When he thought about it later, Tysen knew he would be very surprised if indeed he found a skeleton lurking in the back of one of Lord Lancaster's closets. He was an excellent young man.
Still, he would look.
Chapter 11
WHEN TYSEN FINALLY managed to snag his daughter away from the rest of the family, particularly Alec, who wanted to show her a new racing cat training technique that involved a bucket, he led her through the vicarage garden, to the gate, and down the path to the cemetery, where few parishioners chose to spend any time when not absolutely necessary. He needed privacy. He unlatched the very old black wrought-iron gate, slowly pulling it open for her to step onto the path that led into the depths of the cemetery.
The air was different here. Still and soft, as quiet as fingers stroking a racing cat's back. Meggie stopped, breathed in deeply, and said over her shoulder, "You come here when you wish to think, Papa. I remember you sitting on that one particular bench from my youngest years. I used to wonder why you so admired Sir Vincent D'Egle, a medieval warrior who likely wasn't an overly religious man. I picture him in battle, yelling and swinging his sword and finally being cleaved in two himself at far too young an age."
"Cleaved in two? Actually, I also rather fancy that might have happened to him. However, no matter how he died, there is something about his grave that draws me back," he said, smiling down at her as he took her hand. "I don't know why this should be so, but I know that when I sit there, and I hear Mr. Peters ring the church bells, I feel peace and calm seep into my very bones. You still bring flowers to his grave."
Meggie nodded, and said, "It will rain soon. Can you feel how heavy the air has suddenly become? How it is already wrapping itself about your head, wanting to soak you? I've decided that it rains too much in England. Everyone is so tired of feeling damp to their toes and-"
"Meggie, I must speak to you."
"I know, Papa. You're being very gentle with me. When you do that, I know there is something you're dreading to tell me. I can take it. Has Leo done something awful at Oxford? Will I need to go there and fix things? Try to teach him what's what?"
"I devoutly hope not. No, it's something else, Meggie."
She looked at him steadily. "This is about me, isn't it? And about Thomas."
"Oh Meggie, my sweet girl, let's sit here beside Sir Vincent on his bench. Yes, this is about Thomas. I am your father and you know down to your bones that I will always want what is the very best for you."
She didn't say a word, just looked at him and waited for the ax to fall.
He realized in that moment that she just wasn't ready to be blighted. He was willing to wait, and when he paused, she quickly said, her hand lightly closing over one of his, all forced smiles and enthusiasm, "I was listening to Mary Rose read Rory the story of Renard the Fox."
"It is his favorite," Tysen said, running his fingers over the smooth worn gray stone. "But Mary Rose must read it to him only in Latin." He shook his head, looking a bit bewildered. "How very strange it is. We live in the modern world, yet two of my sons and my wife speak Latin. Latin. It boggles the mind, Meggie. Now, my dear-"
Meggie said quickly, "I meant to leave, but then she started reading him Chanticleer the Cock. Mary Rose can even cock-a-doodle-doo in Latin."
"Rory is only four years old, Meggie. At least he doesn't announce his age yet in Latin."
Meggie laughed. "He will. Give him a couple more years. You know that Mary Rose is very smart, Papa. I believe she was learning Latin at Rory's age." Tysen looked at his daughter while she spoke, so Sherbrooke in her looks-blondish brownish hair with all the shades in between, and clear light blue eyes the color of the summer sky. In short, she looked like him, only her features were more finely drawn. Her chin, he thought, was very possibly more stubborn. As for her temperament, his daughter saw something that needed to be done, and she did it, no shilly-shallying about, no excuses, never procrastinating. She felt strongly about things, many times too strongly. No middle ground for her. He remembered she'd been three years old when she saw old Mrs. McGilly struggling with several packages on High Street and had immediately tried to help her. But she wasn't strong enough, and so had fetched two men from the tavern to tote the bundles. One of them, Tysen remembered, had been very tipsy and proceeded to drop the packages. Meggie had scolded him.
He grinned with the memory. Yes, his Meggie knew only one direction-forward. In this, she was just like her aunt Sinjun. And, he knew, she wanted to move smartly forward with Thomas Malcombe, Lord Lancaster.
Meggie was saying now, "Did you know that Alec wants to be the Prussian Gebhard Leberecht von Blucher when he grows up? He can even say the whole name. And spell it. He's had me play Napoleon more times than I can count. He's chased me all over the graveyard and into the bell tower. Then he finds me and claims he's not going to send me back to Elba. No, he's going to send me some place where I will rot. In perpetuity. He actually says perpetuity."
Tysen felt the tug in his heart, let it blossom a moment, flooding him with sweet memories of Meggie as a little girl, her finger in every village pie, her ear against every door, her opinion offered on every sermon. And that little girl had adored him since she'd come from her mother's womb and smiled up at him. He said easily, "He always chases me and Mary Rose too. I have yet to be graced with perpetuity." He took her hand in his, competent hands, beautiful long fingers. He said, "Meggie, you are only nineteen years old. You spent only one Season in London. You have lived all your life in Glenclose-in-Rowan."
"I live in Scotland every year too, Papa."
"Yes, well, that's true."
She turned to him then, took one of his hands between hers. "All right. I'm ready for whatever you have to tell me. Come, spit it out, Papa. What is wrong? What have you learned about Thomas?"
"I don't wish you to misunderstand me," Tysen said slowly. "I like Thomas Malcombe. He saved Rory's life, I am quite convinced of that, as is Dr. Dreyfus. He is a charming young man. He seems intelligent, witty, responsible. From what I have heard from your uncle Douglas's man in London, he was no pauper even before his father died and left him his holdings. Thomas's business interests are evidently primarily in Italy, where he has grown rich in shipping, in a very short time. I could find out nothing about him that would make me worry.
"He wanted to pay me a dowry for you. Naturally I refused. You will not go to your husband empty-handed. You are not quite the heiress your aunt Sinjun was, but your dowry is really quite satisfactory. Lord Lancaster is assuredly not a fortune hunter."
"Then what is Lord Lancaster?"
"Meggie, your dowry aside, you and I have known Lord Lancaster for only two months, maybe not even that long. I knew his father, didn't particularly dislike the man. He was secretive, Meggie, very tight-fisted, didn't speak well of anyone. He was not a man I would have easily trusted. Now, I don't believe you know this. The old earl divorced his wife and kicked both her and her young son out of Bowden Close. Neither of them ever came back. I have heard rumors about a second wife, perhaps another child, but I don't know if any of that is true."
"None of that in any way redounds on Thomas."
"No."
"Thomas told me that there had been a falling out between his father and his mother, and she took Thomas and left. He didn't mention a divorce. I didn't press him. He doesn't like to speak of it. I believe he's been very hurt by it."