by Lisa E. Pugh
Margaret thought for a moment. As she studied her young friend, distrust followed by uneasiness flashed in her narrowed eyes. Seeing a look of suspicion in her friend’s eyes made Lara want to scream. She had never been considered untrustworthy by anyone. What was worse, Mags was always candid, something Lara prized in her friends. To change so quickly to someone so cautious was a shock.
Finally, Margaret straightened her back and nodded. “If I tell you, you must swear not to tell anyone else.”
“I promise.”
“Swear it on everything you value. Don't repeat it to anyone, especially Teresa.”
“I swear!” Lara paused and blinked. “Why not Teresa?”
“What I'm about to tell you might not reflect well on my family in her estimation.”
“Is it something you did?”
“No, but that didn't matter then and probably wouldn't matter now.”
After a thoughtful pause, Lara asked, “Do you suspect Teresa is the source of the rumors?”
“Besides the three of us, only Brenlaw and Mr. Logan knew any details about my visit to the estate. Brenlaw wouldn’t slander his master like that, and Mr. Logan didn’t know I'd stayed over. Besides, Mr. Logan is one of the few people today who didn’t treat me like a pariah. And it wasn’t professional courtesy. I know what false or forced politeness sounds and looks like.”
“Mr. Logan is a good man, and, despite his politics, he’s staunchly loyal to the Tobias family. He’d never believe these tales.”
“Is there anyone else you can think of?”
“Miss Barton at the post office might have overheard your conversation with Teresa on the telephone.”
“Oh, yes. I forgot that.”
“And there's anyone at the teahouse who might have overheard us and then noticed Brenlaw’s appearance.” Lara frowned and shrugged. “Anyway, I think you’re right about Teresa.”
“Really?”
Margaret blinked in surprise. She had thought convincing Lara about her friend’s possible complicity in the gossip would be difficult. Lara obviously didn't like to think that her friend was capable of such a thing, but she did think it.
Lara sighed. “She’s always loved salacious gossip, both hearing it and telling it. She warned me yesterday that the rumor mill would be starting in full force. Then this morning, the stories sprang up like brush fires. And at lunch today, she seemed remarkably nonchalant at the after-effects.”
“She might have thought I got my just desserts.”
The young woman considered the idea. “True. Yet as you said, few people knew of your trip, fewer knew the details afterwards, and fewer still would have talked about it. The only thing Mr. Logan would say, if anything, would be to celebrate that his lordship was accepting visitors again. If he saw you drive back into the village in the wee hours, he might have a private smile over it, but he certainly wouldn’t say what I’ve been hearing.”
Margaret grinned ruefully. “I think what you’re hearing is even more than the initial gossiper said. These tales tend to take on a life of their own.”
“If Teresa is behind these vicious lies, she won't be upset by the snowball effect,” Lara replied bitterly.
“True. She did warn me not to go to the Tobias mansion. Maybe I was too blasé about her reaction to being snubbed.”
“If she did it for that reason, that's even worse.”
Margaret looked at her friend and sighed. “I’m sorry, Lara.”
“What for, for goodness sake?” The girl looked absolutely shocked.
“I feel like I damaged your friendship with Teresa. I didn’t intend to do that.”
“You didn’t do anything. She did. She treated you like dirt yesterday. Even if she wasn't directly involved, she definitely took satisfaction in your misery today. That’s not how friends act towards each other.”
“Thank you for your support anyway.”
“No problem, Mags. I'm always here for you.” Lara grinned eagerly. “Now, what’s this secret?”
Margaret told Lara the story of her two brothers’ deaths in the Great War and her eldest brother’s death at his own hand. She described how Edward had always been the protector of his younger brothers and sister. He'd been a natural leader. He would lead them into and out of trouble. He could figure a way through any problem. Over time, he developed miracle-worker status in the eyes of his siblings.
When the war started, he joined up. Because of his education, abilities and social position, he quickly received a captaincy. He survived hell at many of the bloodiest battles. After four long years of mud, death, noise, stress and terror, then-Major Edward Taylor was deeply scarred.
Then, for a whole day and night, he was forced to listen to his youngest brother die slowly just beyond help. A shell hole collapsed, and Trevor became trapped in the rubble. There was a constant barrage, so Edward could not reach him. The poor boy bled out on the battlefield.
From that moment, it became Edward’s mission to prevent another death in his unit if at all possible. Through his creativity and skill at tactics, he was mostly successful for a long time. Then a lost German bomber pilot saw his men heading for a break in the back areas and decided to do target practice. All but one man in his group was killed before his eyes, and his mind broke.
While recuperating from the shock, he was burdened with additional guilt for displaying “a failure of character” for having the crack-up in the first place. The military brass hats constantly reminded him that he needed to be a strong role model. When the chief physician, Doctor Rivers, was away, even the doctors joined in on the pressure.
Doctor Rivers was a genius at healing shattered minds, but his methods took time. His Majesty’s Royal Army didn’t feel they had that time to waste. When Rivers was observing the Army’s preferred method in London, the doctors at his hospital were encouraged to follow the military’s procedures.
