“Of course. Of course. Poor child. You’re worried about how Lord Bobbie’s gonna take the news. I been a bit worried myself, luv, I might as well admit it, but—here now, let me take that coat. You sit down right here in this big chair while I pick up these shirts.”
I sat down in the deep brown leather chair and stared at the pale beige walls and the hunting prints and the faded brown and tan and green rugs on the polished hardwood floor. The heavy wardrobe stood open, clothes spilling out, boots littering the floor in front of it. A handsome tweed greatcoat had been flung across the bed. Mrs. Rawson folded up the shirts and put them in one of the two trunks that stood open at the foot of the bed, and then she straightened up and arched her back. She had changed back into her familiar garnet taffeta dress, a white organdy apron tied around her waist, and her frivolous gray curls were untidy.
“I’ll finish this later, won’t take me more’n a few minutes. Right now I need somethin’ to revive me—I was late gettin’ back to the house, luv, paid a visit to Jim Randall and he was burstin’ with energy. Randy as a ram, that one, and he’s talkin’ again about marryin’ me. I told him I just been to th’ loveliest weddin’ and he said we oughta—Lord, here I’m babblin’ like an idiot and you’re goin’ to pieces. Forgive me, luv.”
“I’ll be all right. I just—”
“I know. You could use a glass-a port yourself, it’d fix you right up. I don’t have any in my room, but I know for certain Beresford had a brand new bottle hidden in the pantry. He likes his nip now and then, too, though he’d go to th’ stake before admittin’ it. I’ll just run fetch the bottle, and then we’ll go to my room.”
I stood up, dreading the thought of being alone even for a few minutes. Mrs. Rawson saw it in my eyes. She took my hand and gave it a tight squeeze. I felt as though I were seeing her through a mist.
“You are in a bad way, luv.”
“It’s foolish, I know, but all evening I—I’ve had the feeling something terrible is going to happen.”
“You’d better come with me,” she said.
Still holding my hand, she led me out of the room and down a narrow hall to the back stairs. The stairwell was dark, and Mrs. Rawson cursed the ne’er-do-well footman who had failed to light the candles. We had to move carefully in the dark, taking each step slowly.
“An’ this is your weddin’ night, too. Life’s barmy sometimes, luv, downright barmy. You an’ Master Jeffrey should be with each other right now, snug an’ cozy, exchangin’ tender words, an’ instead here you are traipsin’ about in the dark with an old party like me. Mercy! What was that?”
The storm stopped, abruptly, so abruptly that the sudden silence was far more alarming than the deafening racket. Everything was still, frighteningly so. Mrs. Rawson and I stood quietly for a moment, both of us unnerved by the bizarre silence, and then we moved down the few remaining stairs and stepped into the wide back hall. A few candles placed at intervals flickered dimly, washing the walls with shadow, intensifying the gloom. Neither of us spoke. Mrs. Rawson’s eyes were wide with alarm.
“It’s gonna start again in a few minutes,” she said finally. Her voice was a nervous whisper. “It’ll be worse than ever—I seen it happen before. Last time it was like this a ship crashed on the rocks below, torn to smithereens it was, all hands lost, hundreds-a cases of fine French brandy washed up on shore next mornin’.”
The candles flickered. Shadows leaped on the walls like frenzied demons. The hall was extremely cold, the stone floor icy beneath its covering of rushes. Mrs. Rawson shivered dramatically, but not from the cold.
Slowly, nervously, we moved down the hall, opened a small door and started up the narrow paneled passageway that led to the front hall. Candles burned in elaborate sconces, making warm, golden reflections on the rich mahogany, and a thick Persian runner muffled the sound of our footsteps. We passed along beside the staircase and entered the front hall. A door opened, and Mrs. Rawson clutched my arm in panic.
Jeffrey and Lord Robert stepped out of the study and stood there in front of the door. Neither of them saw us. Jeffrey hadn’t bothered to change for dinner. He still wore the black boots, the dark blue breeches and embroidered gray waistcoat and the thin white cambric shirt with full sleeves belling at the wrists. His dark blond hair was untidy. His cheeks were pale, and there were faint smudges beneath those disturbed blue eyes as he looked at his brother.
“It’s done, Robert. She’s my wife.”
