Pendragon by Catherine Coulter
Mrs. Strapthorpe, after this outpouring, took a long overdue breath, shook out her purple satin skirts, and marched to the punch bowl, to guard it from her spouse, who was fat, sported three chins, and loved to drink until he was snoring too loudly in his chair. “So distracting for guests,” Mrs. Strapthorpe was wont to say.
“She has always amazed me,” Meggie said, staring after their hostess. Then she giggled. “She spoke nearly a complete chapter in a book, Mary Rose, and she never lost herself between commas. Remember when you and Papa were first married and he brought you here for a visit?”
Mary Rose shuddered.
“And Glenda ordered him to take her to the conservatory—that miserably hot smelly room—and demanded to know how it had happened that he had wed you and not her?”
“I wanted, actually, to dance at her wedding,” Mary Rose said, smiling now at the memory. “At last she would no longer send her sloe-eyed looks at your father. Do you know that she has three children now?”
“These things happen,” Meggie said, grinning. “After all, you and Papa have given me Alec and Rory.” She remembered that Jeremy would be a father soon. But not the father of her child. No, she wasn’t about to think about that, she wasn’t.
“Ah, the musical soirée begins. There is your poor papa, trapped by Squire Bittley, whose wife didn’t manage to snag his lordship for her very refined dinner party last week.”
Meggie said, “Smart man. Now, Mrs. Bittley—that old battle-axe—has, thank the good Lord, quite come around where you are concerned.”
“Yes, she is even pleasant to me most of the time now, unlike my own dear mother-in-law, your blessed grandmother, who still roundly tells Tysen he is wedded to a savage with vulgar hair. And then she looks at Alec, whose hair is also red.” Mary Rose was still grinning as she lightly touched her fingertips to her husband’s sleeve. Tysen turned immediately to take her hand.
Meggie sat beside her stepmother, in an aisle chair. She hated it when a singer pumped her lungs up to blast out a high C. If need be, if the high notes rattled her too much, she would simply slip out and walk in the gardens.
She did slip out after the sixth high C nearly burst her eardrums and made her toes cramp from quivering so much. She knew the Strapthorpe house very well and walked down the main corridor into the conservatory, Mr. Strapthorpe’s pride and joy, the only room that everyone avoided because of the heat and the overpowering scent of the wildly blooming flowers. She imagined the garden was nearly full of escapees by now.
She was totally taken aback when he said from behind her, “I assume this is your sanctuary?”
Meggie turned so quickly she nearly tripped over her gown. She grabbed hold of a rose stem to steady herself, then yipped when a thorn punctured the pad of her finger.
“What a clever way of putting it, my lord. Oh dear, I have stabbed myself.”
“The soprano drove me away as well. I’m sorry to startle you. Let me see what you did to yourself.”
Lord Lancaster pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket, but he didn’t hand it to her, he just picked up her hand, saw a fat drop of blood welling up, and lifted the finger to his mouth. He sucked away the blood.
Meggie didn’t move, didn’t breathe. He’d actually sucked the blood off her finger? Then licked her finger? How very odd that was. It felt very strange. Not bad, just very strange.
She stared up at him, still silent, as he then wrapped his handkerchief tightly around her finger, and pressed his thumb against the wound. She was very tall for a woman, but still, she had to look up, a very goodly distance. Was he as handsome as Mrs. Strapthorpe had said? He could have been, she supposed, but the point was that he wasn’t Jeremy.
She said, frowning slightly, “I have read that vampires suck blood. Usually, in the novels I have read, it’s fangs sunk in a person’s neck at midnight and there is a good deal of drama involved.”
He laughed, a warm deep sound that sounded dark as his midnight hair. “Yes, I have read about vampires as well. However, since you met me at a church during the day, then you know that I cannot be one.” He gave her a big grin. “See, no fangs either. There, that should do it. I’m sorry I startled you, Miss Sherbrooke.”
