by Joyce Alec
“You’ll stay here during that time, of course,” the duke said. The duchess nodded her head in agreement. “Then after he has healed during that time, we will help you both get back home.”
“I will continue to check on you of course,” the doctor added. “I will stop by tomorrow to ensure that your fever has not returned. If anything changes, you all can contact me at any time.”
The doctor returned his instruments to his bag, and after saying goodbye to everyone, turned and looked at William. “Truly I am amazed, and I am so happy that I get to go home and tell my wife that the man I was tending to survived and is expected to make a full recovery. Too often do I have to return home somber and distressed. So, thank you, Lord Kenswick, for allowing me to have good news to take to others.”
William smiled at him from the bed. “Thank you, doctor. I am in your debt.”
The doctor laughed. “I did very little, my boy. The Good Lord did all of that.”
And with a few more pleasantries, the doctor took his leave.
Exactly a week later, Beatrice and Mr. Maple, the butler, were helping William over the threshold of their house, his leg braced and bandaged, but all of the other bandages on his face and his neck removed. All the color returned to his face, and he was much more mobile. Aside from his broken leg and his cracked ribs, he was almost entirely himself again.
“So where will we go when I am all healed?” he asked as they made their way into the sitting room. Beatrice helped him out of his coat, and Mr. Maple took his hat and helped lower him into the chair.
For all the inconvenience and difficulty of their trip home, William was in good spirits. He was looking forward to some peace and quiet. Beatrice was looking forward to the quiet too, so that they could spend time alone together.
“What do you mean?” she asked, taking the seat beside him.
Mr. Maple helped him raise his leg to be able to rest it on the ottoman in front of himself, and he grinned at her. “Thank you, Mr. Maple.”
“My pleasure, my lord. Allow me to bring you some hot tea and crumpets?”
“Oh, that sounds wonderful,” William said.
With a wide, delighted smile, Mr. Maple disappeared from the room.
“Well?” William asked, turning to her again.
“Since when do you want to travel?” she asked.
“Since I realized that I have seen the same four walls for the last week and have not spent any time outdoors.”
“But my dear, the winter is upon us.”
William shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I suppose we could travel to London. Take in the sights, visit the opera, and perhaps even see that greenhouse where they are growing roses for the royal family?”
Beatrice felt her face light up, and she grinned at him. “Oh, William. Thank you for being so thoughtful.”
“You are so very important to me. I never want you to doubt that I want you to be included in all of my plans,” he said.
And they spent the rest of the afternoon together, talking and laughing in the ways that Beatrice dreamt of and hoped for, learning how to love each other better.
THE END
Part VII
Stubborn Heart - Book Five
Edgefield Dukedom: Book Five
By Caroline Johnson
1
“Well, my dear, it appears that you are the last one to be married. Your mother and I are looking forward to your upcoming season.”
Those were the words that Lady Margaret Stone’s father said to her as they waved goodbye to her sister Beatrice and her new husband as they departed for their honeymoon. He smiled at her and laughed heartily.
“Whatever are you going to do now?”
What I am going to do now is nothing, she thought to herself.
It had been almost a year since that had happened, and the middle of summer was evident everywhere she looked. The trees were fully opened and blossomed, the flowers were bright and happy, and the air felt as if she was walking through clouds of steam, warm and sticky.
Margaret despised the summer months, as the heat caused her brown hair to curl in ways she did not wish. Her hair was one of her best features when it was styled, but during the warm months she felt there was little she could do to tame it.
Margaret preferred to have her hair styled in a tight knot at the nape of her neck. Every day, she placed a thin, silver pin into her hair, which was given to her by a very special little girl, an orphan she had come to know. Margaret wore it as a constant reminder of a promise she had made, and it helped that it was so simple and pretty that it went with nearly every outfit that she wore.
On a Saturday afternoon, she sat in the shade of an apple tree in the small orchard on her parents’ estate, listening to the birds, and stroking a cat that rested on her lap. The cat purred and stretched its legs, claws kneading the front of her dress.
“Now, now, Lily, you must not ruin this dress. It is one of my very favorites, and surely Mother will be quite upset if I ruin it.”
That was only partially true, she realized as she looked up into the tree, with the wind whistling through the tall branches. She herself was quite fond of the blue and white lace dress and wished to keep it as nice as she could.
Of her three sisters, she was the one who cared most about how she looked and what she wore. She often felt it was the only thing that helped her to stand out from her siblings, who were all quite handsome in nature. She was often told as she grew that she was too frail, but the doctors insisted that eventually she would fill out like her sisters did.
That day had never come.
She was still quite thin, though she had grown tall the summer she had turned sixteen, but her limbs and narrow frame made it appear that she could blow away in the breeze. Her mother, the Duchess of Edgefield, did all she could to try and feed her as often as possible, but Margaret thought it was little use. It was not just her frailness that turned men away.
