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But she did not understand. Margery blew out a frustrated breath. “I require a maid, as I’m bringing His Grace to the tide pool on the opposite side of the Isle.”
Finally a reaction from Gran. She stilled, then looked up at Margery with an arched brow. “Are you now?”
Margery’s face flamed hotter. “Yes. And so which maid might I bring with me? Or should I ask Mrs. Hortenson which of her girls she can part with?”
“You shall do no such thing,” Gran said, her voice sharp. “You’re being missish. And those girls have enough to do without having to accompany you all over the Isle. Now run along, I’ve things to do.” Once more Gran turned back to her letter.
Margery’s frustration grew as she stared at the back of the viscountess’s bent head, but Lenora’s voice suddenly whispered through her mind:You know your grandmother better than anyone, and so should fully comprehend that there may be something behind her suggestion that you assist His Grace in getting about in Synne society…
Could it possibly be true? Margery had dismissed it, but perhaps she shouldn’t have. She narrowed her eyes, suspicion rearing in her. And then, before she could think better of it, she blurted, “Are you attempting to match me with His Grace?”
There were any number of reactions Margery expected from her grandmother, from anger to outrage to outright dismissal. What she did not expect, however, was for Gran to throw her head back and laugh.
Margery blinked, quite unable to comprehend what she was witnessing. The viscountess laughed as she hadn’t in years, large guffaws escaping her lips, tears forming at the corners of her eyes, her heavily beringed hands pressed to her stomach.
Finally her mirth subsided to mere chuckles, and Gran looked up at her with a wide smile. “Goodness, thank you,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I needed that.”
Margery could only gape at her. When she found her voice, she demanded, “And so you’re denying it?”
“Of course I’m denying it, you silly thing,” Gran scoffed. “Haven’t you told me these past four years that you shall never replace Aaron? Haven’t you proclaimed to all and sundry that you will never remarry?”
“Well, yes,” Margery managed when her grandmother stopped and looked expectantly at her.
“I assure you,” Gran continued with a decisive nod, “there is not one person on Synne who believes you could be in any danger from the duke. After such loud proclamations on your part, no one in their right mind would think anything scandalous could occur between you and His Grace. Why, the very idea is preposterous. You may as well have joined a nunnery, for all you’re seen as a possible marital prospect.”
Margery rode out her grandmother’s tirade mutely, feeling lower by the second and not having the foggiest idea why. It was what she had always wanted, after all, for people to understand that the love she’d shared with Aaron could never be replaced, and to finally leave off on expecting her to make another match of it.
Why, then, did she suddenly have the urge to cry?
“You can be certain,” Gran continued, blessedly unaware of Margery’s dismay, “that even if you were found naked with His Grace, not one person would think anything untoward had happened.”
Margery had officially heard enough. “Thank you, Gran,” she squeaked, mortified down to her toes at her grandmother’s crass speech. “You have quite made your point. I’ll be off then.”
Without waiting for her grandmother to reply, Margery fled the room, praying with all her might she never had to have a conversation of that sort ever again.
***
“My dear Honoria,” Margery said as they took a stroll in the vicarage’s rose garden a short time later, “you’ve done a beautiful job caring for your mother’s plants. Why, I’ve never seen such an abundance of glorious blooms.”
Miss Honoria Gadfeld, eldest daughter of Mr. Gadfeld, the Isle’s widowed vicar, smiled and blushed and launched into an energetic explanation of soil and weather and proper methods of trimming to promote the most growth. Margery, however, hardly heard her. The majority of her focus was on the duke, who was currently standing with the vicar’s youngest, Emmeline, and her cousins Felicity and Coralie, who had come to live with the vicar and his daughters after their parents’ deaths several years before. The group was watching the antics of Emmeline’s chickens as they scrabbled after a butterfly, their laughter carrying on the air.
Well, she rectified, the Gadfeld girls were laughing. The duke looked as if he were being roasted alive over hot coals.
But though he could not appear more uncomfortable, he was at least attempting to make conversation. As they’d discussed, he’d complimented all the Gadfelds on their exemplary musical performances from the evening before, making certain as she’d warned him not to pay particular attention to any of the young ladies to prevent any talk should he decide to look elsewhere for a wife.
Thus far none of the Gadfelds were showing even a modicum of romantic interest in the duke. But then, they weren’t snubbing the man, either. Which she would think would help to alleviate the duke’s discomfort. But from the way he pulled at his collar and held his cane in front of him like a shield, it was obvious the man was nowhere near relaxed.
Just then Emmeline leaned in closer to him to speak. The duke started, stumbling back a step, nearly toppling in his attempt to keep himself from trampling one of her chickens. Emmeline grabbed his arm, steadying him, her light laughter carrying to Margery as the duke blushed crimson. Was it Margery or was there a small spark of interest in the girl’s eyes?
A chill swept over Margery. She frowned, pulling her pelisse more firmly about her. The day was unseasonably warm, with nary a breeze. Why on earth would she feel chilled? Surely it wasn’t owing to Emmeline’s possible interest in the duke. That was why they were here, after all, to see if any of the young women might welcome His Grace’s attentions, whether he might secure one of them as his bride. And the quicker he secured someone’s hand on the Isle, the sooner she could alleviate her increasing anxieties over taking possession of the funds needed to pay the blackmailer for his silence.
But no matter her internal reassurances, the chill in her bones remained.Think of Aaron, she told herself firmly.His beloved face swam before her mind’s eye, his eyes unfailingly kind, that shock of pale blond hair curling over his forehead in that rebellious way it had.
But, to her horror, another image was quickly supplanting that: her husband running in terror, deserting his men in the chaos of the battlefield.
She blanched. No, that wasn’t what happened at all. She was letting the blackmailer rewrite her memories. Aaron would have never done something so heinous.
Her eyes found the duke again, forcing the poisonous, creeping thoughts of Aaron down to the very pit of her soul. Right now she would focus on the duke, and finding him a wife, and securing the funds she needed to keep the blackmailer quiet. Only when that was all behind her would she deal with these false accusations. And, hopefully, not find her memories altered in the process.
