Four months later
The thick letter didn’t look extraordinary. It was posted from Holborn, with no indication of its import.
“What can this be?” Rhys held it up questioningly. “An acquaintance of yours?”
Margaret read the name. “No. I’ve no idea.”
He broke the seal and began to read as Margaret slipped a bite of bacon under the table to the stray dog she’d adopted. The poor thing had been living in the stables, but seemed to recognize Margaret as his saving angel. He was never far from her feet.
They had settled into life in Wales rather easily. The house had been spared the infestation of cupids, and, aside from the crumbling east wing, was habitable once the roof was patched and the burned timbers cleared from the front façade. Rhys plunged back into managing his lands, and now flocks of sheep covered the hills—not his own sheep, but tenants’. In the spring he would be paid a harvest of lambs, to begin anew, and this time, he vowed to Margaret, they wouldn’t be grazed in any low-lying areas.
It felt almost right to sink back into the economy she had practiced before the Durham inheritance upended her life. Margaret paid her own accounts again, did her own mending, and tended her own kitchen garden. She supposed it would horrify the people who had invited her to their balls and masquerades in London, but she rather liked the days, with her duties beyond what dress to wear, and even more so the nights, when Rhys returned home to make love to her with very unfashionable passion. He laughed that they would have been thrown out of society sooner or later anyway, for he couldn’t keep his hands off her, which was simply not done by earls.
Even with that economy upon them, though, there was always a little bacon to spare for the dog. She would have to think of a name for him, since he didn’t appear to be running off any time soon. Not that any dog she’d ever met would run away from bacon. She was feeding him another tiny tidbit when Rhys said her name.
“Maggie,” he said blankly. “Maggie.”
“What is it?” She got up and rushed around the table to read over his shoulder, only to gasp aloud.
Francis was paying her dowry, in full. Even more, he had provided a separate dower for her, including a choice property in Cavendish Square in London. The letter was from the attorney laying out the terms, and included documents for Rhys to sign in acceptance.
“He relented,” she said softly.
“He did indeed,” Rhys muttered, scanning through the documents. “To a generous degree.” He turned over the last page, and a folded separate letter fluttered out. “This is for you,” he said, handing it to her.
Margaret unfolded the paper. I was wrong, it read simply, in Francis’s sharp, bold writing. I wish you every happiness. Her throat felt tight, and she gave a little gasp as her eyes filled with tears. That meant more to her than the money. Every month she’d written to him about her new life, but he never responded, until now. She’d missed her brother.
“I see I shall have to add Durham to my prayers after all,” said Rhys gently, watching her. “If he’s made you smile, I cannot hate him.”
“No, don’t hate him,” she said, dabbing at her eyes. She was glad to have her brother’s blessing at last, but his funds were very welcome as well. “Bless him with every breath, for now we shall have a new roof.”
Her husband stared at her for a moment, then threw back his head and laughed. “And a goat! We can name him Francis.” He pulled her into his lap. “How does it feel to be a wealthy woman?”
She smiled up at him. His skin was even darker now that he spent his days outside again, but his eyes still twinkled as wickedly as ever at her. “Lovely. Although not half as wonderful as it feels to be loved by you.”