Pendragon by Catherine Coulter
“Oh yes. Let me thank you again, my lord.”
“You can thank me by calling me Thomas.”
“If you put it that way. All right. Thomas. It is a good name, a solid name. I will use it. Since you’ve kissed me, using your tongue, I suppose I know you well enough.”
“Yes, I believe you do, at last. Dr. Dreyfus also wants to analyze all the medicines my partner in Italy sent me. He has asked me to have that maringo root sent here to see if it can be grown in England. He is very excited about it.”
Meggie wasn’t really listening. Thomas Malcombe wasn’t a cousin. She’d known him such a short time, and he’d opened his mouth when he’d kissed her that second time.
He wasn’t Jeremy.
She managed to bring herself back to the point. “There was another case of the virulent fever, and Dr. Dreyfus immediately administered your drug. Little Melissa perked up very quickly.”
“Yes, everyone in the village told me about it.”
“Everyone in the village is also singing your praises. The men are toasting you in the taproom. The ladies are so fulsome in their praise that your ears should be burning. You are rapidly working up to local hero.”
“I like that,” he said, and lightly laid his hands over hers. “I would like to see the Channel.”
Meggie raised her face to the watery sun, and smiled. “I should like that as well,” she said.
She wondered if perhaps she should kiss him again. Was the female supposed to open her mouth as well? Perhaps touch his mouth with her tongue?
She shivered. This was new ground, probably unsafe ground. She wasn’t at all certain that she wanted to walk here. She thought of Jeremy kissing her, knowing it would spin her off her feet, and felt a deep shaft of pain. He said, “Perhaps you could be specific about what the ladies are saying about me and my magnificence. I would like my ears to burn a bit. They never have before.”
“I’m not sure that is such a good idea,” Meggie said. “I think you could grow far too used to being worshipped,” and nudged her boot heels into Survivor’s sides.
9
“THAT IS QUITE the longest leap Cleo has ever made,” Meggie said, reading the distance stick again. “Yes, that’s right—three feet and about four inches. Just excellent, my sweet girl.”
“It’s that new training method, Meggie,” Alec said, humming under his breath. He stroked the cat’s back, long light strokes. Cleo began to purr and arch her back.
Like what Thomas Malcombe did to me. At least I had the sense not to purr and squirm.
Oh dear, better concentrate on training methods. She wrapped the long length of pale yellow ribbon around her hand. A good foot of it was shredded by Cleo catching it, her claws seaming it, so that it was now five skinny strings of ribbon.
Alec said, “She might just beat Mr. Cork on Saturday.”
“I have worked with Mr. Cork as well, and you know he has more endurance. He is very taken with smells, as you know. I tried a new one on him—mackerel. I chopped it up, added a dash of garlic, and dried it. Then I wrapped it in a netted bag. He nearly ran his legs off trying to get close enough to get a really strong whiff of it. It must replace the dead trout.”
“Meggie, you will surely beat out the Harker brothers in the creativity of your training methods. They’re entering three cats in this race.”
“Never underestimate their ingenuity, Alec. I hear that Jamie, the head stable lad at the Mountvale mews, has come up with a new limerick to sing to the Black Rocket. It’s so effective—all Jamie has to do is stand at the finish line and sing his heart out, and the Black Rocket will spead toward him like a bullet.”
“The Black Rocket has very mean eyes,” Alec said thoughtfully. “I think Mr. Cork needs to bring him down a peg. I need to think about this.”
Thomas Malcombe listened to brother and sister discuss the Black Rocket—whatever sort of racing cat that was. He liked that name, it was quite menacing. He’d seen Mr. Cork, his gold and white body stretched out, all muscled and long in the sun, with just a bit of shade over one leg from one of Mrs. Sherbrooke’s rosebushes.
He’d never had a cat, even when he’d been a boy. There were the barn cats, feral, all of them good mousers.
“Lord Lancaster, how nice to see you. Do you like thin ham slices? They’re Cook’s specialty. Do join us for luncheon.”
He turned to see Mrs. Sherbrooke coming around the side of the vicarage. “Good day, Mrs. Sherbrooke. I merely came to see if Rory was well enough yet to train with the racing cats. I have no wish to intrude.”
