“Fellowes says a great many things.”
“Megan.”
“I know.” She met his eyes. “I know. I am being patient. I am simply very bad at it.”
“You are extraordinary at it,” he said, which was different from what she had expected him to say. “You have been patient for fourteen years. You are allowed to find this particular patience difficult.”
She looked at her hands.
“What happened to Penharrow’s men?” she asked. “The ones from the house.”
“The two who didn’t run have been questioned. Carmichael is satisfied that the magistrate has enough to proceed with. Between Webb’s testimony and the solicitor’s accounts, the whole of it is being unpicked fairly efficiently.” He paused. “You don’t need to worry about any of it.”
“I’m not worrying. I’m asking.”
“I know the difference,” he said. “I’m telling you anyway.”
* * *
It washer mother and Dorothea who arrived together one morning in the second week, which Megan had learned to recognize as a sign that something had been arranged without her knowledge.
“We’ve been discussing the wedding,” her mother said, settling into the chair near the window with the serene authority of a woman who had spent decades managing large households.
“Have you,” Megan said.
“St George’s, we think. Hanover Square.” Dorothea seated herself on the edge of the bed with the ease of a woman who considered formality optional in private. “Christmas Day would make it a special occasion and Oliver can never forget your wedding anniversary as it’s also your birthday and Christmas. Your shoulder will be fully recovered, the weather may be a problem but I’m hoping snow stays away, and it gives us adequate time to arrange everything without rushing.”
“You’ve already spoken to the bishop,” Megan said.
Dorothea’s expression did not change. “I have spoken to the bishop’s secretary.”
“Dorothea.”
“He was very accommodating.”
Margaret Fairfax, Duchess of Newbury, hid a smile behind her teacup. “The dressmaker has suggested ivory silk. Simple lines, which I think will suit you very well.”
“You’ve spoken to the dressmaker too,” Megan said.
“I asked her to put aside some fabric,” her mother said, with the tranquil reasonableness of a woman who saw no distinction between the two things. “You don’t have to use it.”
Megan looked at her mother, then at Dorothea, then back at her mother.
“Did anyone think to ask Oliver what he thought of the date?”
“Oliver,” Dorothea said, “said whatever you decide is agreeable to him as long as it’s soon, and then returned to his correspondence.”
“That sounds like Oliver.”
“It does,” Dorothea agreed, with considerable satisfaction. “He’s a sensible boy. He always has been, underneath the stubbornness.”
Margaret set down her cup. “Megan. Do you have any preference? Truly. Because if you want something smaller, or different, or later, that is entirely within your right to say.”
Megan thought about it. She thought about what she had wanted, in those long years in Wales, when imagining a future had been an act of private rebellion rather than genuine expectation. She had not, in truth, imagined a wedding at all. She had imagined only afterwards. A life that was hers.
“Christmas Day would be lovely,” she said. She also didn’t wish to wait any longer. She wanted to be with Oliver—in his bed. “St George’s is fine.” She paused. “I would like the ring I already have to stay on my right hand during the ceremony. Oliver said it could.”
Her mother’s eyes softened. “Of course.”
