She managed to bring herself back to the point. 'There was another case of the virulent fever, and Dr. Dreyfus immediately administered your drug. Little Melissa perked up very quickly.'
'Yes, everyone in the village told me about it.'
'Everyone in the village is also singing your praises. The men are toasting you in the taproom. The ladies are so fulsome in their praise that your ears should be burning. You are rapidly working up to local hero.'
'I like that,' he said, and lightly laid his hands over hers. 'I would like to see the Channel.'
Meggie raised her face to the watery sun, and smiled. 'I should like that as well,' she said.
She wondered if perhaps she should kiss him again. Was the female supposed to open her mouth as well? Perhaps touch his mouth with her tongue?
She shivered. This was new ground, probably unsafe ground. She wasn't at all certain that she wanted to walk here. She thought of Jeremy kissing her, knowing it would spin her off her feet, and felt a deep shaft of pain. He said, 'Perhaps you could be specific about what the ladies are saying about me and my magnificence. I would like my ears to burn a bit. They never have before.'
'I'm not sure that is such a good idea,' Meggie said. 'I think you could grow far too used to being worshipped,' and nudged her boot heels into Survivor's sides.
Chapter 9
THAT IS QUITE the longest leap Cleo has ever made,' Meggie said, reading the distance stick again. 'Yes, that's right-three feet and about four inches. Just excellent, my sweet girl.'
'It's that new training method, Meggie,' Alec said, humming under his breath. He stroked the cat's back, long light strokes. Cleo began to purr and arch her back.
Oh dear, better concentrate on training methods. She wrapped the long length of pale yellow ribbon around her hand. A good foot of it was shredded by Cleo catching it, her claws seaming it, so that it was now five skinny strings of ribbon.
Alec said, 'She might just beat Mr. Cork on Saturday.'
'I have worked with Mr. Cork as well, and you know he has more endurance. He is very taken with smells, as you know. I tried a new one on him-mackerel. I chopped it up, added a dash of garlic, and dried it. Then I wrapped it in a netted bag. He nearly ran his legs off trying to get close enough to get a really strong whiff of it. It must replace the dead trout.'
'Meggie, you will surely beat out the Harker brothers in the creativity of your training methods. They're entering three cats in this race.'
'Never underestimate their ingenuity, Alec. I hear that Jamie, the head stable lad at the Mountvale mews, has come up with a new limerick to sing to the Black Rocket. It's so effective-all Jamie has to do is stand at the finish line and sing his heart out, and the Black Rocket will spead toward him like a bullet.'
'The Black Rocket has very mean eyes,' Alec said thoughtfully. 'I think Mr. Cork needs to bring him down a peg. I need to think about this.'
Thomas Malcombe listened to brother and sister discuss the Black Rocket-whatever sort of racing cat that was. He liked that name, it was quite menacing. He'd seen Mr. Cork, his gold and white body stretched out, all muscled and long in the sun, with just a bit of shade over one leg from one of Mrs. Sherbrooke's rosebushes.
He'd never had a cat, even when he'd been a boy. There were the barn cats, feral, all of them good mousers.
'Lord Lancaster, how nice to see you. Do you like thin ham slices? They're Cook's specialty. Do join us for luncheon.'
He turned to see Mrs. Sherbrooke coming around the side of the vicarage. 'Good day, Mrs. Sherbrooke. I merely came to see if Rory was well enough yet to train with the racing cats. I have no wish to intrude.'
Mary Rose took his hand. 'You saved my son's life, my lord. I want you to intrude until you are quite tired of all of us. Do call me Mary Rose.'
Meggie overheard this and nodded vigorously as she joined the two of them. 'Thomas, welcome. I'm delighted you could visit. The last time I saw Rory, he was climbing the trellis that divides Mary Rose's hydrangeas from her daffodils, the one with the red climbing roses on it.'
Mary Rose's eyes nearly crossed. 'Oh no, tell me you made that up, Meggie! Oh goodness, he can't. That trellis isn't all that sturdy. I swear that as of right now, I will no longer look at him and thank God endlessly. No, I will pull my resolve together and swat his bottom. Well, perhaps if he is more than two feet from the ground I will swat him. My lord, I will see you in the dining room in no more than five minutes. Rory! Get down off that trellis!'
And Mary Rose was gone, holding her skirt up to her knees and running toward the east side of the vicarage.
Meggie grinned after her. 'This is a good sign. She's been hovering over him, so afraid he will stop breathing again.'
'Being hovered over doesn't sound like a bad thing,' Thomas said.
Meggie grinned. 'Hovering in this case means she's always petting him, kissing him, squeezing him, stuffing food down his gullet, driving the little boy quite distracted, a very independent little boy, let me add.'
'You mean you made that trellis story up to get your mother back on an even keel?'
'I wouldn't call it precisely a lie,' Meggie said. 'Perhaps Rory was looking longingly at the trellis. Now, I am delighted you came to visit. Cook's ham slices are so thin you can see yourself through them. No one knows how she manages it and everyone is always lurking about to watch when she slices the ham. Come along now. You needn't worry that she will try to poison you. The only person she ever mutters about is Mr. Samuel Pritchert, my father's curate.'
'The very dour man who never smiles even when he eats a bite of apple tart?'
'That's the one.'
'He's in a bad way.'
'Yes. But do you know, he has but to look at someone, and that someone will spill his innards to Samuel. My father thinks it's amazing.'
'I don't believe you.'
She just laughed, took his hand, and pulled him toward the vicarage door. They heard Mary Rose yelling at Rory, who had, evidently, climbed the trellis, because she was telling him that she was going to swat him but good when she got him down from that great height. Goodness, he'd climbed at least eighteen inches and he deserved a good swat.
'That,' Meggie said, 'makes you wonder about the nature of deception, doesn't it?'
Jeremy's visit the following Wednesday was unannounced, thank God, or Meggie would have been an incoherent bundle of nerves. As it was, all she felt was longing and an immense pain at what couldn't be.
Jeremy Stanton-Greville was so happy. So incredibly, blessedly happy. He gushed; he grinned like a fool. He oozed contentment and smugness. He rubbed his hands together, so proud of himself, so pleased with life, so uncaring, so blind, to the one person who would have gladly played Sir Walter Raleigh to his Queen Elizabeth and thrown every cloak she owned at his feet. Thus, just seeing him, knowing he wasn't ever to belong to her, made her want to hide under the stairs and weep, but naturally, she couldn't. She was stoic. She endured, even managed, when a jest nearly punched her in the nose, to dutifully smile.
After an hour, however, Meggie was feeling less and less like bursting into tears when she looked at him. Actually, she wanted less and less for him to stare at her, just her, with regret and nameless hunger in his beautiful eyes. She wanted less and less for him to realize his tragic mistake that would keep them apart forever.
No, after an hour, Meggie was ready to smash him. She began to drum her fingers against the arm of her chair as he talked on and on about his dearest Charlotte, his beautiful, elegant Charlotte, so sweet, so clever-the embodiment of perfection, a flawless example of womanhood. Then he went on to his stud at Fowey. After a while, both the stud and Charlotte sported the same attributes.
Jeremy never stopped talking about either Charlotte and the stud, even after dinner when the adults were
