shoulder and gave an encouraging squeeze.
Why couldn’t she say the words? Margaretta swallowed. It wasn’t as if she’d done anything wrong. She had been married. But somehow she knew the news would change everything. Yes, she’d never claimed to be anything other than a widow, but other than that one conversation, she and Nash had never acknowledged her past. Once he knew the truth, there’d be no ignoring it. “I . . . I can’t.”
Another squeeze encouraged Margaretta to look up into the face of the woman who had filled the role of friend and mother for the past five weeks. “It’s time,” Mrs. Lancaster said. “You might as well tell everyone about the baby.”
Chapter Eight
“Baby?” Nash shot to his feet. He looked to the door where the woman whose identity he hadn’t known had disappeared with the baby. Surely they weren’t trying to say that the baby was Margaretta’s, were they?
When he finally pulled his gaze back to Margaretta and saw her hand pressed to her middle in a gesture he remembered his sister doing countless times, the bottom fell out of his world.
Images and memories he’d kept locked away flooded to the surface. The joy and laughter that abounded when Mary and Lewis had shared their news. More laughter, as well as the occasional good-natured complaining, as she’d grown too large for public outings and never seemed to be able to find a position that stayed comfortable for more than five minutes.
The devastation when Lewis came to Nash’s house and simply sat, unable to bring himself to say the words and actually tell Nash what had happened.
Miss FitzGilbert finally coughed, breaking the silence before speaking into it with a quiet voice. “You were actually married, weren’t you?”
Margaretta didn’t stop looking at Nash. He wished she would. Then maybe he could stop looking at her as well.
“Yes.” Her voice was just as low and quiet as her friend’s. “I married Mr. John Albany, and we spent three days at his father’s country house in Surrey. Then we returned to London so he could prepare to leave with his regiment. They were to set sail from London one week after we came home.”
She swallowed visibly. “He slipped on the gangplank and hit his head. By the time they could fish him out of the Thames, he was dead.”
No one said anything. As the shock of Margaretta’s announcement wore off, questions filled his mind, warring with a mixture of other emotions.
“A tragedy to be sure,” Katherine said quietly, but without the sort of emotion one would normally expect behind such words. “But why are you here? You’ve nothing to hide.”
Margaretta closed her eyes. Tears welled along the compressed lashes before streaming in twin tracks down her cheeks. “John’s younger brother wants nothing more than his father’s title.” Her eyes opened, deep brown pools of utter despair. “If he finds out I’m with child, he’ll stop at nothing to make sure the baby never has a chance to inherit.”
Nash grabbed on to the back of the chair, gripping it until his knuckles whitened and the wood threatened to break the skin. The uneasy feeling he’d gotten in his office that morning grew to a spine-tingling premonition. The man who had come to his office, traveling with her father, inquiring of discreet modes of transportation. If that was him, if that was the brother . . .
The implications slammed into Nash faster than he could process them. If what Margaretta said was true, what in the world was she going to do?
Margaretta pressed her hand against her middle, where the softness she’d known her whole life had given way to a firmness that wouldn’t let her forget the impossible situation she was in. It was the crowning example of the fact that life was not fair. She’d done everything right, all that was asked of her, and still this had happened.
Somehow, once she started telling the story, finally admitting it all, it felt less daunting. The last vestiges of the hope that had carried her to Katherine helped stem the tears that were dripping onto her skirt. She also couldn’t stop the story now that she’d started, even if she wanted to keep as much as possible to herself and only answer the questions they asked. In a fit of nerves and energy that propelled her from the chair and sent her pacing across the floor, the words poured out of her.
“Of course, his family was anxious to know if it was possible a baby had come from the brief union. John’s older brother left for India years ago and married there. He and his wife have been to England to visit a time or two, but there’s been no children. John knew he was likely to inherit, but he joined the navy anyway. Our marriage was more of a business union than anything: Fortescue Saddlery and the Albany racing stables. It made sense.”
She took a deep breath and pressed on, staring at her toes as they tried to dig their way into the wide-planked floor. “Samuel was the most insistent. After a couple of weeks, he became agitated, and I panicked. Told them that there was no baby. I thought it was the truth, thought it had to be the truth. My parents were married for years before I came along.”
“That’s not how it works for everyone, though,” Katherine said softly.
“No.” Margaretta sighed.
“And Samuel Albany knew that, too,” Nash murmured.
His soft words forced Margaretta to look at him, even though she’d been avoiding it. More of that unreadable expression met her gaze, so she let her eyes fall back to her clasped hands.
