“He has not attempted to see you-since Vauxhall?”
Meg shook her head. Silence seemed less of a lie. And yet she wanted to tell him everything. The desire to unburden her heart was acute.
“When-will you return to Selboume?” she asked, thinking her voice sounded pitiable.
“This fall.”
Did that mean three months from now? Four months? Five?
“Not-before?” She stared intently at his gorgeous cravat.
“Before would certainly be preferable,” he said softly, and when her gaze sought his eyes she thought she read a smile in them. “If I am not detained. You must trust that all will be well-Meg.” He took her hand and raised it, palm up, to his lips. Even through her glove she felt the warmth of that kiss; her fingers curled inward. With his other hand he lightly traced the line of her jaw, then caught a tendril of hair curling at her neck. When his lips lowered to hers it was as though to a decision. But his touch was scarcely more than a breath, as though he restrained himself. Meg knew with a pang that he would not have been so careful out in the garden.
The noise from the supper room increased. Cabot drew away from her and led her out into the gallery. A few guests were filtering back toward the ballroom. When he released her hand, Meg felt adrift, as though she were returning from a distant journey, though they had been away from the gathering for scarcely twenty minutes.
In the crowded supper room she moved toward Louisa and Ferrell, but her gaze still accompanied Cabot.
“Margaret!” Walter accosted her. “I’ve been looking for you! I thought we were to come into supper together.”
“I-I’m sorry, Walter,” she said. “I had no idea you were waiting” She watched Cabot find Lord Hayden, saw Hayden listen and nod, saw Cabot find her father. Her father glanced quickly at her. Meg made no effort to follow what Walter was saying-she was too thoroughly attuned to Cabot.
He was taking his leave. He was leaving now, even before supper was finished, even with more music to come and the lilacs still perfuming the warm night air. And why should he feel compelled to leave now? He had not told her. Because Sutcliffe would have him followed? Because Sutcliffe’s men might at this moment be awaiting him at his rooms? Because Sutcliffe would challenge him, or have him murdered in the dark?
He was bowing to Aunt Pru, he was kissing Lucy’s hand. He was walking, in all his formal elegance, toward the door.
Meg felt faint. She grasped the back of a dining chair and clung to it.
“Miss Margaret, you are very pale. You must take a seat” Walter was hovering. From the front hall, Cabot looked back at her, standing at the entrance to the supper room. She thought he frowned, as though he debated removing her from Dr. Wembly’s attentions. But he turned away, and Walter blocked her view, and Louisa thrust a glass of punch into her hand, saying firmly,
“Drink this, Meggie.”
At breakfast the next morning, the post brought a sealed note addressed to Miss Lawrence:
Charles Cabot is a dead man. Unless … ? Sutcliffe
“Whatever the reckoning may be, my dear,” Sir Eustace said as he buttered a slice of toast, “I assure you your father will pay it.”
Meg roused herself from her shock.
“It is not a bill, father.” She looked up to meet his frown. “I am being taken to task-for being a dilatory correspondent”
“That doesn’t sound like you, Meggie,” Bertie said. “Who dares charge you with tardy replies?”
“Oh-she is … a friend of Aunt Bitty’s. You do not know her.” Meg folded the page and placed it carelessly to the side of her plate. She had not had supper last night; she had no appetite this morning. She thought she might never wish to eat again. But she reached for her teacup and forced herself to take a sip. She could think only of Cabot telling her last night, “You must trust that all will be well.” He had, for the first time, called her Meg.
Sutcliffe wanted him dead.
As her hands shook she returned the cup and saucer to the table, and fell once more into silent despair. She had thought it difficult enough last night, moving numbly through the rest of the ball’s festivities.
“Margaret?” her father asked.
“It is nothing, father. Just too much excitement, and too little sleep. I shall feel better directly.”