Knowing he would eventually return to the front and unable to deal with the reality of it, Edward secretly acquired a service revolver. When he was left alone one morning, he took the opportunity to shoot himself. Two weeks later, when he probably still would have been in hospital, the Armistice was declared.
As she listened, the younger woman’s eyes grew wide. “How do you know so much, especially about what happened in hospital? The Army wouldn't have told you.”
Not eager to describe any more, Margaret wiped her wet red eyes and hedged, “I read it in his diary, which he'd given to someone he trusted before he killed himself.”
“And people used to whisper about you for this?”
“Yes. That ‘lack of moral fiber’ was considered a familial trait, no matter what my other brothers gave for their country.” Mimicking the disgusted sniff and self-righteous tone of the older women of her home village, she added, “The exception disproves the rule. It’s all in the breeding, you know.”
“Oh my!”
“If his sons’ deaths and the Spanish influenza wasn’t enough for him to bear, the whispers and slanders arrived and helped to kill my father.” Margaret stopped and bit her lower lip.
“Oh, Mags, I'm so sorry!”
“Thank you.” She stared at her hands twisting her handkerchief into knots. “After my father’s death, we sold the small estate that had been in the family for generations and moved to London. Eventually, I moved here to work on my writing. Now, I’m back where I started before going to the City. Only this time it’s not for an assumed character flaw that I’m being persecuted. It’s an imaginary one of my own.”
Lara reached across the table and took her friend’s hand. “Well, you’ll always have me to rely on, Mags.”
Margaret genuinely smiled for the first time that afternoon. “Thank you, Lara. You have no idea what your friendship means to me.”
“You’re very welcome. And don’t worry. We’ll face them all down together.”
Later that evening, unable to bear the cottage anymore, Margaret Taylor went out for a walk. The streets were de
serted and many of the shops were closing up for the night. The pub was open, but there was no way in hell she was going to sit there and listen to other people talk about her. If she were spotted entering, she would notice the sudden silence as she came in and suffer the stares and whispers throughout her time there.
Knowing nowhere else to go, she went to see Mr. Logan at his store. He was just dropping his shutter, but, when he saw her, he ushered her inside to talk. The only indication that he was cautious of the rumors was the quick scan he did of the street before closing the door.
She started out trying to ignore the situation. She looked at the shelves like she was shopping for something. He just sighed and shook his head. When he asked her how she was, she tried to make light of it. That fell harder than a lead balloon.
“Come on, ducks,” he said gently. “I didn’t invite you in so you could ignore the storm outside. I’m here so you have a sympathetic ear. Tell Uncle Logan all about it.”
And she did. She wept and shouted and cursed. She damned all the rumor mill participants to hell and farther still.
As he listened to her vent her rage upon the universe, he remained the gentle, plain-speaking, sympathetic man she knew.
“You’ll just have to weather it,” he told her when she’d totally spent her anger and sat beside the counter, panting and worn-out.
“I know.” She hiccuped and swallowed hard. Regaining some composure, she added, “I’ll try.”
“People here can be a right bunch of hypocrites. If you knew what I’ve heard and seen, you’d be shocked and disgusted with humanity. Yet, to hear them speak, none of them ever did anything wrong, or anything that might not look quite right but be innocent anyway.”
“Of course they never did! They’re different than the rest of us sinners. They’re all perfect angels and say their prayers at bedtime, I’m sure.” Her brief humor quickly faded. “The thing that I’m trying to decide is: if his lordship asks to meet me again, should I refuse so that I can get back into the village’s good graces or just go on as I would have done if the gossip hadn’t started?”
“Would you have visited him if he asked, were circumstances different?”
She thought a moment. “I think I would. He was very pleasant and kind, and I liked talking with him.”
“I see.” Mr. Logan smiled. “I might not be the most unbiased person to ask. I think it’s wonderful that his lordship is reaching out to the world again. Fifteen years is a long time to have no one but servants for company. Many of them are intelligent and loving people, but they're still servants.”
“That doesn't sound like the words of a socialist.”
“I'm not very happy with the proletariat at the moment. Besides, I know how gentlemen think. They need people of their rank to talk to. Even if I believe it's a bunch of rubbish, that's how it is… for now.”
“Taking all that into account, what do you suggest?”
“What do I suggest? Let them talk—if it amuses them. Stopping the behavior will only convince them that they were right and that your guilty conscience finally got to you. Besides, you’ll never be accepted in the village again, not the way you were before. They’ll always look askance at you. They’ll always wonder. Hell—begging your pardon—they’ll probably make something of us meeting here. So, you just go on doing what you feel in your heart is best. You’ll have me by your side, at least.”
“Thank you, Mr. Logan. I'll try to maintain my determination amidst this firestorm.”
“Good for you! And don’t let those wagging tongues get you down. Don’t be a victim of their sport. If his lordship’s anything like the way he was when I knew him, he’s well worth it.”
Margaret just smiled, nodded, and left.
As she walked back to her bungalow, she met Brenlaw. He smiled with delight and tipped his hat to her. “Miss Taylor! Excellent. Now, I won’t have to go to your cottage.”
She returned his greeting and added with mock severity, “Ah, Mr. Brenlaw, are you sure you should be speaking with an outcast like me? My iniquity may be infectious.”
