“Both?”
“Not another one,” she sighed. She pointed at Meg, thoroughly nettled. “This one says the same to me every time I bring it up.”
Meg laughed.
“I find that hard to believe in a lady traveling with my brother the duke,” Charlie said pointedly.
“Charlie, that’s enough,” Dougal said, warning in every syllable.
“Our Dougal here is causing a stir, it’s true,” George interrupted smoothly. “The ladies have been applying for house tours in hopes of catching a glimpse.”
Dougal looked deeply embarrassed. Meg probably shouldn’t think it was so adorable.
“Yesterday we found one trying to steal the tassels off the cushions in your room,” Colin said. “For good luck.”
“I…” Dougal trailed off, as if entirely unable to come up with a comment. For Meg, Charlie’s rudeness suddenly made perfect sense.
Especially considering the stifled squeal emanating from behind a potted tree further down the hall.
Dougal’s shoulders slumped and he suddenly looked more tired than a man three times his age. He exchanged a grim glance with his sister. “Not again.”
“Eh?” Lady Blackwell frowned. “Meg, was that you?”
“Er, no.” Not that she wasn’t perfectly capable of hiding behind trees, but she knew better than to squeal when she did so. Even when confronted with the very handsome Duke of Thorncroft.
White ribbons fluttered from behind a handful of leaves. Someone shushed the squealer, in tones no less enthusiastic. Meg and the others looked at each other a moment, at a loss as to how to proceed with a debutante and her mother hiding in plain sight. They were all eyes and teeth. Chartreuse paused on a step and growled once. Another squeal, this time less giddy.
And then a dusky purple plum sailed through the air.
It went through the leaves and landed squarely against something like a striped cap sleeve.
“Maman!” The trees shrieked.
Meg turned towards the landing where an older lady stood, tossing fruit at the strangers with an ease that suggested practice. Another woman stood beside her, shorter and dressed in so many layers of yellow it assaulted the eye. Clearly this was the Lady Marigold whom Lady Blackwell wanted to visit. Nothing else could account for the vibrancy of her gown.
“Off with you!” The taller woman barked. The ladies fled, back through whichever terrace door they had snuck in. Chartreuse followed them, barking, just in case they had a change of heart. Meg thought she might choke on the giggle bubbling in her throat.
Mrs. Hill darted after them, exploding from the nearby drawing room where she had been organizing tea. She paused. “I do beg your pardon, Your Grace,” she said. “The tours have been explicitly told to remain in the gardens while you are at home. I shall see to it immediately.” She marched after the wayward garden tour ladies, her spine like an iron poker.
Dougal just pinched the bridge of his nose. “Lady Blackwell, Miss Swift, may I present Lady Marigold, the duke’s sister, and her companion Lady Beatrice.”
Lady Blackwell squinted up the stairs. “Well, there you are.”
The shorter and plumper lady with soft white curls peered back down. “Matilda Swithings? Is that you?”
“Lady Blackwell, these last fifty-one years. You’re still wearing yellow, I see.”
“It’s cheerful.”
“You’d look better in turquoise. Yellow makes you look like a lemon,” Lady Blackwell said in a supreme case of self-ignorance, considering Meg had seen her wear dresses the exact shade of orange marmalade. More than once. Also: limes and grapefruit. Possibly she considered the entire citrus family hers to defend.
“She looks like a daffodil,” Lady Beatrice insisted.
“More like a pat of butter,” Lady Blackwell snorted. “Bea, you’re still a cantankerous old goat, but you did always have the soul of a poet.”
The three women stared at each other for a moment, long enough to have everyone else shift nervously, before bursting into laughter. “I’ve missed you too,” Lady Beatrice finally said.
Lady Blackwell grinned and then turned to holler, like any good fishmonger. “Canterbury! Whisky!”
They wandered away together, still chuckling. Not just chuckling, but outright cackling, like old witches.
“Now, I’m truly terrified,” Dougal muttered.
Meg had only been inside the front hall of the house for less than a quarter of an hour and it was already her favorite place in all of England.
Europe, definitely.
The world, quite possibly.