Page 15 of Through Darkened Clouds

She treasured these quiet, contemplative moments with Edith’s darling son. She let her thoughts wander amid the impressions of the past year. The dark, long period of trial her family had experienced in Milton was now abruptly over. And yet, she could not rejoice in returning to the comfortable and easy life in London.

An ache of sorrow pulled within to consider all that had passed in those bleak months. And it had all ended so very wrong. Nothing she could do now would set it right.

Although the routines of life in London were familiar, Margaret remained detached from them. Being in mourning, she was not expected to participate in any social occasions other than to dine with the family on the days they had no dinners to attend.

Henry dined with them at times, and the awkward feeling between them lessened as the weeks went by until they had returned to a friendship much like the one they had had before Edith’s marriage had sent Margaret away from London.

She grew to appreciate Henry joining the evening meals, as he added more intelligent conversation to the trite retelling of social events that was Edith’s and Aunt Shaw’s main discourse.

One evening, as Margaret curled up on Aunt Shaw’s favorite sofa with a book, she determined she would escape from her thoughts by diving into a novel she had heard discussed. She had only read a few chapters when Henry was announced and stepped into the room.

“You are alone, I see,” he said. “I hope I am not intruding.”

“No, of course not,” she lied, putting on a meager smile for his sake.

“I’m afraid Edith does not spend much time at home when there are shops to be visited and social engagements to attend,” he said. “It might do you well to take up your painting again, or perhaps take up the harp or some such musical endeavor. You may find a few more friends by doing so. Then again, you may prefer going to East London to find a friend among the working poor,” he joked, with smiling humor, recalling her defense of finding friendship in Milton’s factory workers.

Margaret pressed her lips together, meeting his eyes steadily with no return of amusement. She stretched her neck, lifting her chin. “I should like to look for ways of helping those in unfavorable situations. Perhaps there are ladies’ chapters that aid the poor here. I shall inquire.”

Henry cast his gaze down. “Of course,” he muttered in his discomfiture.

“In any case, if you should wish at any time to take a turn about the nearby park for some fresh air, I am happy to accompany you. Now that the weather is pleasant.”

Margaret considered this. Although not the splendor of Helstone, a reprieve from these grandiose four walls would be welcome. She sorely missed being free to take walks any time she wished. Aunt Shaw insisted that she not leave the house alone.

“Thank you. I would like that. Perhaps tomorrow, if it is not pelting us with rain,” she added, with a glimmer of her old humor.

“Very well,” he answered with a smile, a flicker of hope rising once more in his chest.

Edith grew weary of Margaret’s mourning as the weeks passed. Shopping trips did not entice her, and there was no hope of convincing her to come to one of their soirées.

As the mistress of the house descended the carpeted stairs one morning in silver blue satin, she turned to follow the hallway to the dining room, and halted at the sight of her cousin’s statue-still dark figure standing at the tall windows at the end of the hallway.

Edith sighed and shook her head silently before continuing to the dining room, where she found her husband, Sholto, sipping a cup of tea with his morning toast and eggs.

“Whatever shall we do with Margaret?” she mused as she took up a fine china plate and selected a piece of toast from the sideboard, her normally cheerful face drawn with a frown.

“My darling, not everything can be set right with a foray to the draper’s shop,” he said with a bemused smile. “It has only been two months since she lost her father. We must allow her time to grieve.”

“I suppose so, only it’s hard to see her so far from being happy.”

“She’s back in familiar surroundings, with all she could want. A far better environment, I should say, than what she had been living in that northern town. Henry says he was surprised at how much the sky was overcome with all that factory smoke. Surely she is at heart grateful for being here with you. And she seems to enjoy being with the baby.”

Edith set her teacup down at this last remark, her face brightening. “Oh yes! She adores little Cosmo. When she is with him, I see her smile most warmly. I believe she is also pleased when Henry joins us for dinner. Wouldn’t it be grand if those two grew closer?” she enthused.

“Careful, my dear. Let’s not get carried away with dreaming some scheme to make a match.”

“But it would be so lovely! Don’t you agree?” she insisted.

Margaret’s thoughts, however, traveled down no such roads. As she stood staring out over the London street, her mind dwelt on scenes far away. She conjured up distant memories of her happy childhood in Helstone, tromping along pathways with her father or collecting flowers from their garden with her mother.

Often, however, her thoughts centered on her days in Milton. She longed for the weeks when she could pick up her bonnet and go see Bessy. She had not realized how much that brief friendship had changed her and given her some useful purpose.

She had learned so much of life and the trials of others in that one brief year. And although she had arrived in Milton very much against her will, she had somehow grown fond of it.

One person, alone, however, stole into her quiet musings more than any other. And try as she might to push the image of him away, she could not dispel the troubling thought that he knew her to be a liar—and no longer held her in high esteem.

Her greatest excitement these days was to receive word from Dixon. On one such day, she opened the letter with haste as soon as it arrived.