Hardly A Gentleman (7 page)

There would be no next year: not for Lydia. Margaret would never visit her grandmother again. Lydia’s laughters, Lydia’s smiles—they would all be lost.

When Jacob finished reading, Margaret motioned for him to join her in the hall. When they were alone, she said, “I’m never here for more than a few days… and Mama expects me to return to London, but I hate to leave Lydia behind. I
should
stay.”

He saw another tear slip from Margaret’s eye, and was tempted to wipe it. He wanted to comfort her, to hold her, but he knew he was nothing to her—even though she was, quite possibly,
everything
to him. “Whether you decide to stay or not, I am sure Lydia will not fault you for it. And no matter what happens, you can rest assured, I will watch over her until the very end.”

“I’ve never met another man like you, Mr. Billingsley,” Margaret said. “You are so completely, utterly…
good
. You must be an angel, or something like it.”

“You give me too much credit.”

“No, it is the truth. I have known you for some time now, and it seems you are entirely without fault.”

“As I recall, I
have
vexed you once or twice.”

“Perhaps.” A wisp of a smile passed over Margaret’s lips as she considered their history. “Nevertheless, whatever you were then, you are a veritable saint now! My grandmother was fortunate to meet a man such as you.”

“You honor me, Miss Berryton.”

“When first we met…” Margaret started down the hall, and waited for Jacob to follow, “you laughed as I fell from my carriage, into the mud.”

“I remember,” he said with a chuckle. “We were children then.”

“I thought you were a guttersnipe and a cur. In my eyes, you were anything
but
a gentleman.”

“And have you altered your opinion?”

“Indeed. I am quite certain I have never met a more good-natured man. You are, without a doubt, a gentleman. I now believe you are the very embodiment of the word!”

“That is far too gracious of you, Miss Berryton.”

Margaret opened her mouth and hesitated. It was almost as if she had something else to say, but something prevented her from saying it.

Before the silence was too awkward, Jacob spoke again. “I am afraid.
Terrified
.” He could feel Margaret’s eyes on him, studying him. He could feel the threat of tears burning behind his eyes, but he refused to cry in front of her. “Every time I read to Lydia, I fear it will be the last. Every time I close the book, I fear I will have no reason to consult its pages again.” When his eyes fell on Margaret’s, she caught him slyly dabbing a tear in the corner of his eye. “But we’re losing her, aren’t we?”

“Mr. Billingsley…” Margaret drew a deep breath as she reached for his hand. As she held onto it, clinging to his fingers as tightly as she could, she noted how large and strong his hand was. She wished she could borrow that strength, to cradle it against her cheek, if only for a moment. “I am afraid it is so.”

Three and Twenty

As soon as she stepped inside the house, Margaret felt her grandmother’s absence most keenly. Now owned by her great uncle, the house had sadly fallen into disrepair. A community of cobwebs decorated the narrow halls, and a layer of dust encased the furniture. Worst of all was the feeling of absolute solitude, and knowing there was no one there to greet her.

Lydia’s room was just as she left it—the dusty furniture had not been disrupted. Margaret lightly touched her grandmother’s blankets before kneeling beside her empty Bath chair. It had been seven months since Lydia’s death, but Margaret knew the void would not be filled in seven years, or even seven decades. She would feel the loss forever.

Margaret saw a copy of
Robinson Crusoe
near her grandmother’s bed and she wondered, for a moment, how Jacob Billingsley fared. He had spent more time with Lydia than anyone. Her grandmother left him with a tidy sum, and had designated a small fortune for Margaret as well. Perhaps he had used the money to travel? Wherever he was, Margaret hoped he was happy, and she hoped he had found a new purpose.

As Margaret moved throughout the house, every room made her heart ache more and more. There were far too many memories within: memories of her grandfather, carrying her on his stout shoulders. Memories of Henry Calder, whose gentle smile was always polite. And, of course, she had far too many memories of Lydia. Without her grandmother’s love and light to fill it, the house felt very dark indeed.

Margaret exited to the garden, hoping the flowers would quell her gloom. Without anyone to tend to them, some of the flowers had wilted, but many of the sturdiest were unblighted still. Margaret walked the cobbled path, as she had done many times before, in search of the perfect flower to lay at her grandmother’s grave. She eventually settled on a violet. Its vibrant petals reminded her of her grandmother’s eyes.

