“No…no,” he stammered, captivated by the inquiring look in her eyes and pleasantly startled by her confiding such a wish with him. “A simpler affair accords with your character,” he returned, his voice warm with admiration. He felt the veil of friendship slipping from his practiced conduct.
Margaret cast her eyes downward. “I should go,” she mumbled, eager to escape the sudden uneasiness she felt under his gaze.
Before he could reply, they heard a high-pitched call from the upper halls. “Margaret?”
A look of shared sympathy passed between them at the sound of Edith’s anxious tone, and a knowing smile crept over each of their faces.
Henry nodded before his departure, and Margaret lifted her skirts to hurry up the stairs to attend to her cousin on her day of all days.
The front drawing room at ninety-six Harley Street had been transformed into an elegant dance hall for the occasion. Spritely, cheerful music animated a host of young couples in the glittering light of chandeliers. Heaps of delicately colored roses in wide crystal vases graced every available surface, and an impressive tiered cake stood at the back of the room, ready to mark the end of the festivities.
Henry Lennox had escaped the rounds of dancing for a time to divert himself more satisfactorily with conversation. He was eager to speak more with the country vicar he had been introduced to just this morning. He was pleasantly surprised to find that Reverend Hale was more able to discuss modern subjects of the day than he had readily expected of a man so secluded from the world.
Henry took a sip from the glass of champagne in his hand before directing the conversation to a matter of his own personal curiosity. “I have heard much about your pastoral village. Is it truly a small parish?” he asked the Helstone vicar while his gaze strayed to the dancing figure of the vicar’s daughter across the peopled room.
“Indeed, it is,” Mr. Hale answered. His brow creased with some internal anxiety, and he let out a long breath of containedwistfulness. “It’s an excellent place for a man to think, although I suppose those who enjoy city life may find it dull.” He gestured at the crowded room. “But there’s no denying that it is beautiful. As precious a piece of God’s earth as you could find anywhere in England.”
And thus beauty breeds beauty, thought Henry as he continued to watch Margaret dance with another gentleman. The solemnity of attending his brother’s wedding had pressed his mind to the consideration of choosing his own wife. However uncomfortable he was with romantic notions, he found his interest settling more and more on one person.
Margaret returned to her father’s side, her face flushed from dancing.
“You look well pleased,” Henry remarked, a tug of jealousy straining his smile. “You must now acknowledge that your weeks of scurrying about making all the arrangements have been worth your effort.”
“For Edith’s sake, yes. However, I believe my mind has been set against grand weddings. I will be very glad to return to the quiet of country life, where I shall not be obliged to spend an afternoon at the haberdashers or the drapers. It’s very peaceful at home, isn’t it, papa?”
Mr. Hale gave his daughter a smile in response, but, strangely enough, he avoided meeting her gaze.
“I find it hard to imagine how you shall spend your days in the country,” Henry said, studying Margaret with a grin. “Surely you have some entertainment and society. Will you play croquet or bocce? Or have picnic gatherings?”
Margaret smiled politely, but shook her head. “There exist none of those activities of which you speak, yet I am never bored. Simply taking a walk is always pleasant, and then of course there are many duties to fulfill in caring for the cottagers. I don’tbelieve you can understand until you were to come see it for yourself,” she added, seeing the look of doubt on his face.
His brow lifted in surprise at her last words, and hope rushed in to send his thoughts racing along byways of the future. He would make certain to visit Helstone before the year passed.
Margaret shed a few tears as the newlyweds’ carriage rolled away. Edith’s effusive waving and Aunt Shaw’s tearful response stirred within her the deep affection and appreciation she held for the years she had spent with her aunt and her cousin in their home.
As Margaret lay down to sleep that night, an air of finality permeated her thoughts as she fondly glanced around the room. She remembered with a bittersweet lurch of her heart how she had cried herself to sleep those first few nights when she had been brought to Harley Street.