“I should be surprised that you are here at all, given that Lucinda has not troubled to make an appearance”
“We had a very gay time last night. Lucy could not have been happier. But I believe she has a bit of a headache-as, unfortunately, do I”
“Too much punch,” Bertie suggested, with a wink at his father.
“And you, Bertram, I believe you had too much punch as well,” Sir Eustace said.
“No, father. Just enough” He laughed.
“There is no question it is a phenomenon, Bertram. A most unnatural one at that-that spirits do not appear to affect you”
“I am a lucky fellow, father.”
“I will not debate you.” Sir Eustace again turned his attention to her. “Margaret, I’m concerned. Will you be able to travel tomorrow to Selbourne as planned? Or shall I delay the caravan?”
“Do not delay-please. If I rest today I shall be fine this evening.” She rose from her seat and removed her deadly missive from the table. “I must finish packing though.”
“My dear-Walter asked to see me today. Have you any notion what that might be about?”
Meg drew a frustrated breath. Walter was much too precipitous; she had given him no encouragement. In the space of four days he had advanced from resuming an acquaintance to attempting to seal his future.
“Father-I-have given him no sign”
“Tsh, Meg-have you ever given anyone a sign? Do not worry. I shall deal gently with Walter. But I am just as glad you are heading back to Selbourne and will spare me another round of simpering suitors. ‘Tis best you and Bertram spend your time helping Cabot tear up the lawns.”
She felt his name, like a sorrow.
“Mr. Cabot said he would not return to Selbourne until autumn”
“Did he?” Her father was concentrating on his breakfast. “My mistake then. You and Bertram will have to tear up the lawns on your own” His gaze flashed to her. “Go get your rest, Margaret. I do not wish to see you again until dinner.”
Meg moved to kiss his cheek before exiting the dining room. She was too distracted to engage him further. And she was tired of feeding him fabrications.
Weeping would have been a relief. But Sutcliffe expected an answer. She doubted he would give her the day; in fact, he might give her little more than the morning before seeking out Cabot.
Meg had known since the meeting at the studio that she would be compelled to go to Sutcliffe, but some small element of what must have been hope had kept her from actually planning. She had wanted to continue with her dream, with her family and Cabot safe and with nothing and no one to be confronted.
In her room she again read the note, then stared pensively at her partially packed belongings. If she were to go to Sutcliffe, she might as well leave most of these things behind.
Her gaze settled on Cabot’s bowl of violets. Annie had faithfully refreshed the water for them, but they would not last long. They were as ephemeral as spring itself. It was time for a new season, for yet another stage.
The threatened tears pricked her eyes.
She had had little sleep. Her mind had replayed the evening’s encounters with Cabot-seeing him in the hall with her father. Having him remind her of their kiss in the park, his gaze alone had demanded that she recall it. Having him waltz silently with her and start, so very like a whisper, to kiss her again. Not once, but twice.
He had walked away because of Sutcliffe, and now she would walk away because of Sutcliffe.
Truly, the earl was a most powerful gentleman, to so intimately dictate the actions of two other people.
She should have been clever enough to do away with Sutcliffe years ago. She should, perhap
s, have hired an assassin. Or set his home ablaze. Carefully arranged for his meals to be poisoned. Or stabbed him while dancing. All sounded worthy of the novels Louisa had mocked. And Meg could only imagine the horror of compelling Sir Eustace Lawrence to defend his daughter, a murderess.
She had tried fleeing and tired of it. Even with Aunt Bitty she had felt a prisoner. She had missed her family and she had not been free to begin one of her own. And if she were to escape now, Sutcliffe would still blame Cabot. With the long-sought prize lost Sutcliffe would persist in attacking the apparent cause.
Meg could see no option but to go to the earl. She had to rely on him to keep his word, though she had little enough with which to bargain.
She moved to her writing desk and sat down to pen her response. Outside, clouds gathered; for the middle of the morning her room was unusually dark. She lit a candle, and carefully wrote:
I shall come to you at your pleasure, with the understanding that you will keep your promise. Margaret Lawrence.
