Hawthorne shifted to sit beside her and looped an arm around her shoulders. “I’m sorry. That’s one more reason not to like Bancroft. He’s been cutting up your peace for some time, hasn’t he?”
“Terribly.” Margaret was put in mind of the vase Greta had broken. One minute, the little heirloom had sat serenely above all the noise and bustle of the household. The next, it had lain shattered on the carpet. News of Bancroft’s precipitous return felt exactly like that. “Can we be married today, Hawthorne?”
He kissed her forehead. “We can, though I suspect we have at least until tomorrow morning before Bancroft arrives. He’s bringing guests, a Miss Emily Pepper and her father. I gather Bancroft is being considered for matrimonial honors where Miss Pepper is concerned, and she’s quite the heiress. He won’t travel at a breakneck pace with the lady sharing his coach, not if he wants to impress her favorably.”
This was not good, not good at all. “If he has a wealthy wife, he’s in a better position to take on care of Adriana and Greta.”
“If he has any sort of wife at all, other matters will likely occupy him at least until the wedding journey is complete.”
A comforting thought, but Margaret could not afford to put her faith in it. “Tomorrow morning, then. Early and without any fuss. Fenny will be my witness.”
“Oak has agreed to attend me. I’ll see the vicar on my way back to Dorning Hall. Where would you like to hold the ceremony?”
One of the benefits of a special license was that the vows could be spoken at a location other than the parish church. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”
“I have an idea,” Hawthorne said, passing her a sandwich. “We can discuss it while you help me do justice to this food. You will need your strength, Margaret. You are soon to be a married woman.”
He was teasing her, and in return for that kindness Margaret could find a smile. That she and Hawthorne were to be married—tomorrow, bless him being such an accommodating fellow—was in truth a reason to rejoice. She ate the sandwich and wondered what sort of well-dowered woman would even consider marrying Bancroft Summerfield.
One of Casriel’s recent economizing measures had been to reduce the size of the Dorning Hall conservatory by one-third, selling the glass and framing to a neighbor who’d come into an inheritance. Casriel had included in the price some of the less exotic inventory, but the remaining space still bore the quality of an overgrown grotto.
“This is an unusual choice of chapel,” Oak said, batting at Hawthorne’s hair. “Papa would approve.”
“He would have approved of life in a tent, provided the surrounding flora was of interest to him. Stop fussing me.”
“Fine, then,” Oak replied, giving Hawthorne’s hair a final pat. “Get married with your hair sticking up like some village lad who has just finished cavorting around the maypole. Are you nervous?”
Oak was nervous, which was touching and annoying as hell. “Hard work has never deterred me in the past. Where can she be?”
“By now? Either halfway to London, on her way to Cornwall, or maybe taking ship from Bournemouth. Do you truly consider holy matrimony to such a lovely woman hard work?”
“Margaret and I have not had a chance to discuss how we will move her and the children to my house. What furniture stays at Summerton, what furniture comes with Margaret as her dowry? How will her staff be divided up, and what becomes of Summerton when she’s moved? We have not worked out the settlements, so to speak. She’s a woman of means, and I… I am willing to work hard.”
Oak sauntered over to the bench and took a seat. He was a handsome devil when he took the time to don morning attire. His hair was too long, and he needed more meat on his bones, but his very indifference to appearances gave him an enviable air of self-possession.
“I would opine that you’ve been working too hard,” Oak said, resting an arm along the back of the bench. “We haven’t shared an evening meal for the past week. You’re gone by first light, and you look like you could use a three-day nap.”
Thorne felt like he could use a three-day nap, preferably in the same bed with Margaret, and yet… “I had not reckoned with the changes marriage will bring.”
Oak patted the bench. “Tell Brother Oak all. I will thrash you for your stupidity, and you will feel much restored by my kindness.”
