“There you are. I’d about given you up for dead.”
Margaret glared at her brother, Jacob, and said, “Very funny.”
“Who’s being funny? I haven’t seen you in five years.”
“Seven.”
“What?”
“It’s been seven years since we last saw each other.”
He frowned. “Has it been that long?”
“Yes.”
They were in the dining room, a pair of footmen hovering, but other than that, they were alone. The only other person who might have strolled in was their cousin, Roxanne, but she never rose early, so there was no chance of her putting in an appearance, for which Margaret was grateful.
She hadn’t decided if she liked Roxanne or not. When they were younger, they’d occasionally socialized with Roxanne’s side of the family, but once they grew to adolescence, Roxanne moved to Italy and stayed there. She was mostly a stranger to them.
Margaret had been at Ralston Place for two months, and Roxanne for three. Margaret had slithered home from Egypt, after her husband, Mr. Howell, had passed away from a heart seizure. Roxanne had slithered home from Italy.
Due to their extensive traveling in foreign lands, she and Roxanne probably had a lot in common and should have bonded immediately. They could have sealed their friendship by jumping into the arrangements for Jacob’s betrothal party in September, but Margaret couldn’t muster any enthusiasm for the celebration, and Roxanne was content to handle the details herself.
On the few occasions Margaret had attempted to help, Roxanne had ignored her every suggestion, leaving Margaret with the distinct impression that her assistance was neither needed nor necessary.
Now that Roxanne had barged in and assumed control of the manor, Margaret would have a difficult time fitting in with Roxanne as her sister-in-law. Margaret had staggered to Ralston Place with naught to show for her ten years of marriage to Mr. Howell. She felt like a poor and very unwanted relative. Roxanne already pictured the house to be her own, and she hadn’t been particularly welcoming.
After she became Jacob’s wife, she could ask Margaret to depart, but where would Margaret go?
She was fairly certain Jacob wouldn’t allow Roxanne to evict her, but he was rarely in England. If she and Roxanne quarreled, and Roxanne ordered her to pack her bags, it wasn’t as if Jacob would be standing nearby to counter her edict.
Margaret had been having a quiet breakfast when Jacob had blustered in. It was eight o’clock, and she was finished eating and on her way out. He was just sitting down to begin. He looked annoyingly chipper and eager to face the day, while she was exhausted, irritated, and wondering why she’d come downstairs. There was quite a bit of comfort to be found in her old bedchamber.
“I’ve met Joanna James,” he said. “She tells me you’re morose and she’s been tending you because of it.”
“Maybe Miss James should be a little more circumspect about my private business.”
“What does that mean? You’re not morose? She’s not tending you?”
“I’ve been a tad down in the mouth. You needn’t worry about it.”
“Why are you so glum? Was Egypt terrible? Was it Mr. Howell? I warned you he was a pompous prig and it would be a grave mistake to wed him.”
“Mother didn’t give me a choice, Jacob. Could we please not rehash ancient history?”
Jacob motioned to the footmen, and they tiptoed out and shut the door behind them. Not that she cared if the servants eavesdropped. They unraveled every secret and, no doubt, were fully aware of the cause of her woe.
Jacob studied her meticulously, and he appeared genuinely concerned, which was a novel development. He was thirty, and she was twenty-eight, and with their being so close in age, they should have been fond siblings, but the sad fact was that they barely knew each other. He’d left for boarding school when he was seven and had scarcely returned for visits after that.
Their mother, Esther, had been so unlikable, and Margaret had envied him for being able to pick up and flee. She hadn’t escaped until her mother had sold her to Mr. Howell. When Margaret had been introduced to him, she’d cried for three days and had sworn she’d never wed him, but Esther had prevailed in the end.
Esther had contracted the match when Margaret was seventeen. She’d been vivacious and spirited, and Esther had constantly raged that she’d inherited her father’s low morals and would ultimately wind up just as dissolute. Mr. Howell had been fifty, a twice-widowed government official who’d never sired any children.
He’d been a stern, pious, and petty man, so in Esther’s view, it had made him a stellar husband for a girl as vibrant and silly as Margaret had been.
Her friends had counselled her to look on the bright side: She’d get to travel the world with Mr. Howell, and she’d never have to slink back to her mother or Ralston Place unless she chose to. She’d taken the advice to heart, and she’d proceeded without argument.
For a decade, they’d resided in Egypt, where his job had been to arrange grain shipments to England. She’d had a lovely villa on the Nile and loads of British acquaintances, so her public life had been exotic and interesting, but her personal life had been grueling and despicable.
He’d finally died, and she hadn’t mourned or missed him.
Her brother asked the strangest question. “Do you blame me for not stopping your wedding?”
“What an absurd thought. Why would I have?”
“I should have put my foot down. I’ve always been sorry that I didn’t.”
“That’s some consolation, I guess.”
In the past, she had blamed him for the disaster. She couldn’t remember why, and it didn’t matter now. He hadn’t even been in England when Esther had forged ahead. How could he have intervened? How could it have been his fault?
“Did he bequeath anything to you?” Jacob inquired.
“No. I haven’t a single farthing to my name. It’s why I’ve staggered to Ralston
