Pendragon (7 page)

“Papa, I think he's truly asleep now, and his breathing is easy, regular.”

Her father smiled up at her. She smiled back at him, then leaned down quickly to kiss his cheek. “I will bring you some tea. Ah, good, Mary Rose is finally asleep, too.”

In truth, her stepmother looked like an exhausted Madonna holding her sick child close, her brilliant curly red hair all over her head, tickling her husband's chin, framing her pale face.

Tysen whispered, “I had prayed until I was out of words, until there wasn't another plea in my mind, Meggie. I think perhaps God heard me and sent Lord Lancaster here with that medicine.”

“Perhaps,” Meggie said, “I do think that Lord Lancaster felt some urgency to come here. Was it God nudging him? It is a comforting thought.”

“Now, I want you to take the medicine to Dr. Dreyfus, tell him that it appears to have worked with Rory. If another child falls ill, then we can see that—”

“Yes, Papa, I will. I will ask if Lord Lancaster has more of it. We are to give Rory another swallow in about twenty minutes or so. Then, if he remains like this, no more is necessary.” Meggie smiled, straightened, turned, and walked to where Thomas Malcombe stood, watching her come toward him, her old dressing gown flapping around her bare ankles, her lovely hair braided down her back, much of it come loose and now tangled around her face.

She nodded to him and he quietly backed away from the open doorway. He waited at the head of the stairs, his face in shadows now because the sun had slipped momentarily behind some clouds. She stopped right in front of him. She lifted his left hand in both of hers and clasped
it strongly. “I thank you, my lord. Was it God who made you feel the urgency to come to us?”

“Perhaps it was,” Thomas said slowly, looking down at his large brown hand held between her two smaller ones, not fine soft white hands. Meggie Sherbrooke's hands helped raise her brothers, trained racing cats, did countless tasks as the vicar's daughter. And he found himself wondering:
Why had he come so quickly?
He didn't know. He just knew that he'd had to. Was it God nudging him?

He said matter-of-factly, “The package of medicines arrived just a few moments before dawn along with other supplies. The fellow bringing it said he had this feeling that I would be needing it and thus pushed on from Eastbourne to my home. I heard that little Rory was ill and so I came here immediately. I think the messenger was the one whom God nudged.”

“Is there more of the medicine?”

“Oh yes. My man will take it to Dr. Dreyfus now, and he can hold it for any children who become ill.”

“Oh goodness. Look at me, I'm not dressed. Ah, Mrs. Priddle, please take His Lordship to the drawing room, then give him some breakfast. I will be down very soon.”

Twenty minutes later Meggie walked into the drawing room. Lord Lancaster was standing beside the fireplace, now lit and warm, drinking some tea.

She said without hesitation, her hands outstretched to him, “My family is in your debt, my lord.”

He raised a dark eyebrow. He wanted to assure her that she wasn't in his debt, that any decent human being would have brought that medicine to the vicarage without delay, but he wanted her in his debt, if that was what it would take. Just her.

He let her hold his hands yet again as he said, his voice deep, “You are exhausted, Meggie. I want you to rest today. If it doesn't rain on the morrow, why then, will you go riding with me?”

“Yes,” she said, “I will go riding with you, my lord.”

7

T
HEY WEREN
'
T ABLE
to ride for two more days. It rained so hard everyone said that the skies wept. And wept. On the morning of the third day, it was cool and overcast. However, Mr. Hengis has claimed it wouldn't rain anymore, so no one was particularly concerned. The sun would burst from behind those rather gray clouds, and all would be well.

To Meggie, it was a fine day. She loved to ride, to feel the wind, strong off the Channel, tugging at her very eyebrows, flinging many a riding hat to the ground and under her mare's hooves, and the man riding next to her had saved her little brother's life. He'd even come every morning and afternoon to the vicarage to check on Rory's progress since he'd brought the medicine, even in all that dreadful rain.

Meggie was riding Survivor, a lovely bay mare whose name, she told Thomas Malcombe, had been changed early on from Petunia.

“Why was the name changed?” he asked.

Meggie laughed, couldn't help it. “Well, you see, Petunia just happened to be the first mount for all three of my brothers and me. That's four children she's survived. When Rory is just a bit older, then he will learn to ride on her as well. She's still happy and running, so we all thought Survivor fit her much better.”

“A noble horse,” he said, one of those black eyebrows of his arched, “with a great deal of stamina. Rory will mount her as well? Surely she has earned retirement by now. That is asking a lot of any of God's creatures, don't you think?”

“Survivor is a natural with children, so don't waste your pity on her,” Meggie said, and laughing again, leaned forward to pat the glossy neck. Survivor slewed her great head around and whinnied softly. Meggie reached into her pocket and pulled out a carrot for her. The mare snagged the carrot and ate it without ever breaking stride.

“She is nearly twelve years old. I believe my cousin Jeremy wanted more than anything to breed her, but she is too old now.”

