Bees in the Butterfly Garden (5 page)

“Mr. Maguire.” She tried pulling her hands away, but he held fast.

Then the shadows behind her drew Maguire’s gaze, as well as an immediate frown from his handsome face. He freed her hands at last but didn’t free her altogether. Instead, he looped one of her hands over his forearm and stood slightly in front of her as if to separate her from the two she’d arrived with.

“Brewster. Jamie.” No further formalities were exchanged, from either end. “You’ll allow Miss Davenport to go in first, won’t you? For a visit alone with her father?”

“Of course, of course,” Brewster said. He tipped his hat at Meg. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Davenport, and sharing the ride.”

“Thank you.”

Maguire was already leading her away, placing his own hand over hers on his arm. “This way, Meggie.”

She wished he wouldn’t call her that. She’d hated it on her father’s lips, and it felt even more unfitting from this man. So friendly, so intimate.

Meg had little time to assess the others still on the porch, beyond a vague recognition that only one woman stood among them. Even the servant with a beverage tray was male.

It occurred to her as she followed Maguire that this was the first time in her life she’d been in attendance at an event in which she, as a girl or as a woman, was in the minority. The sound of men’s voices seemed so unfamiliar to her, so foreign and almost exotic.

The arched entryway led into a long hall. To the right was a glass door that would open to the porch she’d noticed. On the left was another door, this one closed; it was tall with insets carved like a basket. The rest of the hall was a mix of marble flooring and dark wood paneling that widened at a central rotunda.

At the far side of the rotunda’s curve, Maguire led her to a large, empty room that would probably serve as a ballroom during more festive occasions. There were a few chairs set up near a large fireplace on the outermost wall, between two tall, open windows. Flowers were arrayed in front of them, perhaps to disperse their aroma upon any breeze in hopes of dispelling the scent of death that met her. Because there, on another far wall, was a table skirted in dark purple with a coffin on top.

Her father.

Maguire let go of her hand and stood nearby like a submissive schoolboy. His watery gaze caught hers. Meg looked away, the void in her heart a stark contrast to the sorrow she saw in him. She sucked in a breath of the perfumed air and stood as tall as her five-foot frame allowed, then approached the body for her farewell.

His face looked strange to her, not at all as handsome as he’d been in life. She’d never seen him in repose but doubted this was how he’d looked even then. His jaw was oddly set, his pallor appalling. She’d only ever seen him in the school parlor—once or twice a year, sitting stiffly, always igniting a single question in her, one she’d never asked aloud: Why had he bothered to visit?

She wanted to ask him that now, demand to know why he hadn’t just sent the money to school without ever coming to see her. It was obvious he’d never had any affection for her, had probably never approved of her at all. If he had, wouldn’t he at least have wanted her company?

Her hollow stomach lurched, and she thought she might be sick. Surely it was only the smell, not just from her father but from the pungent flowers surrounding him. Scents so strong she suddenly wasn’t sure she could enjoy her expansive gardens at school ever, ever again.

And then everything went blank.

5

The true lady represents both beauty and health. It is not uncommon, however, for even the healthiest of young ladies to swoon. Swooning should never be used to demand attention or stir unnecessary sympathies.

Madame Marisse’s Handbook for Young Ladies

Ian knelt and scooped Meg’s head into his lap. Then he lifted her altogether and crossed the room, passing the flowers and the windows and fireplace, reaching the three-story rotunda in the very heart of his home. He passed to the other side, knowing the library and billiard room were unoccupied but opting instead to take her upstairs. There were six rooms up there, only half of which were comfortably furnished and only one of which he absolutely could not take her to—it was, in fact, kept locked at all times.

But rather than taking her to John’s room—there was something repugnant in the idea of laying her on the bed in which her father had so recently died—he took her to his own room. It was the largest, after all, even larger than the guest room her father had used.

He’d forgotten he’d shut Roscoe in there, who greeted them with a wagging tail. Ian ignored him, settling Meggie on the bed and shooing the dog away when he tried taking a place next to her.

Ian poured a glass of water from the pitcher at his bedside. “Meggie?”

She seemed half-conscious, offering him only a little moan in response.

“Would you like a drink? Water?”

She turned away, eyes still closed, forehead puckered in a frown.

Roscoe squeezed closer, shoving aside Ian’s arm and nearly causing him to spill the glass of water. He replaced the glass, then reached for the dog, who was busy getting to know Meggie by pressing his nose directly in her face with a friendly lick.

“Oh! Oh!” Meggie sat up, brushing a hand over her cheek.

Ian hauled Roscoe away, wishing he’d had the heart to train him better. He told the dog to sit but knew the animal had no idea what such an order meant. “This is Roscoe. He’s harmless.”

“Dogs,” she said, “are made for the out-of-doors.”

