“He is very impressed with himself.”
“He definitely is,” Miss James agreed, and they smiled a conspiratorial smile.
Margaret pondered for a moment, then jumped in with both feet. “We’re having a party on Saturday night. We’ll have a buffet supper, and there will be dancing afterward. Would you come?”
Miss James froze, as if the request was a riddle she had to unravel. “Are you certain you’d like me to?”
“I wouldn’t have asked you if I wasn’t serious. Why are you frowning?”
“I’ve lived in the area for years, and I’ve never previously been invited to a social event at the manor.”
“That’s because my mother was a great snob. She wouldn’t have deemed it proper to include you. I’m much less set on myself, and you’re the only interesting person I’ve encountered since I returned. If you attend, I’ll have someone to chat with who won’t bore me to tears.”
Miss James chuckled. “After an explanation like that, how could I decline? It would be cruel of me to refuse, and my niece is attending a party of her own on Saturday, so I’m free that evening.”
“You have a niece? What’s her name?”
“Clara. She’s nine.”
“Every time I talk to you, I learn new information.”
“Her parents couldn’t raise her, so my Aunt Prudence and I took her in.”
Margaret was swamped by a wave of self-pity, wondering why every woman in the world seemed to have children but her. Even unwed Miss James had a girl of her own. Motherhood was so easy for others. Why had it been impossible for Margaret?
She’d tried her best to give Mr. Howell a son, but she’d failed. It was the sole task that really mattered for a wife, and Mr. Howell had never forgiven her. Not that she cared, but her lack still stung.
They were in Margaret’s bedchamber, in her sitting room. Her health was fine, so she hadn’t needed Miss James, but for some reason, it was soothing to dawdle with her. She exuded a serenity that made Margaret yearn to linger in her presence.
She was so assured and confident, while she, Margaret, had always perceived herself as being on the wrong side of a wall, that there was a better life on the other side, and she simply had to cross over to it. She could never manage the leap though, but continued to wallow where she didn’t wish to be.
Miss James gathered her supplies and left, and Margaret tarried in the quiet, feeling anxious, as if something was supposed to happen. But nothing ever did.
It was late afternoon, and supper wouldn’t be served for hours. Roxanne wouldn’t let them eat at a decent time, but forced them to pretend they resided in a London mansion and were surrounded by posh aristocrats who reveled until dawn.
Roxanne was running the manor, having arrived from Italy prior to Margaret arriving from Egypt. Since Roxanne wasn’t Jacob’s bride yet, or even officially his fiancée, Margaret should have yanked the reins of authority away from her, but when she’d staggered in, she hadn’t had the energy.
Initially, she’d been content to have Roxanne assume the duties, but now that her condition had improved, she’d like to step in, but she couldn’t figure out how. It would stir a quarrel between them, and where Roxanne was concerned, Margaret had already recognized that she’d have to pick her battles.
She wandered over and stared out the window, and on the edge of the park, she could see the roofs of two houses. Kit lived in the larger, fancier one, and Sandy in the smaller, more modest one. She was distressed by Sandy and their brief meeting out by the barn. He’d been cool and aloof, but his detached attitude was her own fault.
She’d been home for weeks, but she hadn’t sought him out. She should have, but she hadn’t been able to decide what to say. A decade earlier, when she’d acceded to her mother’s commands and had agreed to shackle herself to Mr. Howell, she’d abruptly severed her affair with Sandy.
He’d wanted to marry her, and she’d convinced herself that it could transpire. On one very unpleasant occasion, she’d discussed the prospect with her mother, but Esther had been so enraged that she’d almost suffered an apoplexy. Esther’s reaction had been to move up the wedding and to whisk Margaret away from the property—and from Sandy.
Before she’d departed, they’d had one fraught conversation where he’d begged her to stand up to her mother, to refuse Mr. Howell. He’d truly believed they could elope and live on love. His last words to her had been, If you wed him, you’ll be sorry forever . . .
It was humiliating to admit how right he’d been, but he was too kind to ever rub it in. After she’d sailed for Egypt, she’d never heard any gossip about him, so she had no idea how his life had unfolded without her.
In her more morbid moments, she liked to imagine he’d never stopped pining away for her, but she doubted that was the case. He’d been a handsome boy, then a handsome young man, and the years had added maturity and strength to his features. His shoulders were broad, his body lean and strong from physical exertion.
With his blond hair, blue eyes, and tanned skin, he resembled a bronzed god an artist might have painted on a church ceiling.
Should she try to talk to him again? Would he like that?
She had to find out, and she dashed out of her room, down the rear stairs, and out of the manor. He’d likely have completed his chores for the day and—like any sane person—would be having supper, so she proceeded to his house.
It occurred to her that she was being very rash, but she hurried on, determined to speak with him and not lose her nerve.
She rushed up his walk, having to knock twice before footsteps sounded. As she waited, she noticed how the residence had been enhanced. Was it by feminine hands? Shutters had been attached, and