Lovely white teeth, just like Jeremy’s. No, she had to stop thinking about him. She shook her head as she said, “I will be fine. I did manage to hold on until that final high C nearly knocked me out of my chair.”
“Such impressive lungs are fashionable, I’m told.”
“Where?”
He laughed again, then paused, as if surprised that he’d laughed. “Why, do you know that I’m not really sure? I haven’t lived much in England in the past five years. I suppose I believed that the ninnies in London lauded such performances.”
“I spent just one Season in London, my lord. As far as I could see, there were very few true devotées of Italian sopranos. Most people I saw on those evenings were polite enough to endure in stoic silence. Ah, but Mrs. Strapthorpe believed that her musical soirée was just the thing to induce you to attend, that and her elegant invitation to you. She is very pleased with herself.”
“Good Lord. Actually, though, I wished to attend.”
“But not for the wailing soprano?”
“No, I didn’t attend because of the music.”
Meggie hoisted up an eyebrow.
“My name is Thomas Malcombe.”
The eyebrow remained hoisted.
He laughed, couldn’t help himself. She appeared to be utterly uninterested in him. Without conceit, he realized she was the first female to be indifferent to him since he’d come to manhood. It was a rather appalling realization, this unconscious conceit, and one that made him want to laugh at himself.
“All right. I came because I wanted to meet my neighbors, people who had known my father.”
“I’m Meggie Sherbrooke,” she said finally, and hoisted her left eyebrow again. “You aren’t telling the truth, my lord. If I may risk offending you, I daresay you don’t care a fig about anyone in Glenclose-on-Rowan.”
“Meggie, it’s a nice name. You’re quite wrong.”
“It’s short for Margaret. No one has ever called me Margaret, thank goodness. That’s a Mother Superior’s name. I would have preferred something exotic, like Maigret, but it was not to be. No, I really don’t think I’m wrong. If I am wrong, then I have offended you, and I apologize.”
“You really are a Meggie, never a Margaret. I accept your apology, for it is merited. I understand you train racing cats.”
“Yes.” She saw a glass sitting beside an orchid that looked overwatered. Its leaves were suddenly trembling. Probably the soprano had hit more high notes. “Actually, my little brother Alec is a cat whisperer.”
“I have never known of a cat whisperer.”
“It is a very rare occurrence, and all agree that Alec is blessed. It still remains to be seen if the gift will mature with him. But ever since he was a very small boy, the cats in our mews would gather around him, very happy to just sit and listen to him talk, which he did, all the time. He is at present assisting my brother Leo train our calico racer, Cleopatra, to improve her leaps. Alec believes she doesn’t yet have the proper motivation. As a cat whisperer, he will determine what it is she wants and provide it, if possible.”
“I should like to see him in action. How old is he?”
“Alec is seven now.”
“Cat racing is an amazing thing, really unknown outside of England. I understand that some French devotees of the sport introduced cat races there, but the French were, evidently, too emotional, too uncontrolled, and so the cats never could get the hang of what was expected of them.”
Meggie laughed, then shrugged her shoulders as if to say, what can you expect? He smiled again. She said, “At the McCaulty racetrack, all the cats would desert their owners in a moment if Alec called to them. He must be very careful not to unwittingly seduce them.”
“When are the cat races held? Surely now it is too col
“They begin again in April and run through October.”
“And you are a trainer.”
“Oh yes, for a long time now. You can call me the boss.”
“Ah, you’re the one who makes all final decisions, decides which techniques are the most efficacious, the overlord trainer?”
“I like the sound of that. I will tell my brothers that my new title is overlord. They can drop the trainer part. I will demand that they use my new title or I will make them very sorry.” He looked very interested, and so Meggie added, “As a matter of fact, I did spend one entire summer at Lord Mountvale’s racing mews being tutored by the Harker brothers.” She lowered her voice into a confidence. “They are the ones who developed the technique of the Flying Feather.”
