Like him.
From his position on the floor, arms draped over his knees, he tightened his lips around the pipe. He puffed. The bitter tobacco filled his senses like salt to open wounds, because Meg had always known he’d do this.
“You’ll sit in a chair. One of those big soft ones, with damask cushions and everything.”She had drawn the shape of one with her hands.“And then we shall invite over Mrs. Whalley. I’ll serve her tea, and you’ll smoke your pipe and say things like ‘yes, indeed’ and ‘fine weather, is it not?’”She had laughed as if such a picture were the funniest thing in the world.
At the time, it was.
He pulled the pipe from his lips. He almost tossed it into the fire, but instead, jumped to his feet and glanced at Joanie.
She did not look up. Cross-legged by the window, she entertained Gyb with a ratty blue ribbon, but her lips curved downward.
Chagrin swarmed him. What kind of brother was he?
Joanie should be laughing, playing, and feasting over the apple puffs in delirious celebration. He should be cheering. They should be happy—right now—because the cottage was theirs and tomorrow they’d paint it red and maybe soon he’d build enough furniture to make it a home.
If Joanie needed anything, it was that.
He would give it to her.
Whether Meg was here or not.
“A thing or two we’ll be needing to settle, lass.” Tom grabbed his hat from the peg and whipped it against his thigh to remove the dust.
Joanie squinted up in confusion. “Where are ye going?”
“Stay here.” He darted out of the cottage, jogged to the slightly withered crab apple tree, and plucked four or five unripened fruits. When he burst back inside, Joanie had her arms crossed in confusion.
“We can’t eat those.”
“They’re not for eating, lass. They’re for determining.”
“Determining what?”
He emptied his hat, then tossed it across the room. “Who does the dishes.”
“Tom.” She laughed, likely because she already knew he would not do them even if she did triumph in his little game. But when he backed to the farthest wall and chucked a green-yellow crab apple across the room, she joined him.
“You missed.”
“Hush with ye.” His second apple landed squarely in the hole of his hat. The third rolled out. The fourth smacked the wall.
Joanie snickered as she gathered them and took her own turn. “Do not look at me.” She missed a second time. “Tom, please. You must not watch or I shall do terrible.”
“Ye already do terrible.” He did a fast spin and threw one with his back turned. He roared when it landed. “ ’Tis a bonnie life of dishes ye’ll be having. Accept yer defeat.”
“I would not be a McGwen if I did.” She rolled up her sleeves, rubbed the apple between her palms, then beamed up at him with an adoring blush of pleasure. Just like she’d done years ago. Like all the children had done.
Something unexpected pinched his throat. Everything in his whole world was wrong right now.
But this was one thing right.
The next morning, one of the maid’s awoke Meg with a gleaming, cerulean-blue gown draped across her arms. “She said you should wear this, miss.”
Meg resisted the urge to crawl back beneath the coverlets. “She?”
“You best hurry.”
Yawning, Meg allowed the maid to assist her into a soft linen chemise, then the stays. “Not so tight,” she gasped. “It is constricting.”
