Chapter Twenty-Three
It was all good and well to decide to run away, but she still had responsibilities to see to first. The land agent Mr. Campbell would be down in the village shortly to collect the rents. She needed to be there to help Wes get it done as quickly as possible. Her uncle sent the constable Mr. Hughes to oversee and to intimidate, before escorting Mr. Campbell back up to the Hall with his money purse. Meg was occasionally able to distract him and keep his mood sweet. She wore her best dress, white with bluebells embroidered over every inch of fabric strong enough to hold thread. Every time she wore it, he told her blue was his favorite color and he wasn’t as rough with the tenants.
Meg paired it with a straw bonnet and fingerless lace gloves, so as to appear as ladylike as possible, even though the gloves itched. She walked through the fields, admiring with some pride the stubble of hay and vegetables from the recent harvest. The cheerful wind and the bright sun improved her mood, and she could almost pretend not to remember the sound of Dougal’s husky laugh. Almost.
Not to wonder what he was doing right now.
If he’d found the treasure.
Or a wife.
“Meggie!” Peter crowed her name and tore through hillocks of dirt to reach her side. His blond curls were too long, as usual, and home to twigs and stray flower petals, also, as per usual. His grin was contagious and chased away the last of her doldrums.
“Peter Farthing,” she crowed back. “Here’s a fine lad.”
“What did you bring me?” he demanded instantly.
“A kiss.”
He made a loud, offended gagging sound. “Meg!”
She laughed. “How about a pirate’s treasure, then?” she asked.
“Treasure?” He looked both excited and suspicious, as only a ten-year-old boy could. “What kind of treasure?”
“Gold.” She handed him the pouch full of almonds.
His eyes widened at the glint of gilt. “’Gor!”
“Better yet, it’s gold you can eat.”
His eyes widened further and were in very great danger of falling right out of his head. “I can eat these? Truly?”
“Truly.”
He hugged her waist, quick as a bird, darting away before she could hug him back. “Thank you, Meg!”
“You’re welcome,” she said. “Mind you share those.”
He was already running and shouting over his shoulder. “I will!”
He wouldn’t. She’d brought sugared violets saved from the last month of tea trays, as well as biscuits, for the other children. And dried flowers she’d twisted into circlets to wear as crowns. Winters could be long and gray, and a little art could make a difference. Her cottage had been dull as tombs before she’d taken a paintbrush to every available surface. She might not be able to eat cerulean blue, but it certainly helped the monotony of three straight weeks of boiled turnips in January.
The rest of the village children descended, shouting stories about the frogs in the pond that she had missed and the crows on the hill and the fine folk who had ridden by on horseback from her uncle’s party, tossing pennies. Peter lost a tooth, Mary had found a beetle and put it in her grandmother’s bed. Someone had let the pig loose and it was a great mystery never to be solved.
It was Little Agatha. It was always Little Agatha.
“Give the poor woman space to breathe,” Little Agatha’s father, Tom, grumbled. He added a fearsome growl that sent the children running and shrieking happily with mock fear. He bowed his head to Meg. He’d washed his hair and it was still wet, curling behind his ears.
“Miss Swift.”
“Tom,” she returned. She’d been asking him to call her Meg for longer than his children had been alive. “Has Mr. Hughes arrived?”
“No, but my boy just came down from the hills to say he was on his way. Wes is already here.”
“Oh good, that’s a relief.”
She found him in the small main square, perched on a stool, his ledger in hand. It was barely more than a patch of dirt with a few cobblestones and a pub of sorts operating illegally from Old Nancy’s side window. The thatched houses were sturdy, the roofs mended time and time again until they were thick as angry hedgehogs. Meg was greeted warmly and offered a stool. Someone put a cup of beer in her hand. She took a hasty sip before Mr. Hughes could arrive to disapprove.