“I came on initially as a teacher twenty years ago.”
“In your estimation, where is the greatest need?” At Margaret’s question, the other woman showed her first hint of emotion.
“I could tell you a number of things. Clothing, better nutrition, more teachers, more nurses. And of course, I’m always concerned that we aren’t providing timely enough inspections in the foster homes but such support will always be limited. In my estimation, the root of the problem needs addressing at the Parliament level. Labor laws need changed so that a family can afford to raise their children. Education needs more funding in general. If a woman is better able to find honest employment, she is far less likely to end up working on her back. If the common man can earn better wages, it’s more likely that he’ll provide properly for his family. The problem isn’t here, My lady.” Her eyes shifted toward the front entrance to the building. “It is out there.”
Margaret nodded as she absorbed the director’s words. This was what Sebastian had been talking about all along. But it was not only in America. It was in England. “You have given me a great deal to think about, but I want you to know that I will do more than think.”
The other woman jerked her chin but also showed a glimmer of appreciation. “Forgive my sermonizing.”
“Not at all, Miss Clark. But until I can address all of that, what would you like for me to bring with me on my next visit?”
“Children’s clothing and shoes,” the woman said without hesitation. “And toys. You’d be amazed how much comfort a cloth doll with only buttons for eyes brings a child.”
Margaret rode back to her home deep in thought. In the attic of her townhouse, she’d packed all of the clothing she’d purchased for her own child in two large trunks. She would go through them that evening and have them sent over first thing tomorrow morning.
But first, another letter sat in the salver.
New York City, Jan 21, 1829
Maggie,
A woman was walking down the street today with hair the color of a raven and a figure somewhat reminiscent of a certain lady who’s taken permanent residence in my mind. She turned around, however, and I was greatly disappointed.
Her eyes were not as warm and her smile not the smile I wanted to see.
I miss you, Maggie.
You are never far from my thoughts and a hundred times a day I find myself wanting to talk to you. A thousand times a day I find myself wanting to hold you.And every damn night I crave nothing more than to bury my cock deep inside of you.
I miss England but I miss you so much more.
I’ve had far too much to drink, and it’s doubtful I’ll send this to you. Do you think of me when you’re lying in bed at night? Do you long for me the same way that I long for you?
I wish you were here, beside me.
Yours,
Sebastian
She’d receivedover twenty letters since he’d sailed. In each of them, she’d heard excitement and fatigue, descriptions of various landmarks or some anecdote he’d thought she’d enjoy and sometimes she heard loneliness and homesickness.
She’d read his letters over and over again. She’d lay in bed craving his touch, imagining him lying beside her. She ached for his embrace, his laughter, his voice.
In the time she’d spent with him at Land’s End, she’d given him her body and then lost her heart in the bargain. And since then, reading his letters, she was losing her soul, as well.
Her heart skipped a beat and then nearly exploded every time a new envelope with neatly formed letters spelling out her name and address arrived.
But would he ever love her? Was he ever coming home?
He had never declared his love for her. He’d made no mention of returning to London or changing his mind about having a family.
Even his mother was turning to her second son for grandchildren.
Margaret took a deep breath and closed her eyes. He’d written that he’d missed her, over and over again, but nothing had truly changed. She needed to let go. She needed to encourage him to move on without her. It was time to abandon her secret dreams, reclaim her heart, and envision her future without him.
She lowered herself onto a chair at the desk in her chamber and withdrew some paper, a quill, and some ink. Only after she’d slipped the letter into an envelope did the first tear fall.
Giving up on love was, in many ways, far more difficult than coping with death. Because in death, all hope was lost.