“Tosh! Those gossips have the minds of sewer rats. And those who act based on their tales aren’t much better.” Brenlaw regained his composure and reached into his breast pocket. “On a different note… I was going to leave this at your cottage when I stopped there. I shall give it to you here.”
He handed her a cream envelope. Her name was written in a now-familiar script. She opened it and read:
Dear Miss Taylor Maggie,
If you are amiable, would you join me at the estate for luncheon on April twenty-seventh at one o’clock?
Sincerely,
Christopher Tobias, Forty-Fifth Earl of Yawron
“Does he know about the village’s new opinion of me?”
“Not yet. This is my first trip to the village today.”
“Don’t tell him, please, Mr. Brenlaw. It’s embarrassing to me and will only upset him. I don’t want him worrying about me like that.”
The butler looked at her curiously. “Pardon me for saying so, miss, but I'm surprised that you'd be focused on his lordship, considering what you yourself are experiencing. He is, after all, indirectly responsible for your plight.”
She scoffed. “I'm not going to blame a lonely man for trying to make friends. He can't help that his neighbors are idiots. Just, please, don't let him know.”
“I won’t tell him, if you don’t wish it. He will find out, however. If he doesn't learn it from me, he will from someone else. I may be the most prominent member of the household to come to the village, but I’m not the only one.”
“I understand.” Margaret thought a moment. “Please send Lord Yawron my salutations, and tell him I'll be there on the twenty-seventh.”
“Very good, miss.” Again, he could not fully suppress his delight at her response.
Margaret Taylor returned home to find an envelope pushed through her mail slot. She lifted it. Her full name was written in large capital letters. There was no return address and no stamp. The message must have been hand-delivered. Guessing what it was, she opened it and removed the letter inside.
She stared at the paper for a long time, barely believing what she was seeing. Cut letters from newspapers formed the words:
“The Earl is suffering the just judgment of God.
He is a vile and dishonorable man.
Leave him to his solitude and despair.”
Slowly, she folded the page. “A poison pen letter. I haven’t seen one of these in ages.”
The last note she'd received of this sort contributed to her and her mother’s move to London. Then, it had most probably been sent from a mother of one of the eligible men in their small town or a girl who saw her as a rival for a gentleman’s affections. That letter slandered her and her dead brother. This one attacked Christopher’s reputation. It was odd that someone would send it, since no one had been in direct contact with him for fifteen years. And why go after him instead of her?
She had seen enough. She threw it in the garbage and forgot about it.
Chapter 9
The morning of the luncheon began with a light rain, which faded as the day progressed. As she drove to the house, the sun tried several times to put in a strong appearance. It was unlikely to completely succeed, but the clouds were now high and pale gray. The tone of the day was becoming typical of early springtime. There was a nip in the air, but frost was not in the cards.
When she dressed, she pinned the last remaining carnation to her forest-green wool frock. Her driving coat was light canvas, so the flower wasn’t likely to be crushed on the trip to the house. She was glad she wasn’t required to wear anything heavier. The weather, for once, was cooperating.
After a pleasant drive, she pulled up to the gates. Two men ran forward to open them. They were dressed in the tweed clothing commonly seen in the country, but they resembled game wardens more than field workers or house staff.
It suddenly occurred to Margaret that th
ey might very well be game wardens from the estate. The property was large enough. This was certainly a different world from London. It made her a trifle homesick for Cambridgeshire.
Once the road was clear, the men waved her through. She thanked them and drove onto the grounds. She was eager to see the estate in daylight.
The approach to the house looked as wild and desolate as it had appeared the night she first came to the mansion. Empty branches spread out from gray trees that rose from bare ground. Brambles and leafless bushes sprawled in the sunlit patches. She was driving through a wood that had not completely awakened from its winter sleep.
The drive wound through the wood for what seemed like ages. The trip seemed longer now that she wasn't struggling to see the road. She could only guess the distance when the castle came into view.
And what a view! Looking out over the wide lawn, Margaret saw the mansion in the distance framed by a foreground of bare branches. The gray stone starkly contrasted with the green of the grass and evergreen bushes around it.
Peaking through the clouds for a moment, the sun reflected off the windows. The tin roof of a thin tower glinted above the trees to the left. A much larger crenelated keep stood at the other side. The carriage entrance at the side of the house had a stone archway crowned by a square gabled stone structure. Windows indicated that a room lay within the walls of the cube. Considering its lack of drapery, the area was probably a storage room.
She drove up to the large carved doors with their elaborate stone lintel and posts. Without the risk of rain, she pulled her car farther along the driveway to park. Coasting into a spot in the shade of a tree, she exited and began to stride to the entry.
Brenlaw met her at the door. He wore a light coal-colored suit that seemed more appropriate for a valet than a butler. Perhaps that was his role today.
“Welcome, miss,” he greeted, taking her coat. “His lordship is on the veranda. The luncheon will be served there, weather permitting. Come this way, if you please.”
He smiled with professional politeness, but there was a genuine gleam in his eyes. His tone was measured and very correct. Yet his walk seemed a little light and excited for a supposedly dispassionate servant.
