Quiet Meg

by Sherry Lynn Ferguson

  “You say your sister Margaret designed this?”

  “Every inch of it, except the walls of course. But she laid out the planting beds and the pond, and had the teahouse and trellises built, and has instructed cook and anyone who will lend an ear in how to keep it up. ‘Twas her project, you see-though it has not seemed to give her as much pleasure since-well, for some years” His lips set grimly. “You shall have some difficulty wresting it from her.”

  “I shouldn’t wish to. ‘Tis charming.”

  Chas thought he must revise his opinion of Margaret Lawrence. Her garden had been artfully arranged. Perhaps her seemingly self-indulgent ways had a positive side; he valued that kind of determination in himself. But he still wondered what the young woman had done to so unsettle her worthy family.

  With a promise to Bertie that he would have men out by the end of the week, Chas returned to town in the Selbourne coach. As was usual at the start of any endeavor, he was intensely focused. That night he made notes and scribbled letters to growers whose stock he knew he would wish to guarantee. But such activity did not entirely absorb him. Visiting his grandmother’s house in town the next afternoon, he broached a subject that was beginning to annoy him.

  “Sir Eustace Lawrence has several daughters, Grandmere, in addition to his son, my friend Bertram” He gazed out at the rainy London streets. “The eldest is married-to Thomas Ferrell, the MP for Kitchley. The youngest, Lucinda, will be out this season. Do you know anything of the other, the one named Margaret?” He did not look at his dear Grandmere as he asked, and he made an effort to inquire in as casual a tone as possible. Yet still she clucked at him.

  “Ah, mon pauvre Charles. Meg Lawrence!”

  He turned from the window to frown at his tiny, silverhaired relative.

  “Do not take on so, Grandmere. I have not yet met the woman”

  She smiled in some amusement, and arched her brows.

  “Mon pauvre Charles,” she repeated, in an entirely different tone. “I do not know, my dear one, which fate I would choose for you. To meet her, or not to meet her.”

  “You needn’t be so coy, Grandmere. I probably shall never meet her, as she has been away from Selbourne much of the past year, and promises to return only once I’ve finished. I am due at Abbey Clare in Kent this May, if you recall.” He had moved away from the windows and back toward her chair. At better than six feet tall, he loomed over her in any event; when his grandmother was seated he had to look that much further down.

  “Come sit, mon petit,” she said now. “I do not wish to break my neck. And you must hear of your Meg Lawrence.”

  He sat, resting his arms on his knees as he leaned forward. He was always conscious of the incongruity whenever he was in the presence of his adored grandmere-his own large, male self and her frail, pale and perfect femininity. But she was his closest relative, his mother’s French mother, the dowager Duchess of Braughton. She was also his wisest counsel. He never failed to visit her often when in town.

  I shall not describe this girl to you, Charles. You must see for yourself. But I will tell you of the past, the on dit, yes? Because the family will expect that you know, and perhaps also Miss Meg will expect that you know. And yet you, mon cher Charles, never know such things of the world. You see only the buttercups, yes?”

  “I am not such an innocent, Grandmere, as you well know, though you do introduce this topic in such an alarming fashion. And if you no longer wish me to bring you the occasional flower from the glasshouses at Kew, that can be arranged”

  “Ah! The dear boy is impatient, so he threatens the old woman. We have a word for you. It is termed le brimeur … the bully.”

  “Grandmere… “

  “Yes, yes. So you were in Vienna three-yes, three years ago, when this girl had her debut. Miss Margaret Lawrence, just seventeen. Very young, you see, but extraordinaire. Most-appealing. With the poise, la contenance, uniqueah! elegant, perhaps. And here is her sister, engaged to the new member of Parliament, Mr. Ferrell. And her father, Sir Eustace, the respected barrister, a baronet who has wealth, and property, and horses, and is most strong-he is walking then, to comprends? Yes, your Grandmere found him always most handsome! So, Miss Margaret is introduced and within one week, her father has ten offers for her hand in marriage.”

  “Ten offers! On so little acquaintance? ‘Tis like the bidding on a rarity.” He smiled indulgently. “Now I know you are inventing.”

  “As you wish.” She looked offended.

