The first days of March arrived with a pale kind of sunlight, the sort that warmed the air just enough to make one hopeful, yet left the ground still damp and heavy from the long winter. The gardens at Williams Manor were beginning to stir from their sleep; snowdrops clustered beneath the bare oaks and the distant sound of the brook had returned after months of frost. Margaret stood by her chamber window that morning, the light falling across her face as she gazed at the faint mist rising over the fields. It had been many months since Christmas, the Christmas she had spent waiting for Jonathan.
Her heart had grown quieter since then, though not without its ache. Each morning, she would rise with the faintest wish that a letter might come from London and each evening she would remind herself not to hope too strongly. But that morning, as she was arranging a small vase of dried winter roses, a knock came at her door.
"Miss Margaret," said one of the housemaids, stepping in with a polite curtsey, "a letter has arrived for you, from London."
Margaret's breath caught. For a moment she could not move, her fingers tightening around the stem of a wilted rose. She thanked the maid softly, took the letter, and sat down upon the edge of her bed. The seal was Jonathan's. Her eyes lingered on the familiar writing, her heart beating with a mixture of longing and hurt. Slowly, she broke the seal.
The letter was tender, affectionate, filled with apologies and assurances. Jonathan wrote that his training had consumed his time, that life in London was far busier than he had imagined. He promised he was learning much, that he wished to become a man worthy of her love, capable of building a comfortable life for them both. He spoke of becoming a better man for her, of his dreams for their future, and he ended with words that once would have made her smile: "Know that you are ever in my heart, dearest Margaret."
She read the letter twice, then a third time, and when she finally folded it, tears welled in her eyes, though she could not tell if they were tears of joy or sorrow. His words were kind, yet there was something distant in them. Something that did not feel as warm as before. She told herself she was being foolish, that Jonathan had always been honest and true. But her heart whispered doubts she dared not name.
Setting the letter upon her desk, she walked to the window again. The air outside smelled faintly of wet earth and the coming spring. A pair of sparrows fluttered across the lawn, chirping as if nothing in the world could trouble them. Margaret pressed her fingers against the glass, her breath fogging the pane.
"He has written," she murmured, half to herself, "and I ought to be happy."
Yet as she said it, her voice trembled.
Later that afternoon, Edward arrived at the manor. He had come, as he often did, to review estate accounts with Margaret, His position as an expert in estate stewardship granted him reason enough to come discuss the renovation of the chapel with her and his manner was always proper, though beneath that composure lay a gentleness that seemed to linger whenever he spoke to her.
Margaret received him in the drawing room, where the fire still burned low and the afternoon light cast long shadows across the floor. She had placed Jonathan's letter upon the mantelpiece, unable to put it away, yet unwilling to read it again.
Edward bowed politely. "Good afternoon, Lady Margaret. I trust the season finds you well?"
She offered a faint smile. "As well as March allows. The air is warmer now, though it seems reluctant to let go of winter entirely."
He smiled at that, his eyes softening. "Much like Londoners, then. They too never quite decide whether to look forward or back."
Margaret gave a small laugh, though it faded quickly. "You have been to London, have you not, Mr. Whitmore?"
"Many times," Edward replied. "The city is grand, though it takes more than its share from those who live within it."
His words struck her with quiet force. She turned her gaze to the mantelpiece, to the letter resting there. "Maybe not" she said after a pause, "it does seem to take much."
Edward watched her closely, though with the kind of restraint that came naturally to him. He could see the weight in her eyes, the pale tint of sleepless nights. "If I may be so bold," he said gently, "you look tired, My Lady. Is all well?"
She hesitated, then nodded. "I received a letter this morning. From Jonathan."
"I see," Edward replied softly. "You have been waiting for that letter for some time."
"Yes," she said, lowering her eyes. "He writes that he is well. That his training keeps him busy. He… he sounds different, though I cannot explain it."
Edward said nothing for a moment. The fire cracked quietly between them. When he finally spoke, his tone was calm but kind. "London changes a man. Sometimes for the better, sometimes not. But I believe your faith in him is strong enough to endure such distance."
His words were careful, yet they held a depth of sincerity that comforted her more than Jonathan's letter had. She looked up at him, meeting his steady gaze. There was something in Edward's expression, a quiet strength, a patience that did not press upon her heart but rather soothed it.
"I envy your calm, Mr. Whitmore," she said softly. "You seem to take the world as it comes."
He smiled faintly. "One learns patience when one manages other men's estates. Land does not grow faster because we wish it so, nor do hearts return quicker for being called upon."
Margaret's eyes glistened. "You speak wisely."
"I speak as one who listens," he said gently.
They talked about the renovation and Lady Margaret jot down some things in her book.
The clock struck four. The sound echoed softly through the drawing room. Margaret rose, smoothing her gown. "Will you take some tea before you go, Mr. Whitmore? It has been a long afternoon."
"With pleasure," he said, bowing his head slightly.
As she poured the tea, he watched her in quiet admiration. The way she moved, graceful and careful, the light touching her hair like spun gold, it stirred something within him he did not dare name. He knew her heart belonged to another, yet he could not help but hope that, in time, he might at least become a source of peace to her.
When their tea was finished and he prepared to leave, Edward paused by the door. "My Lady," he said, his voice low, "if ever the city feels too far, remember that you are not alone here. Some friendships do not need distance to prove their worth."
Margaret looked at him, a soft warmth spreading through her chest. "You are very kind, Mr. Whitmore."
He bowed, and the faintest smile touched his lips. "Kindness is merely truth spoken gently," he said, then took his leave.
When the door closed behind him, the house felt quieter than before. Margaret turned once more to the mantelpiece, to the letter waiting there. She picked it up, pressed it to her chest and closed her eyes.
Outside, the March wind moved through the fields, whispering between the trees, not yet spring, not quite winter, a season caught between what was and what might yet be.