He heard the slight change in her voice. Something sad or perhaps it was more wistful, he couldn't be certain. He didn't like it. “Jeremy?” he said carefully. “Which cousin is he?”

Meggie shrugged, stretched, looked all indifferent as she stared at a maple tree to her left, and said, voice all thin and watery, and that just made him all the more on edge, “Oh, Jeremy isn't really one of my dratted cousins. He's an almost dratted cousin. There is no blood tie. He's the brother-in-law of my uncle Ryder Sherbrooke.”

She was obviously discomfited. He would let it go for the moment. He said, “I have heard many tales about your uncle. Is it true that he has sired more bastards than the sheiks in Arabia?”

Meggie reached out and smacked his shoulder. “That is your punishment for listening to gossip, my lord. Although, you know, there are certainly many wicked stories put out about him, my other uncle as well. However, the bastard story—that's nonsense. My uncle Ryder is one of the most moral men in the entire world.”

“Forgive me,” Thomas said, “he is your uncle. I shouldn't have said that so starkly. It is as you said—there are many wicked stories told about him. You're saying that he doesn't have a house for his bastards?”

Meggie realized the mistake. She patted Survivor's
neck, fed her another carrot as she said, “I haven't heard that in a long time now. You really don't know about my uncle Ryder, my lord?”

“My name is Thomas, and I thought I did.”

“Obviously you don't. My uncle, from a very young age, began saving children he found in back allies, in servitude to cruel masters, beaten and starved by parents, even sold by gin-sodden mothers or fathers, it didn't matter. They are called his Beloved Ones. At my last visit there were at least fifteen children living at Brandon House in the Cotswalds, very close to Chadwyck House where my uncle, my aunt Sophie, and Grayson, one of my dratted cousins, live, although Grayson is now at Oxford. The bastard business—that was all started by one of my uncle's political foes. Because people are people, they wanted to believe it until they realized how silly such a thing would be. Just imagine, installing your bastards in a grand house next to the one where your own family lives. That would require a great deal of gall, don't you think?”

“Yes, a great deal. Beloved Ones?”

“Yes, that is the name my aunt Sinjun gave them when she discovered his secret many years ago. I believe she was around fifteen years old at the time.”

“If this is all true, then why isn't it well known?”

Meggie smiled. “Because my uncle Ryder is extraordinarily reticent about what he does. He considers it his private business. He gets irritated if anyone tries to praise him for his good deeds. He claims that he takes in the children because they give him great pleasure, and ‘it is no one else's bloody damned business.' That was a quote.”

“Who was this political foe? The one who claimed he had his bastards right there under his wife's nose?”

“A Mr. Redfern, the incumbent, spread that ridiculous rumor because he knew he would lose if he didn't. His was not a moral character, and next to my uncle Ryder, he was very paltry indeed. It was quite a brouhaha at the time.” Meggie paused a moment, felt a drop of rain hit the tip of her nose, and said, “Oh dear. Mr. Hengis must
have had a falling out with the weather gods. His fingers must have been tapping incorrectly. It's raining. Again. We will all begin to grow mold if this keeps up.”

“Yes,” he said and raised his face. He had loved the rain since he'd been a small boy, even the grand sheets of rain that had dampened the earth to its core for the past two days. “No,” he said, frowning after a moment, “no rain. I'm told that Mr. Hengis is never wrong. It must have been an errant drop, nothing more.”

“Another errant drop just hit me on the chin.”

“Keep your head down.”

She laughed. “All right, but you see, I don't want to ruin my beautiful riding hat. Oh yes, Uncle Ryder's multitudinous bastards. Actually, he does have one natural child, Jenny, whose mother died birthing her. They love each other very much. Jenny is Oliver's wife, they married this past Christmas. He manages my father's estate, Kildrummy Castle, in Scotland. Oliver was, if I remember correctly, one of the first children my uncle rescued. If you remain in Glenclose-on-Rowan you will meet them, my lord. Oliver usually comes for a visit in the fall. Hopefully, this fall, both he and Jenny will come.”

“Thomas. That's my name.”

“Yes, I know, it's just that I am an unmarried young lady. You know as well as I do that I really shouldn't use your first name, much less be riding alone with you down country lanes.” She looked up to get some rain in her mouth. “I shall have to tell Mr. Hengis that he must forego his potato sticks since he has blundered. Let's go to the Martins' barn that lies just beyond that rise. It's not much, but it will keep the rain off, if we're careful where we stand.”

Meggie didn't wait, just
click-clicked
Survivor in her sides and said, “Another carrot if you get me inside before all this increasing number of errant drops make my feather collapse under their weight.”

She thought she heard Thomas Malcombe's laughter from behind her, but she didn't turn, just smiled as she
gave Survivor her head and hugged close to her neck. He had a very nice laugh.

