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“You’re a paragon, Mrs. Crumb!”
The housekeeper’s lips curved very, very slightly at the corners. “Thank you, my lady.”
Megs took a breath and smoothed her skirts before gliding down the hallway at a sedate pace. She opened the door to the primrose sitting room, bracing herself for some aged relation of Godric’s, but she immediately relaxed with relief when she saw the three ladies within.
“Oh, Mrs. St. John,” Megs exclaimed as she hurried forward. “Why didn’t you tell us you were coming to London?”
Megs hugged the elder woman and then stood back. Godric’s stepmother was nearing her fifty-fifth year. A short, somewhat stout woman, she had the flaxen hair that all her daughters had inherited, though hers was faded now to a vague pale color. Mrs. St. John’s face had taken on a ruddy hue as she aged. She was a rather plain woman, physically, but one hardly noticed because of the vivaciousness of her expression. Megs knew from village gossip that Godric’s father had been deeply in love with his second wife.
“We took a page from your notebook, Megs, and thought it best to simply arrive on Godric’s doorstep.” Mrs. St. John huffed as she sat down on a settee.
“Rather like one of those vagabond peddlers,” Jane, eighteen and the youngest St. John sister, said. “The ones who won’t leave the doorstep until you buy some ratty length of ribbon.”
“That ribbon was not ratty.” Charlotte, who was two years older than Jane, looked indignant. “I vow you’re jealous because the peddler came around when you were out romping through the fields with Pat and Harriet.”
“Pat and Harriet needed a good run.” Jane pointed her nose in the air. “Besides, I wouldn’t want a ribbon that ratty if it were given to me.”
“Girls,” Mrs. St. John said, and both sisters abruptly shut their mouths. “I’m sure Megs doesn’t care to hear you bickering over fripperies and the dogs.”
Megs didn’t really mind. She found the St. John sisters’ obvious affection for each other—when they weren’t quarreling—rather refreshing, actually. She’d never been close to her own older sister, Caro. The St. John dower house was in the village of Upper Hornsfield, so she had the opportunity to observe the St. John sororal dynamics quite often.
“I can’t think where Sarah is,” she said diplomatically. “Or Godric, for that matter.”
“We were told that Godric had already gone out,” Jane informed her. “And no one could find Sarah.”
“That’s because I was out for a walk,” Sarah said from the doorway. The two little maids were behind her, carefully holding trays full of tea things. “I only just returned.”
Charlotte and Jane were up immediately, hugging and exclaiming over their sister as if they hadn’t seen her in months rather than little more than a week.
Mrs. Crumb entered the room with the maids during the flurry and quietly directed setting everything out. She glanced inquiringly at Megs when the maids were done. When Megs thanked her, Mrs. Crumb nodded and ushered the maids out, closing the door behind her.
“Mama,” Sarah said, leaning down to kiss her mother on the cheek. “What a surprise.”
“That was the idea,” Mrs. St. John said.
Sarah sat. “Why?”
“Well, I thought this estrangement had gone on long enough, and since Godric obviously won’t do anything about it, I decided to. Thank you, dear.” Mrs. St. John accepted a dish of tea from Megs, sweetened with several spoons of sugar, just the way Megs knew she liked it. “And,” she added practically after taking a sip, “the girls and I are in need of new frocks, especially Jane since she’ll have her coming-out this autumn. You as well, Sarah, dear.”
“Oh, good,” Megs murmured. “I’ve been meaning to visit a modiste. We can all go together.”
“What fun!” Jane bounced in her seat. The door to the sitting room opened, but she continued, oblivious. “That sounds much more pleasant than having to visit grumpy old Godric.”
“Jane!” Megs hissed, but it was far too late.
“I wasn’t aware we were expecting visitors,” Godric rasped from the doorway.
Megs bit her lip. He did not look pleased.
Chapter Eleven
“Is this Hell?” Faith asked as she looked at the rocky shore. “No,” the Hellequin said. He’d either not noticed or not cared that she’d pushed Despair off the great black horse. “We still have a long journey ahead before we reach Hell. Before us now is the Peak of Whispers.” He pointed to a range of black, jagged mountains that loomed across the distant horizon. “Are you sure you wish to continue?” “Yes,” Faith said, and wrapped her arms about the Hellequin’s middle.
He merely nodded and spurred his horse on. …
—From The Legend of the Hellequin
Grumpy old Godric.
