Once More, Miranda

by Jennifer Wilde

  For the first time, I was able to think clearly, and I saw what I must do.

  I could not have Jeffrey. For a short while I could continue to meet him after midnight and love him in secrecy, but when my condition became apparent I would have to leave Mowrey House in disgrace. Jeffrey would “do the right thing,” as Mrs. Rawson put it, would see that I had money and the proper care, but his future would be endangered and, at any rate, I would probably never see him again. Robert might well cut him off without a penny—he was capable of such a deed—and Jeffrey would remember our love with remorse, would eventually see it as mad folly and see me as the cause of all the unpleasantness bound to occur.

  It wasn’t going to be that way.

  I could not have Jeffrey, no, but I could have his child, a living memento of the beauty and bliss I had known. Already I loved this creature inside me. Already I cherished it with all my heart. I would go away, now, before my condition became obvious. Reverend Williams would help me. I would tell him everything, and although he would be disappointed, would disapprove, he wouldn’t censure, wouldn’t condemn. He was truly a man of God, full of compassion, and he knew that all God’s children were weak. He would help me. I would go away, take a new identity. I would be a “widow,” would have my child and somehow provide for it. Reverend Williams would know a place, would know someone who would take me in. I would have to rely on charity for a while, but eventually I would find some kind of work. I was prepared to face any hardship, for no matter how difficult the future might be, I would have my child, a part of Jeffrey to love and cherish for the rest of my life.

  I turned, retracing my steps, watching the trails of foam and listening to the cries of the gulls. The depression was gone, but a heavy sadness filled my soul as I moved past the giant rocks and began to climb slowly up the dangerous slope. Now that I was going to give him up, my love for Jeffrey Mowrey seemed to expand, taking on a poignant new tenderness and beauty that was almost unbearable. Tears trailed down my cheeks in shiny rivulets as I thought of leaving him, of never again seeing that beloved face, of never again feeling the warmth and strength of that body. I paused, gazing out at the water, and it seemed my heart was being torn asunder.

  I cried for a long time, consumed with sadness that wracked my soul, and after a while I wiped the tears away and continued my climb, depleted, hollow inside, it seemed, moving like one drained of all life force.

  I reached the top. He took my hands. He pulled me to him and held me in his arms so tightly I feared my ribs would crack. He held me for a long, long time, crushing me to him, and I sobbed wretchedly, burying my face in the curve of his shoulder. We swayed there on the edge of the cliff, and when finally he loosened his hold and took my chin in his hand and tilted my face up to look into my eyes I thought I would perish with grief and joy. He kissed the tears from my cheeks and kissed my lips tenderly, so tenderly, stroking my hair, gathering me to him again, gently now, as though I were a precious object he must carefully protect.

  “I know,” he said softly.

  “Jeffrey—”

  “I know. You should have told me at once.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Honora. My foolish, foolish Honora. Don’t you know how happy this makes me?”

  “You—it will ruin everything—you can’t—”

  “Hush,” he ordered. “No more.”

  “Your brother—”

  “Do you think I care what Robert says, what Robert does? We’re going to be married, Honora.”

  “It’s impossible. You—”

  “We’re going to be married this afternoon. I’ve already been to see Reverend Williams. All the arrangements have been made. My carriage is waiting on the road. Mrs. Rawson will meet us at the vicarage.”

  “She—she told you.”

  “She told me this morning while you were in the nursery with Douglas. I went at once to the vicarage and talked to Reverend Williams. He agreed to marry us this afternoon. I came back to the house and told Mrs. Rawson to get to the vicarage to help out, and then I started looking for you. I couldn’t find you anywhere, and then one of the maids said she’d seen you walking along the edge of the cliff. Honora! Honora! If you knew the madness that possessed me when I thought of you climbing down the slope, possibly falling—I was out of my mind.”

  He gripped my arms tightly, staring into my eyes.

  “I love you, Honora. Didn’t you know that? Didn’t you know I meant to spend the rest of my life with you?”

  “I—I knew you loved me, but—”

  “I’m going to marry you. This very afternoon.”

