The vicarage was larger than he had imagined. It was very probably the grandest house in the hamlet, he supposed with satisfaction. Ancient creeping vines reached to the very roof of the structure, and towering wild rose bushes surrounded the front perimeter, crowding the pathway to the door. It looked the very centerpiece of centuries of customs as ancient as nature’s order, far from any disturbance of the modern-day world.
“I don’t believe papa is home at present, but I’m sure he will be back for dinner,” Margaret said as she pressed the latch and opened the heavy oak door. Henry stepped over the threshold to follow her into the dim parlor.
“I’ll tell mamma that you’re here,” she announced before disappearing through another doorway.
Hat in hand, Henry surveyed the vicar’s drawing room. A dusty beam of sunlight revealed the ragged edges of the patterned carpet. The furniture reflected the occupant’s position: sturdy and simple, reminiscent of centuries of tradition. There was a certain country elegance to the embellishments, but nothing particularly grand or of the latest fashion. The chintz curtains had faded, and the lace draped over the back of the sofa did nothing to hide the threadbare condition of the seat cushions.
He estimated the value of the furniture in his sight and sighed at this brief assessment. He swiftly reminded himself that he would surely make up for any deficiency in wealth. It would not deter him from his plan, but only delay the process. He now knew he could expect very little in the way of a dowry.
He smiled at the quaint setting as he realized how well she rose above it all. He had well noted how she moved among London society. At all the various social functions she attended in her cousin’s circles, she always maintained perfect poise and grace—even a regal air, which belied her humble origins. She would do very well as a London bride.
Mrs. Hale came out with Margaret to greet their guest and invite him to dinner. When she had retreated from the room, Margaret proposed her plans for the intervening time. “I thought we might draw. It’s a very clear sky today, and I wanted to capture some of the season’s views,” she explained. “Will you join me?”
“I would be delighted to,” he replied, happily following her back into the sunshine of the day.
They occupied themselves for a few hours. Margaret’s work was left unfinished, for she abandoned her artwork when she saw one of the old cottagers and went to speak with him—unaware that Henry thoroughly enjoyed adding her into his penciled landscape from afar.
It seemed too soon to Henry when Margaret announced that they should return to the cottage to dine. And as they walked back to the house, his mind was full of calculations of when he might begin the conversation that would change their lives.
Margaret, however, could only wonder if her mother had sufficiently calmed her agitation over this sudden visitor from London. Dixon and Charlotte would be busy fulfilling her mother’s anxious requests to set up as impressive a table as could be managed under the time and circumstances.
Mr. Hale greeted them at the gate and led them to the back garden, where a table had been set out for their dinner. Margaret knew at a glance that the outdoor setting had been her father’s idea, for she saw the harried look behind her mother’s smile. But all was prettily arranged, and the simple lunch was perfectly suited for the occasion. Such a pleasant day in October was not a time to be wasted indoors.
Margaret watched with proud fondness as her father fell into easy conversation with Mr. Lennox. She admired her father’s sincere attentiveness and ability to relate to any individual. She was pleased too to see that he enjoyed himself, realizing with a pang of sorrow how much her mother’s complaints regularly entered their daily dinner conversations.
Mr. Hale was indeed in fair spirits to be free for a time from his concerns. Second to his love of books was his great enjoyment of God’s handiwork in nature. He sat back from his repast with contentment and eyed the pear trees along the far wall. “What would finish this meal to perfection is one of those golden pears,” he mused aloud.
“I’ll get one for you, papa,” Margaret said, taking up a basket for the task.
“I’ll accompany you,” Mr. Lennox added eagerly.
The better part of the tree’s bounty had already been picked; the pears that remained were not as easily acquired. Margaret set right to the task at hand, searching out the best fruit within her sight.
Henry watched her as she twisted to reach among the branches of fruit. She was a Greek goddess or some wood nymph in her natural realm of beauty and bounty. He almost felt a pang of guilt for wishing to pluck such a creature from its environment. But the time was ripe for making the way clear for his future—their future—in this private setting.
Seeing Margaret tiptoe to pluck a pear among the higher boughs, he hurried to her side to gallantly retrieve it for her. The look of earnestness in his eyes as he handed it to her made Margaret glance away. She was suddenly afraid of the purpose of his visit.
“I understand now why you are happy here. It is all quite idyllic and serene,” he began in steady, low tones, which somehow made Margaret wish to be anywhere else but alone with him.
“I had hoped…I had hoped you would miss London. And that you would be happy to return there.” At this, he placed his hand over hers as she put another pear in her basket. “That you might be happy to return there someday…as my wife.”
She wrested her hand from his grasp. Her body froze in agonized distress—nearly anger—that a friendship was now ruined. She saw the hurt and confusion on his face, but there was nothing to be done about it. She did not love him.
How she knew this in an instant, she could not describe. Only she knew that in Henry’s presence she had never felt a thrill of hope or any flutter of devoted affection. She had only ever thought of him as a friend, bound in the same family circle.
“Of course, there is no haste—“
“Please…don’t,” she pleaded. Oh, if she could turn back time and make it so that this unfortunate scene had never happened!
“You needn’t answer so swiftly. I’m fully prepared to wait a year or two. Margaret! Won’t you even think about it?“ he demanded at last when she turned her back to him.
She stared at the crevices in the old garden wall as she tried to discern how she felt. Could she love him? She searched for the truth within her heart. She did not believe love in marriage was a thing to be trained or coaxed into reciprocation. She imagined that love should come about in some extraordinary way, with strong natural attraction from both sides.
She had witnessed Edith succumbing to a whirlwind of blushing affection for the Captain; had seen how captivated with wonder and admiration she had been in his presence. Were these not the true symptoms of falling in love? Margaret believed so. And she had felt a tinge of what that breathless, mesmerizing sensation might be like. She had felt her heart flutter in attraction once—one London evening. It had never done so for Henry. Although she had truly enjoyed his company better than any other London acquaintance, it was only as a sympathetic, teasing friend.
She could not make any reply that would make him happy. She must cause him pain in her very honesty, and felt the sting of remorse that this terrible, awful moment had been thrust upon her.
“Is there someone else?” he blurted out, confounded by her silence, his brow furrowing at the thought of an unknown rival.