Mary Rose took his hand. “You saved my son’s life, my lord. I want you to intrude until you are quite tired of all of us. Do call me Mary Rose.”
Meggie overheard this and nodded vigorously as she joined the two of them. “Thomas, welcome. I’m delighted you could visit. The last time I saw Rory, he was climbing the trellis that divides Mary Rose’s hydrangeas from her daffodils, the one with the red climbing roses on it.”
Mary Rose’s eyes nearly crossed. “Oh no, tell me you made that up, Meggie! Oh goodness, he can’t. That trellis isn’t all that sturdy. I swear that as of right now, I will no longer look at him and thank God endlessly. No, I will pull my resolve together and swat his bottom. Well, perhaps if he is more than two feet from the ground I will swat him. My lord, I will see you in the dining room in no more than five minutes. Rory! Get down off that trellis!”
And Mary Rose was gone, holding her skirt up to her knees and running toward the east side of the vicarage.
Meggie grinned after her. “This is a good sign. She’s been hovering over him, so afraid he will stop breathing again.”
“Being hovered over doesn’t sound like a bad thing,” Thomas said.
Meggie grinned. “Hovering in this case means she’s always petting him, kissing him, squeezing him, stuffing food down his gullet, driving the little boy quite distracted, a very independent little boy, let me add.”
“You mean you made that trellis story up to get your mother back on an even keel?”
“I wouldn’t call it precisely a lie,” Meggie said. “Perhaps Rory was looking longingly at the trellis. Now, I am delighted you came to visit. Cook’s ham slices are so thin you can see yourself through them. No one knows how she manages it and everyone is always lurking about to watch when she slices the ham. Come along now. You needn’t worry that she will try to poison you. The only person she ever mutters about is Mr. Samuel Pritchert, my father’s curate.”
“The very dour man who never smiles even when he eats a bite of apple tart?”
“That’s the one.”
“He’s in a bad way.”
“Yes. But do you know, he has but to look at someone, and that someone will spill his innards to Samuel. My father thinks it’s amazing.”
“I don’t believe you.”
She just laughed, took his hand, and pulled him toward the vicarage door. They heard Mary Rose yelling at Rory, who had, evidently, climbed the trellis, because she was telling him that she was going to swat him but good when she got him down from that great height. Goodness, he’d climbed at least eighteen inches and he deserved a good swat.
“That,” Meggie said, “makes you wonder about the nature of deception, doesn’t it?”
Jeremy’s visit the following Wednesday was unannounced, thank God, or Meggie would have been an incoherent bundle of nerves. As it was, all she felt was longing and an immense pain at what couldn’t be.
Jeremy Stanton-Greville was so happy. So incredibly, blessedly happy. He gushed; he grinned like a fool. He oozed contentment and smugness. He rubbed his hands together, so proud of himself, so pleased with life, so uncaring, so blind, to the one person who would have gladly played Sir Walter Raleigh to his Queen Elizabeth and thrown every cloak she owned at his feet. Thus, just seeing him, knowing he wasn’t ever to belong to her, made her want to hide under the stairs and weep, but naturally, she couldn’t. She was stoic. She endured, even managed, when a jest nearly
After an hour, however, Meggie was feeling less and less like bursting into tears when she looked at him. Actually, she wanted less and less for him to stare at her, just her, with regret and nameless hunger in his beautiful eyes. She wanted less and less for him to realize his tragic mistake that would keep them apart forever.
No, after an hour, Meggie was ready to smash him. She began to drum her fingers against the arm of her chair as he talked on and on about his dearest Charlotte, his beautiful, elegant Charlotte, so sweet, so clever—the embodiment of perfection, a flawless example of womanhood. Then he went on to his stud at Fowey. After a while, both the stud and Charlotte sported the same attributes.
Jeremy never stopped talking about either Charlotte and the stud, even after dinner when the adults were finally having tea in the drawing room.
Hour upon hour of his braying went on. Meggie knew it would never end unless someone shot him. She was ready.