“I have heard of the Harker brothers. I understand they have a special intuition when it comes to selecting champion racers. What is the Flying Feather technique?”
“Curled feathers are tied to the end of a three-foot pole. It is waved in a clockwise motion—it must always be clockwise, at no less than a six-foot distance. It evidently has a mesmerizing effect. Goodness, I hadn’t intended to tell you all about the Flying Feather technique; it is still supposed to be a secret. I am considering adopting it when I have a proper candidate. Ah, listen, I don’t hear anything. It is a good sign,” she added, pointing to the orchid, “its leaves are no longer quivering from the vibrations of her voice.”
He laughed, just couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t recall having laughed so much with one single human being. Life had always been rather difficult.
And Meggie thought it was as if he laughed only when he planned to and surely that was rather calculated and cold-blooded. She watched him closely as he said, “Actually, I set that glass there beside the orchid so I would know when it was safe to return to the drawing room. It isn’t trembling either now.” He smiled down at her. “Let’s see if your finger has stopped bleeding yet.”
He unwound the handkerchief and lifted her hand to inspect the finger. “Yes, it has.”
Meggie said, “Thank you, my lord. Perhaps I don’t know all the ways of the world, but I have never before had anyone suck my blood. Or lick my finger.”
He felt a lurch in his gut; it was lust and it hit him hard. He looked at her closely, realizing that she didn’t understand the teasing promise of her guileless words, didn’t realize that they promised, on the surface at least, a woman’s very pleasurable skills. No, she was outspoken, a vicar’s daughter, just turned nineteen. “No?” he said slowly, then added, “Then I have added to your education.”
She said abruptly, “My father will wonder where I am,” and she turned to go. “Sharing sanctuary was pleasant, my lord.”
She was just going to leave him? Another blow to his manhood. “Miss Sherbrooke, a moment please. Will you ride with me tomorrow morning?”
That got her attention, but she didn’t hesitate, just said pleasantly, “I thank you for the invitation, my lord, but no, I don’t want to ride with you tomorrow morning.”
He looked as she’d slapped him, as if he simply couldn’t believe her gall in turning him down. He looked, quite simply, flummoxed. She wanted to smile at his obvious male conceit, but she didn’t. She just wanted to leave. She realized now that she shouldn’t have remained in here, alone with him. He had gotten the wrong idea about her. She didn’t want any attention from him, she didn’t want any attention from any man. She wouldn’t have stayed in here with him if she’d been in London, but this was her home. No matter, she’d been wrong.
He saw her withdraw completely from him. He didn’t understand it. She’d been so confiding, so natural. But no longer. Despite her lack of enthusiasm, he persevered. “I understand from my steward, a very old man with fingers that tap by themselves when the weather is going to turn bad, that it will be unseasonably warm tomorrow morning, a fine morning for a ride.”
“Mr. Hengis is famed for his weather predictions in these parts. I did not know about the tapping fingers. I hope it will be a fine morning and you will enjoy yourself. As for me, no thank you, my lord. I must go now.”
He said as she turned to leave the conservatory, “I understand you enjoyed your first Season in London last spring. Do you intend to return to London in April?”
“No,” she said, not turning to face him. She could feel his frustration, pouring off him in waves, and something else. Why did he wish to be with her so badly? It made no sense. “Goodbye, my lord.”
“My name is Thomas.” She would swear she heard a damn you under his breath.
“Yes,” she said, “I know,” and left the Strapthorpe conservatory with its dizzying smells and hair-wilting heat.
He stood there, watching the back of her head as she walked quickly out of the overly warm room. Lovely hair, he thought, blondish brownish hair with every color in-between thrown in, the same hair as the vicar’s, her father. Their eyes were the same light blue as well. He sighed, then left the conservatory some minutes after her. Truth be told, he was getting nauseated from the overpowering mix of all the flowers.
