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?”
“I believe it is my father she wants to poison, but he is dead, so I am the only one available.”
Meggie had been rubbing her arms, but now, she was hugging herself she was laughing so hard. “You’re right. Mrs. Bartholomew did dislike your sire profoundly. How did you know?”
“I heard her in the kitchen one morning when I wanted my tea replenished and Torrent was no where to be found, which happens more often than not. The downstairs maid, Tansie, wasn’t about. I understand she is smitten with Tobin, the butcher’s son. When I got to the kitchen, Morgana was slamming pots around and muttering about the crooked ways of the Devil, the dreadful thickness of demons on the ground. She had a truly amazing litany.”
“I would say she sounds rather upset. Did she say anything else? How do you know she was talking about your father?”
“Well, a number of times she said Old Lord L—that’s what she calls him—then followed that with miserable old bounder, blackguard, stingy coot who deserved to be drawn and quartered. Also, there was something about the hideous fate of the wicked.”
“Hmmm. I wonder what that was all about. Your father was rather clutch-fisted, at least that was his reputation, but he did pay the local tradesmen within the same six months as a purchase. As for your butler Torrent, he is getting old, my lord, and he naps at least a half dozen times a day, just behind the stairs, in a small alcove in his own special chair with three pillows. As for Tansie, she makes quilts, every chance she gets, beautiful quilts from scraps of material. She is very talented. You should look into having her start up a shop of her own. She hides in the small nursery at the top of the house whenever she can to sew. To the best of my knowledge Tobin doesn’t stand a chance with her.”