Chapter Twenty
The morning dawned bright and clear and beautiful.
It was offensive.
Meg would have preferred gray rain to suit her mood, or storms to release this gnawing energy moving inside of her. She wanted to be back in Dougal’s bed, waking slowly, his warm body against hers. Instead, she’d woken from a few hours of fitful rest to a maid bringing in a tea tray and offering to comb the snarls out of her hair which stank of smoke.
If only she could comb the snarls out of her mood.
It soured her mood further to discover that the plaster she had used in the dining room was already cracking.
She was rubbish at plastering.
And finding treasures.
Everything.
And now here she was, standing with Dougal, both stiff and awkward under the gaze of his family, her chaperone, a butler and three footmen. As if the muscles of her thighs weren’t still pleasantly sore under her white dress. As if she didn’t already miss him.
She smiled, composed, because what else was there to do? Weeping or gnashing her teeth, railing at the heavens—none of it would change the facts. She had no dowry, only responsibilities. Best get to it.
She curtsied to Colin who bowed, with a wink. She curtsied to George next and handed him a small package. “What’s this, then?” he asked.
“A gift,” she teased. When his eyes went a little teary, she rushed to add. “It’s only drawing pencils and good strong paper. For you to practice on.”
A little teary turned to downright drippy. Meg bit her lip. Had she offended him in some way?
“Never mind,” Dougal spoke from behind her, his voice in her ear stirring the little hairs on the back of her neck and chasing tingles down her spine. “George weeps on the daily.”
George sniffled. “Rotten boy,” he muttered. He bowed to Meg. “Thank you, Miss Swift.”
“You’re very welcome.”
Charlie was next, frowning.
“It was lovely to meet you,” Meg said. “I hope—”
Charlie cut her off by throwing herself at Meg and hugging her tight. She didn’t say anything, just hugged tighter still, then stepped back abruptly.
Everything about saying goodbye was harder than she’d even imagined. She’d only been here for a month, but she wanted to wrap herself around the nearest sturdy object and refuse to be moved.
Dougal was last. She turned, meeting his eyes, that patient blue, like the ocean she had so wanted to paint. On a clear day when the sunlight pierced through a wave.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Your Grace.”
His eyes flashed a warning at her use of his title. She raised an eyebrow. The easy, silent rapport mended a small part of the tearing inside the fabric of herself. Goodness, how melodramatic she was. She would miss him. It was that simple. It hurt but it hardly required theatrics and bad poetry. She straightened like a soldier. A small, determined soldier covered in embroidered hedgehogs baring their teeth. She’d add seashells and roses later for him. For all of them.
“I’m sorry I never found your treasure,” she said. Oh, that rankled. She’d managed to sketch the statues for her godfather, but she hadn’t succeeded in doing the thing he’d really wanted her to do. She needed more time. But the rents were due and real life called.
“We’ll keep searching,” Dougal promised.
“You’ll send word if you find anything, won’t you? Please.”
“Of course. And you can always come back and keep searching.”
“You’ll be married by then,” she murmured.
And there it was. Nothing left to say. Meg turned blindly to the carriage, taking Dougal’s hand when he offered it. He squeezed her fingers, a secret message. A private farewell.
When she settled onto the seat, Lady Blackwell was already leaning slightly to the left. The laudanum she had taken was making its way through her system. Meg felt a rush of affection for the old woman who had braved her own fears just to escort her to a duke’s house. Chartreuse woofed once, softly, and then launched himself across the space between them to land on Meg’s knee. She caught him, pressing her cheek to his warm face. It was easier than looking out the window to Dougal and his family, standing there on the drive. She hoped the little dog would stop her from hurtling herself straight out of that same window.
Lady Blackwell surveyed her, only slightly blearily. “Margaret Swift, I never took you for a cabbagehead.”
Meg raised her eyebrows. “I’m sorry?”
“As you should be.” She harrumphed, before adjusting her impressive wig so that it served as a pillow of sorts. “I came all this way only to fail dismally at chaperoning. Here I am, returning you uncompromised.” She sounded truly disgusted.
Meg couldn’t help a smile even though she felt wretched. “I think you might be confused as to what constitutes a good chaperone.”
“Bah. Shows what you know.”