The teacup came down, and with it, the door opened. Yet Benny was not greeted with the civil welcome he had hoped for. Rather, he was met with something more akin to a cold, verbal slap. Just as one might react to a physical open palm, Benny could not help the sharp intake of breath through his nose. Nor the tightening of his jaw, his hands, his shoulders; indeed his entire body seemed to tense. And within him rose a great cacophony of noise, an orchestra of upset.
Benny was not often an angry man, but⌠oh, what was the saying? Ah, yes. Even a worm will turn.
He swallowed before speaking, not only to undo some of the tightness within his throat, but also to push down the immediate words which came to him. Benny knew that they would not be appreciated, appropriate, or even helpful. He wanted to be civil. He wanted to be cool, and calm, and collected. Like she was. He did not wish to fall into rage.
âInappropriate?â he repeated, the word saturated with his disbelief and his hurt. His heart pounded in his chest, quicker than a hummingbirdâs wing. âLady Margaret, I thought better of you.â It was the first thing he could think to say, the first thing that came to mind. Not only was it a common phrase thrown at him when he was a misbehaving or close-minded child (and one which often worked, for the disappointment of others was always a keen hurt to Benny), it was also true. Benny was disappointed. Benny had thought better of Lady Margaret St Maur. He had thought - or hoped, he supposed - that as she had been willing to put propriety aside for the sake of their bet, and for their collaboration, she least she could do was put the foolish rules of society aside for Love. Love, with a capital âLâ, for there was no falsehood in what he had witnessed. There was no childish infatuation there. None at all.
With the seal broken, with Bennyâs lips parted, his vocal chords warmed, it suddenly seemed inevitable that he should continue. Benny realised a moment too late that he would not be able to stay cold and distant. Where Lady Margaret was ice, Benny was fire. It choked him up from the inside, burning hot and filling him with smoke. It was disorienting. His head was spinning.
âThe only person I witness keeping an inappropriate attachment here is yourself, to this ludicrous notion that my sister was not truly loved by your brother.2 His breath came in quick gasps, barely managing a sharp intake before words overwhelmed him again. âDo you really think that I would have let my baby sister be seduced, or manipulated, into some sort of false engagement? Do you dare insinuate that I would have been so remiss as to not check the truth of his feelings myself?â His voice was raised. Bennyâs hands were upon the table, and they were curled in fists. He all but shook with his upset, and did not even realise that within his words were an admission. âI knew of the engagementâ it said. âI knew before Viscount Mauriceâs death.â Benny had known for weeks what others had not. He had been a secret keeper for Freda. And as any good brother would do he had done his best not only to keep that secret, but to protect it.
How many days had he spent kicking his legs back and forth on high branches, speaking with Ambrose Nassali? How many brothers, knowing what Benny did, would not have pressed Viscount Mauriceâs valet into saying whether the man had any other affairs, if he spoke kindly of Freda behind closed doors, if he was a good man, a truly good man, worthy of her?
âOr is it, my Lady,â Benny started again, his voice shaking with emotion, âsimply that you feel hurt because you did not realise the depth of his feelings? I dare say that it is you who should reflect on the reason he kept their engagement a secret, for if I had a sister so intent on being so venomous towards my beloved, I too would have kept quiet!â
Oh, oh, and he had done it now. Bennyâs teeth ached as he pressed them together, hard. His jaw bulged under the pressure. He lay his hands flat upon the table. Now surely Lady Margaret would tell him to leave, to get out, and would only continue in her harsh feelings towards Freda. And Benny, who had wanted to make things better, had only made things worse. His stomach yo-yoed in his core. Benny fell very, very quiet.
I thought better of you. If Margaret were not a lady, she might have burst out laughing. Why on Earth should Mister Forester think of her at all, except as his superior? But then he continued in his indignant monologue, and Margaretâs fleeting bemusement fused into a cold ball of anger.
The very idea that Maurice had consulted the word of Mister Forester before running off with his sister was absolutely laughable. Maurice cared for no oneâs opinion but his own - that he should suddenly become concerned with dear, eccentric Ebenezer would be amusing if the situation were not so dire. Had Margaret been the type of person to use humour as a defense mechanism, she might now resort to venomous sarcasm. As it was, she could only feel her expression grow cold and sour as she stared at Mister Forester, contempt etched into every curve of her fine face.
Ironically, the more unhinged Mister Forester became the calmer Margaret felt. She could harness her anger more effectively if she remained composed; to lose her temper would be to give away critical ground in this battle.
At last, Mister Forester ran out of breath. The subsequent silence was agonising. To his credit, the footman did not move a hair; somewhere nearby, a grandfather clock sounded two gongs. Margaret put down her macaron.
âYour first mistake - of which, sir, there are many - is to assume you know my mind.â Margaretâs voice was practically arctic. âPerhaps it is beyond you to consider the delicate politics of an ancestral estate, but I assure you that its fate is not beyond me. My brother -â Margaretâs voice caught and she forced herself to take a deep breath. She never âfeltâ Maurice, as some fanciful seance chronics might, but she was all-too-often reminded of him.
Once steeled, Margaret continued. âMy brother cared little for his duties to this estate, which was promised to him before he was born, or even to his family, whom he had sworn to protect. You are mistaken in believing Mauriceâs deception wounds me emotionally because we were at war every day of our lives. He knew what I thought and he could not bring himself to care.â The bitterness made Margaret feel momentarily as if she were grasping for purchase. She paused to regather herself. âI have no doubt that in conversation with Maurice you believed him to be perfectly pleasant - I do not speak ill of my brother when I say he was, indeed, characteristically charming - to a fault - or that you felt him a suitable match for your sister, of whom I have heard kind things.â This was something of a stretch, but Mister Forester need not know that; besides, anger made Margaret politer, given the circumstances.
âWhat is evidently past your realm of comprehension is that their union was doomed. Any promise Maurice might have made to your sister was not his to give, for he was already wedded to the future and fate of St. Maur. A liaison with - forgive me - the daughter of a doctor, would bring such scandal and ridicule upon this house as to render us social outcasts. Maurice, as Iâve pointed out, did not care about that. But do you?â
Margaret levelled Mister Forester with a sharp look, one eyebrow raised. âOh, yes,â she continued, this time with a touch of delicate sarcasm. âNo doubt boasting that your sister had snagged a viscount would have made for quite the conversation topic in London. But it occurs to me that you have not considered how the pall of their alleged union might have dampened your own marriage prospects. What of your other sister, your twin? Was she also to suffer a poor hand and an unadvantageous marriage, all because Miss Forester prioritised her own happiness over her siblings? What of your brothers? Yourself?â
She held Mister Foresterâs gaze for a beat before looking dismissively away. âYou talk of love,â Margaret remarked archly, âas if there no other consideration exists. In our world,â the word emphasised just enough, to indicate St. Maur, Mauriceâs title, the very room in which they sat, âwe are not permitted such a luxury.â
