Chapter 35

CHAPTER 35

LONDON

T he snow had now stopped, and the city was clothed in bridal white, although the expanses of snowy ice barely covered the mud below, and patches of the quickly melting stuff were soon broken into long muddy troughs in the streets along the walking paths so that streaks of sickly brown and grey sludge soon marred the seeming perfection of pure white. As the people eagerly emptied out of their houses to take to winter air and exercise, a similar sludgy wetness clung to the hems of gowns and redingotes, and hessian boots alike. Outings in Hyde Park were no longer pleasant affairs for most of the ladies and gentleman who ventured there to take the air, but still they persevered, in order to be seen, as the custom dictated.

To Margaret the chill fresh air and occasional glints of blue sky beyond the clouds more than compensated for the muddy streets. Sky, earth and air were all a delightful medicine after feeling ill with having been so much cossetted in the stifling air of the parlours of Mayfair. These repressive and humid atmospheres were not such as she was used, and yet as Charles Ambrose's betrothed, she had been required to accompany her husband to be, with Fanny as their exultant chaperone, into the homes of his acquaintances in London, to announce their news and receive congratulations.

But today Ambrose had forgone visiting and instead they walked, herself, Ambrose, Fanny and John, on the carriage path in Hyde Park quite near Rotten Row, the place where two months ago, she thought idly, she had first met Charles. The path they walked now had been chosen by Ambrose himself, for that way was raised enough to prevent the dirtying of their gowns and boots, the snow having melted off the high ground first. Still, Margaret's boots were damp and a little muddied as they strolled, but she did not care at all, for to be outside and free to walk was foremost in her thoughts.

In fact, she wished very much to break into a run, but knowing her husband-to-be would not approve it, she kept her pace sedate. Ambrose, beside her, his hand proprietorially under her arm, was handsome in the London fashion, in his tall hat, the elaborate cream cravat at this throat, a fine dark coat over his jacket, and black hessian boots now flecked with mud and snow. John and Fanny, similarly warmly dressed, had fallen some way behind them, ostensibly to admire the view over the icy pond, but Margaret knew that Fanny had wished to give them privacy for such was the plight of lovers that it was hard to be alone when one was engaged.

‘I have arranged with your brother for you to have some new gowns,' Ambrose was saying, ‘for when we call in at Charlton Park on our wedding tour, you will of course be expected to dress to the occasion. I shall not mind when we are at home about anything excessively grand, but you should expect to present yourself to my grandfather looking your very best. I have laid out a sum upon you for these matters, and left it with Mrs Dashwood; she has agreed to undertake the business of ordering the gowns and suchlike that as a married lady you shall require.'

Margaret, somewhat overwhelmed at the thought of being presented at Charlton Park hesitated, then said mildly, ‘I suppose that I shall not be very often in Suffolk? We will spend a great deal of time at your estate in Herefordshire will we not?'

‘Certainly, yes—but I have my business to attend in town, too, as you know.'

‘Yes! I remember you saying that you come to town three times a year, and so I shall not so often be at Rannocks?'

‘I should think you would be more comfortable there, rather than follow me around the country.' He was complacent, but there was firmness to his tone that Margaret had not heard before.

‘But—but you will require me to attend to your comforts when we are away, will you not?'

‘I am most obliged to you for the thought, my dear. But you shall not always like to be with me, I think, for much of what brings me to town you would find tedious—men's matters you would call it. I have a great deal of business to do and matters to be taken care of and you will be happier at home. But all this need not concern you just now. Indeed, if I am away without you, you will hardly miss me, so much your time will be pleasantly spent in tending our children, and seeing to household affairs. I may be obliged to be away frequently, but I entertain many times a year and you will, of course, be always ready and prepared to receive my guests whenever I should write you that I am returning. You will certainly be more needed at Rannocks than to follow me about the country.'

Margaret was doubly prevented from making further enquiries. First, she had felt a rise of unfamiliar disappointment and regret within her, when she heard the decisiveness in his tone, and she realized with deep disappointment that she would not often be invited to join him town, but would remain, it seemed, in the country, ready to entertain his guests. But a second feeling arose too, and mingled unpleasantly with the first, but unlike the first, it was familiar. She had not thought so very much on the topic of children, assuming that she would, some months or years from now, be blessed with a child or two—but the idea of this had always been so far removed from her dearest wishes, so much a part of a dim future when "some day" she would marry, that she had always thought of motherhood as something not at all imminent.

Her blush was primarily self-conscious, for a reference to children was a reference to that other side of married life of which she knew only a little, and while her insides betrayed a certain anticipation at the thought of sharing a bedroom with Charles Ambrose, the notion of producing a child, and all that required, was disconcerting. The mention of children—their own children—was therefore both thrilling and frightening.

It was not that she did not expect that to mother children would be a part of her future, but surely, she would be invited to travel a little with him—to come to town, for instance, as other wives did when their husbands were called to parliament, or to enjoy a season. She had had no other notion of how she was to spend her time once married other than that she had assumed that her leisure hours would be spent primarily with her husband.

