“But Harry’s not shorter than Henry.” Megs pointed out. “It’s got the same number of letters. How very strange.”
And now a smile did curve his lips, unused as they were to such an endeavor. “I think as we are friends you should definitely call me Harry and dispense with calling me Cousin as well.”
She bounced as she walked. “I shall indeed. My sisters will be quite green with envy that I’m the first person to have met you and that I can call you Harry. And that you’re my friend before you’re theirs.” A frown marred her brow as though some less pleasant thought had just struck her.
She bit her lip. “Although of course, we were all imagining you would be an ogre, which was why I was considering shooting you. I said we were all crack shots, but I am the best of us, so I would not have missed.” She put her hand on her heart. “I would have shot you here. We moved out of the Hall yesterday because we were sure we wouldn’t like you. None of us wanted to have to share it with you. And besides which, we thought you’d be old and stuffy and be bringing your own family with you. We couldn’t have borne that.”
Good heavens. This was a slightly too honest child. “And now you’ve met me, do you still think I’m an ogre?”
She burst out laughing. “Not at all. I can see you are not, and I’m an excellent judge of character, Mama says. And although you’re much older than me, you’re not old like Papa was at all.” She frowned. “Mama and Miss Mastin are always telling me not to enquire someone’s age as it’s not polite, but as neither of them are here to tell me off, I shall ask you. How old are you?”
He tried to keep his face stern, a difficult thing in the face of such unaffected and unusual charm. He failed. “Your mama and Miss Mastin are correct, I fear, but I’m not at all offended. I was thirty-two on my last birthday, which was in June.”
For some reason this struck Megs silent, but he had no idea why. They walked on some way before she spoke again. “Do you like horses?”
As this was such a subject change from her last remark, he raised his eyebrows at her. “Do I like horses? Why yes, I suppose I do. I didn’t serve with a cavalry regiment though, so it’s some time since I last rode.”
Her gaze returned to his leg. “Would your leg prevent you from riding?”
He hadn’t thought about it until now. “I don’t know. Probably not.”
She nodded, as though satisfied. “I love to ride. I have my own horse. Well, she’s a pony really. Her name’s Banshee.” She peered up at him a little warily. “She’s absolutely mine, not yours. Papa gave her to me for my tenth birthday. So you can’t have her.”
He kept his face serious as this was obviously such an important matter for her. “I have no intention whatsoever of taking Banshee away from you.”
She nodded. “Good.” A pause. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
She dimpled. “And you’d look very silly on her anyway as she’s only thirteen hands.”
“I would indeed.”
They walked a little further, until a grassy track opened up to the right. She stopped. “This is the way to our new house.”
A large flat stone stood at the side of the track on which someone had once painted the name “Rampton Farm,” but the lettering was now faded and much in need of attention. He let Megs lead him down the track, wondering where it was they were going. Had the widow, Megs’ mother, property of her own?
At a rickety gate whose broken hinges rendered swinging it open impossible, he helped Megs lift it enough to let them through and then closed it carefully behind him, mindful of the fact that this farmyard he was entering might contain animals that shouldn’t be allowed to escape. All he could see, however, was a gaggle of tatty chickens scratching in the dirt.
The buildings to left and right were not in a good state, years of neglect and rain having done its worst. And the house on the far side of the yard looked as though a lot of love and care was required, but the yard was tidy and relatively weed free. Courtesy of his own gardeners, did he but know it.
Megs gave his arm a tug. “Come on. This door goes into the kitchen.”
And she pulled him across the yard towards a freshly-painted door to the right-hand side of the farmhouse. With no hesitation, and allowing Harry no opportunity to object, she pushed the door wide and pulled him inside after her.
Low, white-painted beams brushed the top of Harry’s head, for he was tall, in a large, square room with an old oak table at its center. An elderly, rotund, and apron-clad woman stood at the stone sink, up to her elbows in water, two girls, also apron-clad, had halted in the act of clearing the table of what must have been a late breakfast, and a thirdwas still seated, a cup of tea arrested in its voyage to her lips.
From by the fireplace a very much mixed pack of dogs rose en masse and approached him, sniffing in curiosity with their tails wagging. Two cocker spaniels, an elderly pointer, and a dalmatian carriage dog. A fat pug stayed in position in front of the fire. The ugly dog joined in with their welcome as though he’d forgotten he’d already met their guest.
Harry put a hand down to fondle the ears of the pointer and the spaniels licked his hand. Was the apron-clad older woman Megs’ mother? And hadn’t Megs said she had only two sisters?
The young lady at the table set her cup of tea down and rose to her feet, wide blue eyes very like Megs’ own regarding him in something akin to astonishment. Heat rose to his cheeks. He was intruding. He should never have let Megs drag him here so early in the morning. It was not acceptable behavior and he should have known better than to have allowed himself to be led astray by such an impulsive child.
The two younger sisters, who must both have been a good five or six years older than Megs, were staring at him in an astonishment mirrored by their oldest sister.
The oldest sister wiped her hands on a napkin. “My goodness, do I assume you must be Sir Henry? We didn’t expect to see you for some time.” She glanced around uncertainly. “Please come in and…” Her voice trailed off as though she was unsure how to finish that sentence. She was very pretty, and must be another five or six years older than the other two. Very pretty indeed with a maturity about her none of her sisters possessed. A maturity that lent her a full-blown beauty.
She dropped an elegant curtsy. “Pray, do come into the parlor, and Betsey will make some more tea.”
