“Huh.” Vale grunted skeptically. “I expect she told you all about my misspent youth.”
Melisande ate a pea. “You expect correctly.”
He winced. “Anything particularly egregious?”
“Apparently you spat up a lot as a baby.”
“At least I’m over that,” he muttered.
“And you had a flirtatio cad oven with a milkmaid at the age of sixteen.”
“I’d forgotten that,” Vale exclaimed. “Lovely girl. Agnes, or was it Alice? Perhaps Arabella—”
“I doubt Arabella,” Melisande murmured.
He ignored her. “She had lovely peaches-and-cream skin and the biggest . . .” He suddenly coughed.
“Feet?” Melisande asked sweetly.
“Amazing, really. Her feet.” His eyes gleamed wickedly at her.
“Humph,” Melisande said, but she had to repress a smile. “And what about your day?”
“Ah. Well.” Jasper stuck a large piece of beef in his mouth and chewed vigorously before swallowing. “I went ’round to Matthew Horn’s house. Remember him? Fellow from my mother’s garden party?”
“Yes.”
“You won’t believe it, but he has a map of the world that doesn’t have Italy on it.”
“Perhaps you weren’t looking in the right spot,” she said kindly.
“No. No.” He shook his head and drank some wine. “It’s this side of Russia and above Africa. I’m pretty sure I’d’ve noticed it.”
“Perhaps the map was made by someone who disliked Rome.”
“Do you think?” He seemed much struck by the thought. “Just decided to do away with Italy altogether?”
She shrugged.
“What an idea! I wouldn’t have had to study Latin all those years if Italy had disappeared.”
“But now you already have, and I’m sure you’re a better man for it.”
“Huh.” Jasper sounded unsure.
Melisande ate some boiled carrots. They were quite good. Cook had added something sweet—honey, perhaps. She’d have to remember to compliment the little woman. “And did you discuss anything more with Mr. Horn besides his defective map?”
“Yes, we talked about a fellow we know in Scotland.”
“Oh?” Vale was drinking more wine, and it was hard to read his expression. Melisande’s interest sharpened. “What is his name?”
“Sir Alistair Munroe. He was attached to my regiment, but he wasn’t a soldier. He was sent by the crown to record animals and plants in America.”
“Really? He sounds like a fascinating man.”
Vale frowned. “He is if you like talking about ferns for hours at a time.”
Melisande sipped her wine. “I quite like ferns.”
Vale frowned harder. “In any case, I’m thinking of making a trip up to jolly old Scotland to see him.”
There was a silence as Melisande con c Meto templated her cooling peas and carrots. Was he running from her? She’d so enjoyed living in his house and knowing he was nearby. Even if he was away for large parts of the day or stayed out until all hours of the night, she knew he’d come home eventually. Just being in the same house as he soothed her soul. Now she wouldn’t have even that.
Vale cleared his throat. “Thing is, he lives north of Edinburgh. It’s a ways away, a trip of a week or more on bad roads in a carriage. There’ll be drafty inns and bad food and the possibility of highwaymen—probably be an awful trip altogether.”
He had transferred his scowl to his plate. He jabbed at his beef with the tines of his fork.
Melisande was silent, no longer eating because her throat seemed to have closed. He was going to see a man, whom, by his own admission, he didn’t particularly like or know well. Why?
“But, despite all that, I wonder if you’d like to accompany me, my lady wife.”
She was so wrapped up in her own thoughts that for a minute his words didn’t make sense. She looked at him to find that he was watching her intently, his eyes bright blue-green. A blessed relief began spreading through her chest.
“When will you leave?” she asked.
“Tomorrow.”
Her eyes widened. “So soon?”
“I have something important to discuss with Munroe. Something that can’t wait.” He leaned forward. “You can take Mouse. We’ll have to bring his leash, of course, and make sure he doesn’t scare the horses at inns. It really won’t be comfortable, and you might be terribly bored, but—”
“Yes.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Yes.” Melisande smiled and resumed eating. “I’d like to come with you.”
“THEY’RE TRAVELING TO Scotland,” Bernie the footman said as he brought the dish of peas back into the kitchen.
Sally Suchlike nearly dropped her spoon into her bowl of soup. Scotland? That heathen land? They said the men grew beards so fierce you could hardly see their eyes. And it was a well-known fact that the Scots didn’t bathe.
Cook was obviously having similar thoughts. “And them only newly married,” she lamented as she set dishes of lemon curd tart on a tray. “It’s a pity, truly it is.”
She gestured for Bernie to take the tray in and then stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Have they said how long they’ll be gone?”
“He’s only now told my lady, but it’d have to be weeks, won’t it?” The footman shrugged, nearly upsetting the tray on his shoulder. “Months, even. An’ they leave right away. Tomorrow.”
One of the scullery maids burst into tears as Bernie left the kitchen.
Sally tried to swallow, but there didn’t seem to be any spit left in her mouth. She’d have to travel with Lady Vale to Scotland. That was what lady’ cwasut s maids did. Suddenly her new position, with the lovely increase in wages—enough even to set some by—didn’t seem so grand. Sally shuddered. Scotland was the edge of the world.
“Here now, there’s no need to carry on like this.” Mr. Pynch’s deep voice came from beside the fireplace where he was smoking his nightly pipe.
At first Sally thought he was admonishing her, but he was clearly addressing Bitsy, the scullery maid.
“Scotland isn’t as bad as all that,” the valet said.
“Have you been to Scotland, then, Mr. Pynch?” Sally asked. Perhaps if he’d journeyed there and back and survived, it wouldn’t be so terrible.