Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

IN WHICH OUR HEROINE RECEIVES A PRINCELY GIFT

Margaret's heart was still racing from the surprise of George's sudden return when he dashed off to the stable. She felt as if her stays were too tight—granted, they were often too tight for her taste—and she struggled to draw a normal breath. She was certain that her cheeks were flushed and that everyone could see the delight written all across her face. Even Weston… especially Weston.

She did her best to compose herself, reminding herself steadfastly that it was unseemly to grow so excited over the return of an old friend. Perhaps her oldest, dearest friend. The one friend who had always seemed to understand her. As children, Margaret and George had admittedly run wild through the woods and fields between their homes, two gently bred children in reduced circumstances. He had never belittled her for her interest in maps and tales of far-off places, never insisted that girls couldn't play at being a knight the way so many other boys had. George had listened to her dreams of adventure and gallantry with respect.

And then, when they were both eighteen, he had left.

Margaret felt that being out in society was something of a mixed bag. She adored dancing and even found that she liked all the new frocks and attention she received, but she was honestly bored to tears by the more sedate social rounds expected of being a grown-up young lady: the calls, the teas, the visits. More than once while receiving visitors, Margaret had found herself gazing out the window, longing for the days of being the overlooked youngest daughter left to her own devices while her mother lavished all her attention on Elinor and Marianne.

But while Margaret's sisters had made good matches and secured their family's place in local society, George had no such security. His father had gambled and drank away all their money when George was just a child. When the elder Mr. Barnett had passed away and his brother inherited the stately old pile slowing falling into ruin, George decided to set off for India and make his own way in the world.

Margaret had been afire with jealousy, wanting desperately to see the distant lands and foreign peoples he would surely meet. For seven years, she had lived vicariously through the letters he dutifully sent to Mrs. Dashwood at her request, but it was still never enough. In George's absence, the calls and teas grew even duller. The balls and assemblies failed to hold her interest. Only dancing maintained its place in her heart among the acceptable pastimes of eligible young ladies.

And now, George was back. His skin had bronzed under the tropical sun, and his hair had grown lighter, but he was the same young man who had bid her farewell in the sitting room of Barton Cottage seven years earlier. The same boy who had gone questing as a knight with her through the woods, with sticks as their swords.

"There he is!" Marianne exclaimed, drawing Margaret out of her thoughts. "Oh, Margaret, what do you suppose he's brought you from India?"

Margaret looked up, and her heart began racing anew as George returned to the garden, a rosewood box tucked under his arm. He wore a grim countenance, as if he marched to his demise. For some reason she could ill-define, Margaret leapt to her feet again as he approached. Her hands fluttered awkwardly at her sides, uncertain of where they should rest .

George came to a halt a respectful distance away. His green eyes met her blue ones, and in a flash, they changed, transforming from an uncertain fearfulness to a wicked glint. "Queen Margaret," he proclaimed in a comically deep voice as he dropped into a deep bow, "as promised, I have brought you treasure from the Orient!"

Seven years ago, when George had announced his intention to apprentice with the East India Company, he had come to this very house to bid his dearest friend adieu. In that moment, neither had known what to say or do, so they had lapsed into the familiar rhythms and tones of playacting, as they had done since childhood. Margaret had been a queen, perched upon her throne of a threadbare couch, asking her knight to bring her the greatest treasure of the East.

Now, Margaret stood up straighter and lifted her chin. "Arise, Sir George, and show us what gift you have brought all this way."

George straightened and brought the box forward. Presenting it to her, he slowly lifted the lid. Inside the well-oiled wooden chest, lying securely on a bed of maroon velvet, was a fine curved sword.

Margaret's breath caught in her throat at the sight. She brought her hands to her mouth to stifle the gasp that escaped her lips.

Fine golden filigree decorated the hilt, and the blade itself glinted wickedly in the sun as George opened the box wider, allowing others to see the sword. Murmurs of surprise and approval danced around them.

Margaret hesitantly extended a hand to touch the blade, but then drew back, afraid of spoiling its gleam with her fingerprints.

George must have noted her concern, because he grasped the sword and lifted it out of the box. Setting the case aside, he dropped to one knee and held the sword up to her, offering it, the shiny blade resting primly on the sleeve of his jacket. "My queen," he said again in his playacting voice.

That was all the encouragement Margaret needed. She grasped the hilt and lifted the sword aloft. Its blade was dazzling in the sun, and just for a moment, Margaret felt like an ancient Celtic warrior queen, her skirts billowing around her in the breeze as she prepared to lead her men to victory against an encroaching army.

Her family all applauded around her, but Margaret had eyes only for George as he rose to his feet.

"It's called a talwar," he offered helpfully.

Margaret nodded, whispering the word to herself, trying it out on her lips. She gave it a few practice swings and thrusts, much to the delighted laughter and mock screams of her family.

"Now, now," Weston said as he suddenly appeared in front of her. He clutched an ornate golden scabbard that Margaret had completely overlooked within the chest. "Let's not stab your poor, dear mother." As he spoke, he slid the scabbard over the blade, hiding its gleam.

