Ah, marital sorts of things were all well and good, but when all was said and done, when everything was right there, ready to smack her in the face, what was important was that someone had hit her on her head. As he’d said, an old place like Pendragon was filled with secrets, with mysteries. It was up to her to discover if any of them had come out of hiding and didn’t like seeing her as the countess sleeping in the White Room.
Meggie began pacing her bedchamber, her white nightgown disappearing amongst all the other white, the only thing keeping her set apart from the furnishings was the flapping gown at her ankles as she paced.
His mother, Meggie thought. She had to be the keeper of Pendragon secrets. Madeleine, who didn’t like her and didn’t bother to hide it. Madeleine, who wrote journals in both French and English. Why not beard the lioness in her den?
Was his mother mad?
She was becoming hysterical, just like Maude Free-berry, whose wails could be heard every third night throughout Glenclose-on-Rowan when her husband stumbled home drunk.
Well, if Madeleine wasn’t mad, she certainly was unpleasant, and perhaps, just perhaps—
“Why,” Meggie said aloud to the empty white room, stripping off her virginal white nightgown, “is Aunt Libby living here at Pendragon?”
Two hours later, after taking a very brief walk on Barnacle’s back, each step accompanied by groans and complaints and sighs, Meggie found Madeleine in her bedchamber, penning in her journal. She wondered if she was in a French mood or an English mood today.
“My lady,” Meggie said from the door, then stepped into the room. It wasn’t like any other room she’d seen at Pendragon. The room looked as fine as a London salon. It was large and airy, furnished in the Egyptian style, out-of-date, but distinctive and quite interesting, what with the sphinx feet on the sofas and the bird claws on the arms. Her mother-in-law sat behind a lovely antique ladies’ writing desk, perfectly positioned to get most of the sunlight coming through the very clean windows.
Madeleine was chewing on the end of her pen. She said, “Oh? It’s you, is it? Well, come in, don’t dawdle.
You don’t look at all ill. Thomas said someone hit you on the head. I see no sign of it. I dare say that a real lady who’d been struck would be lying in her bed, pale as death.”
“Sorry. If I’d realized you needed some proof, I wouldn’t have taken off the bandage.”
“You’ve a very smart mouth, don’t you? It’s a pity. Mrs. Black told me that you had six women hired from Kinsale to come to Pendragon to clean. What is this all about?”
“I would have told you myself, ma’am, but someone hit me on the head last night and I was a bit fuzzy for a while. I’m fine now.”
“I think you’re the sort of girl who demands attention, and when she doesn’t receive the attention she believes she deserves, she enacts a scene.”
Meggie struck a pose, said, “Now why didn’t I think of that?”
“You might amuse my son on rare occasion, miss, but you don’t amuse me.”
“Actually, I’m a Mrs. Actually, I’m a countess. Come to think of it, I’m even a ‘my lady.’ Even more to think about—I would precede you at an official function. What do you think of that?”
“Not much.”
Meggie sighed and said slowly, looking at her mother-in-law dead on, “You asked what this is all about. It’s quite simple and straightforward. I want Pendragon to be clean. I want the foundation of the castle to shudder from all the cleanliness, the smell of lemon wax, the smell of plain soap. I want Pendragon to sparkle just like your room sparkles. I want all the windows so clean they squeak to the touch, just like I’m sure your windows do. I want to destroy all those dirty old draperies that are frayed and have moth holes in them and let the sun shine into all the rooms. I want that ancient chandelier in the entrance hall to glitter. I want no more dust flying around when one walks on the carpets.”