“If you hain’t goin’ to be readin’ the letter, give it here.”
“No.” Another step back. Tom clenched the new letter in his pocket—alongside the old one. Why he could not read it, he wasn’t certain. Perhaps because he already knew what it said. “I can’t take care of her. Not now. Not with Meg …” He couldn’t finish the sentence.
He didn’t have to.
Meade blew out the candle. Darkness swathed them. “Tell you one thing, McGwen, you won’t be racin’ off again and leavin’ me with no child.”
“I have to look for Meg.”
“You heard me.”
“Meade, I—”
“Stay and take care of the girl, or the both of you can be takin’ lodgin’ somewhere else.” He staggered toward the door. “I mean it, boy. This hain’t no place for a child. No place for a girl. She don’t belong here.”
Tom’s chest whacked the same time the door yanked shut.
Meade was right.
His sister belonged anywhere other than Juleshead with Tom, the one person who had already ruined their family once. Papa must be desperate to send Joanie here.
That or dead.
This was not her.
Meg eased her hands down the light cotton gown, each dainty embroidered flower notching her discomfort. Pins jabbed her scalp. Her hair smelled burnt, evidence that the maid had left in the papillote iron too long.
A step ahead of her, a wigged footman pulled out a velvet-seated chair.
She scooted up to the breakfast room table.
Everything was perfect. The white tablecloth. The porcelain, hand-painted dishware. Gleaming silver teapot. Platters and bowls of fruit, buttered rolls, sliced ham, and lemon cream—all lifting up scents that twinged her stomach.
The footman disappeared.
She was alone—not only in this room, but in the world. She sat entirely still for three minutes. She knew, because she stared at the clock on the mantel across the table.I’m going back.She sprung from her chair the same time the breakfast room door hurried open.
“Then it was not a dream at all.” Lord Cunningham swept to the table wearing a well-tailored suit, voluminous neckcloth, and glowing expression. He took a seat across from her. “Betwixt here and the library, I had almost convinced myself the maid was in error with her declaration you had decided to join me.”
“I am sorry.” The only thing she could think to say. “You must think me terribly ungrateful.”
“I think you many things, dear girl, but all of them good.”
Was he in earnest? He didn’t know her. She didn’t know herself.
They were both pretending.
That she should be wearing this dress. That she was good. That they were friends—her and a lord who was likely so far above her in station that had the situation been different, he might not have nodded to her on the street.
“I do not think I would wear this.” Embarrassment pinched at her. Odd, that. As if what she wore bore any significance when she did not even know her own full name.
“Your memory is returning?”
“No. It is just that … the dress is lovely, but it feels …”
“Unfamiliar to you?”
She nodded.
