Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

IN WHICH OUR HERO INSTRUCTS A LADY ON THE PROPER USE OF A SWORD

She didn't say yes! George's thoughts returned to this one fact as he lay awake all that night, tossing and turning in his childhood bed in his brother's house. "Satisfied" is not the same thing as "happy." She didn't say she was happy with Weston. Perhaps there is yet hope!

George rose with the sun, despite not sleeping all night. Hope energized him too much to rest. He was but a quarter mile from the lady who had held his heart captive for over a decade, and there was a chance she harbored more than friendly feelings for him as well.

The morning dragged by in an agony of waiting until it was seemly to pay a call to Barton Cottage. He knew he would be received there at any time, but if he were to pursue his plan of courting and wooing Margaret away from her fiancé, he needed to do this right. By the book.

After he was sure the Dashwoods would have finished their breakfast, George set out from Lindcoll House. Time was both compressed and stretched during his ride, making it simultaneously the fastest and longest of his life.

When George was shown to the drawing room and announced, he was confronted by the welcome scene of Margaret by herself, dressed in a light blue color that set off her eyes and complimented her dark golden curls. He paused on the threshold and inhaled sharply, taking in the sight of her. She had been reading, and she still clutched a book in one hand, but she made all the proper courtesies and invited him in.

"I'm afraid Mama is unwell today," she said as they sat down. "All the excitement yesterday caused her a dreadful headache."

George watched her for any sign of the fiery anger that had carried her off yesterday. To his relief, there was none. She had a placid and calm gaze, and although her manner was reserved, it was not cold. "My sympathies," he murmured. "Is there anything I can do?"

Margaret shook her head. "Mama just needs some peace and quiet." Here, her familiar sparkle reappeared in her eyes. "Apparently, she was most vexed with me for leaving the party so…"

"Dramatically?" George offered with a grin.

"I was going to say ‘suddenly,' but I suppose there was an element of drama to it."

They both laughed lightly, then settled into a familiar, companionable silence.

"Since your mother isn't feeling well, perhaps I could escort you on a brief stroll through the neighborhood?" George offered.

Margaret must have been waiting for such an offer because she nearly leapt out of her seat. Her bonnet was on and they were out the door before Sir Lawrence back in India would have been able to say, "Snap to it, young man!"

It was another brilliant English summer morning, with a sky so blue it looked artificial. Margaret did not bring a shawl or parasol, and her bonnet sat loosely upon her head, its ribbons fluttering the breeze.

"Thank you for the gift," Margaret said as they strolled through the fresh morning air. "The talwar, I believe you called it?"

George nodded. "It is a formidable weapon. Very dangerous. I've seen men cut down by such blades."

Margaret's face turned to his in concern. "Have you seen much action in India? I thought you were a clerk. Your letters said you spent your days in the office."

"I'm Sir Lawrence's private secretary, which does keep me indoors most days. But anyone serving with the company eventually sees some action. It's not a… safe place. Not like this."

Margaret shivered, but George had the sneaking suspicion it was with excitement rather than fear. Her next question confirmed that: "Have you wielded a talwar in battle?"

George chuckled. "No, nothing so dramatic."

Margaret looked disappointed. "I was hoping you could teach me."

George was so surprised, he stopped in his tracks.

"Don't look so scandalized," she shot back, linking her arm though his and pulling him alongside her again. "I've heard that many grand ladies in London learn to fence. And given our epic battles as children, I wouldn't mind trying my hand at the real thing."

"You want to learn to fence?" An idea was forming in George's mind. "I haven't been trained to handle a blade in battle, but I have received some instruction in fencing."

Now it was Margaret's turn to freeze in the middle of the road. She pulled him to a halt beside her.

"Sir Lawrence was an avid fencer back in London. He regretted not having a regular partner in India, so he taught me. I can't say that I've ever bested him, but I believe I have a solid grasp of the fundamentals."

"Teach me." Her eyes were enormous and pleading.

George could deny her nothing.

Twenty minutes later, they stood in a clearing in the woods behind Lindcoll. Margaret's bonnet lay a few yards away atop George's discarded overcoat. Margaret stood before him, taking a few practice swings with the stick she had found to serve as her fencing foil. George watched, struggling to keep a soft smile of admiration from creeping over his face as he watched her seriousness.

"Are you ready, Lady Margaret?" he asked his in playacting voice.

She turned to him with a steely gaze. "That's Sir Margaret, knight of the Round Table, to you, knave!"

"Of course, Sir Margaret. Let us begin."

For the next hour, George guided her through the fundamentals of fencing as he had learned them from Sir Lawrence, from footwork and stance to the different targets and points system. Away from the harsh glare of public scrutiny, Margaret shed the trappings of being a polite, well-bred young lady. Her laugh became louder, as it had been when they played in these woods as children. Her posture adapted itself for movement, rather than standing in one place and being admired. Her skirts were soon splashed with mud, but she paid it no mind. Her curls came loose from their pins and stuck to the sweat on her brow, but she brushed them away with a grin before coming at him again. Before his eyes, George watched the proper Miss Dashwood, the future wife of Mr. William Weston and future mistress of Maxland House, once more become Margaret, the girl he had fallen in love with at the age of thirteen.