She was mousey and small overall, with her ordinary brown hair that reminded her of the bottom of a dirty pond. One feature she did like about herself was her green eyes. They were a unique color, like that of moss. She felt like the black sheep in her family, the only one who did not look like the rest of them.
Her brothers, though much older than she, were both dapper, strong men, and were both happily married to pretty women.
Her eldest sister, the middle child in the family, was an effortless beauty. She could have been mistaken as an angel, and most men would have thought you an utter fool to have disagreed. She could have worn rags to a ball and still been asked to dance by every man in attendance.
Margaret huffed, scratching the neck of the cat in her lap a little more fervently. The cat seemed pleased, and it purred even louder. She had only ever been asked to dance a few times, and she often wondered if it was out of pity.
She loved her sister, of course. Especially now that she was married. It was less infuriating to attend social functions when her sister was not there to hog the attention of every man in the room. She only had eyes for her dear Andrew now, and everyone was expecting her to announce their own child any day now.
And then there was Beatrice, who was also very pretty and quite the charmer. She and Beatrice were very close, even now that Beatrice was married and the Countess of Kenswick. They wrote letters to each other often, and Margaret felt that Beatrice was the only one out of all her siblings that truly understood her.
She missed Beatrice and her cleverness. She missed the long talks that they used to have about men and who they might marry someday. Beatrice always told Margaret that she would find someone handsome and caring, even though Margaret did not believe it herself.
“Beatrice always believed I was better than I am,” Margaret said absently, and the cat mewed in response.
She smiled down at the orange cat and ran her hand all along her back and up her tail.
“Margaret!”
She closed her eyes and forced herself to take a deep brea
th.
Her mother’s voice carried across the lawn once more, somewhere behind her, up back toward the house.
“Margaret, come along now, dear. Our guest has arrived!”
She felt a cool chill run up her back, despite the warm afternoon air. Scooping Lily up in her arms, she stood to her feet and turned back toward the house.
She found her mother waiting just in front of the terrace, at the entrance to the gardens.
“Where have you been?” her mother demanded, her hands in her hips. “And put that cat down, you will ruin that dress.”
Margaret gave her mother an agitated look before setting Lily down gently. She stroked her back once more and said, “Run along now, Lily. Find yourself a nice mouse.”
She heard her mother click her tongue in impatience.
“Yes, yes, I am ready,” Margaret said, picking up her dress to walk up the steps to the terrace.
“What were you doing down in the orchard?”
“Thinking,” Margaret answered. The two women crossed the threshold back into the house, her mother walking alongside her.
“Of what?” her mother asked.
Margaret bit the inside of her lip to prevent the first, and rude, comment from coming out of her mouth.
Beatrice would be proud of the fact that I am learning to hold my tongue, she thought passively.
“Of many things, Mother,” she said in a flat tone.
“Well, I hope that you have readied yourself for your guest. I do not wish for you to have your head in the clouds.”
Margaret glared at her mother's back.
“I have more important things to think about than our guest, Mother,” she said coolly.
The duchess did not reply.
“Come. He is waiting in the dining room.”
Margaret rolled her eyes as a footman opened the doors.
She was formally introduced to Lord Pond, and Margaret had to attempt to cover her snicker with a cough when she heard his name. He appeared to not have noticed, but she immediately knew that this was not going to work.
The man was short, rather plump, and had a nose like the beak of a bird. His dark hair had thinned so much that hardly any of it remained, but the little that did he had combed over the shining bald spot atop his head in order to hide it.
He did not seem the least bit interested in her, either. Margaret also realized that he sounded like a deflated bagpipe. That image made her snicker to herself once more.
Lord Pond seemed to be more excited to talk with her father, the Duke of Edgefield, than to even look her way, and the longer he did not look at her, the angrier she became. Not that she wanted his attention, she realized, because she found his looks and personality unattractive.
I cannot spend the rest of my life with a man like that.
And she was not foolish enough to think that this was not the entire reason why her parents had invited him for dinner that evening.
They sat down at the table for the first course, and Margaret and Lord Pond had not said another word to each other. Margaret was perfectly content with this, and she kept glancing at her mother as if to say, Truly, you brought this man to marry me?
The duchess would often look away when she noticed it.
“I was hoping that you and your family would join me at my estate the Monday after next,” Lord Pond said.
Margaret nearly dropped her spoon, and she stared at him.
No, no, no, she thought. No! I cannot! I—She looked at her mother pleadingly.
Her mother refused to look at her, and instead smiled at Lord Pond.
“Why, what a lovely idea,” her father said.
She felt her heart rate increase, and still no one would meet her eye.
“I think that would be wonderful,” her mother added.
“Mother,” Margaret said in her best sickly sweet tone. She pulled a smile onto her face, but she knew it must look more like a grimace.
Finally, the other three turned to look at her.
