“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?”