If only the usual boyhood rituals still worked. Thorne remained on his feet. “I am, in a sense, marrying Papa’s botanicals when I marry Margaret. I am committing to make a go of Casriel’s venture in a way I didn’t before. Margaret will expect it of me, and having a family to raise, I must expect it of myself.”
This train of thought had invaded Thorne’s mind after he’d spoken with the vicar. Margaret had been understandably distracted by the news that Bancroft was already returning, but perhaps she was also realizing the magnitude of the upheaval marriage would bring. A woman expected to leave her parents’ house when she became a wife. She did not expect to leave her own house, towing two children, staff, property, and means.
“As if,” Oak said, “no man has ever tried his hand at a venture, given it his best effort, then decided his interests lie elsewhere. Have you whistled up the fairies to steal your legendary common sense, Thorne?”
“Children are not a venture one can undecide.”
“Children can be moved. They can follow marching armies. They can go away to school. I’ve heard wives are somewhat portable too.”
But were dreams portable? Hawthorne had dreamed that Casriel might one day deed him one of the more modest tenancies, a place needing care and knowledge to bring it ’round. That dream was passing away, replaced with the job of making the botanical venture successful. The trade included having Margaret for a wife—a delightful consideration—but also taking on two children to raise and possibly many more.
Thorne liked children, and in particular he liked Adriana and Greta, but did they like him? “Will you be going to Hampshire?” Say no. Not now, not yet.
“I have taught all the local squire’s daughters and son their watercolors and sketching. I have painted every scenic view on the property. I have completed more labels and advertisements for Casriel’s queer start than he could ever need, assuming we eventually have products to wear the labels. I am of age, and I have skills. As the saying goes, it’s time I made my way in the world.”
“Please wait until after haying.” That would give Thorne a few weeks to… what? Settle into married life?
“I’m still haggling with the widow, but if she does not hire me, I will continue to look for a post. I’m advertising as far away as the Lakes.”
The Lakes were beautiful, also too damned distant.
The door opened, letting in a gust of cool air. “The ladies have arrived,” the vicar said, beaming. “If you gentlemen are ready, we can begin shortly.”
“I’ll fetch Hannah from the parlor,” Oak said, rising. “You are a lucky, lucky man, Hawthorne Dorning. See that you make Margaret Summerfield a lucky woman.” He squeezed Thorne’s shoulder and strolled off, not a care in the world.
Oak was right, not that Hawthorne would tell him that: Margaret was putting her entire trust into Hawthorne’s hands, in addition to the well-being of two children she loved dearly. Hawthorne was a lucky man, and if he’d had his doubts, Friday afternoon had banished them.
Mostly.
“Margaret.” He held out a hand to his bride. “You look lovely.”
She’d styled her hair softly, with a long honey-blond skein curling over her shoulder. Her dress was a pale lavender, the cut simple and old-fashioned. A shawl of white lace was draped over her shoulders, and she’d affixed a little corsage of bluebells to her wrist.
Thorne bowed over her hand when he wanted to kiss her witless. Time enough for that later.
She curtseyed. “Mr. Dorning.”
“Mrs. Summerfield.” Probably the last time she’d be addressed thus. Did that bother her? “Miss Fenner, thank you for joining us. I think you know my
brother Oak, who will be along—”
Oak ushered Hannah Weller into the conservatory. “Is my timing not impeccable? Ladies, a pleasure. Ma’am, you will take excellent care of my brother, please, and if he in any way proves a disappointment, you will apply to me, and the matter will be addressed.”
That bit of banter had Margaret looking confused.
“He’s implying,” Thorne said, “that a man who has never entertained the notion of holy matrimony, a man incapable of remembering to remove his muddy boots before setting foot in the parlor, can beat some sense into a fellow blessed with a lovely wife. Don’t worry, though. Oak is applying for posts as far away as the Lakes. We likely won’t see much of him.”
“I’ll miss you, Master Oak,” Hannah said. “Miss Margaret, you look radiant.”
