Pendragon (Sherbrooke Brides 7)

“I would like another bottle of champagne.”

Mrs. Miggs nearly dropped the cloth she was so surprised. Then she really looked at the tousled girl in front of her, barefoot, wearing a man’s dressing gown that dragged the floor, very pale in the dim candlelight, and said slowly, “It’s very late, my lady. I do not see your husband. You are obviously alone. Thank heavens I sent the rest of the men on their way a few minutes ago.”

“I’m glad, too. I wouldn’t have come in if there had been men. They’re dreadful, men are. May I have another bottle of champagne.”

“Why?”

Meggie looked down at her toes and said with no hesitation at all, “It’s my wedding night and I don’t feel very good about things at all. After I’ve drunk the champagne I’m wondering if I should bash my new husband over the head with the bottle. I finished the bottle upstairs, gripped it about its neck, tested its weight, but decided rather than killing him right at that moment, I wanted to drink some more champagne. To consider it more at length. What do you think?”

“What does your new husband have to say?”

“The clod is sleeping in the middle of the bed, snoring.”

“Let me get you the champagne.”

Meggie didn’t realize she was weaving about a bit when Mrs. Miggs returned with a very cold bottle, but Mrs. Miggs did. The young lady had been shocked to her bare toes, and her new husband obviously hadn’t behaved well. She was too pale, and that worried Mrs. Miggs. She said, “You just sit yourself down on that bench, that’s right, just slide right on in and I’ll open the bottle for you.” She popped the cork out efficiently, then put two glasses on a table. “Come, let us talk about this new marriage of yours. Shall, ah, we toast it?”

Meggie grumbled even as she slid across the wooden bench, but she quickly accepted a glass from Mrs. Miggs. “I don’t want to toast my marriage. There is nothing to toast. Please don’t call me ‘my lady.’ My name is Meggie and this is my wedding night. It was awful. I wasn’t expecting any of it. He ambushed me.”

Mrs. Miggs, thick in the middle now from birthing five children and her own excellent cooking, said, “Wedding nights can be bad sometimes for the woman.”

“He left me the first time and then the second time—goodness, it was only a minute or so later—he turned into an animal. I wasn’t expecting any of that. The kissing was nice, but that didn’t last for long. He kissed me before we were married and I really liked it. He put his tongue in my mouth. That was odd, but I knew I could get used to it.”

“Kissing usually is nice. Tongues, too.”

“Ah, but the rest of it—I was hopeful, I actually trusted him, and what happened? You truly do not want to know, Mrs. Miggs.”

Meggie clicked her glass to Mrs. Miggs’s. She said, “Here’s to this bottle of champagne and to the witching hour that will chime in not more than four minutes from now.”

“Hear, hear,” said Mrs. Miggs.

Meggie said, frowning at the bubbles in her glass, “Are men all like that lout upstairs snoring to the rafters?

They get you all interested, and then they do as they please? They leave you and just hunch over you, gone from you, and shudder and shake and moan?”

“I don’t know what you mean about him being gone, my lady—Meggie.”

“He left me before he did anything.”

Mrs. Miggs frowned. “A man does that when he doesn’t wish to impregnate a woman.”

Meggie hadn’t thought of that. She shook her head as she said, “That can’t be right, Mrs. Miggs. We’re married. Why would he do that on our wedding night? It doesn’t make sense because then he did it, I mean he went all the way to the end with the business. I didn’t like it either time, not at all. It was like he was someone else, not Thomas.”

Mrs. Miggs drank, and said slowly, “Men are not a patient lot, so aye, just maybe many men are too rough and maybe too they change their minds, just can’t help themselves. After all, they’re really a weak lot, now aren’t they?”

Meggie didn’t know about that. He changed his mind? About her? About their marriage and he didn’t care if she liked this lovemaking business or not? “What about your wedding night, Mrs. Miggs?”

Mrs. Miggs poured each of them another glass. They clicked their glasses together again and drank.

“Well, let me see if I can remember that far back. A full long number of years ago that was. Hmmm, well, my Mr. Miggs, he was a big ’un, all full of fire and hops—because he always liked his ale—even when he was just a young man. We got hitched and the neighbors and our folks gave us a fine party and then Mr. Miggs lifted me up into the cart and off we went, to spend several days at my aunt’s house over in Fowey. Ah, but Mr. Miggs, he just couldn’t wait to get us to Fowey and to a bed. No, he—”

Meggie, mesmerized, held up her empty glass. Mrs. Miggs filled it to the top, then her own. She looked thoughtful.

“Come, tell me. What happened, Mrs. Miggs?”

“Mr. Miggs stopped the cart, patted that big mare on her rump, then jerked me over his shoulder and carried me into a field of wildflowers.”

“That sounds terribly romantic.”