by Jane Goodger
Maggie decided at that moment to ruin their peace, because the lie she held in her heart was beginning to invade her feeling of pure contentment.
“I have some news to tell you,” she said, and something in her tone made Elizabeth straighten suddenly even though she’d tried to keep her voice even.
Maggie laughed. “It’s not as bad as all that.” Then she laughed again. “Actually, it is.” She shook her head, still in a bit of disbelief that her life could have changed so drastically in the few months that the two women hadn’t seen each other.
“I might as well just tell you right out. My father is in prison for embezzlement and we are destitute. There. I’ve told you. I feel so much better.” She took a sip from her tea as if all was now well in the world.
Elizabeth looked at her for a stunned moment, then burst out laughing, only to sober moments later when she realized Maggie was not joking. “You’re serious.”
“Utterly,” Maggie said dryly. For some reason, her troubles seemed far less serious here on this veranda with a cup of tea in her hands. “Poor Papa was sentenced for five years. Our house is sold, nearly all our belongings gone. The jewels, the horses, the books. Everything. Sam lost his job at Munroe and Phillips. He’s in Richmond working at a much smaller firm with an old school chum.”
Maggie thought she was fine, truly thought the pain of what her family had endured these last months was dulled by time, until she looked at Elizabeth and saw her friend was crying. Still, she tried valiantly to smile as she looked into her cooling tea. “Please don’t, Elizabeth. I’ve cried enough for both of us.” She swallowed heavily, willing the burning in her throat to dissipate.
“I’m sorry. It’s just that…your father. Your mother! Everyone. It must have been awful,” she said, losing the tenuous control she had.
“It was awful,” she said, giving her friend a shaky smile. “But we’re here now. And all that seems very far away.”
“You don’t have to be brave, Maggie. You don’t have to pretend all is well. Not with me.”
Maggie’s eyes flooded with tears. “If I start crying, I fear I might never stop. Truly.” She squeezed her eyes shut, then quickly dashed away the tears that fell. “So maybe another day I can tell you more. The awful details. But for now, I just wanted you to know. Only you,” she stressed.
“Rand is a very understanding man, Maggie. You should not worry that he would think badly of you or your family.”
Maggie held a little private debate inside her head. She knew if Elizabeth told Rand, Rand would tell Lord Hollings and then she would never be able to behave normally before either one. It was humiliating enough that everyone in New York knew their shame; she did not want every one in England to as well.
“I’d rather you not tell anyone. Is it terrible to ask that of you?”
Elizabeth thought a moment. “I will not lie outright.”
Maggie, feeling awful to ask such a thing, waved a hand as if erasing her request. “No. I should not have asked that of you. But do you think you could ask His Grace to keep it between the two of you? I would never ask such a thing, but living in New York these past months has been difficult.”
Elizabeth, who had full knowledge of how powerful New York’s social elite could be, knew immediately what her friend meant. “It must have been horrid,” she said.
“It wasn’t fun. Though I must say that after you left, our social calendars were not quite as full as before. So when word about Papa’s indictment was in the newspapers, it was hardly a sudden drop in invitations.” Maggie was putting it more than kindly. Night after night she’d sat with her mother before the fire reading or playing her beloved piano. They were long dreary nights, made more dreary with the knowledge that everyone else they knew in the city was out enjoying themselves. They’d gone to the New York Philharmonic once and never again. It was excruciatingly obvious that people who had been their friends were going out of their way to pretend they did not see them. Her mother left at intermission in tears, her father walking stoically next to her.
“I’m so glad to be away from all that pettiness,” Elizabeth said fiercely. “No doubt my mother led the brigade.”
Maggie laughed. “I never heard a word. But I do believe my star wasn’t shining quite as brightly without you by my side.” In fact, they had been written off nearly every social list, but Elizabeth needn’t know that.
“I’m glad you’re here to escape from all that.”
Maggie looked down to her tea and frowned, and started to move to add to her cooling drink some hot tea sitting on the table before them when a footman was immediately on hand to replenish it for her. When he’d gone back to his station near the door, Maggie said, “Mama and I have become quite independent. We can tie our own stays, dress each other’s hair and our own, serve ourselves food. It’s quite liberating,” she said with a hint of self-deprecation.
“Is everything gone? Not your piano.”
“That piano paid for our passage here and back,” Maggie said. “And thank God for it.”
“But your piano,” Elizabeth moaned. “You must have been devastated.”
“It just became one more thing to deal with,” Maggie said matter-of-factly. “Our lives have changed so much. We’re officially homeless.” She said it with so much pride, Elizabeth laughed.
“Until you marry Arthur,” Elizabeth said.
Maggie felt her cheeks flush and she prayed her friend thought it was bashfulness and not shame. “Yes.”
“When are you getting married?”
“We haven’t set a date yet,” Maggie said.
“Until you do, this is your home for as long as you want to stay,” Elizabeth said.
“Mother had her heart set on living with her sister in Savannah.” Goodness, the lies were building. “I cannot impose on you too long. I feel rather guilty dragging her halfway around the world simply so I could have a chaperone that I don’t even need.”
“Savannah? Georgia?”