He met several guests in the large entrance hall. Meggie Sherbrooke wasn’t among them. Damn her. He wasn’t a troll. What was wrong with her? He was polite and charming to everyone before he took his leave.
Perhaps she didn’t ride. Yes, perhaps that was it and she was ashamed to admit it. He would think of something else. She was nineteen years old; for a girl she could have been long married by now, well, at least a year or so. As for himself, he was rich and young and healthy and now he even sported a title. What more could a girl possibly want?
She was a vicar’s daughter, for God’s sake.
And she trained racing cats.
6
MEGGIE WAS PLAYING with Rory, telling him stories about famous cat champions from years past. The most famous of all the cat racers in this century was Gilly of Mountvale mews, who had died of extreme old age some two years before.
“No one had much of a chance when Gilly was racing,” she was saying as she handed Rory a small cat carved in cherry, painted in Gilly’s distinctive black, gray, and white colors. “See how high his tail is? Racers always carry their tails high. I’m told it means they’re very proud, that they know their own worth, and they are very pleased with the world and their place in it.”
“Meggie?”
“Yes, love?”
“I don’t feel very good.”
Meggie felt fear so strong that she couldn’t breathe for a moment. Automatically she laid the flat of her palm against his forehead. He was roasting. The fever. Somehow he’d gotten the fever. They’d all been so careful, kept both Alec and Rory home, entertained them endlessly, taken such care, and still he’d gotten ill.
She lifted him in her arms, no mean feat because Rory was quite good-sized for his age. “Let’s go see your mama.”
He didn’t try to pull away, as was his wont, for he was a very independent little boy, no, he became boneless in her arms, his cheek resting on her shoulder. It scared Meggie spitless.
Meggie was praying frantically as she quickly walked from the nursery downstairs to the drawing room. Both her father and Mary Rose were there with his curate, Mr. Samuel Pritchert.
“Mary Rose,” she said quietly from the door. Mary Rose looked up. The smile on her face froze because she knew, oh yes, she knew immediately that something was very wrong, wrong with Rory. Rory was ill, he had the fever. She said blankly, “Oh no, not Rory. Oh no, Tysen.”
Tysen immediately went to Meggie and lifted Rory off her shoulder. “What’s this, my boy? You are feeling a bit pecked?” Tysen felt his cheeks, his forehead, and felt fear cramp his guts. “All right,” he said, all calm and easy, “I’m going to give you to your mother and be right back. You just rest, Rory.”
“Yes, Papa. I don’t feel good.”
“I know. But you will be pulling on Meggie’s hair again in no time at all.” He hugged his son against him, then laid his palm again
Tysen then lightly touched his palm to Mary Rose’s cheek. Much cooler than his son’s. “It will be all right. I’m going to fetch Dr. Dreyfus. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Tysen had never moved so fast in his life. He didn’t realize that Meggie was trotting beside him he was so locked into himself, so frightened he wanted to curse loud and long to keep the awful fear at bay.
“He will be all right, Papa, you’ll see.” Meggie was panting, running now, and everyone got out of their way. They arrived at Dr. Dreyfus’s cottage in just under seven minutes, out of breath, nearly beside themselves.
Dr. Dreyfus, Mrs. Midderd told them, was seeing to the Clay boy, no, not the fever, none of those this week, thank the good Lord, and thank you, Vicar, for all your prayers. No, the Clay boy had broken his leg, something very very serious.
“How long as he been gone, Mrs. Midderd?”
“At least three hours, Vicar. What is the matter?”
“It is my son, Rory. He has the fever.”
Mrs. Midderd, a former Catholic, converted to the Anglican church upon her marriage to Mr. Midderd some thirty years before, crossed herself.
“I will send him to you immediately upon his return, Vicar.”
Back at the Vicarage, both Tysen and Meggie stood at the end of Rory’s bed watching Mary Rose bathe his small face. He was flushed, he whispered to his mother that his bones ached as he clutched her hand.