With a heavy heart, Margaret headed in the direction of her grandmother’s grave. The previous day’s rain left the ground rather moist, and her slippers slogged through sodden leaves as she ventured closer to the solemn hill. One of the leaves stuck to her foot, so she bent down to pluck it off. The wet foliage clung to her finger, and as she finished climbing the hill, the leaf refused to be dislodged. She was so fixated on that irksome leaf, she failed to notice she was not alone on the hillside.

Jacob Billingsley was sitting on a blanket, strewn across the ground, close to her grandmother’s grave. There was a book on his lap, and his deep voice read its pages aloud. Margaret heard his voice before she saw him, and when she did, her heart momentarily ceased to beat. When he smiled up at her, she nearly dropped the flower she was holding.

“Miss Berryton.” He greeted her jovially, as if their random encounter was not the strangest possible occurrence. “I wondered if you would come!”

“You… expected me?” Margaret’s jaw fell open when she saw him, and it had yet to close.

“Not expected… but I had hope.” Jacob closed his book and set it aside. When she realized it was a copy of
Pride & Prejudice
, she felt a rare smile tugging at her lips. “After all, you
did
visit Lydia for many years, on this very day.”

“Lydia was born on this day.” Her initial shock at seeing Jacob had subsided, so she joined him on his blanket. “When she was young, do you think she ever thought about being old? Do you think she ever thought about… dying?”

“I am sure she did not,” Jacob answered. “Many of us try to ignore the unavoidable clutches of mortality. Failing to acknowledge our inescapable demise is the only thing that keeps us happy, and sane.”

“Hm. Nevertheless, as of late, I have been thinking of death quite often.” Margaret raised the violet to her lips, kissing its soft petals before laying it beside her grandmother’s grave. “I may be three and twenty now, but one day, I will be as old as Lydia. I wonder what my life will be like then. Will I have a husband? Will I have grandchildren to watch over me?” Smiling at Jacob, she said, “I would be lucky to have a friend like you, Mr. Billingsley.”

“Someone to read to you?” he asked with a chuckle.

“No. Someone who cares for me, even after I am gone.” When she saw his smile slowly dissipate, she said, “My apologies. I should not speak so sordidly.”

“It is quite alright.”

“Seeing your face… is comforting, somehow,” Margaret confessed. “I feel as if I can share my innermost thoughts with you, even the bleakest ones.”

“It’s my pleasure, Miss Berryton.”

Margaret’s hand absentmindedly hovered above a tuft of grass. She moved her hand back and forth, letting the blades tickle her palm. For several seconds, her eyes never moved from the grass. For inexplicable reasons, she found it difficult to look at Jacob. He was in his shirtsleeves, and his fair hair was a bit disheveled. He looked like a rogue—a handsome one, of course. In some ways, his unkempt appearance reminded her of the boy she met in front of her carriage, so many years ago.

“It is… very good to see you, Mr. Billingsley,” she finally said. “Meeting you today was such a pleasant surprise.”

“I assure you, I feel the same way.”

“I think Lydia would be happy, to know we were meeting here.”

“I am quite certain she would.” Jacob stared at Margaret’s long, white fingers, wishing he had the courage to hold them. “I feel rather…
alone
… at times. It is good to see a friendly face.”

“I’ve been rather lonely as well,” Margaret confessed.

He should not have been relieved by such a statement, but he was. He had already noted the absence of a ring on Margaret’s finger. His greatest fear was to find her married to another man—though he doubted he would ever have the courage to act on his feelings. How many years had he been tortured by his longing for her? How many years had he wasted without her? How many more would he waste?

“Miss Berryton…”

“Hm?”

He could feel his cheeks growing warm. Being close to Margaret always had that effect on him. “Would you walk with me for a bit?”

“Where would we go?” Her question might have been discouraging, if not for the slight smile on her lips. Spending more time with Jacob Billingsley was hardly an unappealing prospect.

“To the lake, on the edge of Lydia’s estate?” he suggested.

“Very well!” The eagerness in Margaret’s voice was matched by how quickly she leapt to her feet. “Lead the way, and I shall follow.”

