Chapter Fourteen
The next day, Lady Blackwell insisted everyone get some fresh air by heading to the village, by way of the seaside.
And then she promptly stayed home with the older ladies.
Meg wondered if she should warn Dougal to check his liquor bottles, then decided that if three ladies in their seventies wished to drink until they snored on the settees, they had more than earned the privilege. Canterbury obviously agreed as he had made himself scarce within minutes—after leaving a tea tray glittering with an assortment of whisky and brandy bottles and baskets of bread and butter and pears.
Mrs. Hill, predictably, did not approve.
Of anything, it seemed.
As Meg made her way down the main staircase, she could hear the housekeeper’s voice, pinched and fretful. “You must wear these gloves instead, miss. Your arms are far too muscular for a lady.”
Meg could read Charlie’s spine perfectly well as it curved inward and then snapped straight. Before she could form a retort, a knock sounded at the door.
Lady Beatrice poked her head out of the drawing room. “Who’s that?”
“I don’t know,” Meg replied as Canterbury greeted the visitor. Meg caught sight of a beaver-crowned hat, white teeth flashing in a charming smile that made her itchy.
“I’ll see if His Grace is at home,” Canterbury said in measured tones. There was nothing of the cheerful pugilist about him today, just the pugilist.
“My good man, I went to school with the duke. Cambridge.”
Meg knew for a fact that none of the Blacks had gone away to school, never mind Cambridge. How would they have even afforded it?
“We’re old friends, he’ll want to see me.”
The visitor pressed forward but Canterbury did not budge, as expected.
Moreover, Lady Beatrice marched down the hall, nudged him aside, and then barked in her best bark: “The duke doesn’t have any friends!”
Then she slammed the heavy door in the startled man’s face, patted Canterbury’s arm, and marched back to the drawing room. Meg grinned at the entire spectacle, even as Mrs. Hill gaped. She soon regained her fortitude and went back to pushing elbow-length pearl-white gloves at Charlie, who was already wearing fingerless mesh gloves, perfectly acceptable for a daytime trip to the village. “Mrs. Hill,” Meg said plainly. “Those are evening gloves and not suitable.”
Mrs. Hill shoved them into her pockets. “Miss Swift,” she curtsied.
“It’s fine,” Charlie mumbled under her breath.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hill,” Meg said pointedly.
The housekeeper hesitated, met Meg’s steely gaze, and walked away. Meg turned to Charlie. “Does she do that often?” she asked. She didn’t think Charlie realized that she had clasped her hands behind her back.
“I can take care of myself,” Charlie muttered, scowling. She shoved a bonnet on her head and marched outside, as if off to battle.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Meg murmured. Someone was going to have to speak to the housekeeper. The Black family might have to learn society’s rules but there was no reason they needed to be made to feel inadequate in the process. Anyone could see Charlie was wilting under the pressure, not because she wasn’t strong enough, but because she was miserable.
And Meg never could abide a bully.
She was ruminating on a plan when George came out of one of the parlors, a stylish crowned hat sitting snugly on his white hair. He smiled kindly. “She didn’t mean to snap at you.”
Meg smiled back. “It hardly signifies.”
“I heard what you said to Mrs. Hill. And that does signify.”
“I’m sure she’s trying to help but her methods are…” she struggled to find a polite word. She failed.
George winked. “Exactly right.”
“Will you be joining us to the village?”