  “Grandmere, I must reconsider my arrangements with Sir Eustace. The family’s standing is not quite that elevated. He must have immense riches”

  “Shhh,” she advised with a finger to her lips. “You think this is for the portion, for the pieces of silver? Did I not say the girl was appealing? Well, but of course this was absurd. Meg wishes to enjoy the season, to see the town and the entertainments. But now the other young ladies think this is not so convenable-to have their escorts wish to dance with Meg, to ride with Meg, to wed Meg. So some fewthe young ladies can be most spiteful, no?-they bring Miss Meg to Vauxhall, to a fete. And they leave her to Sutcliffe”

  “Sutcliffe? The Earl of Sutcliffe?” Chas knew the man. He had seen him on occasiona dark, striking man of stern features and uncertain temper. “Sutcliffe would have been considerably older than Meg Lawrence”

  “Mais oui. Though this is not always so much an obstacle, if there is love. But with Sutcliffe there is only the passion. He covets the girl. She would be his. This he would say from the first moment he sees her. He is a connoisseur; he will have the best. Only he can appreciate Meg. He will not be one of many. He must possess! Charles-I knew a man once, who sold all his family’s ancient vineyards for one superior vintage. Such is Sutcliffe’s desire! Yet the Earl of Sutcliffe was married.”

  Chas leaned back in his seat.

  “Surely Miss Meg did not..

  “Never! Not at all. This is not proper, Charles. Meg is good. The family is good. The father most honorable, commended by the king! And the earl rages all the more. He cannot wed her. But he must have her. He plans that she should be abandoned at Vauxhall. So that he might steal her away.”

  “Steal her? Grandmere, do you mean he kidnapped her?”

  “Oui, mon cher. But there is no disgrace to the girl. Because Sir Eustace, and the brother-they stop this crime, this outrage! They find the coach, tout de suite! There is a battle, a small battle, but still. And Sutcliffe, or one of his men, fires a pistol. This frightens the horse of Sir Eustace. He falls, he is crushed, he will no longer ride his superb horses. He loses the use of his legs forever. And Meg, who is so protected, so loved by her family, she is recluse-she is in retreat. She cares for her father, that is all.” She cautioned silence, a finger to her lips, as Chas moved to comment, “But there is more, Charles …

  “Miss Meg, she thinks to stop this madness in Lord Sutcliffe, who still sends the gifts and pays the spies. He must know where she is, what she does, all the day, always. She accepts an offer from the son of my friend Lady Kenney. You recall Lady Kenney?” Chas nodded stiffly. “Lady Kenney’s boy, Douglas, has an estate far away, in Scotland. Miss Meg, I think, does not love him. But she wishes to escape. And he is l’adorateur, adoring. They plan to wed. Then this devil, this Earl of Sutcliffe, who has no soul, no honor, no stop to his desires-he kills the boy.”

  “Sutcliffe murdered him?” Chas asked sternly. He sat forward and frowned at his Grandmere, who was relaying all this much too calmly. If she were not inventing, he thought her guilty at least of considerable embellishment.

  “There was a duel, mon cher. The boy, the fiance Douglas-he challenges for the honor of his Margaret. Yes, it is said Sutcliffe murdered him. With swords. For there could be no contest. He knew how it would be.”

  “Miss Margaret must have been … in shock”

  “Precisement, mon petit. Of this horror one cannot say so much in words. The offers cease! In another age perhaps, a king might have stopped such as this-p
ut an end to this-banished Sutcliffe, perhaps. Or taken Margaret for himself. But not now, this is not done, and with your patron, this Prince Regent! Ah-he is too silly!”

  “He is not entirely silly, Grandmere. He has some admirable sensibilities. But he lacks direction”

  “And you, mon cher, you have too much direction-you work all the days, when you need not work at all.”

  “I must, Grandmere. I cannot be merely the idle gentleman. I would not have you term me ‘silly.’”

