Friday morning brought Mrs. Dawson, the housekeeper, to Margaret's sitting room with her usual catalog of domestic crises.
"The silver needs polishing, my lady. The guest rooms aired and prepared. And Cook wishes to know the menu preferences for your parents. She says Mr. Thornton particularly enjoyed the lamb when he visited for the wedding, but her ladyship prefers fish."
Margaret rubbed her temples. "Prepare both. My mother will want to appear delicate, and my father will want to demonstrate that we can afford extravagance. Also, ensure the burgundy suite is ready for them. My mother will expect the finest rooms."
"Of course, my lady." Mrs. Dawson hesitated. "And... if I may be so bold... will Lord Blackwood be dining with the family during their stay?"
The question hung in the air, heavy with implication. The servants knew. Of course they knew. Servants always knew everything.
"Lord Blackwood will be taking all his meals with me and our guests," Margaret said firmly. "We shall dine together every evening, as befits a happily married couple."
"Very good, my lady." Mrs. Dawson's expression remained carefully neutral, but Margaret caught the flicker of skepticism.
After the housekeeper left, Margaret sat in her sitting room, staring at the rain-streaked windows. The house felt like a stage being set for an elaborate performance, and she was the leading lady in a farce.
That evening, she made the unprecedented decision to dine in the formal dining room. She sent word to Edward through his valet that his presence was required.
He arrived late, naturally, dressed for dinner but with his cravat slightly askew, as though he'd tied it carelessly on purpose. He took his seat at the opposite end of the long mahogany table, a distance of at least fifteen feet separating them.
"How cozy," he remarked as the first course was served. "One might almost forget we can't stand the sight of each other."
"That's precisely what we need to practice," Margaret said, dismissing the footman with a wave. Once the servants had withdrawn, she continued, "In four days, my parents arrive. We need to establish some basic rules of engagement."
"Rules." Edward took a long drink of wine. "How romantic."
"We sit together at meals. No more than three feet apart. We address each other by our Christian names, not 'Lord Blackwood' and 'Lady Blackwood.' We make occasional physical contact—a hand on the arm, that sort of thing. Nothing excessive, but enough to suggest familiarity."
"You've thought this through."
"One of us had to." She picked at her soup. "My father will be watching. He's not a sentimental man, but he expects value for his investment. A happy daughter is part of that value."
Edward studied her across the expanse of table. "And are you happy, Margaret?"
The question, delivered without its usual venom, caught her off guard. "I'm sure I don't know why that would concern you."
"It doesn't. I'm merely curious if you've ever questioned whether selling yourself for a title was worth the price."
"Every day," she said quietly, then seemed to catch herself. Her voice hardened. "Though I might ask you the same. Was selling yourself for my father's money worth the price of your precious family pride?"
"Every day," he echoed, raising his glass in a mocking toast.
They ate in silence for a while, the clink of silver against china the only sound. Finally, Margaret spoke again.
"There's something else. My mother will expect to see... affection. Real affection. She's been writing me letters full of advice about marital harmony and the importance of providing an heir." Her cheeks colored slightly. "She'll be watching for signs of... closeness."
Edward's laugh was sharp and bitter. "Closeness. My God. We can barely stand to be in the same room, and you expect us to convince your mother that we're engaged in marital relations?"
"I expect us to convince her that such a thing is plausible," Margaret snapped. "A hand at the small of my back. A shared glance. These things can be performed without actual intimacy."
"How clinical you make it sound."
"Everything about this marriage is clinical, Edward. At least I'm honest about it."
He set down his fork with deliberate care. "Very well. For one week, I shall play the part of the devoted husband. I shall touch you appropriately. I shall gaze at you with something approximating warmth. I shall lie to your parents with the same conviction I've been lying to everyone else for three years." He stood abruptly. "Is there anything else you require from your performing monkey?"
Margaret's composure cracked, just slightly. "I require you to act as though I'm not the worst thing that ever happened to you."
"But you are," he said softly, and there was something almost sad in his voice. "You're a constant reminder of everything I've lost. My freedom. My pride. My ability to make my own choices." He moved toward the door, then paused. "Though I suppose I'm the same for you, aren't I? A reminder that your father's money can buy anything except genuine respect."
He left before she could formulate a response.
Margaret sat alone at the long table, surrounded by empty chairs and too much space. Through the windows, she could see the lights of the village in the distance, each small glow representing a life that was probably simpler, probably happier, probably free of this peculiar torture that was her marriage.
She picked up her wine glass and drank deeply, letting the bitter taste wash over her tongue.
Four more days until her parents arrived. Four days to transform loathing into something that could pass for love, at least in dim light and from a distance.
She suspected they would be the longest four days of her life.