  “People—your friends—they’ll—”

  “Nothing in the world matters but you and Douglas. He loves you almost as much as I do. I have a little money of my own. The three of us will go away together and begin a new life, and soon we will be four.”

  I was trembling. Jeffrey touched my cheek and smiled a tender smile, and as I looked up into those gentle blue eyes I felt a rush of joyous emotion so strong I feared I might swoon. All the dazzling sunlight spilling around us seemed to come from within me, shimmering, radiant, flooding my soul with its incredible beauty. Jeffrey kissed me again, lightly this time, and took me by the elbow and led me toward the road where the carriage was waiting. I seemed to be swimming in sunlight, my feet barely touching the ground, and I found it almost impossible to believe this was actually happening. Surely I was dreaming. It couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be.

  The carriage was real enough, a low-slung, open vehicle of shiny teak with seats upholstered in padded velvet of the palest tan. A groom stood in front, holding the reins as two gleaming chestnuts stamped impatiently in harness. I shook my head to clear it. Jeffrey laughed and squeezed my elbow, and then he helped me into the carriage. It was happening too fast. I was in a daze, unable to relate any of this with reality. I was still swimming in the flood of sunlight, dizzy with elation. Jeffrey took the reins and dismissed the groom and climbed up beside me. He spoke to the horses and clicked the reins and we began to move.

  I remember very little of that drive to the village. I gradually came to my senses, gradually realized that this was indeed happening, but I was still shaken. We passed beneath the trees, passed the thatched cottages and the rows of ancient stone dwellings, and villagers paused to watch our progress, most of them nodding respectfully to the handsome young heir of Mowrey House. We drove past the beautiful old church of mellow brown stone, the oak trees tracing shadowy patterns on its walls, and then, a few moments later, we stopped in front of the vicarage.

  Young Jack Jordon came tearing outside, a wide grin splitting his mischievous face. He was wearing his preposterous London finery, and his red hair was all atumble. Jeffrey tossed him the reins and climbed down and turned to help me alight. Some moments remain sharp and distinct in memory, as though captured by a master painter and engraved on the mind. This was such a moment, and I can see it now as though I were indeed looking at a glorious painting: the vicarage in the background, mellow and lovely, the porch in shadow, the red-haired boy beside the carriage, grinning, one hand holding the reins, the other resting gently on the mane of one of the chestnuts, and in the foreground, close before me, the handsome young god in dark blue breeches and frock coat, a ruffled white jabot spilling over the top of his embroidered gray waistcoat. His dark blond hair is gleaming. His eyes are full of love. A gentle, loving smile is curving on his full pink mouth, and his strong, beautifully shaped hand is reaching for mine. Can ever an artist have painted so magnificent a scene?

  I took his hand. I got out of the carriage. Jeffrey gave my hand a tight squeeze and led me toward the shadowy porch. I was apprehensive now, my pulses leaping. I was going to wake up. Reality was going to intrude. Those terrible gray clouds of depression were going to reclaim me. We paused in front of the door, and Jeffrey sensed my state of mind and leaned down to kiss my cheek, and tears spilled over my lashes once again.

  “No tears,” he admonished gen
tly. “This is supposed to be the happiest day of your life.”

  “It is,” I whispered. “I—I just can’t believe it.”

  And then the door burst open and Mrs. Rawson grabbed me and hugged me and bustled me into the foyer, her merry brown eyes sparkling with excitement, her small red mouth smiling triumphantly.

  “I knew it was goin’ to work out, I just knew it, luv! Mercy, you can’t be married in that awful pink frock! I guess it’ll have to do,” she groaned. “We’ll make it do! You, Master Jeffrey, don’t just stand there lookin’ sheepish and pleased with yourself, go on and join Reverend Williams. Do as I say! I’ll take charge of this poor lamb. Go on now! We gotta have a few minutes to ourselves.”

  She hurried me down a short hall and into a tiny room in back of the vicarage. It had hideous flowered wallpaper, a plethora of sickly-looking green plants and a depressing abundance of crocheted doilies and antimacassars. I assumed it was the housekeeper’s room, and, sure enough, the tall, dour-faced Miss Moffat stuck her head in the door, eyeing us with great suspicion. Mrs. Rawson bristled visibly, shoved the poor woman back and slammed the door in her face.