“Mama grew up there and says it’s quite lovely.”
“I’m sure it is,” Elizabeth said doubtfully.
“Oh, you needn’t act as if we are being banished to somewhere terrible.”
“I do wish you could stay here until your wedding. I’ve missed you terribly,” Elizabeth said, and Maggie knew she meant every word. For a moment she allowed herself to think that it was possible, that she could stay in this palace forever. She’d have to tell the truth about Arthur eventually and then what would she do all day? Entertain Elizabeth? Watch their children when they came? Become like an impoverished relation who had to depend upon them for everything? Maggie knew she could never allow that, even though it was wonderfully safe and intoxicatingly tempting…if only for a little while.
“I’ve missed you, too,” Maggie said. “It’s been so dreary in New York without you. Not that I got to see you much when you were there last.”
The two women laughed, remembering how strict Elizabeth’s mother was, and how very afraid she was that Elizabeth would run off with another man and jilt the duke.
“I’ve much more freedom now,” Elizabeth said. “But not for long, I fear.” She looked down at her stomach and Maggie felt an unfamiliar twinge of jealousy. Elizabeth could never know how lucky she was—indeed how lucky she’d been her entire life. Maggie refused to blame her friend for being completely unaware of what real heartache felt like. No one, not even her own mother, knew the demons that plagued Maggie, the nightmares that visited her far too frequently, the dreams she still held even though there was no chance, none at all, that her dreams could come true.
“What on earth do you have to be afraid of?” Lady Matilda asked, coming onto the veranda.
Maggie turned, smiling, until she saw Lord Hollings following behind in her wake.
“Losing my freedom,” Elizabeth explained. “When the baby comes. I think you have inspired me to be a more attentive mother, Lady Matilda.”
Lady Matilda put on a look of hor
ror. “My dear girl, please, I beg you, do not use me as a model of motherhood. It was frugality more than anything else, at least when I was younger, that had me forgo more conventional methods of child-rearing. Horace and I tried governesses,” she said with a laugh. “And tried and tried. Governesses are miserable creatures, you know, poor things. I don’t think most of them even like children.”
Maggie flushed, because she’d been thinking that being a governess was one of her few options. Miserable creatures. Yes, that was about it, she thought. If she ever left here, being a governess was one of the few respectable options left to her. And did she like children? She truly didn’t know. She’d never been around any, not for any extended time anyway. What if she didn’t like children? Would she become one of those bitter, onerous creatures that she’d seen sometimes in Central Park walking about with their charges? Those unfortunate women from fallen families who would look at the privileged few around them with jealousy and longing?
“I had a wonderful governess,” Elizabeth said. “Though I must say, I would never say she was a jolly person,” she added thoughtfully.
“I expect when you have no choices, it is difficult to be happy,” Maggie said softly.
“I’m certain it is the option of last resort,” Elizabeth said, and Maggie forced a laugh.
“Oh, there are far worse things for a woman than to be a governess,” she said, sounding, she suddenly realized, like a bitter, hardened woman.
“That is true,” Lady Matilda said with a light laugh. “But certainly not for us, thank God.”
For a moment, the roaring in Maggie’s ears blocked out all sound as memories assaulted her. Only the piercing pain of her nail on her wrist saved her. That small discomfort allowed her to join in on the light laughter, to laugh at the joke that no woman of her class could think of a worse condition than that of being a governess.
“Miss Pierce.”
Despite her resolve to remain unaffected by the earl, Maggie stiffened when he said her name. “Yes, Lord Hollings?”
“I wonder if you would care to walk the grounds with me.”
Edward watched as Maggie stiffened and he wondered why she suddenly was so uncomfortable around him. Perhaps it was that he was nearly a stranger to her, a man she’d danced with, had kissed once, and was now embarrassed to be confronted by such memories. Despite her rather cool reaction to him, some mad part of his brain was making him walk with her, forcing him to fertilize the humiliating seeds of hope he’d planted when he’d heard she was coming to England.
“Of course,” she said, putting down her teacup with what he thought was reluctance. “Lady Matilda, would you care to join us? I would love to hear about your travels in France. I do hope that Mama and I can go to Paris before we go home and I would like your advice on where to go and what to see.”
Edward watched with disbelief as Maggie deftly brought up the one subject Matilda could talk with joy about for hours.
“If you don’t mind, Edward,” she said.
“Of course not,” he said, even though he very much minded.
And so he was relegated to trailing behind his step-aunt and the woman he was quite certain he still loved but who most certainly did not love him. He tried not to let his thoughts wander to her, but it was impossible not to take advantage of staring at her when she was so completely unaware that he did so. He let his eyes sweep down her back, from her curling black hair, to the tiny bit of skin that showed at her neckline above her shawl, to her waist, to her enticing backside. She was just as he remembered. Perhaps a bit paler without the summer sun to give her color. Her laugh was as musical as he remembered, the way she’d toss her curls from her forehead, the sure way she had of walking, long boyish strides that for some reason he found incredibly intoxicating.
