Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

IN WHICH OUR HERO MAKES A SURPRISE RETURN FROM AbrOAD

Mr. George Barnett, agent of the East India Company recently returned from India, set out from Lindcoll House in Devonshire that morning intending to change his life. However, when he arrived at Barton Cottage to call upon Mrs. Dashwood and the youngest Miss Dashwood, he found that fate had other plans for him.

"Why, Mr. Barnett!" Mrs. Dashwood fussed as he made his bows at the garden gate. "We did not expect you so soon."

Beyond the gentlewoman, he spied several familiar faces gathered in the garden. He strained his neck to get a glimpse of the lady he most longed to see—the lady who had haunted his dreams at night and his fanciful imaginings by day for more than a decade, the lady he had come here today to ask to be his wife—but could not find her.

Mrs. Dashwood continued, "Please, come in and join us. We're having a small family celebration, but you are practically family yourself."

It was true; George had been included in Dashwood family gatherings since they had removed to Barton Cottage when he was thirteen. Mrs. Dashwood had noticed the motherless boy often tagging along with her youngest daughter in her games and immediately drew him into the family circle. She seemed to sense the lack of maternal influence in his home and strove to make up for it whenever and however she could.

"I do not wish to intrude. My apologies for not sending notice ahead of time," George said, hoping to conceal his eagerness to intrude. "Once I arrived back on our lovely British shores, I found I had no desire to tarry in London. I arrived at my brother's home last night."

"Well, you've arrived at the most providential of times. Just yesterday, my Margaret accepted a proposal from Mr. Weston of Maxland House five miles distant. We have all gathered to celebrate in the garden."

This news stopped George in his tracks. His feet froze to the ground on the garden path, despite the warm early-summer day. His heart clenched painfully in his ribs. It was a far worse sensation than when he took a bullet during a raid. A day too late! his mind screamed in agony. You've arrived just a day too late, and now, Margaret will belong to another forever!

Mrs. Dashwood did not notice George's sudden pallor and continued talking as she led him to the garden, where the servants had set up tables and chairs in the shade to take advantage of the brilliant June weather.

In a moment, George had mastered himself and hurried to catch up with Mrs. Dashwood. His mind and heart were awash in a tumult of thoughts and feelings, and all his plans for a happy future were dashed against the rocks of his soul, but outwardly, he was calm. He could not leave now without causing offense, so he simply had to continue along this path.

The garden was unchanged by his seven years away, but the faces were somewhat altered by the passage of time. In truth, George suspected his own countenance differed from that of the eighteen-year-old boy they had once known. Even though he avoided the worst of the punishing Indian sun, having spent most of his days indoors as a clerk and then as the private secretary to Sir Lawrence Fraser, George knew the climate had affected him.

Mrs. Brandon—formerly Miss Marianne—rushed to greet the boy she had once known. Her husband, Colonel Brandon, was more reserved, but welcomed him back to the country and extended an offer to dine with them at Delaford while he was in the neighborhood. George sensed the colonel wanted to trade stories about their respective time in India. Mr. and Mrs. Ferrars were also in attendance, both busily supervising the Brandon and Ferrars children.

And then, George saw her. Margaret had been kneeling down to converse with one of the children, but she now stood to face him. Her blue eyes lit up with delight, and she raced across the garden to stand before him, all appearance of grown-up ladylike decorum gone. Her hat blew off her head in her haste—she had never bothered securing the ribbons beneath her chin as a child, either—and George noticed that her golden hair had darkened slightly with age. He detected the beginnings of laugh lines around her eyes as she stepped forward and held out her hand—at twenty-five, she was dangerously close to lifelong spinsterhood, he knew—but those lines were well-earned, for Margaret loved to laugh and tease. Her eyes twinkled as she looked up at him, and time fell away. The garden froze around them, awash in rose petals and gentle sunshine. The wind continued to blow, stirring the curls around Margaret's face, but all else was still. There was no sound. They were alone in the garden.

"You've returned to us at last, Sir Knight," Margaret said, her voice pitched low and intimate.

"As I always promised I would, Queen Margaret," George replied solemnly, playing along with her hearkening back to their favorite childhood game. Yet, there was a new softness, a tenderness to the exchange. The words were weighty and full of meaning in his mouth. Margaret had always preferred to play a knight adventuring alongside him, but now, it felt as if their daydreams had grown up along with them. It left George feeling both comforted by the reminder of their past, yet also uncertain, as if he were walking on unfamiliar, uneven ground in the dark.

There was a long pause between them, in which nothing more said. The moment stretched on as George got lost in her eyes. Then, the clearing of a throat nearby drew them both back to reality.

