The sun hung low in the sky by the time Margaret and her brother arrived home. They handed the horses over to the stable lads and entered through the kitchen, where the tantalizing aroma of roast beef and root vegetables cooking over the fire welcomed them.
Caroline, kneeling on a wooden stool, was helping Mrs. Grady, the cook, knead the dough for their bread. Wisps of dark hair escaped her cap, clinging to her round cheeks. Whereas other mothers might frown upon their children—especially one of high birth and ranking—spending time in the kitchen with the help, their mother was different. Caroline, by virtue of being the youngest, was the family pet. Everyone doted on her, giving in to her every wish and desire, though she was not a spoiled child. On the contrary, Margaret had never met a sweeter, more innocent soul. Margaret suffered no jealousy, though. Even though she had told Thomas she knew nothing of heartache, and presumably nothing of love, she was infatuated with her younger sister.
"How on earth did you manage to get flour behind your ear, kitten?" Margaret asked as she stooped to kiss her sister on top of her head.
Mrs. Grady looked up with a snort. "You should have seen her before I took a rag to her face. Your mother will forbid you coming down here anymore if you ruin your clothes," she warned Caroline. The little girl didn't react to the threat, however, knowing there was no truth to it.
"Dinner will be served soon enough. Best go change yourself," Mrs. Grady said to Margaret, eying her breeches with a raised brow. Their mother wasn't quite as tolerant of Margaret's whims, she being older.
As she walked down the hall on the way to her room, Margaret heard crying coming from behind her older sister's closed door. She knocked and, not waiting for an invitation to enter, pushed it open. She found Eliza in a crumpled heap in the middle of her bed, shoulders heaving as she sobbed. Despite what their brother thought, Margaret wasn't completely without feeling. Artemis was her oldest and dearest friend. If she had been forced to leave her horse behind, she would undoubtedly cry, too.
"Father says we'll be gone only a few years," Margaret said as she lay down on the bed next to her sister. That, however, only made Eliza cry harder. "You and Willy can write to each other every week," Margaret added hastily, resting a hand on her sister's shoulder. "Every day if you like."
"He says he won't forget me," Eliza said, her voice thick with grief and muffled in the bedding.
Margaret smoothed back her sister's hair, a light chestnut color, like their mother's. "I'm sure he won't. You can be married as soon as we return."
"If only Father had a little more time, Willy and I could be married now, and then I wouldn't have to leave." She sat up, her cheeks flushed and stained with sadness. Crying had turned her eyes a piercing blue. "Perhaps we could convince Mother to stay behind, at least until I'm married and settled in my own home."
Margaret shook her head. "Mother would never allow our family to be separated, even if only temporarily. Besides, wedding ceremonies take time to plan. You wouldn't want to rush the most important day of your life, would you?"
Eliza's face fell. "I am eighteen years old, Meg. I will be an old maid by the time we return."
Margaret didn't know whether to laugh or feel pity for her sister. "Hush. You will not be an old maid." She took her sister's hand and raised it to her mouth, depositing a soft kiss on the smooth skin of her knuckles. "Do you remember when we were children, when Willy gave you a ring he had made from the stem of a daisy?"
Eliza sniffed. "Yes."
"And Tommy and I attended your pretend nuptials, remember?"
"Mrs. Grady made a spiced almond cake for the occasion," Eliza said.
"That's right. So you see, you're practically married already."
Eliza allowed a small smile at the thought. "I suppose you're right. Still . . . what if he falls in love with someone else?"
Margaret bent her head toward Eliza's so that their foreheads touched. "You will not forget him, and he will not forget you. You must trust me on that."
After a moment, Eliza pulled away and began smoothing the wrinkles from her dress. "You are lucky you have no suitors, Meg."
"I prefer to make my own luck," Margaret said. "My lack of suitors is by choice."
She had heard her father express that sentiment often enough, that you had to make your own luck. It was something she firmly believed. While most girls her age sat around waiting to be married off to men twice their age and have babies of their own, Margaret knew in her heart she was destined for more. What that was, she didn't exactly know. Still, her father often told her she had a man's mind—intelligent and cunning. Of all her siblings, she was sure her father cherished her most.
Eliza dabbed her nose and eyes with a piece of linen and only then seemed for the first time to really notice Margaret. "What in the world are you wearing?"
"Thomas loaned me apair of breeches for riding," Margaret said, dimpling at her sister. "Youshould give them a try sometime. I find them quite liberating."
*****
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