  “Never. My Charles is not a silly man. But now, I must finish-Miss Meg comes to town once more, for her sister’s wedding to Mr. Ferrell. She stands up for her sister. And the brother-your friend, Mr. Bertram-has prepared carefully, and has many men to guard the ceremony. An army, yes? And still Sutcliffe dares to invite himself, and look on Margaret” His grandmother reached to touch his arm with her delicate fingers. “I have seen this look, Charles. It is not the look of a man, but of the beast, who knows only the need-not love. Miss Meg flees London; no one has seen her for almost a year. Has Sutcliffe forgotten? Peut-etre. But now he is a widower. He is not a man to woo, but to demand! And you tell me the Lawrences come for the season and I fear-I fear this is not good news. Mon petit Charles asks about Meg Lawrence! This I fear as well”

  Charles patted her thin hand.

  “She designed the kitchen garden at Selbourne, Grandmere. Rather beautifully, as it happens. My interest is professional.”

  “Oh, Charles .. ” She shook her head at him. “And you have not met this girl! Perhaps that is for the best. You must finish your work before she returns.”

  “I cannot and will not order the sun and moon for Margaret Lawrence”

  “Non. Mais Charles-le destin! Je voudrais.”

  “Grandmere-please. You have lived here more than fifty years. You must not abandon your English.”

  “It does not express my heart.”

  “You express yourself very well, particularly when you are angry. And I will always understand you in any language. Perhaps best when you are silent.” She clucked. “If you now believe me at the risks of fate, why did you not steer me away from Sir Eustace and Selbourne?”

  “Last week you spoke only of your plans for the Duke of Clare at the Abbey. That is the great estate that takes all of your attention, yes? You make favorites of dukes, is that not so, mon petit?”

  “I would be a fool if I did not, Grandmere. You, after all, were the favorite of a duke”

  She smiled, but was not to be distracted.

  “So, last week you make only the hasty mention of a property in Berkshire. You do not say Lawrence! You do not say Selbourne. If you do not inform me, I can do nothing. And then, if I had spoken of these matters before, you would only have laughed. As I believe you laugh now. Tu es obstine! You are always like the mule, Charles.”

  “And you should not wonder from whom I claim that trait, Grandmere.” He kissed her goodbye. “Do not worry. Ce qu’il plaira a Dieu. ‘Twill be as it pleases God.” Yet he muttered “ten offers” to himself as he departed.

  Joe Coachman told her he had been followed on leaving Selbourne, and that after collecting her the carriage had also been followed from Bristol, and Meg had no reason to doubt him. She had fostered some faint hope that after all this time the Earl of Sutcliffe would have forgotten her. But the earl’s obsession had become an object in itself, needing no encouragement from her other than her existence.

  Her own life was too dear to her to surrender any more of it to such a madman. She now believed that if Sutcliffe trespassed again she would be quick to counter him, in much the same manner that he had harmed her family, for the man was proving impenitent.

  Meg thought of Douglas Kenney. She had not loved him years ago. She had liked and respected him, but she had come to love his memory. He had sacrificed all for her, bravely and in vain. Meg had corresponded with his mother, and Lady Kenney’s notes had helped to ease her conscience. Lady Kenney had not blamed her, wisely claiming that no civilized being could have gauged Sutcliffe’s depravity. Meg understood it now; she was determined never again to risk another’s life.

  She frowned as she stared out at the passing countryside. Lucy’s comeout worried her. Others, especially Louisa and Aunt Prudence, would shepherd Lucy about town; Meg hoped she herself need appear only at her aunt’s. But she could not trust that Sutcliffe would leave her family in peace. Bertie clearly did not trust as much-he had sent two outriders, armed, to accompany the coach. He had written that the occasional stranger had made too many inquiries outside Selbourne’s gates; he had relayed that Louisa’s town house had been broken into and searched. And he had dismissed a housemaid who had not told him her sister worked for the earl.

  Meg knew Sutcliffe would have been stopped long before this had he not been a peer-and had he not been as wealthy as he was deadly. Though the ton’s sympathies were with Meg and her family, the privileges of rank were unquestioned. If the daughter of a commended king’s counsel should be inconvenienced-that was something only to remark and regret. Sutcliffe had troubled to leave the country for some time after Douglas’s death, but he had not been exiled. He might receive few invitations, but he would not be dropped. The ton was most estimably tolerant of its own.

  Meg turned to her maid.

