Pendragon (Sherbrooke Brides 7)

“It pleases me,” Meggie said in a perfectly pleasant voice, “because it isn’t dark and dank and dismal, like that big room just yon that you really should let me fix before you move in there for just one day.”

“I will think about it,” he said yet again and left her standing there, staring at the empty doorway to the dressing room. He knew all the way to the soles of his big feet that if she were to whisper Jeremy’s name in her dreams, and he was there beside her to hear it, he would be worth nothing much at all after that.

Thirty minutes later Meggie found her way back down the huge oak staircase, pausing a moment to admire the carving on the newel post on the top of the banister. She also wanted to admire the plastered ceiling, but it was dirty, in bad need of painting. She walked to the drawing room. She paused when she heard raised voices—the loudest one belonging to her mother-in-law. It was probably about her, since she was the only new specimen about. Meggie practiced her smile. Getting that smile all the way to her eyes, however, was another matter.

When she walked into the drawing room, it was to see not only her husband and her mother-in-law, but also another lady of indeterminate years, sitting on a faded brocade sofa opposite her mother-in-law. This lady was as plump as Thomas’s mother was thin. Her hair, probably once richly blond, was now faded, threads of silver weaving in and out of the fat braids that sat atop her head, unlike Thomas’s mother, whose hair was very dark, heavily laced with snowy white strands of hair. This lady was very fair, her skin as pale as a new snowfall, her eyes light blue, deep dimples in her cheeks. She was really quite pretty, and she was also yelling. “By God, Madeleine, this is nonsense! Tell me you do not mean that!”

So her mother-in-law’s name was Madeleine. That was very pretty.

“I mean it all right, Libby, so you may shut your trap. I tell you, he’s—Ah, here’s my new daughter-in-law with her blue eyes, nice eyes, if one considers the size of her dowry. However, she smiles too much.”

That really made Meggie feel low as a chunk of dirt. I smile too much? Meggie wiped the smile off her face and walked stiff as a soldier at attention to the center of the horrible drawing room and looked first to her husband, then to her mother-in-law, and finally to the plump Libby with her fat blond braids and very pretty smile.

“Hello,” she said, then turned to her husband and nodded. “My lord.”

Thomas said, “I would like a cup of tea, Meggie. Just a bit of lemon for me. Mother? Would you like Meggie to pour for you? Aunt Libby?”

Aunt Libby?

Madeleine puffed up, no other way to put it. She swelled inside her dark blue gown, pushed out her cheeks. “You want her to pour, Thomas? I am your mother. I was the first person ever to pour tea down your little gullet.”

“Meggie is now the countess of Lancaster, Mother, and the mistress of Pendragon. It is her responsibility to pour the tea down both your gullets and now mine as well. Sit back and ease yourself into the cushions and let her serve you.”

“She isn’t smiling now, showing off all those white teeth of hers, so I suppose it would be all right.” She gave a regal nod to Meggie. “I like sugar and milk.”

Meggie merely nodded, not smiling, but looking as serious as Mary Rose when she was trying to outdo Max with a new Latin aphorism. She said toward Libby, “And you, ma’am? Would you like tea?”

“Certainly not. I wish to have sherry, as Madeleine knows very well. Thomas, fetch me sherry. I will pour it down my own gullet, thank you.”

Thomas, looking immensely patient, walked to the sideboard and poured Aunt Libby a large dose of sherry.

Meggie poured and distributed the tea.

“It isn’t sweet enough,” said Madeleine after taking one tiny sip.

Meggie added another spoonful of sugar to the cup and watched her mother-in-law stir it until surely the tea was cold.

This wasn’t at all promising. Meggie sipped her own tea, looking toward her husband, who was standing beside the fireplace, his back against the wall. He’d set his teacup on the mantel and crossed his arms over his chest.

Barnacle tottered into the drawing room, looking to be in agony, and gasped out, “Ennis has delivered yer luggage to yer rooms, my lord. He didn’t do it well, even though I instructed him thoroughly all along the way. My lady, I will be ready for yer ministrations in an hour.”

“Her what, Barnacle?” Libby asked, and poured the rest of her sherry down, holding out her empty glass even as she thrust it toward Thomas.

“Her ladyship, the one wot’s married to our new lordship here,” said Barnacle, screwing up his face into even more agony, “is going to walk on my back, since both ye and the dowager countess are too heavy and would surely break me in two.”

No one said a word. Meggie was the only one who watched Barnacle totter out of the drawing room. The two women were arguing again, but low now, and Meggie couldn’t make out what they were saying.

This was surely the strangest household Meggie had ever visited. No, not visited. She lived here. Blessed hell. Then she remembered Glenda Strapthorpe, who’d gone to great lengths to try to trap Meggie’s father into marriage, and knew she’d have to think about this before making a judgment. Perhaps every household was strange in its own way. She thought of her grandmother Lydia and sighed. She kept her eyes on her teacup.

Not many minutes later Barnacle was standing again in the open doorway to the drawing room. He said in a very formal voice to Thomas, “Lord Kipper is here, my lord. Since ye are now an earl and he is only a baron, he isn’t worthy enough to be shown into the drawing room unless ye expressly wish him to.”

“You’re right. He is only a baron. What do you think we should do with him?”

“Lock him in a bedchamber with a half dozen maids and see if he emerges alive.”

“Hmmm. A creative idea, but just think of the maids, Barnacle. Bring him in and we will pretend he is worthy enough to be in my presence.”

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