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
THEY 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.”