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“I assure you,” Margery said with a humorless smile, “I didn’t either.”
Still, Lenora seemed at a loss. She rubbed a hand over her forehead, as if to jar the information into an order that made sense. “But I don’t understand. Who in the world would be blackmailing you? Andwhy?”
And here it was. The moment of truth, revealing that thing she had fought so hard to keep secret. All these weeks of working at finding a wife for Daniel in order to pay the blackmailer, all the while slowly but surely falling in love with him.
But if she looked at her friend and witnessed the horror and pity in her gaze she would break apart. And so she closed her eyes tight and forged on.
“The note claimed Aaron was a deserter, and that he died while betraying his battalion at Waterloo.” She swallowed hard. “This person claims to have witnessed it himself.”
“No. I don’t believe it; they’re lying.” There was no delay in the words, only utter conviction. Margery recognized that conviction; it had lived in her for weeks with what she thought was the sturdy foundation of her love for him. As the days passed, however, it had slowly grown weaker, eroded by a gradual doubt that had been all the more devastating for how silently it had undermined everything she’d believed. Until it had broken apart entirely last night in a moment of utter devastation.
“I thought so, too. At first.” Finally she looked at Lenora. Confusion and outrage twisted her friend’s beloved features, and Margery’s heart swelled with emotion at this proof of her devotion. For a split second she considered not telling the rest. Maybe, just maybe, with Lenora’s fierce certainty, she might forget last night ever happened and could return to those days of being blind to the truth.
But no, that door could never be closed again.
“I have since learned unequivocally that the letter was stating fact.” Like a floodgate breaking apart it all poured out of her then: her fear, how she’d hired herself out to Daniel to pay the funds to the blackmailer, how they’d quickly realized an attraction for one another. She told about the affair, the growing affection, the heartache of ending things. And then, heart in her throat, she told of Daniel’s recognition of Aaron’s portrait and his confession.
Through it all, Lenora sat silent. Her face, however, betrayed every emotion coursing through her, from horror to grief to fury to disbelief. Finally Margery, exhausted, fell silent. It was one thing to have it all bottled up in her head. Putting it out into the world made it all too real.
But she also realized, while it had brought the facts into unequivocal focus, sharing it had also eased some of the burden of it from her shoulders. And she knew in that moment she had been a fool to fear her loved ones might view Aaron differently, might love him less. Because the truth of the matter was, she didn’t feel different about him. She still loved him as much as she ever had. And that would never change.
Which also led to the realization that, though she had fallen in love with Daniel, there was room in her heart for both men.
It stunned her, that realization. She had thought that by falling in love again, she would be betraying Aaron’s memory. But the present and the future—whatever it might hold—did not change the past, and did not detract from the importance of her time with Aaron, or how deeply she loved him.
Lenora’s voice broke through the shock of that revelation. “My goodness,” she said, her voice faint. She slumped against the back of the couch. “And so you love His Grace.”
Margery, stunned, could only manage a weary laugh. “That’s what you took away from all that?”
“It does seem the most pertinent bit of information,” her friend murmured.
“And what of Aaron’s defection? What of the blackmailer?”
To Margery’s shock, her friend waved her hand in dismissal. “Not important.”
Margery gaped at her. “Not important?” she demanded.
Lenora’s head, which had been resting against the back of the couch, rolled to the side so she could spear her friend with an arch look. “Does it change your feelings for Aaron?”
An apt question, as she’d just been asking it of herself. But of course her friend would get to the heart of the matter, and so much quicker than Margery had. She deflated into the cushions. “No.”
Lenora grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “And there you are,” she said with a gentle smile. “I knew Aaron, and the only thing important to him was that he stayed true to himself. You know as well as I that he didn’t care for what others thought of him. He stood up to your father, gladly brought the censure of his village down on him for daring to marry up, and turned down Gran’s generous—and safer—offer to buy him a commission to do what he truly wanted. No matter what one terrifying moment might have pushed him to do, it does not change who he was. Or the fact that he loved you.”
Margery fought back tears. “And the blackmailer?”
Lenora pursed her lips. “That person is a fool to think Peter and Quincy and your grandmother won’t fight this matter to the teeth. And besides,” she continued with a wry smile, “I think this family has experienced its fair share of scandals, including a blackmail attempt or two. Should you wish to pay, we have the funds to help you. Should you wish to fight it, we shall lead the charge. And should you choose to weather the scandal, we’ll be at your side for that as well.”
The tears Margery had been holding at bay spilled over. Right away Lenora was there, wrapping her arms about her, smoothing a hand over her back.
Margery sank into her embrace, the fears of the past weeks finally easing. “I’ve been so afraid,” she whispered into Lenora’s shoulder.
“You silly thing,” her friend murmured, her voice thick. “You should have come to us immediately.”
“I didn’t want you to hate Aaron.”
“We could never,” she declared with a certainty that prompted more tears, though these were borne of relief. “We will always love him the same as we always have, not only for the good man he was, but also for how deeply he loved you and wanted you to be happy.”
But suddenly Lenora pulled back and looked her friend in the eye. “That, of course, does not answer the most important question: What will you do about His Grace?”