  “Annie, coachman told me at the break that we have been followed. I fear the Earl of Sutcliffe may be contemplating mischief again. You might wish to return to your family up north. I would not keep you. Not in these circumstances.”

  “I wish to stay, Miss Margaret,” the older woman claimed. “This earl canna frighten me. I think mayhap he should meet with an accident.”

  “If you stay you must promise me to be cautious. I know you want to help me, but you do not know Sutcliffe. He is dangerous. I shouldn’t wish you to come to harm.”

  “You must not worry for me, Miss Margaret. ‘Tis enough to be watching for yourself. But I feel I can help you, and so I shall stay.”

  Meg thanked her and briefly squeezed her hand. She had not wanted to lose Annie, whom she would trust with her life, but she felt it fair to warn her.

  Shortly before they reached Selboume’s gates, the carriage pulled up sharply as a lone rider galloped past. Through the carriage windows, Meg glimpsed a dark shape and a piercing glance from a shadowed face-the rider determining, perhaps, that the occupant was indeed Margaret. This scout would be informing Sutcliffe that his prey had returned. Despite Meg’s resolve, that impression chilled her.

  “Looked like the devil himself with his black coat and horse,” Annie said.

  “‘Tis but a taste of what I fear is in store for us, Annie. But you must not be so fanciful. Sutcliffe and his henchmen are only men, after all”

  “Yes, Miss Margaret. And someday may they all bleed like men”

  Meg could not reprimand her, given that she herself had contemplated Sutcliffe’s end on more than one occasion.

  “We are home, Annie. See the beeches”

  The two score of distinctive trees, sporting their light green April foliage, graced the avenue, their upper branches meeting in a high arc above the carriage’s path. A morning rain had darkened their smooth trunks, though the sun now lent the year’s earliest flickering shade to the roadway. Meg’s relief was more than physical as she caught sight of Selbourne’s stone facade. Yet for all its familiarity there was something different about her home-something that she could not define. Selbourne looked warmer and more inviting.

  The horses drew into the forecourt, the coach’s wheels ground finally to a halt in the gravel, the grooms jumped down to steady the team and open the carriage door. Meg was aware that activity at the entrance had ceased with the arrival of the carriage; some groundskeepers had been digging a shallow trench at the yard’s edge, where a mound of rich brown earth waited to be spread upon a new planting bed. She noticed several things at once-that at a nod from a tall man on the drive the others resumed their work, that the man who had nodded was dressed as a gentle
man, and that sunlight spilled across this front portion of the house, where it had never before fallen in the afternoon.

  Meg stepped down from the coach with the help of an instantly attentive footman. Once she stood on the gravel she glanced again at the workmen. The tall gentleman was looking at her in a manner that would have seemed forward even for an acquaintance.

  He was perhaps ten yards from her. Limned as he was against the late afternoon sunlight, she could not read the expression on his face or the color of his eyes, but it was a handsome face and a direct gaze. His shoulders were broad, his hair shone bronzed blond in the sun. Meg should have found his fixed regard impertinent. Instead she fought the impulse to curtsy.

  He bowed. The slight, restrained movement broke the unusual spell he had cast upon her. Meg looked to the steps up to the door. She had not felt unsteady when she left the carriage, but she did now. And she realized for that moment of mutual scrutiny she had been holding her breath. As she breathed now she could smell the day’s earlier rain and a freshness that must have been spring itself.

  She felt the gentleman’s gaze as she ascended the steps; she had to will herself not to look to him again, lest she stumble. And then Bertie was at the door.

  “There you are, Meggie!” Bertie grabbed her and kissed her before she was even over the threshold, then pulled her into the hall. “Let’s look at you. Why-I do believe you’ve grown!” They laughed together. It was what their father used to say to them, whenever he’d been away.

  Meg removed her bonnet and traveling cloak and watched Annie disappear toward the back of the house.

  “Father?” she asked with concern, even as Bertie drew her into the drawing room.

  Sir Eustace had been maneuvering his chair toward the hall. Meg hurried to meet him and kneel by his side.

  “I’ve missed you so,” she said, taking one of his broad hands in both of hers. Once more she felt that regret, that he would never again be as he had been.