Miss Goodhue Lives for a Night (12 page)

“But . . . what if they don't survive the journey? They would have to be uprooted and balled. Balled, Leticia! And what if they don't have the right kind of soil or fertilizer in London? What if it's—”

“Margaret,” Leticia said, in that tone she'd used so often last year when she was trying to impress her stepmother-wisdom on her. “There are flowers in London, so there is plenty of fertilizer and soil, I assume. And you out of anyone can keep a plant alive for a short trek south. Of all the things for you to worry about, I would not think your talent with plants would be one of them.” Leticia eyed her. “So I wonder what it is about London that really concerns you.”

“I . . . well, for heaven's sake, can you imagine me in London?” Margaret said, her cheeks blazing hot as she tugged on the end of her long braid that fell over her shoulder. “It's one thing to go to public balls in Claxby, but in London everything is so very fine, I would stick out like a . . . like a weed in a hothouse. What on earth would I do there?”

Leticia took a step forward and gently brought Margaret's hand down from worrying her braid to shreds. “Goodness, is that all?” she said, a wry smile twisting the corner of her mouth.

Margaret shot her a look of disdain for the entire three seconds she could maintain it.

“First of all, of course I can imagine you in London. I don't think you give yourself enough credit. You are a young lady of excellent family. You have been stepping out of your shell. And when you are not in your work clothes, you present yourself very well. Not like—”

Leticia stopped herself before finishing that sentence, but it was too late.

“Not like last year?” Margaret replied dryly.

As difficult as it might be to acknowledge, Margaret's dress sense had shifted for the better in the past year. And though Leticia might have wanted to hold her down and force her into petticoats of the appropriate length immediately upon their meeting, it had happened much more gradually than that.

And it happened because of her mother.

Ever since Margaret had been made aware of her late-bloomer status, she found herself a little hesitant to try anything new. To even go out into Helmsley, lest she be marked as a curiosity. But her mother knew her better and knew the one thing that would coax Margaret into the world.

She would lean down and whisper three magic words into Margaret's ear.

I dare you.

Margaret was not the kind of person to respond to something as childish as a dare. Normally, she was the exact opposite. But there was something about the way her mother leaned over and met Margaret's stare with a twinkle in her eye. Then she would nudge a hair further by asking, “What's the worst that could happen?”

And Margaret knew there would be nothing to fear.

It had been years since she had heard those words. And with no one to whisper them to her, she retreated into herself, into her greenhouse, where it was safe and everything was within her control.

But then, after Leticia's wedding to Mr. Turner, and when Helen came to sit at their dining table with such frequency, Margaret had begun to wonder if there weren't some things she had missed out on.

It started when she wandered by Mrs. Robertson's dress shop. There was a gown in the window, in a violent shade of watermelon. Something about it spoke to Margaret, and had her looking down at her old faded gown that she had let the hem out of three times. She was used to clinging to the safety of that old gown. But then, she caught sight of something in the window—it looked like her mother. And the twinkle in her eyes said “I dare you.”

It took her a few seconds to realize that it was not her mother, but her own reflection. But the twinkle was still there.
What's the worst that could happen?

The worst that could happen was that the watermelon shade of the gown would make her look strangely ill. And that was it. She didn't buy the gown. But since she was in the store, Mrs. Robertson convinced her to look at a different material in a similar cut. And then another. And then Leticia showed up—no doubt alerted to the situation by Mrs. Robertson's shopgirl—and helped her choose another few.

Then that Sunday Miss Goodhue, the sister of the vicar's wife, asked if she was considering going to the assembly that next week in a town over. And she caught a look at her reflection in the church window, and the twinkle in her eyes.

Then Molly, the little laundry maid who'd become Leticia's lady's maid, but had to go back to the laundry when Leticia married Mr. Turner, asked if she could practice putting up Margaret's hair, seeing as she was going to apply as a lady's maid for another local family.

There was no way Margaret could say no.

And so her long hair—usually worn in a braid down her back—was pinned up. And she went to a dance. And she sometimes took tea in Helmsley with Miss Goodhue. And she spent every Sunday after church with Leticia and Mr. Turner at the mill. And her life began to open up by just a crack.

It was terrifying.

But it was also not terrifying. All the fear she had piled on to being pointed out as something freakish and unbloomed turned out to be nothing. And as she became more comfortable in the role, she became more confident in it.

But London was still an entirely different animal.