"Of course," Margaret murmured, surrendering the sword. Her vision faded. She was no warrior queen, but Miss Margaret Dashwood in the garden of Barton Cottage. Her eyes dropped to the ground, and she clasped her hands daintily in front of her.

The chatter of her family washed over her, all praising George's princely gift, but Margaret was deaf to it. She could still feel the sword's heft, the metal's coolness in her grasp, the way her heart had raced with excitement when she clutched it. Now, she felt diminished, even bereft without the blade.

The remainder of the garden party passed in a blur of polite smiles, questions, and conversation. None of it mattered to her. A scant two hours earlier, she had been content. Not thrilled, not even dazzlingly happy, but content with her life and her future. Kind and wealthy Mr. Weston had rescued her from the looming threat of spinsterhood, and that had been good enough for her.

In the last few years, her friends and neighbors had begun whispering that Miss Margaret Dashwood was too high-spirited for marriage and was in danger of being left on the shelf if she didn't change her ways. She was never improper, just… vibrant. Bold. And as she passed her twenty-fourth and then her twenty-fifth birthdays with no serious suitors, she realized that spinsterhood was indeed a possibility she must consider .

Enter Mr. Weston. He was twice-married and twice-widowed. The neighborhood held him in high regard, considering him a good, kind man with an excellent reputation. And so, Margaret had resigned herself to a pleasant, tolerable marriage. Perhaps, with time, she could even grow to love him.

But now, with the return of her childhood friend and the gift of an exotic sword, Margaret felt unaccountably turned about. She struggled to attend to the conversations swirling around her. She fidgeted. Her gaze kept returning to the rosewood box that again held her sword.

Her sword . The words alone thrilled her.

At one point, George caught her gaze as she again turned to stare lovingly at the sword case. He smiled at her, but the expression was tight and almost pained. Without thinking, Margaret excused herself from her conversation and approached George. He clutched a small goblet of chilled lemonade as he stood to the side of the garden by himself, apparently admiring the view of the fields that stretched away from the cottage.

"I was surprised to see you," Margaret murmured as she came to stand beside him, both of their backs to the party. "I… that is, we thought you would be in London for another week at least."

George had the good grace to look embarrassed. He dipped his head and flushed. "That was my original plan. But… I couldn't stay away…" He trailed off and raised his head to gaze directly into Margaret's eyes. His expression was almost too much, full of unspoken desires and emotions.

Overcome by the intensity of his gaze, Margaret took half a step back. She turned away to put some distance between them. "I can't thank you enough for your letters to Mama over the years. They kept us ever so entertained."

"I wasn't writing for Mrs. Dashwood's sake," George said, his voice low yet pitched to carry perfectly into her ear. "I was writing them for yours."

Margaret spun to face him again, her mouth open to protest, yet she hadn't the faintest idea what she was meant to protest or why. This whole situation was overwhelming her senses. He was overwhelming her senses.

"Margaret, I must ask you…" Here, he trailed off, becoming uncertain again. George's vacillating between bold and hesitant was as confusing as it was maddening. "Are you happy with Mr. Weston?"

Margaret felt as if he'd thrown cold water over her. She took a step back. "Why… of course I… how could you ask that?" she sputtered.

"It's just that you seem?—"

"How are you to know what I seem?" she demanded, her voice hot. "You've been gone for seven years! People can change a great deal in such a span."

"Indeed, they can," he agreed, his voice still for her ears only. "But they can also stay exactly the same. My feelings… my friendship has never faltered. Are we not still friends?"

Margaret relented despite herself. She offered George a small smile. "Yes, of course we're still friends. We've been thick as thieves since we were thirteen." She glanced around her, at the garden of the cottage where she had lived with her mother and sisters—and then just her mother—since her father died. She took in the scene before her, of her sisters and brothers-in-law chasing after her nieces and nephews, of her mother politely conversing with her fiancée. It was a familiar image, yet that very familiarity felt confining. Perhaps she would feel differently once she was married, once she had a husband and children and home of her own. She turned back to George and raised her chin to address him directly. "But people must grow up, eventually. We've grown up. You have the beginnings of a brilliant career ahead of you, full of travel and adventure and Lord knows what else. And I…" Now, it was her turn to hesitate. Emotions she could ill-define crowded up her throat, nearly choking her. "I was left behind."

George's brow crinkled in concern, and he took a step forward. "I didn't mean?—"

"It's nothing," Margaret managed to get out around the stifling feeling that threatened to undo her. She raised a hand to stay him, imploring him not to come closer. "It is the nature of life."

Margaret made to turn away, but George caught her elbow. "You didn't answer my question, Margaret: are you happy with Weston?"

How dare he question my life, my choices? He has been free to go about the world and make his fortune. I must make do as best I can with what is before me. Margaret wrenched her arm free. "I thank you for your concern, Mr. Barnett , but I am quite satisfied with the life I have chosen."

With that, Margaret turned on her heel and marched toward the cottage, ignoring the questions of her concerned family.