“You may dress in peace, my lady.” He inclined his head. “Your ankles are safe from my roaming eyes.”
His sarcastic disinterest disappointed Elizabeth. He might, at least, have the decency to try and peek. To this end, she intentionally extended her leg out further than necessary while pulling on her stocking. She peeked sideways up at him to see if he’d noticed and grimaced when she spied his arched brow. It wasn’t arched as if he were pleasantly surprised. No. Not he. He wore a condemning sneer.
“Tsk tsk, Izzie, machinating again? Another ploy like that, my dear, and I will let go of you. In which case, you will have a choice of falling against that thorny rose bush or onto this path littered with fresh chicken excrement.”
“I most certainly am not machinating.”
“You were.”
“You wouldn’t let me fall, surely.” She had no doubt he would drop her. The roses sported some savage looking thorns, and the excrement held very little appeal. Elizabeth bent to her task with more diligence. “Wretch,” she mumbled.
“Merely being practical. I would not want to fall prey to the shapeliness of your ankle. I’ve heard men rhapsodize about the fatality of such things. The Medusa effect and all.”
“I sincerely doubt you are capable of falling prey to anyone, my lord,” she muttered as they walked into the house. “Not even Medusa.” After all, Medusa could hardly turn him into stone. He already appeared to be made of the stuff.
Valen led her to a low-ceilinged room with heavy beams. There were so many bundles of herbs tacked up on the beams for drying that Elizabeth had to dodge them as she entered the dining room. At the head of a long worn board table sat a willowy gentleman with snowy-white hair. He stood, stooping to avoid wearing a face full of drying blackberry leaves.
“My grandfather, Benjamin Whitley, Steward of Ransley Keep.” Valen’s voice was proud and held a note of awe.
Elizabeth could see why. The older man’s wizened expression made her think he could see straight into her soul. She swallowed.
Meagan directed Elizabeth to a seat next to a gangly young man of about five and ten years who blushed when she sat down. Valen took his place beside his grandfather. He and Valen exchanged knowing looks, understanding running thick as honey between them.
Five children and as many adults gathered around the table, and between them all they devoured a huge pot of porridge, a crockery bowl full of eggs, a pan of stewed pears, and two pitchers of fresh milk. They were assisted by one sneaky kitten, who roamed among the children inducing them to spill a small portion of their milk. This the children willingly did every time Meagan turned her back.
After Thomas excused himself to tend to chores and took most of the boys with him, Meagan hefted an empty pitcher and turned to her youngest. “David Whitley, you’ve been feeding that cat again, haven’t you?” He nodded remorsefully, grinned, and scampered off before he could receive a proper scold. Elizabeth laughed and asked how she might help clean up.
“Oh no, couldn’t do that,” Meagan protested. “Wouldn’t be right. You’re our guest and a lady.”
“I daresay I’m an intruder you were gracious enough to feed. However, I will strike you a bargain. She lifted a handful of the red clover heads from her pocket. Perhaps if I help you in the kitchen, you would be willing to tell me the best way to dry these so I might make a tea for Lord Ransley.”
“He’s worse then, is he?” Meagan sighed as she carried an armful of plates and bowls to the kitchen. Elizabeth and one of the girls followed suit.
Meagan wiped her hand on a towel she kept tucked into her skirt. “Pater visits him once a week now that he’s been reinstated as steward. He mentioned as how Lord Ransley’s lungs were failing, but men don’t pay heed to the details. It’s bad then, is it?”
“He does not appear well at all. Labors to speak. His skin is pale and...” Elizabeth reported softly, hoping Valen did not hear. But even as he spoke to his grandfather in the other room, he watched her. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “There is some blood when he coughs. Surely, there are some herbs that might ease his condition? I found an old book of remedies in our attic at home. Unfortunately I don’t have it with me. And I’m uncertain which ones—”
“Come.” Meagan beckoned. “My daughter will tend to these.” She nodded her thanks to the girl. “Come with me to the garden.”
Meagan’s garden stretched along the entire length of the back of the cottage. There were flowers everywhere, hollyhocks and raspberries in bloom, new vegetable growth in neatly tended rows, and patches of medicinal herbs scattered among the blossoms.
“You’ll want mallow, grows by the pond.” Meagan led her around a little stone path that weaved in and among all the plants. “I’ve got a firkin of dried cherry bark inside. You can brew some of that in a tea for his cough and add licorice to calm the spasms. You were right about the clover, but be cautious. If it doesn’t soothe him straight off, take it away. Try the roots of this after they’re dried. Grind them and make powder.” She handed Elizabeth an odd-looking plant with stringy leaves and gray roots. “Has Valentine told you about his mother yet?”
The non sequitur surprised Elizabeth. They stood among the giant round blossoms of allium and garlic, facing each other. Meagan was a plain, guileless woman with steady strong bones and a countenance that would not allow her to dissemble should she attempt it for a hundred years. And she expected an answer.
“No. Only that his father fell in love. And the previous Lord Ransley made things difficult.”
Meagan nodded. “Aye, that he did. Made them both