His voice was shaky but firm nevertheless. Lord Robert stood very still, tall and beanpole thin in the familiar black suit. His pale, pockmarked face was like the face of a dead man, totally immobile, but those black brown eyes glowed fiercely with emotion—anger and anguish in equal parts. I could tell that he was fighting to control the feelings raging inside.
“She tricked you,” he said. “Don’t you realize that? It can be fixed Jeffrey. The marriage can be annulled.”
“I don’t want it annulled! I love her. I’ve loved her from the first. Haven’t I made that clear?”
Lord Robert recoiled as though he had been struck. Faint spots of color burned on his cheeks, and when he spoke his voice was a harsh rasp, barely audible.
“I knew there would be trouble. I knew it the minute I laid eyes on her. She’s bewitched you. Jeffrey—Jeffrey, you must listen to reason. She’ll destroy you. Everything we’ve planned, everything we’ve worked for—”
“Everything you planned,” Jeffrey protested. “I never wanted any part of it. All I ever wanted was—was my freedom. I’m grateful to you, Robert. I’m grateful, but I—I have to live my own life.”
Jeffrey swallowed. His eyes were moist. There was a deep furrow above the bridge of his nose. I wanted to rush to him. Mrs. Rawson still gripped my arm. Her face was white. She shook her head rapidly, imploring me not to make our presence known.
“You’re all I have,” Lord Robert said.
“I’m sorry, Robert.”
“If you leave—you can’t leave, Jeffrey. A father never loved his son more than I love you. My whole life—I’ve—it’s been for you, Jeffrey. If you leave, I’ll have nothing.”
“Robert—”
“I’m begging you, Jeffrey. I’ve never begged before. Don’t do this to me. Don’t. I—I know I’m not a demonstrative man. I know I seem cold and severe, but I have feelings. I love you.”
The last three words were soft, barely more than a whisper. The anger had gone from his eyes, and only the anguish remained. I had never seen such suffering in any man’s eyes. Jeffrey looked at his brother and saw the naked emotion. He gnawed his lower lip, hesitating, and then he shook his head.
“I’m sorry, Robert,” he said gently. “Honora and I are leaving tomorrow. We’re taking Douglas with us. I hope you’ll wish us well.”
He turned away then and walked slowly toward the staircase. He was suffering terribly, but he held himself erect. He passed not more than ten feet from where we were standing, but he didn’t see us. He started up the staircase, moving very, very slowly, as though each step took a great effort. His brother watched, in agony, shaking his head from side to side.
“No!” he cried.
Jeffrey was halfway up the stairs. He didn’t turn around. He continued to mount the stairs. Lord Robert cried out again and rushed toward the staircase and leaped up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and I knew, I knew. I broke free from Mrs. Rawson’s grip. Lord Robert reached Jeffrey and took hold of his shoulder to turn him around. They were almost at the top.
“I’m not going to let you do this!” Lord Robert shouted.
He whirled Jeffrey around to face him and Jeffrey stumbled and lost his balance. He fell against the railing. There was a terrible splitting noise as it gave, as it broke beneath his weight. Lord Robert tried to grab hold of his brother’s arm, but it was too late. I watched in stunned horror as my husband leaned on air for a fraction of a second and then came hurtling down with arms and legs flailing. He landed with a heavy thud. I scre
amed. I rushed to him, falling to my knees beside him. He looked up at me with dazed blue eyes and tried to move. He couldn’t.
“Honora—”
“Don’t move. Don’t—don’t try to speak, darling.”
“My—my back—”
“It’s going to be all right, darling. It’s going to be all right.”
“I can’t feel—I can’t feel anything—”
“Hush. Please. Just—just lie still.”
“It’s—”
“We’ll fetch the doctor. You’re going to be fine.”
“I—”
“Hush.”
“I—love—love you.”
“And I love you, my darling. I love you with all my heart and soul.”
He looked up at me, and I touched his cheek. I smoothed the heavy blond wave from his brow. He tried to say something else, but no words would come. He twitched violently. The gentle blye eyes seemed to grow dim. I held his hand tightly, tightly, and my tears fell on his cheek. He moaned softly and squeezed my hand in return, and then he gasped and his body went limp and I knew he was gone.