His endless braying had become the fifth circle of Hell. He was still beautiful, of course, no change there, and he still made her heart sigh and ache, but enough was enough. To keep her mouth shut, Meggie moved to the piano and played vigorously, to drown out his endless praise of himself and what he himself had found and fashioned. But he just didn’t stop. Her father looked mildly amused, and to Meggie’s eye a bit distracted, and she knew he was likely composing next Sunday’s sermon while he was the perfect host. Mary Rose was constantly patting Jeremy’s hand, as if to congratulate him on his brilliance, perhaps to keep herself from slapping him silly.
Meggie’s limber fingers ran the last Scarlatti arpeggio, hit the last cord, perhaps too forte, since she used quite a bit of muscle, but it didn’t matter. She waited just a moment to see if perhaps the conversation had shifted to someone besides perfect Charlotte or the perfect stud.
It hadn’t.
Meggie said finally, in a very loud voice as she rose from the piano stool, “How are Uncle Ryder and Aunt Sophie?”
Jeremy, who been detailing every improvement he’d made on the stud—in only three months, mind you—and the plans he had for Leo, said, startled, “What? Oh, they are just fine, Meggie.” He grinned, and Meggie felt her heart lurch. Well, blessed hell. “Yes, Ryder tells me the Sherbrooke boys have quite taken over Oxford. He says that when a letter arrives from Grayson, he’s loathe to open it, fearing the worst.” Now his grin turned fatuous. “I know you love to ride, Meggie. Did I tell you how much Charlotte adores this one mare I bought for her, a beautiful bay mare with a white blaze on her nose and white fetlocks. She is as lovely a mare as Charlotte is a woman. I will breed her, naturally. Her name is Dido, so fitting, don’t you think?”
“No,” Meggie said. “To escape her husband, Dido built a funeral pyre, stabbed herself, and threw herself on it.”
He paused a moment, frowning. “I thought she founded Carthage, something both the mare and Charlotte will do, that is, they will both found a dynasty.”
“She did, then she stabbed herself.”
“Hmm,” said Jeremy, “now that I think about it, I’m not certain that I should allow Charlotte to ride all that much now, since she is carrying my child.”
“It is her child too,” Meggie said, her voice rising an octave. “She’s the one doing all the work.”
“Well, yes, but she tells me over and over that she is having this child for me and that it will be a boy because that is what I want.” He gave her a brainless self-satisfied grin.
This was nauseating. Her heart wasn’t lurching in pain and regret now. Meggie said, her fingers tapping on the lovely cherrywood piano case, “I would only care if my child were healthy and that it managed to survive its first year on this blessed earth. I wouldn’t care whether or not it was a boy or girl.” She added, her voice even louder now, “Perhaps Charlotte can decide for herself when she should stop riding her beautiful mare that you bought her, whose namesake stabbed herself.”
Jeremy gave her what she’d thought only four hours before was the most seductive smile in all of Christendom. Now it looked superior and smug. He said, all patient and condescending, “Meggie, as is proper, since I am Charlotte’s husband, she looks to me to guide her, to tell her what is best for her.”
“What a wonderful parent you will be, Jeremy,” Meggie said, her own smile as false as Mr. McCardle’s leg, “just look at all the practice you’re gaining since you married Charlotte. But you know, I simply can’t imagine what is proper about treating your wife like a child and a nitwit.”
“Charlotte a nitwit? A child? That is absurd, Meggie. Oh, I see, you’re jesting.”
To keep the nausea at bay, Meggie played another song. She was quite aware that Mary Rose had cocked her head to one side, sending her glorious mass of curly red hair halfway down her arm, no doubt wondering why Meggie had lost her manners.
Meggie stopped playing in time to hear Jeremy say to her father, ignoring both her and Mary Rose, “Since you have approved, Uncle Tysen, Leo will be coming to me at the end of his term at Oxford. He is a natural with horses. He and I will do very well together. He writes me with new ideas. He is studying the science of horse breeding, he tells me.” This was said with an indulgent grin.
“Leo knows more about horses than you do,” Meggie said.
Tysen said easily, “Now, Meggie, Leo knows quite a lot, that’s true, but he doesn’t yet have Jeremy’s years of experience.”
“Does Charlotte think Leo will do well too?” Meggie asked.
