The morning sun broke gently over the hills of Hampstead, gilding the countryside in soft gold. Birds sang in the hedgerows, dew glittered upon the fields, and the estate, vast and dignified, stirred to life once more. Yet for Margaret, awakening in her childhood chamber, the light brought no comfort.
It was the first dawn she had ever greeted without her parents alive in the world.
Her bedchamber, though unchanged since her departure three years past, seemed a foreign place. The rose-papered walls and lace curtains whispered of her girlhood, of a time when she had risen to her mother's call and bounded down the stair in eagerness for the day. Now, all was hushed and Margaret felt herself both stranger and mistress within her own home.
She rose slowly, dressed with the help of her maid Ellen and descended the great stair. At the foot, Mr. Whitby, the butler, stood waiting. He bowed with solemnity.
"My lady," he said, the words spoken with a respect Margaret had never before received from him, "the household awaits your direction."
It startled her. Always had she been the daughter, the child, the one who obeyed rather than commanded. Yet now, in the absence of her father, the weight of authority rested upon her shoulders. She drew in a steadying breath and lifted her chin.
"Then let them be assembled in the hall," she replied softly.
Within the quarter-hour, the staff gathered…. maids with downcast eyes, the cook wringing her flour-dusted hands, the grooms and gardeners lined neat and grave. Margaret stood upon the first step of the staircase, hands clasped before her, her heart fluttering painfully against her ribs.
"My friends," she began, her voice trembling but clear, "you know the grief that has fallen upon this house. We have lost not only master and mistress, but the light that guided us all. Yet though they are gone, Hampstead must endure. It falls to me, their daughter, to preserve what they built. I cannot do so without you. I beg your loyalty, as you gave it to my parents, and together we shall keep this home as they would have wished."
For a moment there was silence. Then Mr. Whitby bowed again, deeper than before. "You have our loyalty, my lady," he said. One by one the others echoed his words, their voices soft but resolute.
Margaret felt tears sting her eyes, but she mastered them. "Thank you. Then let us begin, each in our duty."
When the gathering dispersed, she turned into the study….her father's domain. The room smelled faintly of leather and pipe smoke, though the fire had long gone cold. Upon the desk lay ledgers, correspondence, and the sealed document from the solicitor naming her the heir of Hampstead. The sight of it all filled her with dread, yet also a flicker of determination. If her father had trusted her with his legacy, she would not betray it.
Remembering Mrs. Dorathy still around, she ring the bell by the wall her maid outside the door came in. She didn't bother to look who came, because she knew already. "Ellen how is Mrs. Dora? Hope she is feeling at home?" "How is she faring, i pray thee?" Ellen replied by telling her Mrs. Dora is being cared for, she slept in one of the best guest room which was prepared for her at the west wing. Margaret hummed and nodded her head in response.
It was then the butler Mr. Whitby came to informed her that Jonathan is here to see her, without saying anything, she stood up and rush out to meet him, seeing him, her gloomy face shows slight color of happiness.
Jonathan took her hands in his hand and she led them to the drawing room.
"You look weary already," he said gently, entering the room.
Margaret sank into one of chair, her fingers tracing the worn edge of the oak chair. "I scarcely know where to begin. The books, the lands, the tenants…..how can I hope to manage it all?"
"You shall not face it alone," Jonathan assured her. He moved to her side, resting his hand upon the back of the chair. "Your father kept careful accounts. I shall help you review them, if you will allow it. You need only ask, Margaret, and I will share the burden."
She glanced up at him, her heart tugged by gratitude. "You are too good, Jonathan. Without you, I fear I would be lost."
"Then let me be your anchor," he replied softly.
For a moment their eyes met, and in that silence lay all the unspoken promises of their betrothal. Yet Margaret felt again that peculiar unease…..a sense that her path, once so certain, had shifted beneath her feet. She pressed it aside. Now was not the time for doubt.
They both didn't knew time was fast spent, until Mrs. Laurel the head cook came to call them to the dining hall for breakfast.
The day passed in labor. Margaret walked the estate with Jonathan at her side, meeting tenants who doffed their caps respectfully, though their eyes held questions. She toured the stables, the kitchens, the fields. At every step she was reminded of her father's hand, her mother's touch. And at every step, she felt the burden of expectation: that she, young and grieving though she was, must now embody the dignity of Hampstead.
By evening, weariness pressed upon her. Alone in her chamber, she sank before her dressing table, gazing at her reflection. The face that stared back was pale, the eyes rimmed with sorrow. Yet beneath the grief, there was something new, an unfamiliar resolve, the first glimmer of the woman she must become.
She went into her parent's chamber with her maid and the butler, she was expecting maybe….. just maybe she will see her parent in there and they will tell her, it was all a dream. But, they weren't there. Everything was still intact, untouched. She asked the two who accompany her to step out for some minutes. Mr. Whitby and Ellen bowed and obey.
Softly she whispered to her reflection, as though to her father and mother's spirit: "I shall not fail you." She cried hitting her chest with her hands as if it will make the pains go away, but it didn't, her grief and pains were so deep. After a while she returned to her chamber.
And though the night beyond her window stretched vast and uncertain, Lady Margaret William….heiress, daughter, and reluctant mistress of Hampstead…..felt, for the first time, the stirrings of strength within her sorrow.