“Jeffrey,” I whispered. “Oh, my darling—”
I don’t know how long it was before Mrs. Rawson took hold of my arms and gently pulled me to my feet. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, too, and her mouth was quivering uncontrollably. She gathered me in her arms, holding me close. The grief inside me was so terrible, so demolishing that my system refused to acknowledge it. I was totally numb, unable to feel anything whatsoever.
Lord Robert came slowly down the stairs. He turned at the corner of the staircase and moved toward us. He stopped and looked at his brother’s broken body, and then he looked at me. I disengaged myself from Mrs. Rawson’s arms. She stepped aside. Lord Robert Mowrey and I stood face to face. He looked at me with hatred so fiery, so intense it was like a physical blow, but it didn’t matter. Nothing he might do to me could possibly matter now, for Jeffrey was dead and I had no desire to go on living.
11
I left Mowrey house the next morning. Lord Robert Mowrey summoned me to his study and handed me a bank draft and told me I was never to make any kind of claim on the Mowrey family or I would rue the day. The Reverend Mr. Williams took me in, giving me the spare room at the vicarage, and it was he who helped me through those dreadful days that followed, he and young Jack Jordon and Miss Moffat. Jack was subdued and attentive, doing all he could to make things easier for me, suggesting walks, playing the piano quietly, bringing me bunches of wildflowers, and the dour, put-upon Miss Moffat proved herself wonderfully kind and compassionate.
Reverend Williams talked to me for hours, quoting scriptures and giving me spiritual comfort while employing all his resources to make arrangements for my future. He conducted the funeral services for my husband. I stood beside the grave in that old cemetery behind the church, numb still, barely aware of what was happening. Miss Moffat had dyed one of my dresses black and had given me a heavy black veil. She stood on one side of me, Jack on the other, the two of them supporting me as the casket was lowered into the ground and the sexton began to shovel dirt on top of it.
Lord Robert Mowrey stood on the other side of the grave. Not once did he glance at me. Young Douglas was at his side, and he looked dazed, holding Mrs. Rawson’s hand and staring straight ahead. It was not until the service ended that he broke down. He sobbed and called my name and tried to run over to me. His uncle jerked his arm quite brutally and led him out of the cemetery and into the waiting carriage, and that was the last I ever saw of that precious child. Mrs. Rawson visited me several times, slipping over after her duties were done. The child was inconsolable, she told me. He knew that his father had gone to heaven, but he couldn’t understand why I had gone away. He cried for me during the night, and all day long he sat in abject misery. If it weren’t for him, she would leave Mowrey House herself, but the poor lamb needed her, and Mrs. Rawson felt it her duty to stay and help that darlin’ all she could.
Three weeks after the funeral I said good-bye to my friends in Cornwall and was on my way to Lichfield, that sunlit, lovely town where I was to spend the next few years of my life. Margaret Hibbert was sixty-two, a widow, childless. She had a small house on Market Square and for a long time had been looking for a young woman to live with her as a paid companion and help her with her work as Lichfield’s leading seamstress. Reverend Williams had gotten in touch with her through one of his former parishioners, had written to her explaining my circumstances, and Maggie had replied that she was willing to give me a try, although she wasn’t elated by my “delicate condition.”
Lichfield was bustling the morning I arrived, for it was market day. The square was all color and confusion and congestion, farmers selling their produce from wagons, hawkers shouting their wares, housewives bartering vociferously over ribbons and baskets and pans. Chickens squawked. Children darted merrily through the crowd. There was a scattering of black-clad clerics in felt hats as well, for Lichfield was a great cathedral town, the massive, majestic structure with its towering spires rearing up above the green treetops of the close and seeming to shelter the whole town.
Maggie Hibbert was very tall, very thin, with sharp, bony features and large pale-blue eyes that seemed to protrude slightly beneath heavy, drooping lids. Her steel gray hair was pulled back tightly and worn in a bun on the back of her head, and she wore the frailest of muslin frocks in a variety of pastel shades, each sprigged with delicate flowers. Shrewd, intelligent, crusty and outspoken, Maggie was a formidable figure in Lichfield, the terror of impudent children, the scourge of thrifty matrons who tried to haggle over the price of cloth.