“Yes, dear?”
“May I speak to you out in the hall?” Margaret nearly hissed.
Her mother blinked.
“Right this moment?”
Margaret wanted to stuff her own fist in her mouth to prevent herself from screaming.
“Yes.”
She watched her mother look over at her father, who seemed to be as confused as she was, but Margaret was already on her feet.
She almost wondered if her mother was not going to follow her out into the hall, but she did, and when they were out of ear shot, Margaret rounded on her.
“Do you even hear yourself in there?” Margaret hissed.
The duchess flinched. “Margaret, whatever is the matter?”
Margaret grit her teeth. Could her mother truly have been that naive? No, she certainly was feigning ignorance in order to preserve her dignity.
“Mother, I cannot visit him! I do not wish to visit him!”
Her mother began to protest, but Margaret held up her hands. “And secondly, you know I volunteer with the orphans that day, and I promised the children that I would be there for it.”
This was the true reason why she had been so afraid.
“You are making such a big deal about missing a trip to the orphanage?” her mother asked incredulously. “Your work with the children in our town is admirable, but there are more important matters you must consider.” She puffed up like she always did when she was angry. It was where her older sister Jane had learned that behavior.
“Mother, those children depend on me!” Margaret replied.
“Where has this fascination with these children come from? The parish cares for them, my dear. It is not your responsibility,” her mother said. “You have only been going for the last few years, and have only been a few times!”
“A few times?” Margaret retorted. “You call once a month only a few times?”
She did not want to have this argument right then and there, though she knew that it had been building.
Her father had supported the idea when she had approached him with it three years prior, when she had realized just how much she loved young children after spending so much time with her brother and his little son. She found she was happy and chipper, and it allowed her to get out of her own head. Children loved her for who she was, not what she looked like, and not for her title.
She was tired of dealing with adults who pretended to like her to her face, and then whispered about her when they thought she was not watching.
But she always was.
Perhaps it was rather superficial that she felt that children gave her the justification she needed in her life, and she would be lying to herself if she did not admit that was her reason for going to the first meeting.
She was glad when her uncle arranged an agreement with the vicar for Margaret to help the orphans whose care fell upon the parish. The orphans had no relations to care for them, so they did not have many options to improve their life situations. The orphanage was new. In the past, the parish had arranged apprenticeships for children, so they had guardians to feed and clothe them while teaching them a trade. But too many children needed help, and the vicar helped secure the money needed to build the orphanage. Margaret wanted more for these children, so once a month she visited with them to help teach them different life skills.
Although Margaret enjoyed teaching the children to read, she had another skill to share with them that she enjoyed much more. She had always been into fashion, and had a closet full of old dresses from over the years. With her sewing box in tow, she brought dresses she no longer wanted with her to the church and hoped to teach the young girls how to fix and darn their own dresses.
She wanted them to feel beautiful, regardless of their situation in life.
Margaret could tell that her mother was greatly annoyed with her and her obstinacy, and trying to find the right way to approach the situation.
“Margaret, you are almost nineteen, and this man may be the o
nly prospect that you have!”
Margaret saw the immediate flicker of regret in her mother’s eyes as soon as the words were out of her mouth, but she did not care. She glared at her, feeling as if she could spit fire.
“Do you think that little of me, Mother? Do you truly think that I am that repulsive to men in general?”
“My darling, of course I did not mean anything of the sort. I am simply saying that you should—”
“No!” Margaret spat. “I do not want to hear anymore. I am going to go upstairs and I am not going to come back down.”
“Margaret, your father and I have invited Lord Pond to visit specifically to meet you,” her mother called, for Margaret had already started to walk down the hall. “You are a fool if you walk away from this!”
“Then I am a fool!” she cried, her foot on the bottom step. “I would rather be called a fool than actually become one by marrying the bird-nosed man sitting at the dinner table!”
“Margaret!” her mother exclaimed in a scathing tone.
Margaret did not turn around. “You cannot expect me to marry someone like that!”
“I can, and I do!”
“You would never have made Beatrice or Jane sit down at the same table with a man like that!” she hissed.
She did turn around then, and she saw the shock on the duchess’s face.
A sick and twisted sort of satisfaction filled her, and she smirked. “See? I thought so.”
“Margaret, this is absurd,” her mother said. “Do you even hear yourself? Your father and I have done what we have needed to do for each of you. Lord Pond is very interested in you and in our family. He would be a good match for you.”
“Since when did you start to believe that anyone like that is a good match for me?” Margaret asked. Her hand gripped the railing, her knuckles turning white. “Did he ask me a single question? Did he seem at all interested in anything I was thinking or wanted?”
“There will be plenty of time for that after you are married,” her mother said, though not as confidently as before.
“No,” Margaret said again, her tone a little calmer. “I will choose whom I want to marry, and that is if I ever want to marry.”