He stared at her as they chatted seemingly nonstop, Maggie barraging his aunt with question after question, oohing and aahing over the minutiae of the glories of Paris and the French countryside. His aunt had lived in Paris for five years, so she had a great many stories to tell, and Maggie was very adept at ferreting them out. Clearly, Maggie had not wanted to be alone with him and he wasn’t certain whether he was amused, angry, or hurt, the last of which was completely unacceptable.
Just when he was about to excuse himself from what had become a tedious and frustrating experience, one of his aunt’s children, Mary, ran up to her mother. “Janice just got sick,” she said. “It was the most horrid thing, Mama. She ruined the duchess’s settee, I’m sure she did. It went everywhere and smells simply awful.”
“Yes, Mary, you may spare me the details. All right, then.” Matilda looked up apologetically to Maggie. “I’m afraid I’ll have to cut my walk short, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Of course,” Maggie said, smiling down at Mary, who was being particularly precocious at the moment filled with the gory details of her sister’s sickness. “I think I’ve gotten enough exercise in this morning at any rate.”
Edward watched as Matilda hurried off with Mary, leaving Maggie behind looking a bit bewildered as it dawned on her that she had absolutely no reason to hurry back to the palace the way the other two had.
“Your plans have been foiled,” he said dryly.
Maggie looked at him with pique, not even trying to pretend she didn’t know what he was implying?
“I thought it rather dangerous to be with you even under the watchful eye of Elizabeth. Now that we have lost our chaperone, I fear we must return. For your sake, that is,” she said pertly, but with a mischievous gleam. “I am certain I am much too great a temptation for you. Though you have tried to hide it, it is very clear to me that you are still overwhelmingly smitten with me. While tragic, you can hardly blame me for your sad condition.”
The relief that swept over him was so ridiculously intense, Edward nearly forgot to smile. This was the woman he remembered, the witty, chatty, confidence-filled charmer he’d known in Newport. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something had seemed a bit off with her, like a cake missing its secret ingredient—still marvelous but just not right.
“I believe I can manage to control myself,” he said dryly.
“All right, then. You may accompany me back to the palace.” She stopped and stared at the massive home. “It is a palace, isn’t it?”
“One of the grandest in England,” he stated. “Makes my home look like a country cottage.”
“Oh, I hardly believe that,” she said. “You are an earl, after all. I imagine earls live in very nice houses.”
“It is nice. Quite lovely, in fact. My uncle was a very astute businessman. He saw the agricultural depression coming years ago. It was very unfashionable of him, you see, to have business investments, to actually work for a living. My only regret is that I didn’t spend more time with him learning how to manage it all. I’m afraid I had to hire business managers to do all that for me. I am learning, however, and I imagine at some point I’ll take it all over.”
“You sound absolutely despondent.” He noted she seemed rather thrilled by the idea of his misery.
“It will simply take me away from things I’d rather be doing.”
“Such as balls and hunts?”
“My dear,” he said, “you are looking at England’s foremost bibliophile.”
He was uncertain whether he was pleased or annoyed by her expression of complete disbelief. Most people who did not know him well could not picture him wading through piles of books to find the exact copy of a fifteenth-century tome, but it was, by far, his favorite thing to do.
“You’re not joking, are you?” she asked, as if he’d said he collected human bones.
“One of the reasons I am here, other than to entertain you, is to assist His Grace in restoring his library. It was indeed tragic what happened here.”
“Oh?”
“The old duke sold every book. It was perhaps one of the greatest collections in England. They had original manuscripts from Archimedes. My God, just thinking of it.”
“I didn’t even know you could read,” she said, clearly jesting him.
Edward forced a smile, but truthfully, he was more than a little insulted by her amazement, something she immediately noted.
“I see I have struck a nerve. I had no idea you were so serious. You were much more fun to needle in Newport, Lord Hollings. Not nearly as sensitive. I do believe you’ve become entirely too stodgy since returning to England. Is it the air, do you think, that has stolen your sense of humor?”
“It is the responsibility.”
Maggie looked properly chastised, for which he was glad. This happy banter of theirs was somehow not nearly as satisfying as it once was. Perhaps because it was all so meaningless and could lead to nothing. Why flirt with someone he could never have, after all? She was engaged to marry another man, which made her more unattainable than had she been married. She really was none of his business. Whether she found books as fascinating as he did was of no consequence whatsoever. In fact, he didn’t know what had possessed him to ask her on this walk with him.
“Do you love him?” he blurted. Well, hell, he hadn’t even realized he was going to ask such a nonsensical thing until it came out of his mouth.
He watched in dreaded fascination as her cheeks bloomed with color.
“Whom do you mean?” she asked, being purposefully obtuse.
“Your fiancé,” he ground out, thrusting his hands behind his back to prevent him from shaking her.
“Love Arthur? Of course I do.”
His heart plunged more than he would have admitted, even upon threat of death. “Then that explains why you are marrying him.”
She swallowed; he watched the slim column of her throat move. She was still staring at the palace, and now it was clear to him that she was simply finding the home so fascinating because she did not want to look at him. She moved her hands up in front of her and grasped them together before pushing them down to her sides, where she fisted them in her skirts.
“I don’t think I could ever marry someone I didn’t love,” she said finally and with odd emotion.