“I would rather you walk beside me,” Jacob said, offering her an arm.

Margaret happily accepted his arm, and they descended the hill together. The lake was not far away, and it was, without question, a beautiful sight. Pillars of immense trees lined its banks, and the sun glowed radiantly on its shimmering crystal surface. The wind blew gently, rustling the leaves, making ripples on the water. Not too far away, a gray duck was drifting, silently enjoying the idyllic scene.

Jacob plucked a small, flat stone from the ground and chucked it into the lake. He expected it to skip, but it sank. With an indifferent shrug, he collected another rock and twiddled it nervously in his hand.

Margaret was so beautiful. Her copper curls were illuminated by the sun, and her brown eyes looked like golden honey. There was so much he needed tell her, but what could he possibly say to the woman he had secretly adored for so many years?

“So.” It was Margaret who spoke. “You were reading to my grandmother’s grave. That is… a sad thought.”

“I miss her.”

“As do I.” For a moment, Margaret watched the duck drifting on the lake. Jacob was unusually taciturn. He seemed uncomfortable—or was it her imagination? “Do you still read to her every day?”

“Not every day, no.”

“How often, then?”

“Once or twice a month,” Jacob said. “I’m sure it’s foolish, but if she’s watching over us, I want her to know I still think of her.”

“It isn’t foolish, Mr. Billingsley. I think it’s very kind of you.”

“I…” A lump settled in his throat, compressing, constricting. Finally, he said, “I am glad you came today. I was hoping you might come. I’m glad I get to see you… one more time.”

“Hm.” Tears glistened in Margaret’s eyes; she prayed she would not cry. “I suppose this shall be the last…” she struggled to say the words, “the last time we see each other?”

“I suppose it shall.”

“That is a rather… dismal thought.” Margaret wiped the corner of her eye, crushing an unwelcome tear. “Well, it has been an honor to know you, Jacob.”

Jacob stared at her in stunned silence. The silence was so interminable, Margaret laughed and exclaimed, “
What
? Why do you gawk at me? Do I have something unsavory on my face?”

“I am only surprised,” Jacob replied. “Do you know, in seven years, that is the first time you ever called me by my name?”

“
Jacob
? Truly?”

“Truly!”

“Oh my! How terribly proper of me!” Margaret chuckled at herself, then her expression suddenly turned grim. “Now, as much as I hate to say it, I suppose I should take my leave. We have been alone together for far too long, and Mama is waiting for me.”

“Your mother is with you?”

“Indeed. She was my unwilling traveling companion, complaining throughout the entire journey. When I left her, she was napping in the carriage. I should return to her shortly.”

“I suppose you should. I am glad I got to see you…” with a smirk, he added, “
Maggie
.”

Suddenly, Jacob seized her hand and raised it to his lips. When she felt his mouth brushing her knuckles, her legs threatened to crumble beneath her. Jacob Billingsley’s lips had a curious effect on her.

“Farewell.” As she said it, her heart felt crushed by the word.

“Farewell.” Jacob clenched his fists as he watched her turn away from him. He hated himself for his inability to act. He despised himself for his cowardice. Meeting Maggie was serendipitous—it was his
one last chance
—and he was letting it slip away. Each time she took a step away from him, in the opposite direction, he could feel his heart pinching. He wanted her in his life. He
needed
her.

And he would never forgive himself if he did not make every effort to keep her at his side.

“M-Maggie!” Jacob called out to her—and he was stammering, of course. He could not possibly find the strength within himself to sound confident, could he?

When Margaret turned around, there was a smile on her lips. “Yes?”

“I love you, Margaret Berryton.” Jacob timidly walked toward her. “For seven years, I’ve loved you.” As the words flew from his mouth, his heart was pounding faster than it ever had. “I’ve never sought the company of other women, because you are the only woman I’ve ever wanted. Your lips are the only lips I have ever wanted to kiss. Your face is the only face I’ve—”

Jacob failed to finish his thought, because Margaret had already thrown her arms around him, and her lips were crushed against his. She wanted him to know exactly how she felt, so she told him with a kiss. Her hands clutched his head so tightly, it was as if she never intended to release him. The interminable wait was finally over, and the unbearable distance between them was finally closed.