Pendragon

"I'm not sure that is such a good idea," Meggie said. "I think you could grow far too used to being worshipped," and nudged her boot heels into Survivor's sides.

Chapter 9

THAT IS QUITE the longest leap Cleo has ever made," Meggie said, reading the distance stick again. "Yes, that's right-three feet and about four inches. Just excellent, my sweet girl."

"It's that new training method, Meggie," Alec said, humming under his breath. He stroked the cat's back, long light strokes. Cleo began to purr and arch her back.

Like what Thomas Malcombe did to me. At least I had the sense not to purr and squirm.

Oh dear, better concentrate on training methods. She wrapped the long length of pale yellow ribbon around her hand. A good foot of it was shredded by Cleo catching it, her claws seaming it, so that it was now five ski

Alec said, "She might just beat Mr. Cork on Saturday."

"I have worked with Mr. Cork as well, and you know he has more endurance. He is very taken with smells, as you know. I tried a new one on him-mackerel. I chopped it up, added a dash of garlic, and dried it. Then I wrapped it in a netted bag. He nearly ran his legs off trying to get close enough to get a really strong whiff of it. It must replace the dead trout."

"Meggie, you will surely beat out the Harker brothers in the creativity of your training methods. They're entering three cats in this race."

"Never underestimate their ingenuity, Alec. I hear that Jamie, the head stable lad at the Mountvale mews, has come up with a new limerick to sing to the Black Rocket. It's so effective-all Jamie has to do is stand at the finish line and sing his heart out, and the Black Rocket will spead toward him like a bullet."

"The Black Rocket has very mean eyes," Alec said thoughtfully. "I think Mr. Cork needs to bring him down a peg. I need to think about this."

Thomas Malcombe listened to brother and sister discuss the Black Rocket-whatever sort of racing cat that was. He liked that name, it was quite menacing. He'd seen Mr. Cork, his gold and white body stretched out, all muscled and long in the sun, with just a bit of shade over one leg from one of Mrs. Sherbrooke's rosebushes.

He'd never had a cat, even when he'd been a boy. There were the barn cats, feral, all of them good mousers.

"Lord Lancaster, how nice to see you. Do you like thin ham slices? They're Cook's specialty. Do join us for luncheon."

He turned to see Mrs. Sherbrooke coming around the side of the vicarage. "Good day, Mrs. Sherbrooke. I merely came to see if Rory was well enough yet to train with the racing cats. I have no wish to intrude."

Mary Rose took his hand. "You saved my son's life, my lord. I want you to intrude until you are quite tired of all of us. Do call me Mary Rose."

Meggie overheard this and nodded vigorously as she joined the two of them. "Thomas, welcome. I'm delighted you could visit. The last time I saw Rory, he was climbing the trellis that divides Mary Rose's hydrangeas from her daffodils, the one with the red climbing roses on it."

Mary Rose's eyes nearly crossed. "Oh no, tell me you made that up, Meggie! Oh goodness, he can't. That trellis isn't all that sturdy. I swear that as of right now, I will no longer look at him and thank God endlessly. No, I will pull my resolve together and swat his bottom. Well, perhaps if he is more than two feet from the ground I will swat him. My lord, I will see you in the dining room in no more than five minutes. Rory! Get down off that trellis!"

And Mary Rose was gone, holding her skirt up to her knees and ru

Meggie gri

"Being hovered over doesn't sound like a bad thing," Thomas said.

Meggie gri

"You mean you made that trellis story up to get your mother back on an even keel?"

"I wouldn't call it precisely a lie," Meggie said. "Perhaps Rory was looking longingly at the trellis. Now, I am delighted you came to visit. Cook's ham slices are so thin you can see yourself through them. No one knows how she manages it and everyone is always lurking about to watch when she slices the ham. Come along now. You needn't worry that she will try to poison you. The only person she ever mutters about is Mr. Samuel Pritchert, my father's curate."

"The very dour man who never smiles even when he eats a bite of apple tart?"

"That's the one."

"He's in a bad way."

"Yes. But do you know, he has but to look at someone, and that someone will spill his i

"I don't believe you."

She just laughed, took his hand, and pulled him toward the vicarage door. They heard Mary Rose yelling at Rory, who had, evidently, climbed the trellis, because she was telling him that she was going to swat him but good when she got him down from that great height. Goodness, he'd climbed at least eighteen inches and he deserved a good swat.

"That," Meggie said, "makes you wonder about the nature of deception, doesn't it?"

Jeremy's visit the following Wednesday was una

Jeremy Stanton-Greville was so happy. So incredibly, blessedly happy. He gushed; he gri

After an hour, however, Meggie was feeling less and less like bursting into tears when she looked at him. Actually, she wanted less and less for him to stare at her, just her, with regret and nameless hunger in his beautiful eyes. She wanted less and less for him to realize his tragic mistake that would keep them apart forever.

No, after an hour, Meggie was ready to smash him. She began to drum her fingers against the arm of her chair as he talked on and on about his dearest Charlotte, his beautiful, elegant Charlotte, so sweet, so clever-the embodiment of perfection, a flawless example of womanhood. Then he went on to his stud at Fowey. After a while, both the stud and Charlotte sported the same attributes.

Jeremy never stopped talking about either Charlotte and the stud, even after di

Hour upon hour of his braying went on. Meggie knew it would never end unless someone shot him. She was ready.

His endless braying had become the fifth circle of Hell.

He was still beautiful, of course, no change there, and he still made her heart sigh and ache, but enough was enough. To keep her mouth shut, Meggie moved to the piano and played vigorously, to drown out his endless praise of himself and what he himself had found and fashioned. But he just didn't stop. Her father looked mildly amused, and to Meggie's eye a bit distracted, and she knew he was likely composing next Sunday's sermon while he was the perfect host. Mary Rose was constantly patting Jeremy's hand, as if to congratulate him on his brilliance, perhaps to keep herself from slapping him silly.