“Yes. He works a lot with the racing stables, and he kept visiting, saying he had business with Father, but making a point to see me every time. I think he was bribing my maid because he seemed to know almost as soon as I did. He got angry, made veiled remarks about ways he’d heard women got rid of unwanted children. My father and I didn’t know what he would do, so Father sent me on a sea-bathing trip with Mrs. Hollybroke and her daughters. Father said he’d join me there in a few weeks.”
Margaretta took a deep breath, knowing the next thing she’d done had been f
oolish. “But Samuel’s man followed sooner. I’d been in Margate but three days when I saw him outside the house where we were staying. I got scared. So I ran.”
The tears returned. A slow steady trickle down her cheeks that blurred her vision and added to the misery coursing through her.
Strong arms suddenly wrapped around her as Nash pulled her to his chest, making her feel truly safe for the first time in months. She curled into the steady warmth, her body beginning to shake from the overwhelming emotions. For just a moment, part of her believed everything was going to come out right in the end.
Mrs. Lancaster sniffled in the corner, not even bothering to hide the fact that she was crying.
“But why did you come here?” Katherine was standing now, but still looked wary, staying several feet from Margaretta and Nash.
Margaretta straightened within the circle of Nash’s arms so she could see her old friend better. “When you left London, there were whispers. They said you were with child, and I couldn’t imagine another reason you would have left like that. I had hoped you would know what I could do, where I could go. A way to hide my condition and never let the world know it happened. All I had was the letter you sent me from Marlborough, so I came here. I didn’t know what else to do.”
The slow stream of tears became a flood as Margaretta finally allowed herself to feel everything. She sobbed into Nash’s chest. Tears of freedom from finally sharing her burden with someone else. Tears of hopelessness because it didn’t appear that Katherine had found a real solution either. All the tears she’d done her best to hold back for months came pouring out. She cried for John, perhaps the first time since he’d died, and she cried for his family, who mourned ever so much more than she had. Mostly though, she selfishly wept for herself, for the unfairness of life, for the strength she didn’t know if she had.
Another set of arms wrapped around Margaretta’s shoulders and pulled her away from Nash, toward one of the doors off the main room.
She didn’t want to leave his warmth, didn’t want to leave him. Desperate for one last look at his face, she tilted her head up as his arms fell away from her. More tears spilled, blurring the lines of his face and preventing her from reading the expression in his deep blue eyes.
She tore her tear-filled gaze from his, unwilling to drag out the breaking of her heart any more than she had to. Would she ever see him again?
Would he tell her father? Did it matter?
Would Katherine be able to give her any answers? She was living alone with Miss Blakemoor and her baby. How were they surviving? Whatever resources they had, Margaretta didn’t have access to similar ones.
The room Katherine took her to was warm. Margaretta couldn’t see through the tears, and her eyelids were starting to puff and swell from the force of her crying. But she could feel the blessed softness of a mattress and soon the welcoming darkness of oblivion silenced her pain.
A hearty wail broke into Margaretta’s slumber. As she blinked awake, she tried to remember where she was, a problem she’d never had until a few weeks ago, having spent most of the first twenty years of her life waking up in her father’s London townhouse. She eased her eyes open. The room was dim, too dark to be the rooms above Mrs. Lancaster’s store. Plastered walls painted a light yellow surrounded her as she snuggled under the pieced scrap quilt. Low murmurs came through the wall, and the baby who had woken her soon silenced.
Katherine’s home. Or Mrs. Lancaster’s cottage. Whichever way she wanted to think of it.
The chirping of birds greeted her as she got up and found her clothing draped over a chair in the corner. How heavily had she slept that she hadn’t even noticed when Katherine removed her dress and shoes?
The room was small, but comfortable, with a bed, chair, and small washstand. The lone window looked out over a small vegetable garden and let in the morning sun.
Tears threatened again, but her head was already pounding from everything that had happened the day before, and she was so very tired of crying. She took a deep breath and pressed her palms to her eyes until the urge subsided.
A sense of urgency swelled in her throat as she dressed, but she delayed leaving the room. Katherine had been Margaretta’s last hope, but what help could she really offer? Even if Katherine knew a way for Margaretta to hide and to then provide for the baby, there was still her father and John’s parents to consider. She couldn’t disappear like Katherine and Miss Blakemoor had.
She also couldn’t just go back to London and hope Samuel would come to his senses. She couldn’t even afford to leave this cottage until he was gone from Marlborough.
But one thing was certain: She wasn’t going to find any answers in this little room.