Embraces followed, though to Thorne’s eye, Margaret also looked worried and perhaps a bit short on sleep.
“Shall we begin?” the vicar asked. “I must say, the surrounds are unusual, but quite lovely.”
Thorne had stayed up late wrestling trees and potted plants, ferreting out the varieties in bloom, and making a list of what he’d moved from where. Papa had made a map of the conservatory, though who knew to what extent it still reflected the current configuration?
The vicar arranged those present, with Hannah taking the bench and the witnesses standing on either side of the bride and groom. Though Thorne had attended many weddings, he was still not prepared for the brevity of the ceremony, nor for the moment when he produced a plain gold band and found that Margaret’s fourth finger already wore a pair of rings.
“Sorry,” she muttered, twisting the rings free. “I hadn’t thought…” She passed the rings to Miss Fenner, who held them along with the single glove.
“No matter,” Thorne said, sliding the plain band onto her finger. The ring was too big, having been among the late earl’s collection and given to Thorne at the time of his father’s passing. “We’ll have it resized when next we’re in London.”
That occasioned an uncertain smile, then the vicar was blathering on about worldly dross and heavenly rewards. A ceremony that had seemed too short droned on now, until finally, finally, Miss Fenner congratulated Hawthorne with a shy hug, and Oak kissed the bride before Hawthorne could punch him aside.
The wedding breakfast was mercifully reduced to a modest luncheon, though the Dorning Hall staff had trotted out the good silver, and then Oak was offering to see Vicar, Miss Fenner, and old Hannah home.
“We are man and wife,” Margaret said, unpinning the corsage from her wrist when Oak had ushered the guests from the dining parlor. “Are you as tired as I am?”
Was that an invitation? A confidence? Did a husband rise from the wedding breakfast and carry his wife off to bed? Not that Hawthorne’s old room at Dorning Hall had been aired out.
“I was up late in the conservatory. Perhaps you’d like to return there?”
She put her corsage in the water glass. “Honestly, the scents in the conservatory were somewhat overwhelming. You have a sizable library. Shall we take a tour?”
All that wrestling of trees and rearranging of shrubs, and the conservatory had been somewhat overwhelming. “I’d be happy to show you the library.”
“Thank you for inviting Hannah. That meant a lot to me, and I would have regretted the oversight for years.”
“She is as close to family as you have. I wish more of my family had been able to attend.”
Margaret looked up from wrapping her shawl about her shoulders. “I’m sorry they couldn’t be here. I’m very glad to be married to you.”
Well, damn. “And I to you.” He held her chair, wondering where the ease they’d shared on Friday had gone, because every other word from his mouth landed amiss today. A few of Margaret’s were landing amiss too.
They’d taken off their gloves to eat, and before Margaret could put hers back on, he took her hand. “I mean that. I have long esteemed you, Margaret Dorning, and I look forward to being a good husband to you.”
Her brows drew down. “Margaret Dorning.” Thorne had watched while she’d signed her name thus on Vicar’s registry, but the form of address seemed to confuse her.
“Margaret May Mallory Summerfield Dorning,” Thorne said. “The library is this way.” He led her through the house, with Margaret peering about at portraits, busts, dried flower arrangements, and other appointments Thorne had stopped seeing decades ago.
“You are the son of an earl,” she said at length.
“Some things can’t be helped. Fortunately, I am also the son of a passionate amateur botanist and the brother of eight formidable and worthy siblings. Welcome to the Dorning Hall library.”
Margaret stopped just inside the door. The place was chilly and probably needed a good dusting, but it was a pretty room and full of natural light.
“You know, I’d best not look around here after all, Hawthorne. If your father was half the botanist I knew him to be, I will start reading his collection of treatises, and we won’t get back to Summerton until next spring.” She let go of his hand and went straight to the shelves where the late earl’s collection of medicinal monographs was arranged alphabetically by author. The rest of the library might be all topsy-turvy, but Papa’s treatises had been carefully cataloged.
