A Masquerade in the Moonlight(5)
Her father’s heart, his pure, loving heart, had simply given out, Sir Gilbert had told Marguerite as she stared at him, shivering with an unnatural cold and hating him for saying what he was saying—hating everything and everyone who was alive when her papa was dead.
Dead! No! It couldn’t be! Not her papa. Never her papa.
But Sir Gilbert had said it again, as if she hadn’t heard him correctly the first time. Death had been swift and painless, he had promised her, coming to meet Geoffrey as he sat in his study sometime after midnight, a book in his lap, and Marguerite should not grieve, but only remember her father with fondness, for he had been a good man. “It’s what your father would have wanted, darling child. You must be strong and take care of your mama now.”
Marguerite had nodded slightly as she stood, stunned into immobility, drawing in great gulps of air in an attempt to keep from crying like some idiot child who didn’t understand that grief was useless... and life was for the living... and her mama must be protected... and her grandfather was merely saying what was true, what her papa would have expected from his “kitten.”
She had only kissed Sir Gilbert’s cheek and walked slowly to the stable yard where her pony, Luna, waited for her. Avoiding the pitying eyes of the grooms, who were sniffling and rubbing at their wet cheeks and runny noses with the sleeves of their shirts, Marguerite had mounted at the block and turned Luna toward the open fields in an instant gallop.
It was only after she realized she was in danger of pushing her beloved pony past exhaustion that she reined in and slipped from the saddle in the middle of a newly plowed field. She then fell to her knees, spread her arms wide, and glared up at the heavens, her overwhelming grief and despair tearing at her as she screamed out her unanswerable question to God. Why? Why did her most wonderful papa leave her? Why?
The years passed, time wearing smooth the jagged edges of her grief, and Marguerite Balfour grew to young womanhood at her home in Chertsey, beloved by all who lived there. Indulged by both her grandfather and her mother, she was never really a spoiled child, for there was not a malicious bone in Marguerite’s body—although, according to Maisie, there were more than a few mischievous ones.
Marguerite’s waist-length carroty curls had darkened since that momentous fourth birthday, to become a rich, warm chestnut with flashing hints of red and gold, making a perfect complement for her creamy ivory skin and bewitching green eyes. Tall, a good half foot taller than her petite mother, the chubby figure of her childhood had reformed itself into small, high breasts, a narrow waist, slim hips, and long straight legs.
In short, Marguerite Balfour was a fetchingly, devilishly, intriguingly beautiful young woman.
But Marguerite’s attributes did not begin and end with her beauty and personal charm. Marguerite had been taught as Sir Gilbert would have instructed his son, if he were to have been blessed with a male child rather than the girl child his late wife had educated as was the custom. In his opinion, this was the same as to say Victoria’s academic achievements bordered within an inch of nonexistence.
Short of sending Marguerite off to school, Sir Gilbert had employed the best tutors, so that she spoke French and Italian fluently, could read Latin, was well versed in mathematics and the sciences, could intelligently discuss the politics of the day, and quoted Shakespeare and even some minor poets without appearing to have to think about it first.
She also rode like a man, excelled in fencing, could load and shoot most any firearm with both speed and deadly accuracy—and had not forgotten a single word of any of Geoffrey Balfour’s sometimes contradictory, but always thought-provoking, lessons. She spent her spring months almost daily visiting the Gypsies, who continued to return to Chertsey, and played in the dirt with the Gypsy children, while learning from the women the dubious talents of purse cutting and fortune-telling.
At fourteen, she stole her first chicken. It was the most delicious chicken she had ever eaten.
Her mama’s softening influence showed itself in Marguerite’s love of beautiful clothing, her talent with needle and watercolors, her sweet if not powerful singing voice, and her graceful movements on the dance floor—even if her only partner to date had been her grandfather.
Marguerite had grown as the only child in a household of adults, so that she had matured far beyond her years in some ways while remaining childlike in many others. Her every wish had not been granted, but she had been given enough to make her believe that anything was possible, if she wanted it badly enough.