be the worst thing to do.
"Yes," Meg went on, "Ma said it was as well I was already smitten with Martin Howgarth before those three turned up, or I might have gone and done something silly."
Was that a sly dig?
"Course, that Mr. Ashby's the handsomest. But he's got a bit too much of an air to him for my taste. Grandson of a duke, he is, so they say. And Mr. Cornwallis, he's a lovely man, but ever so shy. He stays here most of the year, so we see a lot of him. Ma has him over for dinner every now and then. She seems to think he'll starve to death, though you only have to look at him to see that b'ain't likely to be his problem."
Amy was in the dress and Meg was forcing the buttons together. "I'm not sure it will fit," Amy protested.
"Course it will," Meg said cheerfully, and gave another tug, which rendered Amy nearly as flat as Mrs. Coneybear. "Which do you think's the most handsome?" Meg asked.
Amy found once the buttons were fastened, it was not too uncomfortable. In a small mirror, she could see the effect was rather like a Tudor stomacher. Her bosom was flattened out. She was thinking of adopting the style when she remembered she was supposed to be flaunting her assets, not concealing them.
"Well?" Meg prompted.
Amy remembered the question. "I... er... only saw Mr. Crisp. I'm not sure any other gentlemen were at home."
"Out hunting," said Meg, with a nod of her head as she gathered up the dress and stockings. "Mad for it, they be. I'll put these in to soak, will I?"
"Do you think it will do any good?" Amy asked.
"Can't hurt," said Meg, heading for the door. "Come you down. The men'll be in for dinner in a moment. I think Mr. Crisp is nicest. And he's good enough looking when he smiles. He's got a lovely smile."
"Yes," said Amy wistfully. "I suppose they're all very rich," she said, not really believing it.
"They're not short a groat," said Meg with a flashing grin over her shoulder. "Mr. Ashby paid a hundred guineas for a horse a few weeks back. A hundred guineas! Da couldn't get over it. But I don't reckon they're rich by your standards. Mr. Crisp and Mr. Ashby are oldest sons, though, so they'll come into a fair bit one day I suppose."
Not soon enough to be any use to me, thought Amy.
Meg dumped the dress and stockings in a tub and disappeared. In a few moments she was back with a large bucket of hot water. She pumped in some cold, then added hot, then threw in some softened soap and some liquids.
"What are they?" Amy asked.
"Turpentine and hartshorn. Works a treat on stuff like this."
Full of energy, Meg grasped a dolly-stick and started to pummel the garments with it. Amy felt exhausted just watching her.
"They'll never be the same, but they might be wearable," Meg said cheerfully. She considered Amy as she worked. "You're a grand looker, miss. Mr. Crisp was giving you the eye." She gave a cheeky wink. "You interested in him?"
"No," said Amy quickly.
Meg accepted it. "I suppose most men make a sheep's eye at you," she said without a trace of envy. "He's going to be a lord, though, one day. You could do worse."
"He is?" He'd avoided giving her that information. Amy wondered why.
Meg nodded. "Can't remember lord of what. There!" She hauled out the dolly and hung it on the wall. "We'll just let them soak." There was a shout from the kitchen.
"Come on, Ma'll need my help, and you look as if you could do with some food."
Amy trailed slowly after. She realized her day's misadventures had exhausted her, but she wondered if she had ever had the bursting vitality of Meg Coneybear. Perhaps it was as well fate had destined her to be ornamental rather than useful.
She shook off that depressing thought and told herself it was simple lack of food that made her so mawkish.
If that was the problem, she had come to the right place to solve it. Even in their prosperous days, the de Lacys had not eaten with the gusto of the Coneybears. She could quite see that the thought of the young men living on bread and cheese would wound Mrs. Coneybear to the heart.
Ten people sat to the table, including Amy. There were Mr. and Mrs. Coneybear, Meg, three robust sons, two working men, and