Margaret awoke feeling much better, which was surprising, considering the day looming ahead of her.
She was thirty.
And on this day, four years ago, she had sat beside Lawrence’s bed, holding his hand. She had watched her husband and best friend take his last breath.
She had been sad. Dreadfully so. She had felt alone and afraid and so lost. But she had also felt relief. His pain had come to an end, and she would no longer be forced to watch him endure it. Comforting him, smiling for him, and assuring him that he was not going to die had taken its own toll upon her.
And at the time, she’d had a babe growing inside of her. She’d lost her husband but still had something wonderful to look forward to.
She remembered the guilt she’d felt—guilt for experiencing hope when she should have only known grief. She still wondered, irrationally sometimes, if the miscarriage had been a punishment.
Margaret shoved the thought aside. She would not fall into a melancholy with the sun shining so brightly on another beautiful autumn morning.
Determined that the day would be a pleasant one, she climbed off of her bed and into the tub that Esther had had prepared for her.
Three decades. It didn’t sound quite so ancient as the actual number thirty.
Oddly enough, it felt rather like a new beginning. She was old, yes, but she smiled to herself. Growing older was better than the alternative.
Plans had been put into place for many of Hugh and Penelope’s guests to visit the nearby village where they could shop and visit the church and explore a few other oddities. The excursion promised to be an enjoyable one.
Margaret and George, however, would remain at Land’s End. The overlook was a romantic spot not far from the house where Hugh and Penelope picnicked sometimes, and Margaret liked to set up her canvas to paint. When George had learned it was a particular hobby of hers, he had asked her to paint something for him to commemorate their engagement. Margaret did not consider herself a talented painter, by any means, and she’d told him this, but he still had insisted.
Anticipating the day’s prospects, she chose one of her favorite gowns, a rose-colored muslin. She’d embroidered tiny vines around the bodice and hem. It would be comfortable but also made her feel pretty.
Hopeful to settle matters with George, she’d allowed Esther to add a tint of rouge to her lips and leave a few alluring strands of hair to curl around her cheek. She looked forward to spending a romantic morning and afternoon with her intended and that was just as it should be.
Yesterday, she’d swam for the first time in years. Of course, she’d had an enjoyable time. It was only an unfortunate coincidence that she’d shared the experience with Lord Rockingham. And yet she couldn’t help but smile at the memory of his shocked expression when she’d splashed him.
By the time she had descended to the main floor, a canvas under one arm and a small valise carrying her art supplies in the other, she was practically skipping in happy anticipation.
The party going into town had departed early and so the halls were unusually quiet but where was George? He was not in the breakfast room, nor either of the drawing rooms, nor was he in the library or the billiard room. She ought to have reminded George the night before so that they knew where they would meet.
When she emerged in the front foyer again, Mr. Milton met her with questioning eyes. “Is there something I can do for you, My Lady?”
“I am looking for Mr. Kirkley. We are to picnic together. Do you know, by chance, his whereabouts?”
Mr. Milton appeared confused. “I am quite certain he traveled into town with the others, My Lady.”
All of her optimism swooshed away. Surely, she had not been mistaken in their plans? No, because even Penelope had remembered. He’d told her he wanted to do something special with her, since it was her birthday.
She glanced down at the supplies in her hands. She could still go out on her own and paint a landscape, but she had wanted to spend time getting to know George better. She needed to spend time getting to know George better.
Before she could make a decision, the front door burst open, and the morning sunlight filled the foyer. Mr. Milton must have been wrong. George must have simply gone to the stables and was returning from his early morning ride.
But the man standing there was not her intended. Her eyes adjusted to make out the silhouette of the man who’d just entered. When he closed the door behind him, there was no doubt. Not George—but his nephew.
Lord Rockingham stood in the doorway, his hair wet and slicked away from his face and his shirt untucked and unbuttoned at the top. He was full of vigor and life and those gray eyes of his shone brightly when they landed on her.
And in his hands, he held… Her hat.
Her hat, which had gone flying off the side of the cliff into the ocean. Her hat, which she had never expected to see again.
Her mouth opened wide, but no words managed to come. He seemed as surprised as she was to see her standing there.
“I thought you went into town with George,” he finally said.
But she could hardly comprehend that he was holding her hat. It looked as though it had taken a dunking, and two of the flowers were gone, but she had never expected to see it again.
“You found my hat,” she finally managed.
He glanced down at it with a frown. “I was walking near the cliffs and saw it in one of the coves… I had to swim for it before it was dragged out again. It’s a little worse for wear, but I figured that a woman like you could restore it to its former glory.”
She blinked twice, as though she couldn’t quite put a puzzle together. “You went into the water for it?”
He shrugged and smiled down at the condition of his clothing. “Either that or it was doomed for the Americas.” His gaze landed on the supplies she was carrying. “You are going out? Perhaps Milton here will be so kind as to have a maid take it to your chamber for you.”
“But of course, My Lord.” The butler took the bedraggled straw hat from Lord Rockingham with a bow and discreetly disappeared.
“I was going for a picnic.” Margaret stared at this very thoughtful person standing in front of her. She could not remember the last time anyone had done something quite so wonderful for her.
He went into the water—wearing his clothing—to retrieve my hat.
“Ah, and you will be inspired by the scenery. It appears summer is not yet prepared to relinquish the days to autumn.” He stared into her eyes. “I will not keep you, then.”
“Would you care to join me?” The words rushed out on impulse. She did not wish to go alone. She had been looking forward to the company of a handsome and attentive gentleman. She’d been hoping to share pleasant conversation over good food and wine. She’d been hoping for… romance.
He ran his hands down his clothing. He was wet. He must be cold.
“Unless, of course, you would rather enjoy a hot bath—“
“No,” he answered quickly. “I would be happy to join you, My Lady. Will you allow me a moment to change into something dry?”
She swallowed and her throat felt a little thicker than it had a moment before. She had asked him to accompany her, and he’d said that he would like to. “Of course. You must get out of your wet clothing. I’ll await you in here.” She gestured toward the nearest drawing room.