  “Nothin’ but trouble I’ve had with that one, let me tell you. Wants to take charge of everything, thinks she’s the only one who can do anything. If it wudn’t for me, we wudn’t have flowers, wudn’t have wine. I’ve been runnin’ myself ragged, luv, gettin’ things ready—Master Jeffrey tells me he’s marryin’ you and marryin’ you this afternoon an’ I’m expected to get to the vicarage and perform miracles!”

  She picked up a folded piece of lace, shoved me in front of the mirror and, moving behind me, shook the lace out and began to fasten it to my hair. It was very long and gossamer thin, a pale, pale white delicately embroidered with tiny pink and white flowers.

  “My own, luv,” she confided, “used it three times myself, hope it’ll bring you good luck. Turn your head just a little. There. Let’s just drape it over your shoulders a bit. Why, look! Them tiny pink flowers are almost th’ same color as your dress, make the dress look almost elegant. You’re goin’ to be the most beautiful bride ever!”

  “You told him,” I said.

  “I had to, luv. I been worried sick ever since you started talkin’ about Granny Cookson. I—I couldn’t let you do anything like that. Master Jeffrey came in around eleven this mornin’ and I met him in the back hall and I guess I blabbed everything.”

  “He told me,” I said quietly.

  Mrs. Rawson picked up a bridal bouquet I hadn’t noticed earlier. It was obviously her own handiwork, pale white roses and pink-white daisies tied together with delicate sprays of fern, bound with a trailing white satin ribbon. She examined it proudly before handing it to me.

  “Had to raid two different gardens, I did,” she confessed. “Lucky I had this bit of ribbon on hand.”

  “It’s beautiful, Mrs. Rawson. You—you’ve done so much.”

  “Didn’t have much time, luv. Haven’t moved these old bones so fast since I was married to my second—he was quite a one for a quick chase and topple. Couldn’t abide him,” she told me. “I always ran like the wind when he got that botherin’ notion. Poor soul’s heart finally gave out when he was chasin’ me around the mulberry tree.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. Mrs. Rawson stepped back to get a better look at me, and then she smiled herself, a genuine, affectionate smile that gleamed in those expressive brown eyes as well.

  “You’re lovely, luv,” she said, “the loveliest bride I ever seen.”

  “I—I’m frightened.”

  “’Course you are. Every bride is. Last time I got married I thought I was goin’ to pass out ’fore he jammed the ring on my finger. It woulda been just as well if I had—Gordie drank, poor thing, generous to a fault he was, but a greater sot never drew breath.”

  She shook her head, sighed and then stepped foward to make another small adjustment on the veil.

  “There. Perfect. You’re goin’ to have that happy endin’, luv,” she said, “just like in one of them fairy tales. You an’ Master Jeffrey were meant for each other—I sensed it from the first. He needs you and so does young Dougie and you, you got so much love in your heart, so much goodness in your soul, you need them to lavish it on. The bairn, too.”

  “I’m going to start crying again.”

  “Go ahead. All brides cry. It’s traditional.”

  Miss Moffat opened the door and glared at us and informed us in a lemon-sour voice that the others had already left for the church and the reverend was a very busy man and had other things to do besides waiting. She was going to stay here at the vicarage and set out the cakes and wine while others were having a good sit-down in a comfortable pew. Mrs. Rawson made a highly unsympathetic reply and, taking my hand, led me back down the hall and out of the vicarage.

  “It’s just a few steps, luv. Walk’ll do you good. I had barely enough time to fetch flowers for the altar, but I hope you’ll like what I did. The candles’ll help, young Jack an’ I stuck dozens of ’em around. He’s goin’ to provide the music, by the way. Says he’s an accomplished organist, whatever that means. Guess we’ll have to suffer.”

