Spring Blossom (6 page)

Shifting uncomfortably, Alastair began
choosing his words carefully. “I would prefer that Margaret explain
the details. Perhaps once the two of you have had some time to
renew your acquaintance…” He held up a hand when Hunter was about
to interrupt. “I admit be being deliberately evasive, my friend,
but I have my reasons and I hope you will come to understand. I do
want to warn you, however, that Margaret is scarred.”

Hunter stared silently, feeling as if his
gut had just turned to stone. “She was badly injured, then?” he
asked softly and felt a slight lessening of the pressure in his
chest when Alastair shook his head.

“The scar is relatively small,” he said,
“but there are greater wounds.”

CHAPTER 6

Dressed only in a soft, sheer shift that
accented her young woman’s curves, Margaret Downing stood before
the open doors of her clothespress and rummaged through the
multitude of gowns there before selecting a garment suitable for
the occasion.

Holding the gown aloft she frowned, first
over her decision and then over the few wrinkles in the skirt.
Dropping the gown to the floor, she paced to the open window and
stared out over the neatly clipped lawns of her beloved
Treemont.

Hunter Maguire had returned to her home. She
wasn’t sure how she felt about that; certainly, she was strangely
unsettled. But she would be in control of her faculties by the time
evening arrived and she descended to the parlor to meet him for the
first time in three years. Margaret had become a master at
controlling her thoughts and emotions over the past year and
tonight would be no different. Many men came to visit her father to
negotiate the sale of crops or horses, and Margaret had dealt with
them all when they anticipated the possibility of more; in spite of
her previous feelings toward him when she was a girl, Hunter
Maguire would be no different.

Then why did her insides feel as if she had
eaten too many green apples?

Striding back across the thick oriental
carpet, Margaret took her thoughts firmly in hand, scooped up the
gown she had left lying in an ice-blue puddle on the floor, and
opened the door of her room, intending to call for Anna. To her
surprise, she was met by the grinning, freckled face of her
youngest sister.

“He’s here!” nine-year-old Jennifer grinned
up at her. “I came to tell you.”

“I know he’s here.” Margaret frowned and
looked down the wide corridor in both directions. “Where is
Anna?”

Jennifer’s eyes lost some of their happy
shine, but her smile remained as she boldly entered her sister’s
room and plopped down on the edge of the bed. “Somebody stole his
horse?” she piped lustily and then laughed. “He had a really long
walk up the road.” She eyed her older sister with curiosity. These
days Margaret seldom smiled, but Jennifer knew she used to be fun
and she often played tricks on strangers. “Have you seen Mr.
Maguire’s horse?” she asked.

Margaret frowned at the girl. “Now, what
would I want with another horse? We have a barn full of horses.”
The twinkle in her eye told Jennifer all she wanted to know and she
grinned up at her idol until Margaret’s manner changed. “He should
take better care,” she said snidely.

Jennifer frowned, getting to her feet.
“What’s wrong, Maggie?”

Margaret held the blue gown up, more
agitated than Jennifer had seen her in a very long time. “What’s
wrong?” Margaret parroted. “Look at this gown. It was put away
wrinkled and there's a smudge near the hem. I can’t wear this. Anna
should be here,” she continued impatiently. “She knows I have to
see to the running of the house and the farm. I can’t be expected
to do everything. I asked her to prepare this gown and look at it,”
she repeated, waving the dress angrily. “I can’t even trust her to
see to a simple task.”

Jennifer was often puzzled by Margaret’s
abrupt leap from being reasonable to being completely shrewish but
she tried to soothe her sister. “She has extra chores today and you
know she has to do all of the cooking now.”

“Father should never have let the cook go,”
Margaret muttered.

Jennifer had wondered about that, but she
shrugged her bony shoulders as her sister paced the room.

“Anna is not attending to her duties,”
Margaret continued harshly. “Father should have let her go and kept
the cook!”

“And then we would have even more chores to
do. At least Anna helps with the cleaning.”

Margaret whirled to face the girl, her anger
reaching its peak. “Well, we need more help in this house?”

