“My son wrote that you have your family’s eyes.”
“Yes, my lady,” Meggie said. “They’re the Sherbrooke eyes.”
“Blue as a summer sky,” Thomas said, and Meggie, inordinately pleased with this remarkable male offering, turned to him and gave him a dazzling smile. “Thank you,” she said.
“I’m not a ‘my lady,’ ” Thomas’s mother said, her voice all sharp, “not since Lord Lancaster divorced me. But now he’s dead, so I suppose I can now be a dowager countess since my son is the new earl.”
“I see nothing at all amiss with that,” Meggie said, then just couldn’t prevent herself asking, “Thomas really wrote to you about my Sherbrooke eyes?”
“Among other things, as, for instance, the amount of your dowry, which is quite adequate. A healthy dowry goes far in assuring a young bride’s reception. He might have remarked upon things that aren’t quite so adequate, I cannot remember.”
Thomas rolled his eyes. She was his mother and he knew her well, and now he rather wished that—well, forget it. She would never change.
She continued after just a moment of the blank silence, “However, none of this is here nor there for the moment, young lady. Now, as to the other, you may continue to call me my lady.”
“I’m sorry, my lady, that you were ill and could not come to our wedding.”
“That is nonsense. I am never ill.”
Thomas had known from the age of ten that a lie, one with meat on it that promised consequences if discovered, always came to light, and the perpetrator always came to a bad end.
“But why then didn’t you come?”
“Meggie,” Thomas said. “Let it go.” He squeezed her hand. Deep water, she thought, and nodded.
“It is nearly teatime,” the dowager countess said, and pulled out a monocle and placed it against her right eye.
It was a rather frightening sight. She said, “Bring her back then, Thomas.”
Meggie thought that her mother-in-law could have spoken to her rather than through her. Not a very good beginning.
“I believe we will both be ready for some tea in a short time,” Thomas said, and turned to Meggie.
She said, “Yes, my lady, I will be delighted to be brought back for tea.”
Meggie said not another word as she trailed Thomas out of the large, cold, dismal drawing room with its tattered furnishings and thick heavy draperies that tightly covered all the windows. What a dreadful room.
“My mother is perhaps a bit eccentric,” Thomas said, not looking at her.
“Maybe she should meet my grandmother,” Meggie said, not dropping a bit of her good cheer. “I will probably be able to tell you in a week who would win that battle. I was rather hoping that since she believed my dowry was adequate, I would be treated better.”
“Perhaps it wasn’t entirely ill health that kept her away from our wedding.”
To his surprise and relief, Meggie giggled. “You were trying to save my feelings, and so you told me a very blameless lie.” She sighed. “You did it well, but still, you were caught out. I always am as well. I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what those things you wrote to her about me that aren’t so adequate?”
“I wrote only that you were a brilliant flower ready to be plucked.”
“That’s nauseating.”
“Yes, I thought you’d like that. Truth is, she didn’t want to come because she is the most perverse woman in England. I could have been marrying a princess, and she still would have sniffed and stuck her nose in the air.”
“That’s all right then. Perversity is interesting.”
“I just hope you will still think that in a week from now.” Thomas nodded to a desiccated old man who looked like he was in horrible pain. He was walking slowly toward them, his back terribly bent, an occasional moan slipping out of his mouth.
“My lord,” the old man said, rolling the lord around on his tongue. “Aye, what a lovely sound that be.”
Thomas said, “Barnacle, do see to our luggage.”
“Aye, my lord, but it will be an awesome struggle, as ye well know, since ye have cracked my poor back for me many times for me over the years.”