Besides, novels weren’t real life, no matter how she sometimes wished they were.
Real life for Margaret was currently an endless round of monotonous tasks. In Mockingbird Square she had felt as if she was an actual person, someone who had opinions and would be listened to, but now she was back home that person was fading away. She was becoming a ghost of her former self.
She dipped her pen in the ink pot and prepared to take notes of the meeting.
“I would like to put my nephew forward to lead the singing,” one of the ladies said decisively. “He has a perfect baritone voice.”
“Oh no, I think we can do better than Peter,” said Lady Strangeways.
Margaret only half listened as her ladyship proceeded to demolish any suggestions that did not meet with her approval. The vicar sat back, nodding, saying very little, and—Margaret was sure—reasoning that if her ladyship took over management of the play then he wouldn’t have to. Unfortunately, it would then be left to Margaret to soothe all the ruffled feathers and try to broker peace between the warring parties. This year she would also be expected to organize the sewing of the costumes—Lady Strangeways considered the old ones far too scruffy.
A year ago it was her mother who would have dealt with all of this, but now she no longer had the strength or the will. Whatever the matter was, it seemed to have started six months ago, and Margaret had returned home to find so many tasks left undone or done badly. Not only had she found herself in charge of running the vicarage, but also those parish matters that had once fallen to her mother.
Margaret had spoken to her father about her mother’s deteriorating health but he’d always dismissed her concerns, telling her that Doctor Lowry had been to see her and prescribed rest. Margaret’s arguments that Doctor Lowry was too old and set in his ways to be of much help were similarly dismissed.
“You should have come home earlier,” the vicar had informed her tersely, “instead of gallivanting about in London. Things would not have got into such a state if you had been here.” Then, forcing one of his counterfeit smiles, he had said, “Never mind, it isn’t your fault,” which meant he believed the exact opposite.
After the meeting came to an uncomfortable end, and the women had gone, some of them casting dark looks at Lady Strangeways and others pleading ones at Margaret, her father locked himself away in his study to write his Sunday sermon. Margaret was momentarily alone. There was work to do in the kitchen, helping the cook slice vegetables for luncheon, or else the endless household duties that Margaret knew would not get done if she did not attend to them.
As for her eventual marriage to the curate, Margaret knew that would bring her no respite. She would still be required to visit the vicarage every day, because her father expected life to carry on as normal.
I think I am going to save you, Margaret.
The words came out of nowhere and seemed to hang in the air about her. She could hear Monkstead’s deep voice, being extremely irritating as usual. Not to mention arrogant and conceited. Tears filled her eyes. She blinked them quickly away because she had discovered it was fatal to let herself cry. Once she started she couldn’t seem to stop.
It was odd how she missed a man she disliked so. She’d found herself wondering what he was doing while she went about her mundane tasks. Was he interfering in one of his innocent neighbour’s personal affairs? Well, of course he was! Perhaps he was at his window, gazing out over the square as if it belonged to him. Which, of course, it did. He was like a king from ancient times surveying his kingdom. But, as she’d come to realise while she was living in Mockingbird Square, he was also alone. Notwithstanding his wealth and importance, Dominic Frampton, Earl of Monkstead, was a lonely figure. Perhaps that was why she had felt drawn to him despite all the reasons to avoid him. Because Margaret was alone too.
That last evening they had spoken together Margaret had told the earl that she believed in fate, that things happened when they were meant to, and her fate was to come home to Denwick and marry the curate. She’d meant what she said. She wasn’t a naïve fool. It was all very well to imagine a different future, but she knew there was very little that could be done to change hers. Of course, that didn’t mean that sometimes she didn’t find the weight upon her shoulders crushing.
I think I am going to save you.
What if she’d said yes? What if she’d begged him to do just that? To make true the impossible and …
“Margaret? Margaret, where are you?”
Her mother’s voice called to her from upstairs. Margaret shook off her daydreams, because that was all they were. She might remember Dominic staring down at her that final night, hearing his voice, memorizing his words, but it was in the past now.
“Coming, Mother!”
Mrs Willoughby was standing in the middle of her bed chamber in her nightgown, as if she had forgotten whether it was time to get up, or time to go to bed. Her anxious face brightened with relief when she saw her daughter.
“There you are, Margaret. I seem to have misplaced my, eh, my…” Her voice drifted off and she looked around, completely lost for words and inspiration.
“Let me help you,” Margaret said gently. She began to dress her, while her mother obediently lifted her arms for sleeves and stood still while her gown was buttoned and tied. “Will you come downstairs?”
Margaret asked, putting the last pin into her mother’s grey hair. “Perhaps you’d like to answer some of father’s letters for him? You know how he lets them pile up.”
Mrs Willoughby shook her head, moving to her usual place by the fireplace and reaching for her needlework. She wouldn’t take more than a stitch or two, and soon she would close her eyes and drift into sleep. Margaret knew that her mother slept most of her days away and would forget to eat if her daughter didn’t come upstairs with a tray.
Her mother’s sister had visited last month, making the journey from Edinburgh. Aunt Lily would have liked to stay longer, but she and the vicar had argued, as they always did. Lily did not like the way he treated her sister, and the vicar considered her a disruptive and meddling influence.
Margaret regretted her aunt leaving, and she thought her mother missed the company of her only remaining sibling. She had even suggested to the vicar that her mother visit Lily in Scotland, but he had scoffed at the very notion.
After she had tidied the room, Margaret made her way back downstairs. The house was quiet, and when a man jumped up from the bench seat by the front door, speaking her name, she gave a gasp of surprise.
“Miss Willoughby.”
It was Louis Scott, her father’s curate and her future husband. Although their engagement was yet to be announced, everyone in the parish knew they were destined to be together.