Wedged in between a pub and a greengrocer’s shop and overlooking Market Square, Maggie’s house was charming, tall and narrow with two floors and an attic she had converted into a charming apartment for me “and the babe to be.” She showed me up in a brisk, no-nonsense manner, snapped that she trusted I would be comfortable and, during the next days; did everything in her power to see that I was. It didn’t take me long to discover that the thorny manner was merely a facade, that Maggie was the dearest soul in the world and very, very lonely. We soon became close friends, and she treated me as she would have treated her own daughter. She fussed over me constantly, deeply concerned about my condition, scolding when she thought I was doing too much, doing her best to cheer me up when depression got the better of me.
Those first months were difficult indeed, despite Maggie, despite the bustle and beauty of that most pleasant of towns. The windows of my attic bedroom looked over the square, and directly across the way I could see the imposing, four-story home of Michael Johnson, the bookseller, the lower floor serving as shop. For hours on end I would sit at the windows, staring out at the activity on the square, remembering, grieving. There were many days when I had no will to go on, when the gray clouds settled and life seemed not worth living. I helped Maggie with her sewing, learning all of the secrets of the seamstress’s art, and I pretended to take an interest in fabrics and cutting and invisible stitching, but a turgid lethargy plagued me each day. I had no real interest in anything.
Maggie’s nephew Lambert arrived for a short visit in November, coming all the way from London in a chaise. In his early thirties, Lambert had premature gray hair stylishly cut, extremely sincere brown eyes and a smooth, polished manner that must have been very reassuring to the people whose money he handled. Lambert had a green thumb when it came to money, Maggie confided. He had invested her savings very shrewdly, almost doubling it, and he was eager to do the same with the thousand pounds Lord Robert had given me that morning in his study. A thousand pounds was a great deal of money, Lambert told me. Properly invested it could bring in a small, steady income that would provide for me and my child indefinitely. When Lambert returned to London he was my official banker. I was relieved to have someone so capable looking after my affairs.
December was cold but invigorating, a heavy snowfall blanketing everything in white. The children who
played so noisily in the square were bundled up in heavy coats and caps, their cheeks rosy as they threw snowballs and shouted in gleeful abandon. Minister Pool froze over, and there was ice skating every afternoon. Maggie insisted I take walks, claiming the exercise would stand me in good stead when delivery time came, and I complied reluctantly, a woolen cloak and two large shawls helping to conceal my condition.
Maggie accompanied me, pointing out the Guildhall and Dame Oliver’s School and the Three Crowns Inn, giving me a history of each. We passed Minister Pool and strolled leisurely through Cathedral Close. It was lovely in the snow, the great cathedral looking even more majestic close up. The trees that lined the Dean’s walk were encrusted with ice, their limbs glittering in the sunlight. I saw the Palace and the Deanery, the Vicars’ Close and Hall, and as we were walking back along Beacon Street Maggie showed me the house of the eccentric Dr. Erasmus Darwin and the Garricks’s place nearby. Young Davy Garrick was the liveliest young man in Lichfield, she told me, the handsomest as well. All the lasses were after him, but Davy was more interested in books and getting into mischief with his crony Sam Johnson.
The new year came, and my Miranda was impatient, kicking and stirring, eager to see the world. In February she arrived, squalling lustily, and everything was changed. Into the gloom, into the grayness came this bright, lively, lovely creature who fascinated even in her crib. Maggie was utterly smitten and promptly began to spoil her. Miranda would gaze up at her with those blue, blue eyes, gurgling happily as the old lady stroked her fine auburn hair. Wonderfully healthy, Miranda nursed greedily, and when I took her off the breast she ate her food with equal relish. Was ever an infant so enchanting, so engaging, so little trouble? Has ever a child brought so much joy?
She began to toddle at nine months, was prancing merrily, at one. Only a few months later she began to talk, and at two she was babbling nonstop, constantly asking questions, consumed with curiosity. Her auburn hair took on a brilliant, coppery-red hue. Her blue eyes sparkled like sapphires. She was spry, mischievous, captivating, fully aware of her charm and not above using it to get what she wanted. She was deplorably spoiled, yes. How was it possible for her to be otherwise with a grateful, doting mother and an even more doting Auntie Maggie, when total strangers stopped and stared and declared her the most beautiful child they had ever seen?
Once More, Miranda Page 13