As much as he delighted in the transformation that brought Margaret back into herself, it was also a torturous hour for George. He tried to demonstrate the correct positions and moves without touching her, but their bodies still came incredibly, nay dangerously close. They wove and ducked toward and away from each other, dancing around the clearing as if it were a grand ballroom. But this was no polite society scene, and George was painfully aware of that fact. As in a ballroom, they had eyes only for each other, they advanced and retreated in a complicated pattern of footwork, and by the end of the hour, they were both breathing heavily from their exertions. But the crucial difference was that they were entirely alone. There were no concerned mamas hovering about, no gossipy society matrons eagerly watching for any sign of news to share with their friends and neighbors on the morrow .

And so, when Margaret executed a particularly aggressive thrust that carried her forward toward and nearly past him, George easily sidestepped it… and brought his hands up to rest on Margaret's waist to steady her as she stumbled.

She paused, panting for a moment, before turning to face him. "I suppose that was rather rash," she admitted, laughing at herself.

George nodded, gallantly removing his hands from her waist. They burned as if branded. He brought them to his side, flexing them mightily. "Not your best move yet, but if you thought you saw an opening, I commend you."

Margaret shook her head. "I didn't. I was just hoping to take you by surprise." She stepped away and bent down to retrieve her fallen "sword."

"Still," George said, taking a deep breath at the sudden space between them. "You picked up many of the fundamentals in a relatively short period. I?—"

As he spoke, Margaret suddenly spun back toward him, swinging her stick sword until it came to rest against his chest. "Ah-ha! It seems I have the advantage, Sir Knight!"

George grinned despite himself and knocked it away with his own weapon as he took a step back. He settled once more into a ready position, delighted that she wanted to keep going. "Foul play, Sir Margaret!" he declared in his playacting voice. "Our combat had ended. In fencing, you should never attack an opponent when?—"

In a stunning move so fast he couldn't follow it, Margaret's weapon crossed with his. Then, she bound it upward and expelled it. George was so surprised, he lost his grip on the stick, and it spun away into the woods behind them, landing with a soft thump. Margaret's stick sword was now at his throat, the thrill of victory burning in her eyes.

"Surrender, you knave! You have been defeated by Sir Margaret the Bold!"

George sank to his knees in the grass, following her lead in their charade.

"Any last words, you cur? "

"Only that I can die a happy man to have been defeated by such a beautiful knight as yourself." He'd meant to speak those words in jest, as part of their game, but his true feelings shone through at the end.

Margaret hesitated a moment, her eyes widening. "What… what do you mean by that?" she asked in a small voice, balancing on a knife's point between the game and the truth that had been dancing between them since George had returned yesterday.

Looking up at her from his kneeling position, George allowed the full force of his feelings to shine through his gaze. "Margaret, I've loved and admired you since we were children. I traveled halfway around the world to build the beginnings of a life for us. A life that we would both want."

Margaret's mouth hung open, her jaw trembling. Her stick shook against his throat.

Go for the kill, you fool , something inside George screamed.

"I understand and accept that you may not feel the same for me, especially since you have promised your hand to another. Even if you did share my feelings, it may be too late. But I?—"

"You left!" Margaret's scream of pain echoed through the clearing. "You went off on some grand adventure and left me behind!" Tears formed in her eyes, and she turned away, throwing her stick sword aside. "And once you were gone, everything was boring! There was no one to talk to. And now, you come back, give me a sword, tell me that you've loved me all along, claim you did it all for me, and expect me to fall into your arms? I'm engaged to Mr. Weston, whom, I might remind you, is a good, kind man."

"I know," George began, rising to his feet.

"No, you don't know what it was like!" Margaret spun to face him again. "You don't know a thing about how I felt. How I lived for your letters, always hoping the next one would say you're coming home soon. How long gaps between your letters brought on my fear that the worst had befallen you. How lonely I was without you to talk to…" she trailed off, her fury slowly replaced with melancholy.

George stepped forward. "I'm sorry I left you behind. You're right: I can't imagine how that felt. But I've come back now. And I came back specifically to confess my feelings for you… and ask for your hand in marriage."

The die has been cast! George stood before her, chest heaving with the exertion of finally confessing his feelings. Sweat dripped from his brow from their fencing, his collar was open at the throat, and he knew there were more than a few smears of dirt upon his person. He hardly cut the dashing figure of a proper suitor, but in this moment, he was stripped bare of all pretenses. George Barnett was his rawest, truest self before his love.

Margaret stared at him in shock for a moment, her eyes wide. Then, she let out a wordless, frustrated yell, turned on her heel, and marched out of the clearing.