She slept well, with the deep peace that follows the accomplishment of a long season’s work. And as the new day dawned, she awoke with a fresh energy of anticipation to return home.
Her father’s demeanor was not cheery, Margaret noted as they rode the train to Southampton. He stared vacantly out the window, his features sullen and still. He did not smile unless he caught her studying him.
The lines on his face were etched deeper than she recalled, and his hair now had hints of white throughout the gray. But it was the manner in which his face seemed to sag in perpetual weariness that concerned Margaret the most as she watched him sleep, his head back against the carriage wall. He had aged more than she had remembered. But youth is never alert to the telltalesigns of time, and she knew she had been unaware of its steady gain.
Perhaps there is some additional concern over her brother Frederick, she thought, which made her long all the more to be told the details concerning his permanent exile. She wondered, too, if there lurked any darker reason for her mother’s absence at the wedding other than having no appropriate attire for the occasion. Whatever the reason for her father’s weariness, she was glad she was coming home for good, so that she might be a comfort to her parents. She turned her mind from any discomforting subjects and looked to absorb the beauty of the endless undulating green hillsides as the train pulled them ever farther from London.
Margaret was eager to disembark when they arrived at Southampton and took deep breaths of the salty air as someone loaded their baggage onto the coach that would take them on to Helstone. This was her favorite part of the journey. A rising sense of peace and happiness swelled within her as she recognized the various landmarks that heralded her arrival home: the giant oak by the bend in the road, a glimpse of the brook, the first outlying cottage of her father’s parish. And when at last they arrived at the vicarage, Margaret could not contain a smile of wonder as she marveled anew at the glorious profusion of colors bursting from the gardens as she walked up the path to the old brick house which was itself only a sturdy centerpiece for nature’s display, enveloped as it was with blooming honeysuckle vines.
She was happy to see her mother was well, and after a brief embrace, was sent upstairs to wash up, it being nearly time for tea. Margaret set her carpetbag upon the homespun eyelet counterpane and gazed fondly around the yellowed walls of her girlhood room. The embroidered seat of the corner chair, the pressed flowers framed above her bed, and the simple honey-colored wood of the matching chest of drawers and vanity table were a welcome change from the dark mahogany and cold marble of her room in London. She was delighted most with the deep-set window seat, where sunlight spilled onto the faded cushion and the chintz curtains gently swayed with every breath of summer breeze. She crossed the room to gaze out at the familiar view, all the wild and deep serenity of the garden, the fields and forests in the distance—the boundless beauty she had known all her childhood, beckoning to be enjoyed one day at a time.
At tea, Mrs. Hale apologized to her daughter for the layout and fare, remarking that it could not compare to what she had enjoyed in London. As she replied, Margaret noticed her father’s frown.
“I love it all,” Margaret responded, “the scalloped table linen, these cottage chairs with the cane seats, the view of the garden out the window. And these flowered dishes—the only ones I remember. The pattern is dainty, not heavy or ornate, and I know that the serving dish has just the tiniest chip on the rim—but it isourchina, which makes it even more dear.”
Her small speech elicited only a rueful smile from her mother, who found it difficult to believe any person who had just come from the elegance of Harley Street could find her country dining room at all remarkable. Margaret was pleased that her words had cheered her father. He smiled at her across the table as her mother fussed about where to place the crystal decanter of water on the table.
In the days that followed, Margaret was eager to make the Parish visits she so enjoyed in her role as the vicar’s daughter. She read to old Mrs. Beecham; she brought broth and sweets to Susan Curtis’ house when the girl was ailing, and she tended to Mrs. Gilford’s baby to let the new mother rest.
The glorious, carefree days of summer extended for months. As the days grew shorter, the trees shed their common green finery for their most audacious autumnal display, setting the countryside ablaze with the colors of fire. It was on one of these days that Margaret grasped her bonnet and stepped out with no object in mind but to exult in the beauty of the forest.
