The morning sun rose pale above the hills of Hampstead, its light veiled in the soft mist that curled about the fields and hedgerows. The manor stood silent, its newly polished stone gleaming faintly through the haze. Within, the corridors echoed with distant footsteps as the servants began their duties. Yet in the upper chambers, Lady Margaret sat before her dressing table, her hands folded upon her lap, her gaze fixed upon the window where the faint light touched the horizon.
It had been two days since Mrs. Dorathy had taken her leave, returning to her own estate in Columbia. Her parting words still lingered in Margaret's mind….gentle assurances that she was becoming every inch a lady worthy of Hampstead, that she must not allow gossip or doubt to shake her purpose. But without her steady presence, the manor seemed strangely hollow. The familiar voice of guidance was gone and Margaret now stood alone before the full weight of her new duties.
By midmorning, she summoned Mr. Alcott, the estate steward, to join her in the morning room. He came promptly, carrying his ledgers and his measured, respectful air. Together they discussed the estate accounts, the progress of the tenants' harvests and the wages of the craftsmen still completing the outer walls. Margaret listened attentively, questioning where she did not understand and noting each detail in her journal. She spoke little, but her composure gave the impression of quiet command.
"You have done exceedingly well, my lady," said Mr. Alcott, inclining his head. "The men say there is more order in the manor now than in the last ten years of the late lord's time."
Margaret smiled faintly. "Then let us hope I may continue to deserve such praise. The burden of stewardship is not light, Mr. Alcott."
"Nor is your courage," he replied kindly.
When he departed, she sat for some time in stillness. The words had comforted her, yet her heart was restless. Every decision seemed to lead to another, every triumph shadowed by unseen judgment. She thought of Jonathan and how easily he would have lightened her cares with a single laugh or word of affection. She had not seen him for three days and his absence weighed heavily upon her thoughts. Though his father mustn't know.
That afternoon, as the sun reached its height, the sound of carriage wheels broke the quiet of the courtyard. Margaret's heart quickened. She rose and moved to the window and there stepping down from a dark carriage was Jonathan himself. His form was familiar, his hat in hand, his expression drawn with unease. Margaret hurried from her chamber and descended the grand staircase, her skirts whispering against the polished wood.
In the hall, they met. His eyes, dark with conflict, sought hers and before she could speak, he took her hands.
"Margaret," he said softly, "I came to see you before I go."
Her heart stopped. "Before you go? Go where?"
He hesitated, his voice heavy. She lead them to her office. "My father has made his decision. He wishes me to leave for London to begin training under an estate agent there. He says it will fit me for the position of a steward and that with time i will be able to assist you when we get married.
Margaret's breath caught. "A steward? But Jonathan, that means"
"That means he intends to keep me far from you," Jonathan said bitterly. "He claims it is for my improvement and to also help you with the estate burden. But i see his true design. He wishes to place me under his hand and keep me from your side until this so-called year of trial is ended. He means to see whether you falter or fail."
Margaret drew a trembling breath. "When do you leave?"
"Tomorrow morning."
For a moment neither spoke. The world beyond the windows seemed to vanish; all that remained was the silence between them and the ache in their hearts.
"I went to him," Jonathan continued, "to plead our cause once more. I told him I would not submit to such a cruel separation. I said I would marry you whether he consented or not. But he would not hear of it. He reminded me that if i truly want to own all is businesses, become the Hargrave's patriarch and if i also want you, that all depends on me going to London. And then he said…." Jonathan's voice faltered … "that if I truly wish to prove myself a man, I must obey his orders and show I am fit to manage what he will one day leave in my charge."
Margaret's eyes filled with tears. "He seeks to test us both, Jonathan. He hopes to weaken our resolve."
Jonathan pressed her hands more firmly. "Then let him fail. I will go because I must, but my heart will remain here, with you. Nothing he commands can change that."
She tried to smile, though her lips quivered. "And I will wait. I will make this year my own proving. When you return, you shall find Hampstead stronger, brighter and its mistress wiser than before."
They lingered together in the dim light of the hall, speaking in low tones of their hopes, their fears and their promise to endure. When at last the butler entered to announce that Mr. Hargrave had arrived, Jonathan's expression darkened.
"I will not let him take this from us," he whispered. "Come with me."
"Jonathan….."
But he had already taken her arm, guiding her toward the drawing room where his father awaited.
Mr. Hargrave stood by the fireplace, tall and immovable, his grey hair neatly brushed, his gaze stern beneath heavy brows. The air in the room was cold despite the fire's crackle.
"So," he said, his tone even, "you came to meet her again, though you both has been meeting secretly, which you think i did not know? Ww have spoken of this matter already."
Jonathan faced him squarely. "Father, I cannot leave without making myself understood. Your decree is unjust. Margaret has done nothing to deserve your distrust."
"Has she not?" Mr. Hargrave replied. "She has taken command of Hampstead as though it were her birthright. She squanders coin upon ornament and repair when prudence would counsel restraint. And you, my son, would place our name in her hands without knowing whether she can govern more than a drawing room. I will not see our house brought to ruin for the sake of youthful fancy."