She folded and sealed the thin sheet, wrote its direction as
The Earl of Sutcliffe, Grosvenor Square
then rang for Annie.
Annie was surprised to see her already back from breakfast.
“They are still at table. Miss Lucy has just gone down. Did you not eat anything, Miss Meg?”
“I was not hungry. Annie, I must ask you to run an errand for me this morning. I know you have been busy with the packing, but this is more important and perhaps, perhaps it will not be necessary to complete the packing today at all.”
Annie’s brow furrowed.
“What would you be wanting, Miss Meg?”
“I would have you take a note to Lord Sutcliffe at Grosvenor Square.”
“I will not!”
Meg sighed.
“Please, Annie-it is critical. And it must go at once.”
“I tell you, Miss Meg, I will not! You should not be writin’ to that devil! You should have naught to do with him!”
“Annie, you make too much of this. .
“I cannot make enough of it!”
“Oh, Annie …” Meg placed a palm to her forehead. She had pleaded a headache earlier; now it had become a reality. “What do you know of this after all? You are making it so much harder.”
“I know enough! That you now think to do what you would not do before-and it’s wrong as it ever was.”
“I am wrong either way. But Annie, you were married once. You should understand that I … I love the man”
“Sutcliffe?”
“Oh, do not be absurd,” Meg said wearily. After a moment’s silence, Annie said,
“You should be holdin’ yourself even more for him now then, Miss Meg. For I’m thinkin’ he loves you, too”
“I … cannot know that.”
“Glaikit!” Annie looked stern. “‘Tis foolishness! You say that because you want an excuse to decide without him havin’ a say!”
“Decide what, Annie? How can you know?”
“I seen that milord with you. Like a cat with a mouse. “‘Taint no walk in the park he’s wantin’ of you, Miss Meg”
“Whatever he may want, he first needs a response from me. If he does not receive it, something very dreadful will happen. Do you understand me, Annie? I do not command you to go, but I ask it of you as a friend.”
“Then as a friend I mustn’t go. You should have no truck with the devil, Miss Meg”
“I cannot afford your scruples. Someone must go to Lord Sutcliffe, without father or Bertie hearing of it. If you will not oblige me, I must have Thwaite send one of the footmen. And you know how they talk. Perhaps I must go myself, now, and let that be response enough”
With her lips set grimly, Annie held out her hand for the letter. Meg did not find any compassion or resignation in the older woman’s gaze, simply determination.
“Give it to me, then, Miss Meg, and I shall see it where you wish. But mind you, I know I do you no favor.”
Meg thanked her and gave her some pocket money to pay for a hackney. Before departing for Grosvenor Square, Annie fetched her something for a headache, but Meg knew the response to Sutcliffe would be speedy.
The subsequent solitude should have been welcome, but she could do little but worry. Her packing remained unfinished; the few farewells she had intended to pen went unwritten. She tried to rest, but could not put Cabot from her mind.
He must have known how it would be-even as they had been alerted to the intruder in the garden last night. He must have known-that from that moment he was a marked man. His deliberate but hasty departure had been the result.
It started to rain. After so many days of fine weather the change seemed ominous. Seated at the escritoire in her third floor room, Meg could look out over rooftops at the darkening sky. But the sound was steady, soothing. With the page before her blank, Meg rested her head on her arms. Her tears dampened her sleeves.
She had tried to discourage Cabot. Yet from the first he had acted-bringing her the gift of the tree, helping to trap Sutcliffe’s spy, leading her into the waltz at Almack’s, right under Sutcliffe’s nose. She realized he had known even then what he was about. He had been most purposeful; he had designed all. Did he expect her to sit idly by while he went to his grave? She could not. Sutcliffe was far from trustworthy, but Meg did trust in the violence of his hatred. If Meg did nothing, Cabot was most assuredly a dead man.