Jennifer tried to puzzle out the possible
reasons for Margaret’s bad temper, knowing that when she was this
irritated it was best to leave her alone. It was definitely time to
go. “I didn’t fire the servants, Maggie,” she said quietly and fled
the room.

With Jennifer’s departure, Margaret turned
to her dressing table and perched on the delicate bench, trying to
tamp down her agitation. This was just another business meeting,
she told herself yet again as she reached for her brush and
attacked her waist-length blond hair.

But she knew it wasn’t.

Through the years she had often visualized
her reunion with Hunter Maguire – at first with pleasure, later
with trepidation and now with icy fear. She had carefully noted the
reactions of men when they were introduced to her, and she was well
aware of all the signs of distress. Hunter would be no different,
although he might be more deeply shocked than the others. After
all, he had known her before and would expect her to be beautiful.
Yes, Margaret expected his reaction to her ugliness to be quite
something.

And that was just as well. She suspected he
had come for more than a peek at the grown-up Downing girl. Perhaps
he was thinking of a match; she had, after all, told him she would
wait for him. It would be better if he was put off immediately, for
there was no sense in prolonging the agony. Margaret could not
marry him. Not ever. With shaking hands she threw the brush back on
the table.

She was losing control and she didn’t
understand why. She had learned to control her emotions months
ago.

But Hunter Maguire was not just another
guest. He was the only man she had known as a friend and, even as a
girl, she had gone out of her way to make him notice her. She had
fancied him as handsome beyond anyone she had known and had even
day-dreamed about marrying him one day when she grew up. Well, the
time she had longed for had come, but all of her dreams had now
been shattered.

Whirling suddenly, clutching her middle,
Margaret raced for the chamber pot beneath the bed and dragged it
forward just as her stomach reacted to the turmoil within her.

The faithful Florence found her on her knees
beside her bed. “Margaret?” Concerned, she rushed to her sister’s
side.

But even as Florence knelt and lightly
touched her back, Margaret was turning away in shame, struggling to
regain control. “Please go away,” she whispered. “I’m fine
now.”

The usually reserved Florence was too
worried to be put off. “You don’t seem fine,” she said. “You
haven’t been fine for weeks now.”

Margaret, who normally dealt gently with his
shy, delicate sister, struggled with her impatience, needing to be
alone. “I’m sorry, Florence. Don’t be worried. I am really quite
all right.”

“What’s wrong, Maggie? Why were you ill?”
And then with sudden insight, she added, “You haven’t been well
since father told us Mr. Maguire was coming to visit.”

Margaret tried to laugh that off as she
turned toward the dressing table again. “Don’t be a ninny,
Flo.”

“I thought you liked Mr. Maguire,” Florence
whispered, truly confused and concerned for her sister’s well
being.

Margaret turned toward her, a smile pasted
on her pretty lips. “Florence, darling, shouldn’t you be dressing
for supper?”

After a moment of indecision, the younger
girl turned toward the door. “You will be nice tonight, won’t you,
Maggie?”

Margaret forced herself to take the comment
calmly. “Of course, Florence. Mr. Maguire is an old friend and
shall be treated accordingly.”

Alone again, Margaret poured water into the
floral-patterned ceramic bowl on the washstand and, dampening a
soft cloth, let the cooling effect of the water on her face ease
some of the tension within her.

It was time to take herself in hand and
collect her thoughts. Past experience had taught her that she
always gained control and felt better after the sickness had
passed. She would be prepared to meet Hunter Maguire, just as she
had been prepared to meet every other man who had set foot inside
her home in the past year.

Yes, she would be prepared, and she would
deal with him quite nicely.

After all, she possessed more than one
attribute that would keep him at bay.

*

Freshly bathed and dressed in a crisp,
high-collared white shirt, beige trousers and a royal blue coat,
Hunter stepped to the entrance of the parlor. He was not surprised
that he was actually looking forward to this meeting now that he
was here. He had been gravely concerned when he had been told that
Maggie had been injured, and in such a vague way, when Alastair had
spoken. But he was as eager to see her again as he had been through
all the years of waiting. He had been slightly annoyed at
Alastair’s reluctance to explain the circumstances of her accident,
but upon reflection, he knew it would take much more than a scar to
change his opinion of the light-hearted, fun-loving girl who had
captivated him in her youth.

