While Argyle was resting, Marguerite liked to spend time at the window of her bedchamber, which looked out onto the courtyard, and watch people coming and going: families with tired and fractious children, men walking into the inn for a glass of ale while the horses were changed. Sometimes there was a smart curricle driven by a gentleman in a coat with multiple capes, accompanied by a groom or a tiger; and once a private chaise with a gilded crest on the door, from which a lady emerged wearing a huge and hideous hat.
Marguerite described these people to Argyle in a comic manner—she liked to amuse him, although he complained his ribs still hurt when he laughed. She loved being silly, and egged him on,until one day they were both laughing helplessly at some idiotic joke she had made—something she had picked up in the kitchen.
He said, his hand on his side. ‘Stop! You are cruel.’
Marguerite said, wiping her eyes, ‘You know, you look much younger when you laugh. I had never seen you laugh like that before.’
He said, suddenly serious. ‘I haven’t laughed like that since my mother died. She loved being silly, just like you.’
‘You must have loved her very much.’
‘I did. But now I love you, and I can be silly again. Although it hurts like hell, you abominable creature.’ He smiled, and she kissed him quickly, still surprised every time he said he loved her so easily, almost matter of fact. It was as if he had been released from a spell which had made him cynical and aloof. She said so, and he answered, smiling with his dimple showing, ‘You have released me, you witch.’
* * *
Argyle, to his own astonishment, realised that he was happy—a feeling he was not used to having. A window had opened and let sunshine into his austere, lonely life. When contemplating marriage before, considering it a duty and a necessity in a remote future, nothing more, he had not thought of a wife as a possible companion and friend—more as another possession, animate, certainly, and necessitating a certain amount of conversation and consideration, but without impinging on his inner life in the least.
He had few friends, and his mistresses had always been chosen for their physical attractions combined with discretion and a lack of curiosity about his life beyond their social dealings. He now saw that his obsession with Marguerite had been a symptom of his falling in love with her, a feeling he did not recognise and did not know how to deal with. His instinct had been right in choosing her, but his manner had been all wrong.
He smiled to himself, recalling how clumsy and obnoxious he had been, and how she had cut him down to size. He understood now why she had kept refusing him, although she had been in love with him too—the life he had been proposingwas indeed bleak. He thanked God and Providence for the stroke of luck—or misfortune, for he was still in a lot of pain—that brought them together.
Now he relished every moment with her, finding her enchanting in every way. She was generous in showing her affection: ruffling his hair as she went past, stooping to kiss him quickly, holding his hand when she sat near him. She was unafraid of his moods and lost no opportunity of teasing him—it made him laugh at himself and brought out an innate sense of humour which he fortunately possessed. She still called him ‘Your Grace’ when she wanted to mock him, but mostly she called him Thomas—the name his mother had called him.
He never tired of hearing it.
She was curious, and interested in everything, and surprisingly well-read. They were both only children, but in his case that had made him spoilt and self-centred and lonely, whereas her parents’ loving regard and attention had helped her blossom into an accomplished, extroverted young woman. She would turn her hand to everything, from helping Mrs Mowatt prepare the food to reading poetry aloud; she never complained but was quick to express a difference of opinion. She was at ease with all sorts of people, from the lower orders to the nobility.
Argyle was more taken with her each day and lived in anticipation of the time their lovemaking could resume—he’d had a taste which promised him untold delights. The knot which he had been carrying in his stomach was dissolving and he slowly allowed himself to enjoy their developing relationship with no reservation.
His great aunt had written, inquiring about his health, and he wrote back reassuring her and telling her of the latest developments in his courtship of Marguerite.
So you see, Aunt Eliza, I did find another way, following your wise admonitions—perhaps not the most intelligent thing to do, but it did bring the object of my affections to my side. She has acknowledged her feelings for me and looks after me in the most agreeable way.
I am greatly looking forward to your meeting her and am confident you will wholly approve.
Yours, etc.
A.
* * *
Marguerite basked in the feeling that they were in a private world of their own, cut off from reality for the present. She said to herself, ‘I am in love.’ I am in love, I am in love, she repeated as she went about her day. Braving the disapproval of both Flossie and Curtis, she often went down to the kitchen to give Mrs Mowat a hand, or sit at the kitchen table with her, drinking cups of tea and listening to her dispensing pearls of wisdom about life in general and marriage in particular; she now knew all about this lady’s numerous relations and their various ailments. She felt at home.
As the days passed, Marguerite realised she was becoming easy in her mind about spending the rest of her life with Argyle. She was too shrewd not to know the present idyll could not last forever, but she hoped they were building a connection strong enough to help them overcome any future difficulties or disagreements.
One night after dinner, when she was sitting on the sofa with Argyle’s head in her lap, stroking his hair, she said, ‘When I first met you, I thought your hair always looked untidy—when I said so to my mother, she pointed out that you were probably not using pomade. Well, I’m glad you are not, because your hair would have been horrible to touch, and I love touching it.’ She ran her hands through the dark curls, rubbing his scalp, and he closed his eyes.
There was a silence, then she said, ‘I wish it could always be like this.’ She realised neither of them had mentioned marriage once, and ventured, ‘I think we should get married soon.’
‘Oh, do you?’ His voice was ironic, but he looked up at her, a smile lurking in his eyes. ‘Are you actually asking me to marry you? I can hardly believe it!’
She was undaunted. ‘Yes, Thomas, I am—do not tell me you have changed your mind?’
‘Of course not—I have only decided to leave all the important decisions in our life to you. You are obviously so much better than me at dealing with them.’
‘Please can you stop being so odious. I was serious.’ But she was thrilled by the way he had said,in our life.
‘So was I. The only demand I have, is for the ‘naked in bed’ part of our agreement to be implemented.’ He stroked her leg through the fabric of her skirt, then put his hand under it and rolled down her stocking, caressing her bare skin.