Miss Blakemoor was sitting in the rocking chair near the fireplace, feeding the baby, as Margaretta stepped out into the main room. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, Miss Blakemoor.”
She laughed. “Call me Daphne. There’s little reason to stand on ceremony here.”
Her gaze dropped to Margaretta’s middle before looking down at the baby she held. Her smile never faltered.
Margaretta eased forward and sat in one of the chairs. “Everyone thought it was Katherine who was in a delicate condition. They swore it was her who had been caught with Mr. Maxwell Oswald.” With a wince, Margaretta realized she’d never even wondered where Daphne had disappeared to. Neither had anyone else. “I’m afraid no one even considered it was you.”
“I know.” Daphne’s smile turned sad. “They probably didn’t even know I was gone. Katherine was ruined in their minds, and I was ruined in real life, so we convinced our fathers to give us our dowry money and we would disappear. Mine wasn’t very large, of course, but Katherine’s . . . we figured it would be enough to get us somewhere, to get established until we could find a way to provide for ourselves.”
She rose to walk, the baby on her shoulder as she patted his back. “We’d intended to go east and then up the coast, find a little bungalow in a seaside town. But the carriage ride made me ill, and then we met Mrs. Lancaster. We’d intended to only stay until I was feeling up to traveling, but that was nine months ago and we’re still here.”
They fell silent, and Margaretta tried to find the courage to voice the questions she didn’t dare ask. Did the father know? Did they intend to live here forever and raise Benedict themselves? They’d had nine months to think about the future, and Margaretta was deathly afraid that it hadn’t been enough time to find a solution because the problem was an impossible one.
“Were you truly married?” Daphne asked quietly, apparently not as petrified as Margaretta was about propriety.
“Yes, I really was. John and I met a few times at parties in the two years I was out in society. Then Father brought him home, proposing the benefits of a connection between our families. I barely knew John, but he seemed nice enough so I agreed.”
Silence fell again. Whether or not both women were thinking the same thing, Margaretta couldn’t say, but it felt to her like the unspoken question on both of their tongues was What are you going to do? Margaretta imagined they both wanted to ask each other the question but each felt she couldn’t since she didn’t know how to answer it for herself.
A grumble from Margaretta’s empty belly broke the silence, prompting her to inquire about food. Each bite she took of her simple breakfast sounded loud in the silent room. Perhaps taking her chances in Mrs. Lancaster’s tiny rooms would be better than this, even though being in the center of town greatly increased the chances of Samuel or his man finding her.
The front door opened, and Katherine bustled in with a basket full of fabric. She dropped the basket next to the door and looked from Daphne to Margaretta and back again. “Have you been like this all morning?”
“Kit . . .” Daphne’s voice was low.
Katherine rolled her eyes at her friend. “Do you really think proper parlor manners are called for here?” She took off her pelisse and hung it on a hook by the door b
efore moving to sit across from Margaretta. “What are you planning to do?”
Apparently Katherine had no problem voicing the question. She always had been a bit more blunt than most.
Margaretta sighed and put down her tea. “I don’t know. I spent days in my room pondering that question, praying in ways I never had before. Then I remembered your letter—”
“You sent letters?” Daphne paused in the act of putting her son down in his cradle. “We agreed to disappear.”
Katherine didn’t even look ashamed. “I wanted to say good-bye to a few people, let them know I was leaving and not dead in a ditch somewhere. Besides, I didn’t think we were going to be staying in Marlborough for more than a day. It seemed like a safe enough place to mail them from.”
Daphne dropped into the third chair at the table. “How many?”
Another sigh and another eye roll. Perhaps that was how Katherine expressed herself when she felt backed into a corner. “Only three.”
“If it’s any consolation, I don’t think anyone else will be looking for you.” Margaretta hesitated, but perhaps they all needed a bit of Katherine’s blunt honesty. “I probably wouldn’t have remembered it except that I found myself desperate to know what you’d done if the rumors were true.”
“But you’re a proper widow.” Daphne picked at her fingernails.
“A fact that actually has me in more danger at the moment than the alternative would have.”
“But if the child is a girl, you could simply go home.” Katherine fixed her own cup of tea from the pot Margaretta had made earlier.
“Yes.” That was the best outcome she could hope for. But even then she’d be taking a child home to what? Care and comfort, yes, but Margaretta was now a widow with limited prospects. Could she take the child and live with John’s family, knowing the kind of man Samuel was? Would she stay home and wait for her father to marry her off again? What sort of man wanted to marry a woman who came with a daughter?
A Search for Refuge Page 8
