“It is his favorite,” Tysen said, running his fingers over the smooth worn gray stone. “But Mary Rose must read it to him only in Latin.” He shook his head, looking a bit bewildered. “How very strange it is. We live in the modern world, yet two of my sons and my wife speak Latin. Latin. It boggles the mind, Meggie. Now, my dear—”
Meggie said quickly, “I meant to leave, but then she started reading him Chanticleer the Cock. Mary Rose can even cock-a-doodle-doo in Latin.”
“Rory is only four years old, Meggie. At least he doesn’t announce his age yet in Latin.”
Meggie laughed. “He will. Give him a couple more years. You know that Mary Rose is very smart, Papa. I believe she was learning Latin at Rory’s age.” Tysen looked at his daughter while she spoke, so Sherbrooke in her looks—blondish brownish hair with all the shades in between, and clear light blue eyes the color of the summer sky. In short, she looked like him, only her features were more finely drawn. Her chin, he thought, was very possibly more stubborn. As for her temperament, his daughter saw something that needed to be done, and she did it, no shilly-shallying about, no excuses, never procrastinating. She felt strongly about things, many times too strongly. No middle ground for her. He remembered she’d been three years old when she saw old Mrs. McGilly struggling with several packages on High Street and had immediately tried to help her. But she wasn’t strong enough, and so had fetched two men from the tavern to tote the bundles. One of them, Tysen remembered, had been very tipsy and proceeded to drop the packages. Meggie had scolded him.
He grinned with the memory. Yes, his Meggie knew only one direction—forward. In this, she was just like her aunt Sinjun. And, he knew, she wanted to move smartly forward with Thomas Malcombe, Lord Lancaster.
Meggie was saying now, “Did you know that Alec wants to be the Prussian Gebhard Leberecht von Blucher when he grows up? He can even say the whole name. And spell it. He’s had me play Napoleon more times than I can count. He’s chased me all over the graveyard and into the bell tower. Then he finds me and claims he’s not going to send me back to Elba. No, he’s going to send me some place where I will rot. In perpetuity. He actually says perpetuity.”
Tysen felt the tug in his heart, let it blossom a moment, flooding him with sweet memories of Meggie as a little girl, her finger in every village pie, her ear against every door, her opinion offered on every sermon. And that little girl had adored him since she’d come from her mother’s womb and smiled up at him. He said easily, “He always chases me and Mary Rose too. I have yet to be graced with perpetuity.” He took her hand in his, competent hands, beautiful long fingers. He said, “Meggie, you are only nineteen years old. You spent only one Season in London. You have lived all your life in Glenclose-in-Rowan.”
“I live in Scotland every year too, Papa.”
“Yes, well, that’s true.”
She turned to him then, took one of his hands between hers. “All right. I’m ready for whatever you have to tell me. Come, spit it out, Papa. What is wrong? What have you learned about Thomas?”
“I don’t wish you to misunderstand me,” Tysen said slowly. “I like Thomas Malcombe. He saved Rory’s life, I am quite convinced of that, as is Dr. Dreyfus. He is a charming young man. He seems intelligent, witty, responsible. From what I have heard from your uncle Douglas’s man in London, he was no pauper even before his father died and left him his holdings. Thomas’s business interests are evidently primarily in Italy, where he has grown rich in shipping, in a very short time. I could find out nothing about him that would make me worry.
“He wanted to pay me a dowry for you. Naturally I refused. You will not go to your husband empty-handed. You are not quite the heiress your aunt Sinjun was, but your dowry is really quite satisfactory. Lord Lancaster is assuredly not a fortune hunter.”