Stepping into the room he was immediately,
if distantly, aware of the presence of several people, but his
attention was immediately drawn to a young woman standing in front
of the fireplace. He raised his eyes briefly to the portrait above
her and then allowed his gaze to fall again. If he had not known
that Downing’s wife had died…

She was standing almost in profile to him as
she spoke with another young woman who was seated before her. When
she became aware of his presence, she raised her eyes and turned
slightly to offer him a subtle, almost shy smile.

Hunter was entranced. It was as if the woman
in the portrait had stepped down off the wall, intending to join
them for supper. Here was a living, breathing replica of that
exquisite beauty he knew had been his friend’s wife. This was the
charming child grown up, the elder Margaret Downing’s daughter, and
such a legacy to leave the world!

The cascading silvery hair waved softly back
from her face and over her bare shoulders, a perfect foil for the
ice blue satin gown she wore. He had only a glimpse of her eyes
before delicate ivory lids flutter over them, but that glimpse was
enough to identify the large, pale blue eyes that had reminded him
of the winter ice that could be found around the edge of a clear
pond.

With some disappointment, Hunter saw his
host approaching.

“Hunter, come and meet my daughters again
after all these years.” Alastair clamped a warm hand briefly on his
guest’s shoulder while leading him to one of the sofas in the
center of the room. The two girls seated there came to their feet
as the men approached.

“You are already reacquainted with Florence,
I understand.”

Hunter smiled as he stood in front of her
and when she straightened from a shallow curtsy he bowed, taking
her hand, bringing it briefly to his lips. “I had the distinct
pleasure of meeting and conversing with Florence upon my arrival.”
And then he smiled in sympathy as the shy girl blushed
profusely.

“And this is Jennifer. You may remember her
as the baby of the family…although she’s nine now, so I suppose I
should stop introducing her that way.”

“I’m almost ten, Papa!” Jennifer informed
him in a stage whisper that made Hunter chuckle.

Taking her hand and holding it for a moment,
Hunter gazed down at her fondly. “You were practically a baby when
last I saw you,” he said warmly. “But you are quite the young lady
now, Jennifer.” He bowed over her hand while the girl smiled up at
her father with something close to triumph in her laughing
eyes.

Turning to join his host as Alastair led the
way around the low table between the two sofas, Hunter said softly,
“Beauty seems to run in this family, my friend.”

The older man waved the comment away with a
casual yet decidedly nervous gesture. “Obviously inherited from
their mother,” he muttered.

But that was not necessarily true. Alastair
was still a fine figure of a man. He had thickened around the
middle a little since their last meeting, but he had not developed
a disfiguring paunch, as did so many men who lived in the lap of
luxury. Then, too, Hunter recalled from his youth that the senior
Downings, Alastair’s parents, had been a strikingly handsome
couple.

As the men approached the other sofa, Hunter
noticed that his vision in blue had moved to stand behind her
sister and, although she was presented mainly in profile, he could
see she was frowning.

Surely she could not resent the attention he
was lavishing on her sisters? She couldn’t have become so petty; he
refused to believe that of her. With her beauty, she had no need to
resent anyone. Still, some of the most beautiful women he had met
could be insanely jealous on some occasions. God, he hoped she had
not turned out to be one of those vein, waspish females. What a
disappointment that would be.

“And this is Denise, my second daughter, if
you will recall,” Alastair announced with a note of pride. “She is
to be married before the year is out,” he added.

The young woman stood and dipped into a
graceful curtsy. Hunter smiled before bending over her hand.
“Denise,” he said warmly, “a pleasure to meet you once again.”

Denise smiled. She obviously accepted
herself for what she was; a reasonably attractive young woman
approaching seventeen who had inherited her father’s auburn hair
and gray-green eyes. Her most notable feature was her mother’s
ivory complexion, which glowed with a natural blush of
pleasure.