Better Than Byron

Death's Doorstep

IX

And, after all, what is a lie? 'Tis but

The truth in masquerade.

-Lord Byron

The sisters' hostilities continued well into the next day, at which point people began to notice. Edgar observed their reserve at dinnertime, but had not the sort of cool-headed disposition to interfere in ladies' quarrels. He favoured, "seeing, and saying nothing" in such circumstances.

He watched placidly as they withdrew to their rooms, Margaret the stoic and Tilly the aristocrat. His curiosity peaked after all, regardless of his former decision not to pry, and he decided to ask Margaret what sort of disagreement had planted such an uncomfortable distance between them. He ascended the stairs to her sitting-room, and when he rapped on the door he was answered with a vapid, "Come in, sir." As he opened the door, he saw Margaret leaning languidly back in her armchair with an expression of gentle frustration.

"I know why you are come, Mr. Thurlow," she sighed, her stoicism softening into sorrow. "I have had a dispute with my sister over our father – often a subject of discord between us." When she lifted her eyes to scrutinize him she caught him making faces in the mirror over the mantelpiece. Perceiving her stern gaze he sobered up and faced her with affected gravity.

"Well," she resumed with a sigh. "The fact of the matter is that I wish to visit him, but she does not care to because she fears to catch his grief – as if it were contagious, and would kill her. Now, Mr. Thurlow, do not you agree that her behaviour is selfish and unreasonable?"

"Certainly," he nodded, adding nothing more to the affirmation.

"Well, I had hoped for a little more advice from you."

"Margaret, why don't you simply go without Tilly, and have me for a travelling companion instead?" She shot her eyes up at him, but dropped them as abruptly. Her cheeks suddenly charged with colour, and she murmured, "Please, Mr. Thurlow. What an idea!"

"Is that the only objection you can think of?" he grinned, kneeling down beside her and taking her hand. "Your relentless refusal to be alone with me?"

"Alone?" she said in a breath, staring into his eyes, which were unusually benign. "That is not my chief concern! It is... well; it is the judgment of others that I am concerned about. You have a reputation, and I am a reduced gentlewoman."

"All the more reason why you should care nothing for public opinion," he chuckled thoughtfully. "Come, Margaret. You know I regard you as a good friend – you have been tirelessly good to me: how can I not? Do you regard me as a friend?"

"How can I regard you as a friend," she said sombrely, "when I have so much to doubt in your character? The bond of truth does not tie us together – so how can I think of you as anything more than an employer?"

"Some day," he said, lowering his voice and leaning closer to her. "Some day, my dear Margaret, I shall divulge my whole life to you, as I feel is necessary to gain your trust, but that day is not today, nor is it a month from now. You must learn to trust me without knowing me. Trust me for who I am – not who I was."

"You defend yourself well," she smiled. "But your proposal still needs to be contemplated. Tilly might change her mind yet. I know her to be a very impetuous decision-maker, but give her a fortnight to consider the pros and cons of a matter, and her reason will return in full force."