She at last raised her head and dried her cheeks. Annie had been gone a very long time. It was past noon-the candle was guttering. Perhaps the rain had caused delays, or Annie awaited a return message with Sutcliffe’s proposal. Sutcliffe’s proposal! Well yes, Meg knew what that was. But the arrangements to implement his wishes were another matter.
Again she stared at the sheet of paper before her. At first she thought to leave some explanation for her father, but she decided he would comprehend everything. He knew her very well. Would her father believe his sacrifices had been in vain? They had not been. She was stronger now than she had been at seventeen, and she knew what it was to love. Sutcliffe would not break her.
Meg dipped the pen in the ink and began to write.
`Dear Mr. Cabot’-she paused. Surely she should call him Charles? But much as she thought it should signify, she knew it no longer could.
Dear Mr Cabot,
You will think it strange that I write to you under the present circumstances, since you have done so much to attempt to prevent them. For your many efforts I thank you, and I know my father thanks you. What I do now I should perhaps have undertaken a long time ago, before so many I care for surrendered so much on my behalf. I do not wish to add your name to my list of regrets.
I believe I know what you intended. Such an endeavor speaks well of your nobility and great kindness to me and to my family. But I cannot ask it of you, and I cannot accept it from you. I am forever in your debt for believing me worth such a sacrifice. To assume you would have acted out of anything more than generosity can only be painful to me-I pray it is not so. I shall always remember you as a man of good heart and determination to do right. You have my highest esteem. I pray that you will find in future the happiness you deserve.
Mr Cabot, will you allow me to apologize for the many times I chose to misinterpret your words and actions? I thought I would have more time to make amends. Please do forgive me. God bless you,
Margaret Lawrence
She stared at the page for a long while before folding and sealing it. As an expression of her feelings it was clear enough; the letter would serve adequately as a thank-you. She could not say what most needed saying-as she went to one man she could not very well confess her sentiments for another.
She wrote Cabot’s name across the front. She rose and stepped to her dressing table to find Cabot’s violets, but Annie, in watering them, had moved the card. Meg could not find it, but discovered that she had memorized the direction in any event. She scribbled it shakily.
Having noticed in her dressing mirro
r the evidence of her weeping, Meg turned to the washstand to rinse her face. She was patting herself dry when Annie returned.
Annie glanced at her face, then frowned.
“You’ve been cryin’, Miss Meg”
“Which would not be surprising. Did you have difficulty finding the earl? Did he have a response?”
“No difficulty. But I had to wait for the response as hehe had to make various arrangements”
“I should have imagined he’d be well prepared,” Meg said bitterly, “he has been that certain of me.”
“Well,” Annie said, “he had to make arrangements as to time an’ all. I’m to fetch you to his coach this evening. He said-let me see-‘out of concern for her sensibilities’ he will send it to wait at the end of the alley.”
“Lord Sutcliffe is most gracious,” she said dryly. “I’d have thought he would prefer me to announce my departure to the neighbors. He sent no note?”
Annie shook her head.
“He just said you should bring only what you most need and cannot do without. And to dress for travel.”
“Travel? Did he say where?”
“No, miss.”
“And the time I am to meet the coach?”
“Five, Miss Meg. I am to go with you”
“Oh, Annie!” Meg reached to squeeze the maid’s hand. “That at least is something. If you can bear it?”
“I will not leave you, Miss Meg. But I must pack a few things for myself. And I must also order you some tea, as you have had so little and we must not rely on dinner.”
“Yes” Now that the plans had been set, Meg felt oddly resigned. “Was it-was it an imposing residence, Annie? He is said to have extraordinary collections, to have many fine things.”
“I couldn’t say, I’m sure. But you mayn’t be there longif at all.”
“And was Lord Sutcliffe surprised?”
Annie appeared to mull that over.
“I don’t rightly know what to tell you, Miss Meg. I was so angry at first, perhaps I did not notice as I ought. He said you should be certain you were eager to surrender your life. That does not sound like surprised, does it?”
Quiet Meg Page 15
