Should I really be honored that someone wrote a poem for me? I detest poems. They're a bore -- and my name does not rhyme with margarine! Good heavens, attending to my suitors can be a tedious (and rather horrifying) task at times. It's a good thing my dear Archer is always on time to rescue me...
- From the diary of Margaret Swinton, 4 July 1950
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"'My love for you is like a dove
So soft and yet so rough.
If I could ever compare you to one thing
I'd say it would be margarine.
One kiss is all I am asking for
Pure bliss is what I'll feel
Before I head for the door.
So dear, dear countess
I --"
"Thank you, Henry," I said haughtily, "I do appreciate the time you've spent writing that poem for me -- ehm, how long did you say it took you?"
Henry Carmichael, a young mister without a penny in his pocket, grinned at me in his seat as he leaned forward to take my hand. "Eight hours," he replied magnanimously, looking at all his rivals smugly. "You see, I had to think hard and, once I finally found my rhythm, I wrote the poem with passion."
"I can tell you wrote it with such passion, Mr. Carmichael," I said dryly. "Comparing me to margarine and stating that your love for me is like a dove that is so soft, yet so rough is highly eloquent." I stared at him behind the rim of my teacup, one gold eyebrow arcing vertically. "I am very admired. So very admired."
Dolt that he was, Henry beamed at my praise, glaring when one of my other suitors laughed at him. He sat back and gazed at me longingly.
I confess, I truly was a vision that afternoon in my parents' country house in Newcastle. My shoulder-length hair was curled to perfection, glistening like spun gold in the afternoon light from the window behind me. My skin was all peaches and cream, and my eyes were bright baby blues that glittered as I stared at all my handsome suitors. I was in a beautiful pink day dress that complemented my fair features, and to complete it all, a tea set and tray of fabulous tarts was on the table in front of me, making me look like one of my mother's delicate china figurines.
I was usually in a good mood when my suitors visited me (not really) and they were composed as true gentlemen would act (they were trying so very hard to get a praise and for me to notice them, poor ducks). But really, it was becoming such a bore! The last straw was when Henry recited his done-in-only-eight-hours-poem entitled Margaret is my Margarine in front of everyone. I'd wanted to sink and meld as one with the floor.
I wasn't even that very patient nor was I angelic, truth be told. But the chaps still wouldn't give up. Blast them.
I was a young woman who had a title and no husband. I was a countess and therefore, as rich as Cleopatra had once been. I knew some of them were courting me because they were after my money. It made me want to laugh out loud. I may be blond, but how stupid did they think I was? Bah!
At that moment, Lord Bastian Crawford bravely sat in the settee in which I was the only one occupying, making the others grumble at his brazenness. He leaned forward quite a bit but I remained sipping my tea elegantly, blinking up at him. He was a handsome youth with auburn hair and tantalising green eyes; but redheaded men were usually hotheaded (not that I wasn't, because I certainly was that.)
"I just bought this splendid new yacht," he went on with dripping charm. "Just arrived yesterday all the way from Monaco."
I raised an eyebrow, continuing sipping my tea. "Oh really?"
"Yes, really," he purred. "I'd be honored if you'd come with me there to dance the night away sometime." He wiggled his eyebrows, hinting at something I already knew wasn't good. Why, the fiend.
Well, that wasn't very brilliant of him. I gently set down my teacup and saucer on the Oriental coffee table and gave him a radiant smile, which he returned pleasantly. "Oh, I would love to visit your yacht sometime, Lord Crawford, but I'm afraid I couldn't dance the night away with you. Ever." He frowned. "You see, I am a lady of good virtue (cough) and certainly cannot abide being alone with a young bachelor such as yourself, who is considered to be England's reigning playboy." I batted my lashes innocently at him.
He snorted derisively. "I'm only third."
"Oh, are you? Well, I'm sure you'll be right at the top!" I said, patting his arm.
Henry and everyone else clearly saw this "affectionate" gesture, but Mr. Carmichael was the one who reacted immensely. He stood up and glared at Lord Crawford. "I say!" he boomed. Then he did something that I wished he'd never done.
He kneeled down before me and produced a velvet box. Inside was a ring.
"What's this?!" I asked, shrilly.
"Marry me?"
"Good heavens!"
"I love you, countess," he confessed, eyes shining. Everyone in the room was stunned, and one maid, who entered the room to place a fresh pot of tea, widened her eyes and turned back round to exit the drawing room.
I closed my eyes with my lips pinched at the corners. "I do not want to --"
"Oh hush, the lot of you," a familiar voice called out.
I opened my eyes, my head lifting to see who'd just entered. There he was, my dear best friend, Archer Griswold, looking unbearably handsome in his Teddy Boy outfit -- white shirt, gray blazer, black narrow tie, dark slacks, and black suede shoes. One shoulder was leaning on the doorframe and he had his hands in his pockets. His honey blond hair was parted at the side, and his hazel eyes scintillated with amusement as he saw the awful scene in full view: my mouth hanging wide open, Henry kneeling in front of me with the velvet box in his outstretched hands, Bastian's eyes grown wide at the sight of the ring thrust upon me, and the others looking awfully frozen as they gaped.
"Archer!" I exclaimed, rising quickly to my feet. I struggled to get out of my circle, and when I finally escaped my suitors' clutches, I went toward him. My heels clicked with each step, making a huge noise, but I didn't care. I flung my arms round his neck that smelled of spice, and he wrapped his arms round my waist, lifting me up as he did so.
