Somewhere in the World

Chapter 8

She waited until her mother was quietly snoring, and crept from the bedroom, walking lightly on the balls of her feet so that her stout boots would make no sound. She crept down the stairs, past the lowered chandeliers where several slaves were replacing the stubs of candles with long tapers in preparation for the evening’s festivities. As they glanced up, she smiled and wished them a happy Christmas, then moved toward the door.

“Miss Margaret!” an imperious voice called from behind her. Spinning about in fright, Margaret found Dixon standing at the bottom of the majestic staircase, arms crossed on her ample chest. “Where are you going?”

Huffing a breath of relief, Margaret replied, “I am going for a walk, Dixon. I shan’t be long.”

Dixon’s eyebrows soared to her hairline. “Alone?” she asked in a scandalized voice. “And wearing no coat?”

Margaret’s patience dissipated. “Yes, alone, as I have done hundreds of times before when I lived here. I shan’t be long, and the weather is temperate enough that I do not need a coat. I beg you, Dixon, do not bother mother about this.” Turning on her heel, she wrenched the door open and stepped out into the cool air and blessed freedom. Her greatest fear was being discovered and accompanied by Maxwell, or, worse still, Henry.

Why did these men think she was fragile to the point that she could not open a door, or carry a tray, or fetch her own tea cup, let alone walk through the woods? Northern men did not treat ladies this way. Mr. Thornton—

At this juncture in her musing, she bit her lip. She was thinking about Mr. Thornton much more than she should, and could not understand why he was so prevalent in her thoughts. She had no particular fondness for him, she told herself firmly. However, she could not help but recall how shy and awkward he had been when he had asked her to save a dance for him at his family’s Christmas party. He had been so vulnerable, his eyes pleading and a soft smile on his face, and she had hurt him unintentionally. She had nearly sent him a note begging his pardon before she departed for Charleston.

She felt a pang of regret that she would not be there to dance with him, and wondered how it would feel to have his strong hand clasp hers and his arm support her waist, to have him whirl her about the dance floor. The men here in Charleston were so refined, so gentlemanly, so—boring, if truth be told. She could not tell one from the other, they were all light colored suits, clipped beards and mustaches, bay rum aftershave and the scent of tobacco and brandy, and smooth manners and genteel speech, at least in the presence of the ladies.

As she reached the woods and moved with purpose onto the footpath, she continued to imagine a dance with Mr. Thornton. He was so much taller than she was; she doubted a waltz would be easily accomplished. Yet, she thought it would be pleasant to feel his strong arms about her, and to match her steps to his. She was a very good dancer, and wondered if he was, as well. Or was he the type of man who trod upon one’s toes? He was so loose limbed and had such a fine figure that she doubted he would be clumsy. What would it be like to gaze up into his well-featured face and see it light with humor or in pleasure at some remark she might make? She felt warm at the thought, and could almost imagine him speaking to her in his low, musical voice.

“Margaret!”

The sound of her name released her from her absurd thoughts. She glanced behind her on the path to see Henry hurrying along, shawl in his hand. As he neared, he called out, “Dixon asked me to bring you your shawl. Why did you not tell me you planned to walk? I would have been happy to accompany you.”

Margaret sighed, an escaped prisoner brought to heel once more. She allowed Henry to drape the shawl about her shoulders and silently placed her hand in the crooked arm he offered her.