But now, as she became coherent and had summoned the words to enquire further as to his plans for her, she could not approach the topic because John and Fanny having gained them once more, had come into earshot and Margaret, suddenly even more uncertain about the life she was about to launch into kept her silence lest John should think her ungrateful or fickle.

They had walked an hour and Margaret had begun to feel a little chilled. Ambrose, observing that she was fatigued, drew her under a tree, a little away from the others, and Fanny, seeing them pull aside, affected not to notice them but to be taken with the view before her and Mr Dashwood.

Ambrose, aware that he was not being observed and ready to make the most of this sudden gift of privacy, drew Margaret's hands toward him and clasping them in his own chaffed them a little until they warmed. She had not yet been presumed upon to endure such an intimate contact with her lover and yet she was shy to withdraw her hand, so kindly taken, she so allowed the action. She bowed her head, suddenly shy. Given this encouragement, Ambrose drew her even closer. He lifted her chin with a cool finger and placed an unexpected kiss upon her lips.

Struck with the boldness of this action, Margaret pulled away and was shocked when he resisted her, and affected to kiss her again, this time placing his hand upon her breast.

Astonished, she pulled away with more agitation, her countenance colouring rather strongly and her heart beating a drum within her chest. ‘Mr Ambrose! You must restrain yourself—my brother would not allow such a thing—you must leave off at once!'

Breathing heavily, Ambrose immediately desisted as requested, but shielding her body from the view of her brother, he held her firm so that she was unable to put distance from him. ‘You do not expect me to think you insensible of me, for your heart pounds almost as fast as my own,' he now drawled lazily, smiling a little. ‘You will forgive me, I am sure, since we are soon to be wedded, but you have the most irresistible rosebud lips, and I could hardly help myself!'

‘You perhaps expect me to be flattered, Sir,' replied she stiffly, ‘but as I was raised to value chastity as much as truthfulness, I shall not scruple to say that it would not engender the kind of respect I wish to arouse in someone who is to be my husband, if I was to consent to your taking liberties with me prior to our being married.'

He chuckled, and glanced behind him to check that they were not overheard. ‘ Liberties ! You have commendable morals, Margaret dear, and I am enjoying this little sparring between us—but I am to be your husband—surely you would not deny me a little kiss, when it would make me so happy? And after I have made a present of such a pretty necklace as I gave you this morning?'

Her hand went to the delicate ruby pendant now hanging around her neck, and she said, ‘If I had thought your giving me a present was to be in exchange for something I value far higher, I would not have accepted such a gift.'

‘Is that so? You are a child, playing an adult's game, Margaret,' he warned her very quietly, his tone deceptively pleasant, ‘and if you wish to play, then you must follow the rules.'

She suddenly felt very much out of her depth. Wishing very much that her brother might notice them and reprimand Ambrose, she tried to appeal to his vanity. ‘Please believe me to be most grateful for your kind attention in warming my hands but if I have given you to think I should sacrifice my reputation, you have mistaken my gratitude as a willingness to allow other—liberties.' Her cheeks were burning. ‘I—I would not anger you for the world, but we are yet to be wed, and until such time, you would not, I am sure wish to put me in a compromising position.'

He reluctantly released her, but his tone was one of mild irritation. ‘I only asked for a little kiss, but if those rosebud lips of yours, so prettily pursed as they are right now, insist on making me wait, then so be it—I am a patient man, my lovely Margaret.'

He was right—she was a child, in many matters, and she was out of her depth with a man of his experience. Perhaps allowing one's fiancé to be so overfamiliar was acceptable, in town? She felt awkward and foolish—as if, as he said, she was playing game of which she did not know the rules. She could hardly look at him, wondering if he thought her ridiculous. ‘Forgive me—but I have never been engaged before—I am used to the ways of the country, you see.'

‘It is your own fault, however,' replied he, in cool tones. ‘Your great beauty made me forget myself. You do you forgive me, don't you?'

She relented a little. ‘I do most ardently forgive you!—but now, I must insist that we return to my brother, if you please!'

He looked down into her eyes and said very pleasantly, ‘Never mind, I have upset you and I am very sorry for it. You are shy—that is natural, perhaps, since you are from the country, and I confess I find it appealing. Although I hope your reticence does not infer a lack of affection for me? I should hope that you still care for me, Margaret.'

A rush of gratitude arose and she squeezed his arm. ‘I am sorry that I am not perhaps as worldly as the females to whom you have been used, but I promise that I shall make you the best wife I can…I do care for you, very much!'

‘Then let us say no more for now.' But as he readjusted his coat and hat, she thought he heard him add sotto voce , ‘There will be time enough for such liberties as I will certainly take with you, when you are my wife!'

Her cheeks still flushed with varying emotions, he again took her arm and placed it through his own, and before she could make any more remark, or question him further, they had gained John and Fanny and had begun the return walk to the carriage.