“Louis! Did you want to see my father? He’s in his study.”
Louis gave the study door a wary look and shook his head. Unlike her father, Louis Scott was a gentle, kind man. He would make the sort of vicar that his parishioners would love dearly… if he ever got the chance.
She could even admit to herself that she and Louis would comprise a good team, so it made perfect sense for them to marry. This vision of her future should have filled her with joy—it was a practical solution and she was a practical woman—but it didn’t.
When she looked at Louis her heart didn’t soar. She wasn’t sure why she wanted it to. Her sensible soul told her that a soaring heart wasn’t really a prerequisite of marriage. The wild ups and downs of romantic love were for novels like Glenarvon, but that didn’t mean she didn’t want to feel something more than friendship and warm affection. Perhaps love would grow? Perhaps one morning she’d wake up in a lather of wild passion for her mild husband?
His quiet voice interrupted her inappropriate thoughts. “I came to see you. Was there some upheaval here this morning with Lady Strangeways?”
“I’m afraid so. Have you heard the whispers already?”
He sighed, glancing at the door again. “I wish your father would not pay quite so much attention to what Lady Strangeways says.” The words were unusually daring for him and Margaret eyed him with surprise and hope, which he took to be censure.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Your father—”
She silenced him with a wave of her hand. “I agree with you, Louis. All of this arguing does not make for a peaceful time of year, when Christmas is supposed to be just that.”
He looked down at the floor and she noticed that there were some snowflakes in his fair hair. “I hope between the two of us we shall prevent any serious outbreaks of disharmony,” he said, looking at her again, and smiled.
“We shall,” she agreed.
Louis hesitated a moment, as if he would say more, and then smiled again. “I will see you at luncheon?” It had become a habit for him to join them for their main meal.
“I expect so.”
His blue eyes were full of warmth as he looked upon her. Affection, and an understanding that they were of a similar mind when it came to the vicar and Lady Strangeways. They had much in common, Margaret reminded herself, and she was fortunate in that because so many marriages were founded on much less. It was time to put away her foolish dreams and face her future. Perhaps Lady Strangeways’ improving tome would help settle her after all.
The door closed behind Louis and she stood staring at it, telling herself that she was going to marry that man. They would lie together in their marriage bed and probably have children together. He seemed a good man, a man she could talk to and who would listen to her opinion and act upon it.
She had seen far worse matches made in Denwick and elsewhere, and few of them were the happy endings Monkstead created.
She should be relieved and grateful.
Why then did she feel as if all the colour had gone out of her world?
3
Winter 1816, the North of England
The coach rumbled along the narrow road, the excellent suspension ensuring them the least discomfort and the two outriders keeping a close watch for highwaymen. Another coach followed at a discreet distance, carrying the earl’s valet and Sibylla’s maid, as well as two footmen. Dominic always travelled in style. What was the point of being as rich as Croesus otherwise?
Dominic and Sibylla had stayed at the homes of various friends along the way, being entertained with soirees and parties, but now they were nearing their destination. Sir Cecil Throckmore lived in England, but only just, and he was their father’s uncle, and therefore their great uncle.
As far as Dominic could recall it was at least twenty-five years since he had last visited Cecil, and that memory was dim. He vaguely remembered the house—it had been rather grand—and he remembered being told by Cecil that he could see the Scottish border from his attic windows. What he did remember clearly was how his great uncle had gone on to embellish this with tales of the Scots coming over their border to commit heinous crimes. Dominic hadn’t been able to sleep that night, or the next, but after that his father had explained these stories were from hundreds of years in the past. Perhaps he’d even had words with Cecil, because his great uncle never told Dominic stories like those again.
“I’m not sure I want to see Great Uncle Cecil after all,” Sibylla complained. Her lovely face was creased in a frown, what he could see of it within the fur-lined hood attached to her cloak. After many years living in warmer climes, chiefly Italy, his sister was not partial to the cold.
“He’s a very old man,” Dominic responded. “This may be the last time anyone sees him. He’s invited us to visit him for Christmas. We should make the effort, don’t you think?”
She sniffed. “Well, promise me we will not stay long, Nic. I need to get back to London.”
“And why is that?” he asked, staring out of the window at the bleak landscape.
The snow falls had been light as yet, but one never knew when they could turn heavy, and then they might be trapped in some godforsaken inn for a week or more.
If that happened, then he agreed with Sibylla—he wasn’t sure that their distant relative was worth that sort of pain. But what Sibylla didn’t know and what he hadn’t told her was … it wasn’t his great uncle he was here for.
A silence had fallen between them and his sister still hadn’t explained to him why she needed to get back to London, but he wasn’t surprised by her confession. Before they’d left, she’d been spending rather a lot of time with one of those species of gentlemen he’d much rather she kept away from. Why was it Sibylla was drawn to the bad pennies? He’d have thought her late husband would have been enough for her.