When they reached the barn, Thomas realized that whoever the Martins were who had owned this barn had departed this earth many many years before, probably long before Thomas had been born. Long abandoned, it was small, utterly dilapidated, collapsing in on itself, boards hanging loose, part of the roof caved in—he hoped there would be enough roof overhead for all four of them. The rain was starting to pick up now. He would have a few words for the now-fallible Mr. Hengis.

He watched Meggie dismount, pull Survivor's reins over her head, and lead the mare into the barn. He eyed it again, hoping the wreck wouldn't collapse on them.

“I will try to save you, Pen, if something bad happens,” he said to his big black gelding.

Pen whinnied. He was smart. He didn't want to go into that barn. Thomas couldn't blame him. It took him a good three minutes to convince the horse that the bloody roof wouldn't fall in on him. Thomas got a good soaking in the meantime.

Finally, inside the barn, he saw Meggie Sherbrooke and her mare in the one dry corner. Thomas shrugged out of his coat, shook himself like a mongrel, and plowed his fingers through his wet hair. It was a tight fit, but all four of them managed to be covered.

“What are potato sticks?”

“Why, they are Mrs. Bartholomew's specialty. She, my lord, is your cook.”

“Oh, yes. I call her Morgana.”

“Morgana? She was King Arthur's sister. Why would you call her that? Mrs. Bartholomew's name is Agnes, I believe.”

“I call her that because she's a witch, a witch who, I'm convinced, is trying to poison me. Now, these potato sticks, the ones that Mr. Hengis really likes. If I deprive him of them will it be a fitting punishment for his weather blunder?”

“Oh yes, I promise. He nearly whimpers when he
smells Mrs. Bartholomew baking the sticks. Why does she want to poison you?”

“I believe it is my father she wants to poison, but he is dead, so I am the only one available.”

Meggie had been rubbing her arms, but now, she was hugging herself she was laughing so hard. “You're right. Mrs. Bartholomew did dislike your sire profoundly. How did you know?”

“I heard her in the kitchen one morning when I wanted my tea replenished and Torrent was no where to be found, which happens more often than not. The downstairs maid, Tansie, wasn't about. I understand she is smitten with Tobin, the butcher's son. When I got to the kitchen, Morgana was slamming pots around and muttering about the crooked ways of the Devil, the dreadful thickness of demons on the ground. She had a truly amazing litany.”

“I would say she sounds rather upset. Did she say anything else? How do you know she was talking about your father?”

“Well, a number of times she said Old Lord L—that's what she calls him—then followed that with miserable old bounder, blackguard, stingy coot who deserved to be drawn and quartered. Also, there was something about the hideous fate of the wicked.”

“Hmmm. I wonder what that was all about. Your father was rather clutch-fisted, at least that was his reputation, but he did pay the local tradesmen within the same six months as a purchase. As for your butler Torrent, he is getting old, my lord, and he naps at least a half dozen times a day, just behind the stairs, in a small alcove in his own special chair with three pillows. As for Tansie, she makes quilts, every chance she gets, beautiful quilts from scraps of material. She is very talented. You should look into having her start up a shop of her own. She hides in the small nursery at the top of the house whenever she can to sew. To the best of my knowledge Tobin doesn't stand a chance with her.”

He could but stare at her. “Do you know everything about everyone in this town?”

“Naturally. I was born and raised here. Now, of course, for the past ten years we go to Scotland for the summer, to Kildrummy Castle. We all love it there. It is wild and barren and then, just half a dozen steps later, you see clumps of white heather, then purple, ah, so many colors, all of them so very brilliant that you want to weep. Have you been to Scotland, my lord?”

“Call me Thomas. Yes, I have been many times to Scotland, to Glasgow for business and up to Inverness to visit friends and to hunt.”

Meggie leaned down to pick up some ancient hay that had probably moldered in the same spot for at least twenty years. She began to rub it over Survivor's back. Thomas did the same with Pen.

Without warning, Survivor whipped her head around and tried to bite Meggie's shoulder. Meggie jumped back just in time, tripped on the hem of her riding skirt and went down on her bottom. She was laughing. “Oh, I see the problem now. The straw is too stiff and it is irritating her. Beware, Thomas, Pen might not like it either.”

Pen neighed loudly but didn't move.

Meggie grinned as she brushed some dirt and straw off her skirt. “Survivor tries to bite you only if you're grown up, never children.”

Thomas leaned down and clasped her hand. He pulled too hard, and both of them knew it was on purpose. She slammed against him. She'd never before slammed against a man. It was heady, that slamming.

It was too soon, he thought, then just couldn't help himself. He leaned down his head and kissed her. Not much of a kiss, just a light touching of mouths. She didn't move, didn't do anything at all. It took him a moment to realize this must be her first kiss.

Good. No Jeremy. He must have been mistaken about him, which was a relief.

Her first kiss and he'd been the one to give it to her. Slowly he raised his head. She was staring up at him straight on, not blinking. She touched her fingertips to her mouth. Then, finally, she frowned and stepped back.