Chapter 38

CHAPTER 38

I should do this… accept my fate… Margaret’s thoughts circled endlessly as she sat in the library, a book open in her lap but entirely unread. Her fingers lightly traced the edge of the page as she stared unseeing at the words. I must return to the lodgings Morgan has provided. It is what is expected of me. I cannot linger here, imposing upon my family any longer, no matter how kind and welcoming they are.

She sighed softly, the consequence of her decision tightening her chest. Staying here will only give rise to questions, whispers… and society thrives on such whispers. I will not allow my presence to become a source of ridicule for my family.

Margaret’s gaze shifted to the window, where sunlight spilled into the room, illuminating the dust motes that floated lazily in the air. The warmth of the day seemed at odds with the cold ache in her heart.

“Margaret, my dear, are you quite all right?” Petunia’s gentle voice startled her from her thoughts. Margaret looked up to see her aunt standing in the doorway, a soft expression of concern on her face.

“I am well, Aunt,” Peggy replied with a faint smile, closing the book and setting it aside.

Petunia crossed the room and lowered herself gracefully onto the cushion beside her. “You have been in here for some time, lost in thought,” she remarked, her sharp eyes studying Margaret’s face. “Are you certain there is nothing you wish to speak about ?”

Margaret shook her head. “Truly, I am fine,” she said, though the slight tremor in her voice betrayed her.

Petunia reached out, taking Margaret’s hand in hers. “Life is what we make of it, my dear,” she said softly. “Every choice, every decision, shapes the path we walk. And each path offers the potential for joy… or sorrow.”

Margaret’s throat tightened as she absorbed her aunt’s words. Morgan’s decisions have certainly brought me nothing but sadness, she thought bitterly, though she kept the sentiment to herself.

Petunia’s grip on her hand tightened slightly. “But, Margaret, joy is not something that must always be given. Sometimes, it must be sought.”

Margaret’s brow furrowed, her lips parting slightly in confusion. “How?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Petunia smiled, her eyes kind. “It is as much within your power as it is within your grasp,” she said simply. “Only you can decide to reach for it.”

Margaret stared at her aunt, the words settling heavily in her mind. The ache in her chest remained, but a small flicker of something else stirred—a fragile sense of possibility.

Two afternoons later, Margaret stood in her room, folding the last of her gowns into a trunk. Her decision had been made, and the preparations for her journey back to the country were nearly complete. She would leave the following morning.

“What are you in such a rush for, Margaret?” Sebastian’s voice drew her attention to the doorway, where her uncle stood with his hands clasped behind his back, a curious expression on his face.

Margaret straightened and offered him a faint smile. “You know your doors are ever open to me, Uncle,” she said softly. “But I think it is time I returned to the role fate has assigned me.”

Sebastian stepped into the room, his gaze steady as he regarded her. “I know what is going on, my dear,” he said after a moment. “But I have refrained from interfering.”

“Just as Aunt Petunia mentioned,” Margaret murmured, lowering her gaze.

Sebastian nodded. “I trusted that you would eventually make the right decision, dear child,” he said, his voice warm but firm. “But it must also be what you truly want.”

Margaret hesitated, her fingers brushing against the edge of her trunk. The unspoken question in his words hung heavily in the air. Finally, she met his gaze and spoke with quiet conviction. “I am certain of this, Uncle. I want to go back. It is only right.”

Sebastian studied her for a moment longer, then inclined his head. “Very well,” he said simply. “You have my support, as always.”

“If ever you desire respite, you need only turn to us,” Sebastian said, his voice soft with affection as he pulled her into his arms. Margaret pressed her lips together, willing herself to keep the tears burning at the back of her eyes from falling. Her uncle’s embrace was warm and steady, but it only served to underscore the ache in her heart.

The following morning, Margaret was in the front hall, her belongings prepared for departure, when Elizabeth arrived to bid her farewell.

“I shall call on you soon, Peggy,” Elizabeth said, wrapping her in a tight hug. The familiar scent of lavender and rosewater clung to her sister’s gown, a reminder of the comfort of home.

“And I’m following too,” Anna declared, joining the embrace with a theatrical flourish.

“Ever imposing, aren’t you, Anna?” Margaret teased, a faint smile gracing her lips despite the heaviness in her heart.

“Always,” Anna replied with a grin, her tone unapologetic. The three of them shared a brief laugh, the sound light and familiar, yet tinged with the knowledge of parting.

Margaret’s chest tightened as she looked between her sister and cousin. I shall miss this. I shall miss them. The thought settled heavily in her mind, a burden she carried as she prepared to step away from the warmth of her family’s embrace.

Just then, the front door swung open, and the sight that met her eyes sent a shock coursing through her. “Morgan,” she breathed, a gasp escaping her lips before she could stop it.