Margaret, though her heart trembled, lifted her head. "Sir, if my conduct has appeared extravagant, it was not from vanity, but from duty. Hampstead was decaying; I could not see my father's house fall to neglect. Every work I have ordered has been paid in full and yielded employment to the villagers. I sought not splendour, but restoration." " And for saying….. as if it was my birthright, definitely hampstead was my birthright. My ancestors were the first human and habitat in this land and it has been passed down from generations to generations"
Mr. Hargrave's eyes narrowed slightly. He was angry, but covered it up with a treachery smile. "Well spoken, my lady. You have a great gift and a way for persuasion. Yet fine words do not make a capable mistress. You will have one year, as I declared. If at the end of it you have not proven yourself fit, then this marriage alliance shall be dissolved and won't be betrothed to Jonathan again. Do you both understand me?"
Jonathan's face flushed. "I will not consent to such tyranny."
"You will do as I command," said Mr. Hargrave sharply. "You are my son. It is time you learned to bear responsibility. Defiance will win you nothing but disgrace."
Silence fell. Jonathan's hand tightened around Margaret's, but the weight of his father's authority pressed upon them both. Finally, Jonathan bowed his head. "Very well," he said through his teeth. "I will go. But I go unwillingly and only because I cannot yet stand as my own master."
Mr. Hargrave inclined his head, satisfied. "Then it is settled. Your carriage will leave at dawn."
When they stepped outside, the sky had turned crimson with the setting sun. Jonathan looked down at her, his expression a mixture of sorrow and fierce devotion.
"Promise me you will not lose faith," he said softly.
"I promise," she whispered. "But promise me, too, that you will return."
He smiled faintly. "Nothing on earth could keep me from you."
Mr. Hargrave smirked. He and his son returned back home. Separately his son refuses to seat with him in his carriage. He went with the carriage he brought.
That night, Margaret scarcely slept. From her window she watched the distant lamps flickering along the road, imagining the path that would take him away. Before dawn she rose and stood by her window once more. She saw the carriage in the courtyard, the horses stamping their hooves in the chill.
From that hour, a change came over Lady Margaret. The warmth that had once coloured her every smile seemed to fade into calm resolve. Her laughter, once easy, grew rare. Yet those who served her saw no weakness rather, a quiet strength that deepened with each passing day. She devoted herself wholly to the work of the manor. Letters from Mrs. Dorathy came occasionally, filled with encouragement and praises. Margaret read them by candlelight and replied with gratitude, though her words could not disguise the ache of solitude.
The servants, who had grown fond of her, whispered among themselves that the young mistress's heart was heavy. Sometimes, in the stillness of evening, she was seen walking alone in the gardens, her hands clasped before her, her eyes lifted toward the stars. But Mr. Whitby watch her closely from afar. At other times she would pass the night in her parents' chamber, seated by her mother's old dressing table, tracing the carvings upon its surface as though seeking comfort from memory.
Meanwhile, news spread that a distinguished visitor had come to Hampstead. Edward Blake, a gentleman of considerable wealth and influence, had arrived in the district to inspect the new amusement park and other local enterprises. His presence stirred much curiosity, for it was said he had travelled widely and possessed investments across Europe. When he heard of Lady Margaret, a young woman managing a great estate, family businesses and family manor single-handed, his curiosity was piqued.
On the afternoon of his visit, the butler announced his arrival. Margaret received him in the drawing room, composed and gracious as ever.
"Mr. Blake," she said, rising to greet him, "Hampstead welcomes you most sincerely. Pray be seated."
He bowed slightly. "The honour is mine, Lady Margaret. I have heard much of your stewardship, indeed, your name is spoken with respect even beyond this county."
"That is kind of you to say," she replied with measured modesty. "Though I fear I have done no more than duty required."
Tea and cakes were served and their conversation flowed with polite civility. Yet beneath the surface, Edward Blake studied her closely. He was struck by her beauty, quiet intelligence, the grace with which she carried herself and the sadness that seemed to shadow her composure. Her eyes, though serene, held the memory of pain.
"You bear your responsibilities with admirable composure," he observed at last. "Few could take on such a task alone."
Margaret smiled faintly. "We are never truly alone, Mr. Blake. The memory of those we love guides us still."
For a moment, neither spoke. Then he inclined his head, his expression softening. "A sentiment I understand most deeply."
When he departed, she stood by the window watching his carriage roll away down the long drive. There was something about the man, not charm, for he seemed too reserved for that, but a depth of understanding that lingered in her thoughts long after he was gone.
Yet she had little leisure for reflection. The weeks that followed were filled with duties, meetings with Mr. Alcott, going to their family farm to meet the farmers in charge and correspondence with merchants and tenants. Each day she faced the expectations of the village, the whispers of the curious, and the unrelenting memory of Jonathan's absence.
Through it all, Hampstead flourished. Under her care the manor's accounts grew sound, its workers were paid promptly, and its farms yielded abundant produce. Yet for all her outward success, Lady Margaret carried within her the quiet ache of waiting.
As winter's first frost silvered the lawns, she stood one evening upon the balcony, the cold wind lifting her hair. The fountain below glittered faintly in the starlight. She folded her arms, whispering softly into the night….
"Be strong, Jonathan. And so shall I."