Margaret's hands fluttered nervously as her eyes dropped to the ground. She gestured to her left, and for the first time, George noticed the grey-haired man old enough to be Margaret's father standing beside her. He clutched her fallen bonnet in one hand. "Mr. Barnett, may I present Mr. William Weston of Maxland House… my fiancé."

George took an instant dislike to the man. Everything about him was grey, from his hair to his eyes to his clothing. Somehow, his skin even appeared to be a sickly greyish. He was rake-thin, with bony hands. The men exchanged the appropriate bows, Weston settled Margaret's stray bonnet back on her head, and Mrs. Brandon soon swept George away for tea and cake. Yet he could not shake the feeling of revulsion that passed over him at the thought of this man as Margaret's husband.

Margaret was all romantic, vibrant fire, much like her older sister, Mrs. Brandon, but with more active interests. As young people, she and George had spent hours playing at being knights going on quests, dueling with sticks they had found in the woods, and, on rainy days, pouring over maps in Colonel Brandon's or George's father's libraries, imagining the adventures they would have in these foreign lands that existed only as lines and squiggles on paper.

But now, as he observed Margaret attentively listening to her fiancé hold forth on matters of beekeeping and effective land management, he had to wonder if perhaps she had changed.

Mrs. Dashwood interrupted his musings as he stood on the outside of the party. "I am so relieved to see Margaret settled at last. And to a good man, no less."

"Yes, he seems a very good man," George muttered diplomatically, never taking his eyes off Margaret. In truth, he had no way of judging Weston's character. He stood in the way of all George's happiness, and that was enough to prejudice him against the grey gentleman.

"I will confess," Mrs. Dashwood continued in a low tone, "I was somewhat concerned when Mr. Weston first showed an interest in her. He is, after all, a few years my senior. For a time, my Marianne even teased that perhaps he was coming to court me ."

At that, George finally tore his eyes away from the object of his affection and regarded her mother. He could only read anxiety for her youngest daughter in the slight crease of her eyes.

"But, well, Margaret is coming close to being left on the shelf, as they say. And Marianne herself made a fine match to a man more than twice her age, and it has proven to be a good one. Perhaps I shouldn't worry so." Mrs. Dashwood shook her head slightly, as if casting away her doubts and fears. "Oh, look, Mr. Weston has brought Margaret a gift!"

George turned back just as the grey Mr. Weston pressed a wrapped box tied with a blue silk ribbon into Margaret's hands. Her eyes widened in delight, and her family crowded around to see what he had given her. Margaret sat down in a nearby chair and opened the box, the blue ribbon pooling in her lap. Within the box was an assortment of fine ribbons and laces for adorning a hat or gown. Margaret's smile tightened in a way that George was sure everyone in attendance other than her fiancé could read. It was a look of disappointment.

George's feet carried him forward a step, and his mouth opened before he thought about it. "Mr. Weston's admirable gift reminded me of something that completely escaped my mind in all the excitement of learning about Miss Dashwood's engagement," he heard himself say. "If it would not cause offense, I would like to present the bride-to-be with a gift I also brought for her—a memento of my travels."

"Mr. Barnett is just returned from India," Mrs. Ferrars helpfully added for Weston's benefit.

"Of course, young man," Weston said, his voice an oddly hoarse whisper that sounded almost like a wheeze. "I'm sure my fiancée would be delighted to receive an early wedding gift from such an exotic land."

George looked at Margaret, his eyes widening ever so slightly in a question. Her head nodded almost imperceptibly in assent.

"I have left it with my horse," George announced to the party. "Just a moment as I retrieve it." With that, he ducked away before anyone could protest and send a servant to fetch it for him.

As George made his way to the small stable, he knew this was his chance to escape before he got in over his head. He could climb back on his horse and ride away, sending a servant with his regrets and a lie about suddenly taking ill. He could run away from Margaret, fleeing all the way back to his brother's house, to London, to India, and drown his broken heart in spirits in the tropics. He didn't need to go back to the Dashwoods' garden. He didn't need to give her the gift he had carefully selected for her, driven by the desire to see her smile at him once more. He didn't need to reveal before her entire family and fiancé just how much she still held his heart in the palm of her hand.

As George entered the stable, a young groom rushed forward to assist with whatever he needed. "I could have her saddled again in no time, sir," the boy said.

George closed his eyes, sighed, and imagined himself riding away, the breeze fluttering his coat and tugging his hat away. But then, the image of Margaret rushing to greet him as that same breeze pulled her bonnet from her head rose unbidden in his mind. And the curve of her smile as he made her laugh. And the delightful way her eyes had widened in shock when she recognized him.

No, George Barnett would not run away from the woman he had loved since he was a boy. True, Margaret had promised her hand to another. He had lost this battle. Perhaps he had lost the entire war. But he would not retreat without a fight. He would not leave Devonshire until he conveyed the strength of his feelings to Margaret. What she did with them then was her own decision.