He offered no argument, although he quite firmly disagreed. “I’m sure you’re right about that.” He held the dog back when Roscoe made another attempt to acquaint himself with this new visitor on the bed he so often shared with Ian. “But today he’d be more of a nuisance, with all the guests in and out.”

“Has he no chain, no shed?”

Ian eyed her. How could Meggie not like dogs, when it was her father who’d taught him they were the only living things that could really be trusted?

“He’s a barker . . . well, unless he’s comfortable, that is. And he’s comfortable here.”

She looked around for the first time. He took in the room too, trying to see it as she might. The heavy drapes were closed, but light seeped around the edges, providing a dim view. She was surrounded by plenty of down-filled blankets he kept handy, even now when the days were warm. His wardrobe, which he’d forgotten to close, stood off to the side. It held all his clothes, neatly hung. Beyond that was the open door to his bathroom, and he wondered if she was impressed by such a modern convenience. Surely she could see the parquet flooring and the towel he’d forgotten to rehang; it was draped on the side of the polished mahogany frame surrounding the porcelain tub. He followed her gaze around the rest of the room, to the desk between the two windows, full of records Ian shared with no one. Opposite that was the fireplace, and above that the landscape oil that had been left behind by the former owner of the house.

He thought the place neat enough, especially considering he hadn’t expected any company.

“Is this my father’s room?”

He shook his head.

“Yours?”

No sooner had he nodded than she swung her feet to the floor, inviting Roscoe to lurch forward. Ian held him back again.

“This is quite a large room for a secondary,” she said, but when she tried standing, she must have done so too quickly because she sank back down to the blanket as if dizzy.

“Look, you’re obviously overwrought. Can I get you something? A sandwich? Perhaps it would help to eat something.”

Meg nodded. “Yes. I’m afraid my head is still spinning, but this room—you, being here—isn’t helping in the least. Could you send up a maid with something light? I’m afraid in my haste to arrive, I forgot to eat.”

Ian understood a lack of appetite; he’d barely eaten anything himself since finding John the day before.

He led Roscoe away, though Roscoe clearly didn’t want to leave the newcomer and cried when Ian grabbed him by the scruff and made sure he followed. He put the dog in another room—the guest room John had used—and went in search of someone in the kitchen.

Apart from the blanket offering the faint scent of an animal, the room was quite pleasant. Too dark for Meg’s taste, of course, but with the little light illuminating it, she could see the wallpaper was fine quality, complementing the design in the velvet curtains. She used the bathroom, noting that it was decorated tastefully too, if a bit stark. Other than the tile, it was plain and lacked any hint of the toiletries she was so used to seeing: bottles, oils, perfumes, various size mirrors, and so on. This one offered a single mirror on the wall, a cup for soapy cream, a discarded blade for shaving, tooth powder and brush.

Back in the bedroom, she opened one of the drapes. The house, as she suspected, was on something of a hill. In the distance she saw the river beyond a multitude of green trees. The yard was nearly barren but for hardy grass, and she couldn’t see the porch at all from this angle.

She supposed it wasn’t odd that Maguire would have such a large room here, in her father’s home. He’d been the son her father never had. She turned to look at the room again.
This might have been my room, had I been a boy.

“Meggie?”

She turned at the gentle voice, seeing a woman entering with a covered tray, a small cup and teapot rattling on the edge. But she was no servant; she was the woman Meg had spotted on the porch, properly dressed in black.

She was lovely, Meg noticed as she neared. Perhaps a bit old to be Maguire’s wife, but she didn’t look the right age to be his mother, either. A sister? Yet there was no family resemblance at all.

“My name is Kate, and I’ve brought you a little something to eat. Are you comfortable here at the desk, or would you like to move elsewhere?”

“Is there another place I can go where I won’t have to see anyone else?”

Kate nodded, leading back over the threshold, tray still in hand. She went to the opposite end of the hallway, around the hollow rotunda, to a small room where sunlight beckoned from a dazzlingly bright sunporch. It overlooked a considerable segment of the outlying countryside, past the trees surrounding the house, to the river beyond.

Settling the tray on a table between two comfortable chairs, the older woman invited Meg to sit as she stacked a couple of books out of the way. The tea was tepid but tasty. Meg couldn’t tell if it was hunger or if the food truly was exceptional, but she quickly ate the lobster salad and chicken pie. She would have preferred eating alone, but the woman lingered nearby, pushing open one of the windows—it was on a hinge like a miniature door—then peering out. After a while she withdrew a handkerchief from her sleeve, one Meg noticed was incongruously red.

Meg heard voices from below. Male voices again, somber. She couldn’t hear well enough to tell what they said, but it made her pause just the same.

“How well did you know my father?”

Kate dabbed one eye, then left the window for the seat nearest Meg. There were circles around her golden-brown eyes, and though her matching golden-brown hair was swept up in a chignon, it looked as though she hadn’t taken much care in the styling of it.