Her husband stood in the doorway, his disheveled appearance a stark contrast to the composed image he typically presented. His dark hair was slightly askew, and his cravat hung loosely at his neck. His eyes, shadowed yet intent, flickered to her lady’s maid standing nearby, the small valise clutched in her hands.

“The Giltford carriage outside…” he began, his voice low and unsteady. “Are you going somewhere, Margaret?”

Margaret stared at him, her chest constricting. His question felt almost absurd, given the scene before him. Her bags, the carriage, her maid—all spoke plainly of her intentions. Yet there he stood, seemingly bewildered, as though the idea of her leaving had only just occurred to him.

“Is that even a serious question, Morgan?” she asked, her voice trembling with hurt. The words escaped her before she could temper them, carrying the strain of her anguish.

Morgan’s expression shifted, the tension in his features deepening. He took a step forward, his gaze locking with hers. “You’re not going anywhere, Margaret,” he said, his tone firm, almost desperate, as he reached for her hands.

Margaret tried to pull her hands free, but Morgan’s hold was unyielding. It was a curious grip—firm yet gentle, as though he feared she might shatter. His gaze burned into hers, and when he spoke, his voice was steady, each word laden with determination.

“Not without me,” he said. “Because I have no intentions of letting you go, Margaret. Not now. Certainly not ever.”

Her breath caught, and she blinked at him in confusion. “I don’t understand,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m returning to the cottage you gave me, Morgan. It is what you wanted.”

“To hell with that dratted cottage,” he said, his tone sharp with impatience. “I implore you to remain by my side, Margaret.”

Margaret’s heart stuttered in her chest. She searched his face, her brow furrowing as she tried to make sense of his words. He looked earnest—more so than she had ever seen him before.

“Why?” she asked, her voice trembling with equal parts hope and disbelief.

“Because I love you, Margaret,” he said, the words bursting from him with a force that reverberated through the hall. His voice rose, unrestrained and fervent, carrying the confession to every corner of the room.

Her heart stopped, then soared, her breath escaping in a soft gasp. Surely she had misheard him. Or perhaps she had drifted into some fanciful slumber, and this was the work of her own restless dreams. This cannot be real.

But the look in his eyes, the unguarded vulnerability etched into his features, told her otherwise.

“I have been the veriest coward,” he continued, his voice cracking under his admission. “And I cannot begin to tell you how sorry I am. I have hurt you, Margaret, and it broke me to see you in pain. But no more. I cannot bear another moment without you.”

For a moment, the hall was silent save for the soft hum of her pulse thrumming in her ears. Then, from somewhere behind her, Aunt Petunia let out an unmistakable cheer.

“It’s about time you snapped back to your senses, Giltford!” Anna declared, her voice carrying an equal measure of delight and irreverence. “I was about to go fetch my father’s blunderbuss!”

The hall erupted into laughter, the sound warm and full, wrapping around Margaret like a comforting embrace. But she barely heard it, her gaze fixed on Morgan, her heart too full for words.

“Will you have me back, Margaret? Will you stay by my side and return to our silent castle together?” Morgan’s voice was low and imploring, his hands tightening gently around hers.

Margaret’s lips parted, her heart racing as she prepared to respond. But before she could speak, a curious scratching sound drew their attention downward.

She glanced down and blinked in surprise at the sight of her kitten, its tiny paws fervently clawing at the polished leather of Morgan’s boots.

“What in the world is this creature?” Morgan exclaimed, stepping back to dislodge the little interloper. The kitten, unprepared for the abrupt movement, lost its balance and tumbled unceremoniously to the side.

“Oh, how charming ,” Margaret said with a laugh, crouching to scoop the kitten into her arms. The tiny animal mewed softly, its paws kneading at her sleeve as it settled against her warmth.

Morgan raised a brow, his expression torn between amusement and bewilderment. “Have you taken up rescuing wild things now, Margaret?”

She smiled, brushing a finger along the kitten’s soft fur. “Hardly wild,” she replied, holding the tiny creature up for him to inspect. “Morgan, meet Leonardo.”

“Leonardo?” Morgan repeated, his brow arching further.

“Yes,” she said. “I have been wondering what to name him but now I have found it. We’re taking him home with us, Morgan. After all, every castle needs a prince.”

Her words hung in the air, soft yet decisive. Morgan’s gaze softened, his lips curving into a rare smile. He reached out, brushing his fingers lightly against the kitten’s head before meeting her eyes. “Indeed, it does,” he said with a chuckle, the mirth in his tone matched by the warmth in his expression.

The sound of laughter echoed around them as her family, watching the scene unfold, joined in the moment of levity. Margaret’s heart swelled as she looked at Morgan, her decision no longer burdened by uncertainty.

“I love you, Margaret,” he said again, his voice quieter now, meant only for her.

“And I love you, Morgan,” she replied, her voice steady and sure.