Page 20 of Through Darkened Clouds

When the men rejoined the ladies, Edith smiled prettily at her husband’s return. Aunt Shaw dozed with a magazine and her pet dog on her generous lap. Margaret was nowhere to be seen.

“Where is Margaret?” Mr. Bell asked.

“Oh, Cosmo woke up crying, and Margaret is the best at getting him to sleep again,” Edith answered as she moved to the piano to play a little music for their guest. “She’ll be back very soon.”

Alone in the spacious guest room that evening, Mr. Bell loosened his cravat and sat on the bed, which creaked with his weight.

He sat, gathering his thoughts from the evening. His face flushed with mild heat at how little these Londoners thought of Margaret. Why, they practically used her as a nursemaid!

And that arrogant barrister! Mr. Bell trusted Margaret would never condescend to marry such a man.

He got up and splashed his face with water. The mirror on the wall was enormous, framed in mahogany. The furnishings were magnificent, if somewhat overdone. But all this luxury he knew to be next to nothing of Margaret’s taste.

A sigh escaped him as he prepared for bed. He must make every effort to save the girl from such a fate as to languish here for any length of time.

But what could he do?

At any rate, she would certainly enjoy a day or two away from the routine here.

Chapter eight

The next morning Margaret hastened to prepare for the day with a lightness in her heart she had not known for many weeks. She had not seen her beloved childhood home for over a year and a half and was eager to stand amid the June blossoms in the old garden and gaze at the flowered vines climbing the vicarage walls.

Mr. Bell napped as the train wound through the hills, heading towards the sea. Margaret enjoyed the quiet time to soak up the beauty of the blue, open sky and endless fields bordered with hedges and winding stone walls.

At Southampton they ate some lunch, then climbed aboard a coach to their final destination. Her face peering out the open window, Margaret’s spirits lifted with a surge of joy at the sight of the landmarks that signaled their approach to the quiet hamlet: the stone bridge over the brook, the first cottager’s house, and the grand old oak tree at the curve of the road. She waved to one of the Hoffmans’ sons as she passed their place but was not certain he recognized her.

The returning Helstone daughter was all smiles as they drew near to the Lennard Arms until she beheld the spire of the old church—her father’s church. Tears came unbidden to her eyes, but she blinked them back for Mr. Bell’s sake.

Alighting from the carriage, Margaret took deep breaths of the floral-scented air. Mrs. Purvis’ garden was all abloom with buttery-yellow roses and delicate white flowers. The breeze here was warm, and Margaret delighted in the way the leaves of the trees danced to greet her, their soft rustling a whisper of welcome.

Mrs. Purvis appeared from the path around the back, where she had been hanging up laundry.

“Hello,” she called out, shading her eyes from the sun as she tried to see who the visitors might be.

“Hello, Mrs. Purvis,” Margaret returned, beaming, as she stepped forward on the path.

“Glory be! Is that our Miss Margaret?” the woman with gray-streaked hair exclaimed.

The two exchanged a friendly hug.

“We’ve come to stay a night or two if you have room.”

“Of course I do! Come on in,” she said, waving her in as she began chattering about how nice it was to see her and asked about her life in the northern town until Mr. Bell pushed through the door.

Mrs. Purvis gave him a quizzical look. “Is your father not with you today?” the innkeeper asked.

Margaret’s head drooped, and her lips quivered. Mrs. Purvis’s glance darted between the two guests.

“Oh dear,” she muttered, guessing the truth from their faces. “Don’t tell me Reverend Hale has passed,” she said, bringing her hand up to cover her mouth.

Mr. Bell answered softly, his own head bowed slightly. “He passed away in his sleep this past April. It was very much a shock to us all.”

Mrs. Purvis tilted her head, fastening her attention on Margaret with pitying eyes. “Oh, my poor dear, I’m so very sorry! And with your mother also recently gone! You could have knocked me down with a feather when the gentleman from Milton told me Reverend Hale’s wife had died.”

Margaret’s brow wrinkled. “A man from Milton…was here?”

“Yes, he said he was a friend of your father—a manufacturer. In the spring, I believe it was.”