“We were to be married this week.”

“Oh!” Meg’s fork slipped from her hand, falling with a clatter to the porcelain plate in her lap. The news effectively killed what little appetite she had left. Meg put the remainder aside, letting it sit on the table between them. She lifted the teacup instead, because having her hands suddenly free only reminded her of her awkwardness. “Then you must be far more saddened by his death than I. You must also know that my father and I hardly knew one another.”

One of Kate’s arched brows rose. “I believe he knew you very well, Meggie. He loved you so much and was proud—”

Meg replaced the teacup with a clank and stood, taking the place Kate had left vacant at the open window. From here she could almost make out the conversation rather than just a deep-pitched rumble from below.

“If you think it’ll somehow make me feel better to hear such words, Miss . . . What did you say your name was? Miss Kate . . . ?”

“Katherine Kane, but please just call me Kate.”

Meg started to, but the friendly acknowledgment died before reaching her lips. “I barely knew my father, and I see no reason for you to pretend he knew anything about me.”

“But it’s no pretense!” Kate stood, approaching Meg. “He knew everything about you, Meggie. Simply everything! How you excelled at your studies from spelling to botany—imagine that, botany! I didn’t even know what it was until your father told me. He also knew that you couldn’t be beaten at tennis, and that when Lady White-Somerset-Stewart visited Madame Marisse from England and was asked to name a Harvest Princess, she chose
you
. Awarded to the girl who best combined all the qualities of a lady.” She pressed the red handkerchief to her nose, eyes closing momentarily before gazing at Meg once again. “He even attended several of your chamber music concerts at the school.”

To busy herself, Meg returned to her chair and took up the tea again. She didn’t want to believe Kate, but how could she not? Why would she lie, and how else could she know about some of those things?

“He attended my concerts? But he never,
ever
came to see me—”

“Did you or did you not find a yellow rose in your viola case after several performances?”

“Left by Madame or one of the staff . . .” A secret admirer had been her most fervent wish. But her father? Impossible.

Meg set aside the tea again. “If my father attended my concerts, why did he never want to see me? Or talk to me? Only one thing has ever been clear to me: he didn’t want me. He chose a surrogate son instead.”

“Nothing could be further from the truth.”

The statement came from behind them—and from a distinctly male voice. Ian Maguire moved around to stand directly in front of Meg’s chair.

“Your father loved nothing more than he loved you. Everything he did, he did for you.”

Meg raised half-veiled eyes to him. “And that’s why he lived here with you rather than me. Why he left me to be raised in a school.”

“Not just any school!” Kate insisted. “Madame Marisse’s is one of the finest schools in New England. Anyone schooled there has achieved the pinnacle of society’s training.”

Meg stared down at her hands, folded firmly—desperately—in her lap. If her fingers didn’t cling to each other, she was sure they’d be trembling.

“Look at yourself, Meggie,” Maguire added, his voice little more than a whisper. “You’re a lady, just as your father hoped you would become.”

She would have stood again, but Maguire hovered so close to her chair that to rise would mean brushing up against him or at least touching him in order to push him away. So she stayed seated, hands clasped even more tightly. “I won’t deny my father provided well for me. But loved me? Hardly. Having kept spies around me all my life doesn’t speak of love so much as a desire for proof that he was getting his money’s worth for my education.”

“Oh, Meggie,” Kate sighed. “There are so many things about your father you don’t know. The things he did to provide so well for you—”

“What you need to know, Meggie,” Maguire cut in, “is that your father loved you. Take it from us, who knew him best.”

She smiled tightly. “That’s rather hard to believe, Mr. Maguire, given my father’s history with me—or lack thereof.”

“But you’re here,” Kate said. “Surely you mourn his passing?”

Meg held Kate’s gaze. “I came to see if I might like him better dead than alive. And I find I don’t, after all.”

Cruel words, especially spoken before two people who obviously
did
love him. But seeing this house, hearing them say her father was capable of loving someone, only made his absence from her life that much worse. So Meg didn’t regret her words, even as Kate’s eyes widened in horror and Maguire’s brows gathered in concern.

“There is something you should know,” Kate said.

“Yes.” Maguire spoke, though Kate appeared to have wanted to continue. “Your father’s greatest hope was that once you finished school, you would be happy to remain there until choosing to marry one of the young men you met through the school’s social events. He hoped your life at school would have provided the foundation you needed for a proper, happy life.”

Return to school. Return to school.
It was all she ever heard!

Suddenly the next step in her future became startlingly clear. What reason did she have to return to school? To spend another summer with the Hibbit sisters and reduced staff? No other student lived there year-round, the way Meg had ever since she could remember. Even if Meg’s future remained the same as it had been two days ago, even if she eventually joined the staff at Madame Marisse’s the way she’d always expected to, there was absolutely no reason to hurry back.