too close together, Jane Trumble was, as Bessie had said, no great beauty. She was, however, both kind and clever, and when she talked, as she was doing now, her face lit up with such cheerful animation, it was impossible for anyone to think her plain.
They’d met during Maggie’s come-out season in the ladies retiring room at a ball. Maggie’s hem had been torn—trod on by a clumsy partner—and, in the absence of a maid, Jane had offered to mend it. The repairs were executed in a trice, but Maggie and Jane had remained in the retiring room for over an hour, talking and laughing. When at last they’d emerged, they were bosom friends, and had been ever since.
“As soon as you’ve rested from your journey, we must go shopping.” Jane led Maggie up the stairs. “I’d wager that gown you’re wearing is more than three years out of fashion. And your hat! How many times have you made it over? You look an absolute dowd!”
“I haven’t bought any new clothes since Papa died. There’s been little need. I’ve worn nothing but mourning.” Maggie’s mouth tugged into a frown. “Besides, it’s Fred who controls the purse strings now.”
Jane ushered Maggie down the upstairs hall and into the bedroom that was to be hers for the duration of her stay. Bessie had gone ahead of them and was already bustling about in the attached dressing room, seeing to the unpacking of Maggie’s things.
Jane sat down on the edge of the bed and drew Maggie down beside her. Her expression became serious. “Does he really have so much control over your money? I know he was an executor of your father’s will, but surely…?”
Maggie plucked at a stray thread on the skirt of her carriage gown. The mere mention of her father’s will, the provisions of which amounted in her mind to nothing less than the worst betrayal a father ever perpetrated against a daughter, was still enough to send her into the deepest melancholy.
“Fred holds all of my money and property in trust until the date of my marriage. As long as that marriage is with his approval. And he’ll never approve of my marrying anyone but him.”
“How dreadfully unfair it is,” Jane said. “Your father must be turning over in his grave.”
Maggie gave a short, humorless laugh. “On the contrary. It’s just the outcome Papa was hoping for. He couldn’t force me to marry Fred while he was alive. In truth, he didn’t have the heart to force me to do anything. But now he’s dead, he leaves me no choice. If I don’t marry within the time allotted, Beasley Park will go to Fred for good, and I’ll be left nothing but a small income on which to live out my spinsterhood.”
“Oh, Margaret. Your father doted on you so. I can’t comprehend how he could give away your inheritance to a stranger. A man related to you by neither blood nor marriage. It makes no sense at all.”
“Papa knew precisely what he was doing.”
“Well, I can’t understand it!”
“Can you not, Jane? Papa raised me to run Beasley Park. To love the land just as he loved it himself. He knew there was nothing on earth I wouldn’t do to keep it. And knowing that…from the grave, he has forced my hand.”
Jane shook her head in disbelief. “Then you mean to marry Fred?”
“Yes…I…” Maggie faltered. “I haven’t told Fred my answer yet. I have a little time left.”
“How much time?” Jane asked.
“The will stated that if I wasn’t already married upon Papa’s death, I would have two years in which to become so. That allowed for one year of mourning, and one year to find a husband. Unfortunately, it didn’t account for the time I must spend mourning Aunt Daphne.”
“Your aunt would choose to die the week after you finished mourning your father.”
“Yes. And as a result, I have but six months left before I must wed.”
Jane exhaled a deep breath. “Oh dear. No wonder you’re looking so wan and sickly. I didn’t like to mention it, but…”
Maggie wasn’t offended. She knew full well how she must appear to her friend. “The Burton-Smythes believe in the strictest possible interpretation of the rules of mourning. I wasn’t permitted to leave the house after Papa died except for walks in the garden with Bessie. And I wasn’t allowed visitors or to…” She faltered again, raising a hand to her forehead. A headache threatened. “Fred already runs Beasley as if it were his