Jeremy leaned back against the sofa back, smiling. “My dearest Charlotte has no idea what Leo will do since she is a woman and can’t really understand the needs and requirements for someone to succeed at building a successful stud.”
More nausea. How could he be so utterly obtuse? She couldn’t believe the nonsense flowing from his mouth. Why hadn’t Uncle Ryder beaten that out of him? Surely after four hours of it, he would have realized a good blow would do the trick.
Meggie nodded ever so pleasantly and said, “Oh yes indeed. How true. I, myself, have often wondered how God could have been so remiss as to have made women, when they are so very useless. He wasted his time.”
“But Charlotte is pregnant,” Jeremy said, looking at her, blinking, confused.
Meggie said, “Surely God could have found an easier way to provide boy children for men rather than forcing them to have to deal with women, don’t you think? Imagine, Charlotte hasn’t the brains to even understand how horses mate. Imagine, you have to tell her even when she should no longer ride a horse. Imagine, she will welcome Leo with no idea what he will do.”
“Meggie.” This from her father, who knew from her tone of voice that she’d gone too far. “Jeremy didn’t mean that. You are misunderstanding him.”
Of course her father doubtless wondered why she was quite ready to clout Jeremy in the head. Oh goodness, she had to stop being such a shrew. Her feelings for Jeremy—this was something Meggie never wanted either him or Mary Rose to know. It was too humiliating.
But something she couldn’t control made her ignore her father and say, “I believe he said that Charlotte is stupid, unlike him or Leo since they are men and seem to know what’s what.” She looked at Jeremy straight in the face. “When I met Charlotte, I never thought she was stupid. Indeed, if I’d had the opportunity, I would have asked her if she had any ideas about training racing cats.”
Jeremy looked like a calm, reasoned man who suddenly had an eccentric cousin on his hands. He said easily, “Meggie, you played a lovely song. Why don’t you play another?”
“It was a Scarlatti sonata, not a song. It has no words. Oh goodness, how foolish of me. You, a man, would know that even without being told, wouldn’t you?”
“Scarlatti was a man, dammit!”
“Wouldn’t you say that perhaps dear Scarlatti had ample time to do his composing since he didn’t have to birth children, wash clothes, scrub floors, or pander endlessly to all the males around him?”
“Hmmm,” Mary Rose said, leaping to her feet. “Do you know, I have a headache. It started a good while ago. Meggie, would you please press a rosewater cloth to my forehead? You do it so very well. Come along.”
Mary Rose held out her hand. Meggie had no choice. She said as she walked to her stepmother, “Shouldn’t you ask Papa how it is best done? Or is that one of the very simplest of tasks to accomplish—like birthing children—so that I have a chance of learning to do it?”
“Meggie, my headache is going to split my brow apart.”
“Good night, Mary Rose, Meggie,” said Tysen. “Ah, my dearest daughter, I hope you will apologize to Jeremy before you bid us a pleasant good night.”
“I apologize, Jeremy. Surely you can forgive me. I am much too stupid to understand my own insults.”
Mary Rose had hauled her out of the drawing room, even pausing to shut the door behind her.
Tysen said to Jeremy, “Although Meggie was rude to you, my boy, your opinion of women would raise most female’s hackles. I believe you should think about this.”
Jeremy, however, was grinning, a thoroughly wicked grin. He said, very quietly, because Meggie was known to eavesdrop, “Do you think I baited her too much, Uncle Tysen?”
“You were acting like a jackass to make her lose her head, which she, naturally, did. It was well done.”
“Not at first, but then she was so appalled, so furious at me, I couldn’t help myself.”
Suddenly Meggie appeared in the doorway. Jeremy said without pause, “I don’t understand, Uncle Tysen. I am a man and Charlotte is a woman. We each have our own roles, our own responsibilities. Is Meggie feeling ill? Perhaps in her head?”
Meggie, no matter how important her reason for coming back, now turned on her heel, cursed under her breath, but not under enough for the two gentlemen, one of them her father and a vicar, and ran up the stairs.
Tysen just shook his head. “Do tell me more about this Arabian stallion you wish to buy from Spain.”