A Masquerade in the Moonlight(87)

But she didn’t hate all men. Yes, she hated The Club. She had every right. But her father? That was utter nonsense. She couldn’t hate her father. She loved her father—adored him! It wasn’t his fault.

She closed her eyes, remembering against her wishes what she’d heard that last day, the day she’d been sitting in the very center of the Earl of Laleham’s pretty maze, dreaming of the day she would come to London for her first Season.

She had been so happy. Her mama had been feeling more the thing, even agreeing to take part in the house party, and even her grandfather was talking about Marguerite’s coming debut with something at least vaguely resembling enthusiasm.

But then she had heard the voices, her mother’s and that of a man, coming to her from somewhere near the center of the maze. She’d stayed very quiet, listening as the man spoke softly, intimately, overhearing bits and snatches that led her to believe the gentleman was about to propose marriage.

The notion depressed Marguerite at the same time it cheered her. Mama had been alone for so long, and although she did her best to put a brave face on things, Marguerite was sure she was lonely. It was one thing for Marguerite to miss her papa and another for Victoria to live the remainder of her life alone.

After all, Marguerite would be going to London soon, and everyone knew the object of that exercise would be to find her a husband. Not that it would be an easy task, for Marguerite knew she would compare any man she met to her beloved papa, and it would take an extremely exceptional gentleman to win her heart.

But once she was wed, her mama would be all alone at Chertsey, with only Sir Gilbert for company. Grandfather was growing older, another thought that did not appeal, but one that had to be faced. Perhaps marriage for Victoria Balfour was not such a terrible idea after all.

Who could it be? It was a small party, with only Lord Laleham’s closest friends in attendance—Sir Peregrine, Sir Ralph, Lord Mappleton, and Lord Chorley. Which one was about to become her mother’s new husband? She wouldn’t think of him as her stepfather, for that was a ridiculous notion. No one could ever replace her papa. Not really.

“Please, forgive me, and thank you again for your most kind offer, but Geoffrey will always be my husband.”

Marguerite heard her mother and smiled, loving her for her loyalty. But perhaps her petitioner would pursue her again at a later date and eventually change her mind. It didn’t pay to go too fast with her mother, who hadn’t had to make any real decisions for herself since Marguerite had taken over the day-to-day running of Chertsey.

She strained to listen, to hear all that was being said, but it was impossible to hear more than another round of male muttering until her mother raised her voice. “What are you saying? You say you love me, but you’re looking at me as if you hate me. What? I don’t understand. Why am I foolish? That is unkind of you. Is it so foolish to love only once?”

Couldn’t the man take no for his answer? Marguerite, feeling very protective of her mother, rose from the bench she had been resting on and began walking toward the sound of Victoria’s voice, wishing she had paid more attention to the construction of the high, thickly hedged maze, for the first turn she took found her moving farther from the voices, not nearer.

She quickly retraced her steps, then skidded to a halt when she heard the sound of a slap ringing in the air, followed quickly by her mother’s anguished scream. It was one thing to be tenacious, but quite another to go beyond the boundaries of polite behavior. The boor must be trying to kiss her.

Holding her skirts high as she ran, Marguerite tore down the twisting paths to the rescue, loudly calling for her mother as a way to warn the woman’s admirer away, her heart pounding in fear liberally mixed with righteous anger as the lovely day descended into a living nightmare.

Moments later, years later, whole centuries after that single scream, Marguerite discovered her mother’s slim form lying like a wilted flower in the center of one of the paths and raced to her side, lifting her mother’s head against her knees.

Victoria looked up at her, her eyes clouded and rather unfocused, and pleaded, “He said... he told me... but it was suicide, wasn’t it? He hanged himself. Dear God, he hanged himself! I saw him! It was suicide! Everyone knows. How can I stand it? How can I live?”

Those were the last words Victoria Balfour ever uttered, for she had fainted then, and died two days later, Sir Gilbert, Marguerite, and Lord Laleham at her bedside, all of them grieving over their sad loss.

“But I lost twice, didn’t I, Papa?” Marguerite said now, looking up at her father’s portrait, seeing him smile down at her, the perpetual mischief in his eyes captured forever by the artist’s brush even though the man himself lay in the mausoleum at Chertsey, beside her mother. “I lost my mother, and I lost my innocence. Suicide. I understand why they never told me, for I was only a child. But how could you have done such a thing? You didn’t even say good-bye. I lost you once years ago, and yet again last year, along with Mama. And never did I hear a good-bye.”