“And as for your second question,” Leticia continued, drawing Margaret's thoughts back to the present, “what would you do in London?” She smiled in that feline way she had, as if she were four steps ahead of you in the dance. “I imagine you would do whatever you wanted.”

“Whatever I wanted?” Margaret asked.

“Of course. You would not be going to town for a season. Just to speak to these Horticultural Society gentlemen. So you would not need bear the social rigmarole, if you didn't wish to. But you don't need to be dancing across the
ton
to go to the opera or a play, if that was of interest. Or the gardens of Vauxhall.”

Margaret's head popped up at that. The Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens would certainly be something interesting to do . . . if she had to go to London, that is.

“And if you
did
find that you wanted to attend a party or two, I'm certain we could introduce you to the right people, and you would be more than welcome at any social event.”

Well, that thought killed off a bit of Margaret's enthusiasm . . . but not all of it.

“And of course, Dr. Gray will be there,” Leticia said nonchalantly. She glanced back down at the letter from Rhys she still held in her hand. “From the tone of this letter, he is quite eager to make your stay a memorable one.”

“Perhaps . . . perhaps a dance or two would not be so bad,” Margaret mused. After all, she had been to the balls in Claxby and they were admittedly on the right side of enjoyable. And if she could dance with Rhys, someone she knew—and had verification he was at least her height, if not a half inch or so taller—she would not disgrace herself or her father.

“Yes, you might even enjoy yourself,” Leticia said, smiling. “And I imagine Rhys would enjoy himself too.”

“I hope so,” Margaret replied, her eyes falling to her pea pods again, so she did not notice the mischievous look in Leticia's eyes for some moments.

But when she did finally see it, her own gaze shuttered.

“No, Leticia,” she said.

“No, what?” Leticia replied. “I said nothing.”

“You didn't have to say anything. I can see it in your face.”

“What is it you think you see?”

“I think I see someone trying to conjure up a romance between two people who are merely . . . academic correspondents!”

Leticia gave her a look of supreme skepticism. “Admittedly, my experience with academic correspondence is virtually nil, but this does not sound like Rhys is writing to a dusty old chemist or astronomer. And he's not. He's writing to a vital young woman. Who harbored a bit of a crush on him at one point, no?”

Margaret felt her cheeks go hot. Yes, when she first met Rhys, he had caused her to blush. But ever since then, her thoughts of him were far more cerebral—or rather, far less girlish—that she decided it was just a passing fancy.

“That was a year ago; I was a full year younger. And it was of very short duration. He's been in Greenwich and I here—and we are much better as friends than otherwise.”

“Friends?” Leticia's eyebrow went up. “Not academic correspondents?”

“Friends
and
academic correspondents,” Margaret replied. “But here's another problem we haven't considered. If I go to London, what will I do about father? He'll crow and rail about the expense, and having to travel . . .”

“You leave your father to me—or rather to Helen and me— and I know she will be absolutely delighted that you have been invited to town by an eligible gentleman.”

“For the last time, Rhys—Dr. Gray—is my friend. That's all.”

“Just friends?”

“Leticia . . .”

“All right, all right,” she replied, holding up her hands in a gesture of peace. When she did, the letter slipped out of her grasp, and tumbled into one of the little pots for the peas—which was freshly filled with fertilizer.

“Oh hell!” Margaret cried, as she dove for the note, fishing it out. “Please don't let it be ruined.”

“For someone who is just friends, you're awfully worried about a letter,” Leticia said wryly.

Margaret flushed again, but this time, she kept her eyes down on the pots in front of her and managed to do something she never thought possible.

She told the littlest white lie.

“You assume I'm worried about the letter, when I could just as easily be worried about my pea pods.”

Want even more in the Winner Takes All series?

Three friends. One Wager. Winner takes all. Don't miss the first book, on sale now!

The Game and the Governess

Clerk John Turner thought only of winning a bet when he switched places with his friend, Lord Edward Granville, at a country house party. But while posing as a lord, he fell for a lady—the Countess Letitia! Now she's learned the truth, and he must win her back as plain John Turner. He'd better hope that love truly conquers all. . .

The Lie and the Lady

Dr. Rhys Gray and Miss Margaret Babcock are friends—strictly friends. But over the course of the year, as they exchange dozens of letters, they share personal details that put them on the path to something more. But will their relationship stand the scruples of society and jealous intendeds, or are they destined to be only friends, and nothing more?

The Dare and the Doctor