Chapter 13 #3
The maid finished with her ministrations, and Meg hurried downstairs to the drawing room, where her new companion was said to be waiting. She took in a breath. There was no reason to be unsettled. Was there?
Inside the room, a slender woman turned from the window. Her hair was whitish blond, her wrinkles softened with powder, her sharp chin lifted in a posture of scrutiny. “You must be Miss Foxcroft.”
“Yes.” Meg took another step forward. She tripped on the rug. “I fear I have not yet the pleasure of knowing your n–name. Lord Cunningham has told me little.”
The woman smiled—regally, coolly—and approached Meg with her shoulders straight. Her dress was simple, white with delicate embroidery and a revealing neckline. She smelled of lemon and musk. “You bite your fingernails.”
Meg glanced at her hands with a burn of surprise. She had never noticed.
“Your back is not straight. You maneuver your steps with the ease and heedlessness of a brutish farmer.”
The insult left a slash of pain through Meg’s midsection. She stood straighter, eyes wide, but could not seem to tear her gaze from the woman.
“Your speech lacks practice, and your confidence is waning.” The woman leaned closer still and took a delicate sniff. “And you smell of the woods and stables. The worst of your failings yet.”
“Miss—”
“My lady, to you.” The woman’s jaw protruded. “Whenever you enter an occupied room, you must bow. Then you must sit. But you must never, never stand here beyond the threshold, your poise forgotten, as if you had no sense at all.”
“I assure you, I have sense.” She bit the inside of her cheek, but it didn’t stop the zing of anger. “Where is Lord Cunningham?”
“He has departed on business for the day. In truth, I requested it. I cannot instruct you properly with members of the opposite sex observing us, as if this were all a game.” She smiled again. “It is not.”
“I fear you misunderstand.”
“No, I fear you do.”
“I have no intention of—”
“Under my hand, you will learn decorum, needlework, musical concepts, language, fashion—and most of all, the ability to conceal this preposterous show of emotion.” The woman nodded back to the door.
“First, go upstairs and bathe. You will even your fingernails and you will powder your face against this ridiculous darkening complexation. It is clear no one has taught you anything.”
“I like the sun.”
“It is modish to be pale.”
“Then I shall not be modish.”
“Miss Foxcroft.” The woman let out a small sigh. “You quite misjudge me. I am not unkind nor severe, only candid. And it is that forthrightness which has polished many a young lady in my years at the female seminary.
Lord Cunningham approached me and requested I guest here at Penrose Abbey to assist you in every way that I can. If this is not agreeable to you, I shall not waste either of our time.” She waited only a second before marching to the door—
“Wait.” Meg ground down her pride with her molars. “Lord Cunningham is to be my husband. If he wishes I learn from you, I shall.”
“Very well. You may call me Lady Walpoole, and we may begin with our lessons in the library.” She motioned Meg through the door. “After your bath, of course.”
She had waited all day for Lady Walpoole to dismiss her. Then two more hours for Lord Cunningham’s carriage to roll back through the wrought-iron gates.
Now she stood outside his study door.
The crack allowed her a glimpse of his face as he stripped off his burgundy tailcoat, poured himself a glass of brandy, and creaked back into his chair. Sweat glistened off his white skin. His expression was everything she knew, everything familiar, everything she should love.
She would love.
A weak throb of disappointment eddied through her.
She resisted such an impulse. Lord Cunningham was kind.
He had rescued her when so many would have thrown her away.
For the first time, she could do something for him—something that would make him forget, if only for a moment, that his daughter lay dying in the upstairs bedchamber.
Tom would not understand.
That didn’t matter.
Not in the least.
“Dr. Bagot?” Lord Cunningham must have heard her, for he twisted in his seat.
“No.” She guided the door open with a cautious hand. “It is me. Am I disturbing you?”
“You?” He drained the brandy in his glass. “The weather disturbs me. These correspondences disturb me. I even disturb myself.” His eyelids half fell. “But never you.”
“I wished to speak with you concerning Lady Walpoole.”
“She is not so very disagreeable already, pray?”
“She …” Meg arched her back straighter as the woman’s reprimands surfaced. “She is dedicated, and I am certain I shall gain worlds of knowledge from such a teacher.”
“You are perfect as you are. It is only for your sake I have arranged for the lessons at all. I wish my wife to be just as confident, just as superior, as any other lady of the ton.”
Meg smiled, discomfort spinning through her as he walked around the desk. He caught her hands. Fondled them. Then scraped them against his damp cheeks—while the only thing she could think about was last night. The cliff.
Tom.
No, not Tom.
“My lord, there is one thing I must ask.” She removed her hands to pat some imaginary stray curl back in place. “You have brought Lady Walpoole here to reconcile me with my future.”
“In essence, yes.”
She braced herself for his disapproval. “I wish to reconcile with my past.”