Page 82 of Lady for a Season
She looked down at her pink muslin dress, a floating delicate thing embellished with tiny pink roses. Her hair was pinned in a manner that she had grown accustomed to and tiny pink rosebuds nestled in it. She gave a wry smile at it in the looking glass. The hair, the dress, they too were at a turning point with her now. Was another way possible?
A letter, written now and swiftly acted on, would see her become the Countess of Frampton. She would live in a castle only slightly less grand than Atherton Park and every day a maid would dress her and do her hair, a maid probably better born than herself, a girl who knew her own family and was of legitimate birth. And that girl would believe her mistress tobe part of theton, would believe it without question because it simply wasn’t possible that a countess could have been a foundling, could have been brought up to go into service. Maggie would be Margaret forever, for no-one would know her old name or where she came from. She would live a lie for the rest of her life and in so doing would be in fear every day of someone finding out, of one question too many, of making a mistake being made that would cost her dearly.
Or.
She could marry Joseph.
She would never again wear such a dress; she would wear cottons and wools. She would dress herself and her hair would be pulled back in a simple bun, without any fussy ringlets or looped braids. She might enter service, if she could be sure of never been seen by anyone whom she had once dined with or met at a ball. Although perhaps they would not even see her. She could kneel in their library to stoke the fire, serve them tea and they would not see her at all; she would only be another servant to them, a pair of hands, a quiet voice, one of many who existed only to service their needs and desires. Perhaps she might stay at home instead, and bear Joseph’s children. He was an elegant and experienced footman, he might even rise to butler one day, or house steward. She would be comfortably provided for. And Joseph would call her Maggie, he would know her origins and not reproach her for them. She could be honest with him; she would not live in fear of making a mistake which would expose her.
Both were good men, Lord Frampton even loved her, she was grateful that she did not have to weigh up riches against love, as so many of the women she had watched this past season must do, resigning themselves to a life of beautiful clothes and elegant coiffeurs and an empty heart.
If she chose to be with one of these men, she faced a choicebetween riches and honesty. A life of luxury and lies, or one of work and honesty. The women of thetonwould not have hesitated. Countess of Frampton it was, then. Even Celine would direct her that way.
But. She did not love either man.
And she loved Edward.
It was no good pretending otherwise to herself. This love had existed before that first kiss, before their first waltz. It had been there before she ever stepped into the Atherton carriage at midnight. It had started, perhaps, that first time Edward smiled, that first time she felt the warmth of his skin against hers. She would not have known what it was, then. But she did now. And knowing it made the decision before her far easier.
She picked up the quill and opened the inkwell.
Dear Lord Frampton,
I am conscious of the great honour you did me in offering your hand in marriage. I thank you for your kindness and ask for your understanding in accepting my certain refusal, since my affections lie elsewhere. I hope that you will find a lady who will make you happy, as you deserve to be.
Yours,
Margaret Seton
Dear Joseph,
I must leave Atherton Park, but I shall always think of you with fondness and be grateful for the offer you made me. Please look after Edward, he will need you more than ever now. I hope that one day you will find a good woman to love and that she will bring you great happiness.
Your friend,
Maggie
There was one more letter to write, but she was not sure she could write it yet; already tears had risen to her eyes at the last two she had written. She would pack her chest before writing to Edward.
She glanced about her. What would be suitable for her new life? She gave a little laugh, although it sounded cheerless even to her own ears. Nothing. There was nothing in her lavish wardrobe suitable for the life she would be living. None of the silks, none of the evening gowns. The bonnets were absurdly too decorative, few if any of the shoes were sturdy enough… the riding outfits entirely unnecessary without a horse.
At last she chose, from the back of the press, the dresses Celine had made over for her in the early days of arriving at Atherton Park, two woollens, two cottons and one of the simplest summer muslins from her latest gowns. Half of her undergarments and only cotton stockings; silk would be ruined with regular use. A bonnet that might be called plain if its overly fanciful floral decorations were removed. Two aprons. Two pairs of boots and the very plainest indoor shoes she could find. A velvet reticule. A shawl, gloves and a dark blue wool pelisse with a fur collar to keep her warm in winter. It was still an ample wardrobe, one which would not disgrace a governess from a respectable family, while any maid could only dream of such good quality clothing. It would last her a few years before she needed to replace any of the items. Recalling that there was an old travelling trunk in the nursery, she went to fetch it. Once back in the room that had been hers these last months, she wiped the dust off it and carefully packed her selection, adding the coral necklace Edward had given her. She changed into travelling clothes, leaving somebuttons undone for which she would need Celine’s help. Round her neck she hung the necklace Edward had given her, the locket tucked into her stays, sitting between her breasts. If she appeared smart while travelling, she would likely be treated better than if she appeared to be a commonplace maid. Finally, she sat back down at her writing desk and wrote a letter, quickly and neatly.
Dear Edward,
I wish you all happiness in your marriage and life with Miss Belmont.
I have been well provided for and will think of you kindly always.
Yours,
Margaret
She folded it but did not place it in an envelope; there was no need. Lies, all of it, but this was the letter the Duchess would see, and it could contain nothing else, or it would never reach Edward’s hand, of that she could be sure. So, lies it would have to be. No matter. Her true letter would reach him by safer means. She took a deep breath.
Dearest Edward,
I must call you dearest because you have become so very dear to me. That first day when I met you, when you shrank from any touch, afraid that I would torment you as so many had done before me, even then I felt something for you. I thought it was pity, but it was a bud that bloomed into something far more beautiful. Our days together have been joyful to me because I saw your true self emerge.
