A recipe of love

Letter

In the afternoon, the drawing room of the Sinclair estate was alive with gentle chatter. Sunlight filtered through heavy, velvet curtains, casting a warm glow across the elegant arrangement of porcelain teacups, saucers, and delicate cakes set upon the polished table. Margaret sat with a quiet grace, occasionally stirring her tea, her thoughts distant. Her mother, Elizabeth, and sisters, Beatrice and Alice, discussed the latest fashions and gossip with lively tones, filling the room with an air of ease and refinement.

Yet, as was often the case, the conversation soon circled back to a familiar subject. Elizabeth's eyes settled upon Margaret, her tone soft but laden with unyielding purpose.

"Margaret," she began, breaking the rhythm of lighthearted talk. "We must discuss Mr. Lennox. The time has come for you to consider a suitable match."

Margaret stilled, her hand hovering over her teacup. She met her mother's gaze, a flicker of irritation passing through her expression. "Mother," she said, voice firm, "I have no interest in Mr. Lennox. I have told you before—I shall not marry him. I do not love him, nor do I wish to."

Beatrice, who had been quietly observing, let out a short laugh, her voice tinged with mocking amusement. "So, what is it then, Margaret?" she sneered, raising a brow. "Do you mean to stay here forever? Perhaps you imagine yourself as some sort of recluse, surrounded by cats? Is that your grand plan?"

Alice, always the calm one, placed a gentle hand on Margaret's arm, casting Beatrice a reproachful look. "Beatrice, there's no need to speak that way," she murmured.

But Elizabeth had already leaned forward, her voice dropping to a pointed whisper, her suspicion sharp in her gaze. "Is it... about that baker, Nathaniel?"

The air in the room grew tense. Margaret's cheeks flushed, but she returned her mother's stare with fierce defiance. A faint, satisfied smirk played on Beatrice's lips as she watched her sister. "The baker?" Beatrice exclaimed, half-amused, half-scandalized. "So that's why you've taken such a keen interest in the kitchens. I assumed you'd merely tired of refinement, but it seems you wish to join the servants. Shall we fetch you an apron?"

Margaret rose from her chair, her hands clenched, her voice trembling yet steady. "You may mock me if you wish," she said, her tone edged with determination. "But I will not sit here and be shamed. I am not ashamed of my choices or of him."

Elizabeth's face hardened, her tone cold and disapproving. "Sit down, Margaret," she commanded, each word a cutting blade. "You are being foolish. Nathaniel may bake a fine loaf, but he will never provide you with the security and status you deserve. Mark my words: one day, you will find yourself poor, miserable, and regretting the day you cast aside a respectable match for a life of hardship."

Margaret's eyes flashed with anger, her voice growing stronger as she held her mother's gaze. "Ah, yes," she said bitterly, "just as you, Mother? Married to a man who never loved you, who saw you as nothing more than an asset, a convenient arrangement to uphold your family's status. You speak of 'security' as if it's the only thing that matters."

Elizabeth's face blanched, and for a moment, an unspoken pain flickered across her face. But she recovered, her tone sharp and unforgiving. "I did what was expected of me," she replied stiffly. "I sacrificed because that is what we do, Margaret. We make choices for the benefit of our family, for the stability of those who come after us."

"And at what cost?" Margaret shot back, her voice rising. "Do you think I haven't seen how much of yourself you've lost over the years? Do you think I want that? Do you think that's all my life is meant to be?"

Beatrice, her amusement fading, exchanged a dark glance with Elizabeth, her cheeks tinged red. "And just how do you expect to support yourself, Margaret?" she challenged, her voice laced with scorn. "Or do you plan to ask our dear Nathaniel to take you in, to live as some... charity case?"