Margaret pulled one from the shelf while Thorne was torn between bemusement that she’d so readily ignore her new husband for the sake of musty tomes and appreciation for the picture she made in her pretty dress, head bent over her reading.
Then the import of her words sprouted among the other dislocations, regretted exchanges, and awkwardnesses of the day.
“Get back to Summerton,” Thorne said slowly. “To retrieve your trunks?”
She looked up. “My trunks?”
“For removal to my house.” The steward’s house, to which Thorne did not have title, though he had possession.
Margaret closed the monograph and held it against her chest. “Your house?”
“Where I live.” Where I thought my family would live now that I’m married. “I assumed that marriage meant cohabitation, and that means you and the girls remove to my dwelling.”
She shelved the treatise. “I assumed marriage meant cohabitation as well, but I did not conclude we’d be uprooting the children, closing up Summerton, letting my staff go…”
And she wasn’t offering to undertake those efforts now.
“We are married,” Thorne said, approaching her.
In the space of a few steps, he saw her gaze become troubled, and on her wedding day, she should not be troubled.
He stopped directly in front of her. “We have time to sort this out. You haven’t even seen my house, and the children barely know me. Let’s not rush this.”
Finally, he’d found the right thing to say, for Margaret’s relief could not have been more apparent. “We do have time. Thank you, Hawthorne. There’s much to consider.”
No, there wasn’t. Man and wife should live together, and the steward’s house was a reasonably commodious place to do that. Summerton could be let out, the staff could all retain their posts, and married life would go on.
“Let me show you the rest of Dorning Hall,” he said, taking her by the hand and leading her from the library. “If you’re willing to valet me, I can change out of this folderol and take you back to Summerton when we’ve finished our tour.”
Though what was marriage without a wedding night?
“Would you consider joining me for another picnic later today?”
As consolations went, a picnic with Margaret would do nicely. “I would indeed.” He stopped at the foot of the main staircase and framed her face with his hands. “I really am very, very glad to be married to you, Margaret.”
She kissed him, a thoroughly married kiss that had Hawthorne thinking thoroughly married thoughts, until somebody cleared his throat.
Hawthorne looked up to find Valerian standing in the foyer, wearing an enormous smirk. “Timing is everyt
hing,” he said. “Mrs. Hawthorne Dorning, I presume?”
Chapter Eighteen
Memories of Margaret’s first wedding day intruded on her second.
She hadn’t known when she’d married Charles exactly how sick he truly was, or how soon his illness would become the driving force in their relationship. They’d had one year before his health had become precarious, time enough to realize that in many regards, they suited very well. Time for gratitude and mutual esteem to grow into a quiet, accepting sort of love. Time enough for a protracted journey with Charles’s sister and her husband, and then to return home to the corner of Dorset that Margaret had missed terribly.
The wedding day, though, like this one, had been rushed, awkward, and exhausting. Please, God, don’t let that be a portent of things to come.
“Perhaps we should tell the children of this day’s developments,” Hawthorne said, handing Margaret down from a gig. He’d changed out of his formal attire and seemed more relaxed for it, if not more cheerful.
She remained standing with him before the Summerton front terrace, her hands on his arms. “I’d rather wait.” Were they to have their first quarrel before she’d even taken off the dress she’d been married in?
“I apologize for Valerian’s interruption. He’s supposed to be finding us a place to do business in London.”
Margaret embraced her inten—her husband—though they stood in plain sight of the house. “I suspect Oak summoned him. That seems the sort of thing your siblings do. They were very friendly.”
She’d been acquainted with Oak in the manner of two people whose paths used to cross out among the fields and hedges. He’d always had a friendly wave for her, but then he’d resume sketching and she’d go back to her foraging. She’d stood up with Valerian a time or two at the local assemblies, but now those men were among her family, as was the earl himself.
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