“Then I shall explain. My nephew is, in most regards, a well-tempered and rational man. I know this because I raised him as such. But within him exists a boy who was plucked from obscurity and risen to nobility. He sees in this Isadore, whomever she is, the chance to atone for his father’s mistakes...” He choked on the word father, and Margaret’s skin prickled. She remembered what Alexander had said: two men, who could not have been more different. “That is my belief, at least. Alexander's obedience to his sense of honor will only lead to his downfall.”
“But if she is who she says she is?—”
“She is not, could not be. I would know of an Isadore, a child between my brother and the opera singer, if one existed, and I do not.”
Margaret faltered. Carlisle seemed so sure. But Alexander’s father seemed to have had many secrets. What was one more, with Isadore?
“I have faith that time will reveal the truth, whatever it may be. There is nothing more to be said on the interloper for now. My nephew and I will not meet eye-to-eye on this matter, not now and not ever. If he wishes to host this woman for a time, I cannot stop him. But I will not remain idle forever. And that, he knows.”
Carlisle returned to his chair, opening his notebook again. Margaret would not press him further. She had already outstayed her welcome. She curtsied modestly and bid him a good day, returning the way she had come and finding the house silent.
Bastian, like he had promised, had already taken pains to distract Isadore that morning. Margaret had no desire to chase after them and resigned herself to spending the morning alone.
Not long after she had settled in her chambers, she heard Augusta knock on the door.
“You called for me, Your Grace?”
“I did,” Margaret replied from her position by the armoire. “I was wondering where you had stored my wedding trousseau. This bedroom is a cavern, and I have tried hopelessly to find it. I promised to write Eliza, and my stationery is in that trunk.”
Augusta paused nervously at the door.
“Is something wrong, Augusta?”
“Nothing, Your Grace.” Augusta gave a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She entered and moved toward a dresser by the window. Margaret's writing set had been neatly stored in the top drawer, between bed linens and nightclothes.
“I fear I should have consulted with you before organizing your things, but you have been so busy since we arrived in Wiltshire,” Augusta explained.
“I am glad Iappearbusy,” Margaret murmured, thinking of her absent husband. She took her writing things and moved them to her escritoire.
“Is the Langley stationery not to your liking?” Augusta asked, something off in her voice—perhaps weary from work, maybe something more.
“It is perfectly fine.” Margaret glanced up and raised a brow. When Augusta smiled reassuringly, she continued: “But a woman must preserve a few things about herself from before she became someone’s wife. Helena is always saying that. And anyway, I do so love this set.”
Margaret ran her hand over the stack of paper. The parchment was dyed a light pink, neatly bound together with a string. Her initials, M.P., had been printed on every page.
“You will need to change that,” Augusta noted, pointing at the initials. “But it is a lovely design... and it looks expensive.”
“Oh, it is. Papa gifted it to me when I made my debut into society. He gave me the set, then took my arm and squeezed it, saying I would tire out my arms for all the letters I would be writing to interested gentlemen. How hopeful he was for me, and how little he knew about the future. Or perhaps, it is better to say, how little he let on...”
Margaret settled in her writing chair and untied the string, tucking away the memories of her father for another time. She licked her thumb, selecting the first sheet of parchment from the pile. Augusta stood behind her, and when Margaret glanced her way, she looked like she was going to faint. Before Margaret could question her, Augusta burst into tears.
“Why, Augusta!” Margaret scooted out of her chair, and it scraped against the floor. “Whatever is the matter?”
Augusta covered her face with her hands. “I have done something terrible, Your Grace. And I must make amends, I must!”
“Amends for what?” Margaret pried the maid’s hands away from her face. “You could do no wrong in my eyes. Tell me what has happened.”
Steadying her trembling chin, Augusta reached into the pockets of her apron. She pulled out a small white rectangle: a letter.Margaret took it. The seal was plain, a dark red. However, the writing on the front read ‘For Margaret...’
In the unmistakable handwriting of her missing father.
CHAPTER 17
“Have you ever seen anything more excessively Gothic in your life?” Bastian asked Isadore, tipping his chin toward the arches overhead. They walked a few paces behind Alexander and Margaret as they entered Salisbury Cathedral—speaking loudly enough to be overheard by them and most others. “I used to come here as a boy for all sorts of affairs and would spend the following nights tossing and turning with bad dreams of the place. Allow me to show you the friezes later. And the gargoyles. Goodness, you won’t sleep either once you’ve seen the gargoyles.”
Alexander turned and followed Bastian’s gaze. Great columns rose to the ceiling, vaults arching high above them. Candlelight flickered across the stone, casting long shadows across the nave. Somewhere ahead, the choir was preparing for their performance, speaking with the bishop.
He glimpsed Lady Dudley through the mass of attendants. She cracked a smile when she saw him, then glanced away as she noticed Margaret by his side. The county’s opinion of thePembroke family had improved dramatically since Margaret had become the Duchess of Langley. But some, like The Dudley, still had their concerns.
