Chapter Eighteen
She was leaving.
First thing tomorrow morning.
The reality of it sat like a stone in her stocking, biting at her, keeping her unbalanced, bruised. She knew it was for the best. After that stolen moment in the hothouse which had replaced all of the blood in her body with fire and all of the air with Dougal, she had to be smart. The village was overrun with marriageable ladies, at least three of whom at last count were high on the Prince’s list. Dougal was running out of time. And she was running out of ways to convince herself it was fine. And more than that, it was necessary.
The rents were going to be collected from the Swift tenants soon and she needed to be there. Mr. Campbell was kind and honorable, but even he could only do so much against the constable that her uncle always sent to scare the villagers. He was an arrogant, rigid man but he softened ever so slightly when a lady, the estate’s unmarried daughter especially, was in the vicinity. And so, she was always in the vicinity.
She had obligations.
No matter what her heart wished she could do. Even without the rents, she had no dowry. Dougal might not realize how unsuitable that made her, but she knew it perfectly well. She wouldn’t be one more thing for the world to use against him, to add to the reasons the ton might look down their noses at him when he was one of the best men she had ever known. Best person.
And so, she would go home.
Practical, realistic, calm Meg Swift.
It was enough to make one scream.
A maid was packing her personal things, but she would pack the art supplies herself. They were precious, breakable. She was on her way to do just that when she passed Dougal’s study, the door open and a man lingering on the threshold. There was something about the way he held himself that made Meg narrow her eyes. They nearly set fire to her head when she heard Dougal murmur his name from inside the study: Mr. Clarke.
“If you could see to that then, Dougal,” Mr. Clarke said, with a sneer he probably thought was subtle. “That’d be grand, my boy.”
“I beg your pardon,” Meg said sharply. She didn’t care for formal rules and the fuss of hierarchy, but she would not hesitate to use it as a weapon to protect Dougal and his family as many times as was required.
Mr. Clarke jumped and turned to glance at her. “Yes, Miss?”
“I am quite certain that you meant to address the duke appropriately,” she said steadily, refusing to drop her gaze.
“Oh, erm.” His fluffy white whiskers trembled.
“Your Grace,” she supplied helpfully, with the kind of expression that might have made Lady Beatrice proud. If only there were more marzipan fruit to catapult.
She might not be able to stay, but like hell she was going to let this kind of bullying go on, even when she was far away embroidering her blasted white dresses.
Dougal would not want boot-lickers and she understood that, but this was a kind of condescending disrespect the agent thought Dougal would not notice or understand.
Meg understood it perfectly well.
And if he was going to be rude, he could be brave enough to be direct about it. Mrs. Hill was the same with Charlie.
Abruptly, she was done with it.
All of it.
“Um, of course. Your Grace,” Mr. Clarke stammered. He flushed slightly. Good. He knew he’d been caught being a prat and was less likely, one might hope, to proceed from disrespect to something worse. It might be rare, but it had been known to happen. And Dougal, much as he would protest the fact, was ripe pickings.
“And I believe cottage repairs fall under your purview, does it not?” Meg continued relentlessly. When he squirmed she did not feel badly. Not a bit. She was probably a terrible person. Never mind. No one would do to Dougal’s estate what her uncle had done to the Henshaw estate. There was little enough she could do about any of it, but she could do this. “The roofs need thatching and the windows repair. Now. Before the snow falls.”
“Yes, Miss.” Mr. Clarke bowed to Dougal and then to Meg, deeply enough that he might have confused her with the queen. He hurried away, heels clacking on the marble floors and stays creaking under his coat.
“Well, that’s him told,” Dougal murmured, from where he leaned against his desk, looking pleased despite himself. “You are a menace.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“As you should.” He tilted his head slightly. “Were you protecting me, Meg?” His voice was honey and spice. She would have drunk it in tea, if she could have.
“Well, of course, I was.” She stepped into the library. The walls were papered with blue silk patterned with tiny flowers. Leather bound books marched in neat rows, interspersed with more Roman busts. She made a mental note to record their presence, as she hadn’t the time to draw them properly for Pendleton.