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.
* * *
Chapter 6
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 against his cheek.
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.”