Meghan’s wasn’t a greeting, it was an assault delivered in as loving a tone as any verbal assault had ever been. That was her talent. And she was quite good at it. Catherine halted at the edge of the Turkish rug that encompassed the sitting area in the morning room and regarded her friends. Meghan and Olivia respectively occupied an armchair and the divan to the left and right of her. Whether by chance or design, both wore hunter-green promenade dresses, but that was where the similarities ended. Olivia’s had a high bodice with a pretty lace fichu while Meghan’s bodice was low, the chemisette with full bishop sleeves. “Never mind that you also kept us waiting,” Meghan added teasingly, wrinkling her nose. It had taken her ten minutes to pry herself away from her beautiful niece’s cherubic face. The past month had seen Rose begin to smile in gumless wonder and delight and Catherine couldn’t help but get misty-eyed at the sight. “Am I not permitted to recover from my illness?