  We walked quickly beneath the oak trees, the ground dappled with dancing patterns of sunlight and shade, and as we neared the church I could hear the organ music. It was, beyond doubt, the most beautiful music I had ever heard, a strange, haunting piece that was sad and lilting and lovely, as though all the most poignant human emotions had been carefully, delicately transformed into sound. Later young Jack told me it was called Adagio in G Minor by the Venetian, Albinoni. It was the only piece he knew really well, he informed me, and it was supposed to be accompanied by violins, but he thought it would be appropriate even if it wasn’t church music.

  The music swelled, filling the dim, shadowy church as we stepped inside. Candles glowed soft and gold all about the altar, and there were great masses of white roses. Reverend Williams stood before the altar, prayer book in hand. His weary, beautifully lined face was grave, but his kind brown eyes were full of affection as he saw me approaching slowly down the aisle with Mrs. Rawson at my side. Jeffrey was waiting. He turned. He smiled. The incredibly beautiful music grew quieter, becoming a softly muted background for the short, simple ceremony that followed, and it seemed to express in musical terms all that Jeffrey and I felt for each other, such tender love, such magical emotion.

  I remember the pale golden glow of the candles and the fragrance of roses. I remember that sublime music and Reverend Williams’s deep, melodious voice, but other details are lost in a blur. Reverend Williams pronounced us man and wife, and Jeffrey kissed me for the first time in front of others. Mrs. Rawson began to sob audibly. Jeffrey kissed her, too, and Reverend Williams took my hands and said he knew I would be very, very happy. Young Jack came prancing down from the organ loft and started explaining about the music. Albinoni was his favorite, he delcared, much nicer than Bach, and Reverend Williams told him to hush and scurry on over to the vicarage and tell Miss Moffat we would be there in a few minutes.

  “I’ll go with you,” Mrs. Rawson volunteered. “Wanna make sure she hasn’t poisoned the cakes. Come along, Jack. Albinoni, you say? Must be one of them Eye-talians.”

  “Jack really is an amazing young man,” I said as they moved up the aisle. “I’ve never heard organ music played so well, and by one so young.”

  “Oh, he’s amazing all right,” Reverend Williams agreed. “I fear my nephew will go far. It’ll be the ruination of him.”

  Reverend Williams tactfully disappeared then, and Jeffrey and I were alone there in front of the altar. We looked at each other, silent. His blond hair gleamed in the candlelight. His strong, handsome features were softly brushed by shadow. A smile curved gently on his lips as his eyes gazed into mine. We were married. We were actually married. This marvelous being was my husband, and I belonged to him. As he took me into his arms, as his lips touched mine, I knew a miracle had happened, and I could hardly believe it possible fo
r anyone to be so blessed.

  10

  The lovely weather did not hold. As we left the vicarage the sunlight had faded to a pale silver, the pure blue sky turning grayer and grayer as we drove through the village. I had given the veil back to Mrs. Rawson, had given the lovely bouquet to a very surprised Miss Moffat, and saucy young Jack had received an affectionate kiss that caused him to blush to the roots of his hair. He had promised to make a copy of the Albinoni score and send it to me so that I could learn it, and I looked forward to receiving it. We had all eaten cakes, had drunk the wine Mrs. Rawson provided, and I had grown more apprehensive by the moment, dreading the return to Mowrey House.

  “It’s turning colder,” I remarked as we passed the village green. “I can smell rain in the air.”

  “The weather’s always changing in Cornwall,” Jeffrey said.

  “It may storm. I hope not.”

  “We’re about due a storm. This afternoon was most unusual for this time of year.”

  We had just been married, had only moments ago received Reverend Williams’s final blessing, and here we were in the carriage talking about the weather, both of us tense and apprehensive. Jeffrey affected a casual demeanor, clicking the reins lightly, frequently turning to give me a reassuring smile, but I could see that he was as uneasy as I was. He wasn’t afraid of his brother, that wasn’t it at all, but he knew there was bound to be a great deal of unpleasantness, and a man of Jeffrey’s sweet nature detested unpleasantness in any form. He was not a weak man, nor was he cowardly. Jeffrey’s strength came from an innate goodness of heart that did not require stern posturing or harsh words or the swaggering braggadocio common with so many men. He was worried, and I knew that his chief concern was that Lord Robert would be hurt.