"I say!" I heard Henry exclaim indignantly.
"Oh, we're all goners now," one moaned. "Archer's here."
"Now, now, fellows." Archer put me down and looked at all of them. "You know Margaret is my dearest friend. She's like my sister!"
One actually rolled his eyes at that.
"Well," Archer said, shrugging in that slow, Parisian way of his. He turned and smiled at me cheekily. "I guess they'll never get it."
"Right," I agreed with a nod, taking his outstretched arm. "Goodbye, gentlemen!"
With that, we left them to find the exit on their own.
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"I cannot believe you left your suitors," Archer chuckled as he watched from his seat. We were in my little cottage called Alberca, which belonged to my great-great grandmother. Apparently, this quaint place was passed on to the next Countess Lockley of Newcastle, and I was the latest edition.
I gave a little laugh, lying on my back on the sofa. It would be a scandal if anyone saw me lying in front of the Mr. Archer Griswold, especially with only the two of us in the cottage. Even though he was considered a rake and a rogue of the first form in London society, he was a family friend. My parents practically raised him, considering his own parents were too busy attending soirées without bothering to truly care for him ever since he was little. Oh, they weren't horrible parents -- they just didn't know how to look out for him, having him at such a young age.
But my own parents took Archer under their wing. He was my brother, and I loved him.
"I did say good-bye, didn't I?" I retorted, referring to his question. "And besides, I had to get away. Henry Carmichael -- who recited a ghastly poem to me -- tried to propose! D'you know how horrifying that moment was for me?"
"Oh, how horrifying indeed, my lady," he crooned. "But think of it this way: at least someone actually wrote a sappy poem for you and you got proposed to in public! Well, in front of your other suitors anyway. There are several girls out there dying to be in your place right this moment, let me tell you that."
I plunked a pillow on my face and groaned, "I am tired of all of them! I have been doing this since I was fifteen, Archer. Fifteen! I'm sure the lot of them are only after my money and title. After all, when I die, it can go to a male or female; and if I would never have any children, the title would be bestowed upon my husband." I pressed the pillow harder onto my face, giving a shrill and kicking my foot on the armrest dispassionately. "I don't want to have a bloody carrot for a husband, I don't!"
"What?" Archer had the decency to laugh at me? How dare he! "What carrot?"
"Shut up," I growled. "I was talking about Crawford."
Archer gave a startled laugh, his lips stretching into a delighted grin. "Darling, you're not going to be marrying any carrot any time soon!" He walked over to where I was sprawled, squatted down and levelling his beautiful hazel eyes with mine. He lost all humour as he stared. "You're going to marry for love," he declared direly.
I blinked at him. "I am?"
"Of course, Maggie."
Archer was the only person who ever dared to call me Maggie. I'd never allow anyone else. He still kept staring. Not liking the little niggling ball in the pit of my stomach, I lightly punched his arm and scoffed. "I wonder when that will happen," I sarcastically remarked, sitting up properly now. Archer finally sat beside me and patted my small hand.
"It will. Do you know, but you don't have to rush things. You're seventeen! Go and do whatever you want to do."
"But I'm a countess. I am obligated to marry."
He rolled his eyes at that. Sure it was easy for him! He was a man and a mere mister (a rich mere mister, that is). He could do whatever he wanted with his life. I glared at him; he raised a brow.
"You're thinking I can do whatever I want, aren't you?"
"What? No!" I gasped. Of course, he could read my mind! We'd known each other since we were children (I was eight, he was ten). There were no secrets between us -- and sometimes, as I'd come to realise as we grew older, that could be get very annoying.
"Liar," he scoffed.
"Hmph!"
"Impertinent wench," he mumbled, raising me up with his big hands. "I take it you're coming to Lord and Lady Birches' soirée?"
Good God, he was random. I blinked at him, then closed and opened my mouth without the words coming out. After a full ten seconds of silence, Archer chuckled and led me out the door. "I'm sure you are," he answered for me. "You are 'obligated,' of course."
I shot daggers in his direction.
He held his hands up like he didn't want to cross me -- which he shouldn't. No matter how much I loved him, he could be bloody irritating at times. In this case, he was being particularly vexing now. I could throw my adorable sandal at him, quite honestly.
"Which is good," he continued, like he didn't know I wanted to kill him then and there or throw him to the fenny. "Because then you wouldn't be able to know who the girl I am smitten by is."
I paused, stopping my thoughts of murdering him. "What?"
He gave a great big bellow, doubling over with laughter. He wiped a tear in his eye, but didn't stop his shoulders from rocking up and down. "I got you!"
"What?" I sneered. Really. He was an idiot.
"You dolt, I'm not in love with anyone! You know I'm not ready for that yet. Oh, it's jolly good fun teasing you. Course I'd tell you all about her, when she comes into my life, that is. You're the first one I'm telling. You know that." His hazel eyes became gentle as they gazed back at me.
I should've been touched. But I was not in the mood for gratitude and all that. I smacked his arm, spinning on my heels and heading out for the door. "You're a cad!"
"Oh, I know I am." I heard him trailing behind me.
I ignored him then, and so he began to whistle a tune on our way back to the mansion. He remained a good three feet away from me and I knew he was watching my back with a wolfish grin on his pretty-boy face.
Quietly, but with a hint of haughtiness, I lifted my chin and said, without looking over my shoulder at him: "You're going to escort me tomorrow, aren't you?"
The next thing I knew, he was beside me, smiling impishly. His eyes glittered. "Absotively posilutely, baby doll. Always."