Glimmer of Hope

by Sarah M. Eden

  With a sigh, she said, “I made a mistake, Grandfather. I believed in someone I shouldn’t have. But I have made a home and a life for myself here. I would rather endure two or three weeks of his mockery and incivility than be forced to forfeit the only thing I have left.”

  “And what of the painful memories he will undoubtedly dig up?” Grandfather asked. “Are you prepared to endure that? Can you even?”

  “We have more or less agreed to avoid discussions of our past.”

  “Well, I didn’t agree to that.” Grandfather’s mouth tightened in an angry line. “I will have answers from that boy, or—”

  “Grandfather, please, no.” She hoped he caught the insistence in her face and voice. “I cannot leave here, not now. But if I am forced to relive all of that, I won’t be able to endure it. If we let that sit, leave it unopened and untouched, he will be gone in a few weeks, and I will still have this home to call my own.”

  “But—”

  “You have to promise me,” she said. “Promise not to come to blows with him. I’d rather you not even bring it up. Please.”

  His brow didn’t unfurrow, but she could see he was thinking.

  “Please,” she repeated.

  With a sigh, he nodded his agreement. “As much as I would enjoy letting into that pup, I will honor your wishes.”

  Miranda smiled in gratitude. Her grandfather was good to her, indulgent even. She dearly loved him.

  Grandfather squeezed her hand and looked intently at her. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  She’d needed a little compassion. “Tired,” she answered.

  “Have you been taking your tea?”

  Miranda nodded.

  “And hawthorn berries?”

  “Yes, Grandfather.”

  “And when was Mr. MacPherson here last?”

  “Before you left.”

  “You haven’t summoned him since?”

  “It hasn’t been necessary,” Miranda reassured him, feeling her eyelids grow heavier.

  “You don’t look as well as you did before I left for Devon.”

  “I have been tired.” Miranda struggled to keep her eyes open.

  She felt Grandfather squeeze her fingers. “You worry me, my girl.”

  They were the last words she heard before drifting into a restless sleep.

  * * *

  “Why have you come?”

  It was the most unnerving greeting Carter had received in quite some time. But despite his advancing age, Mr. Benton had always been intimidating. Carter watched the gentleman, who must have been nearing eighty, enter the book room and sit in a chair opposite him.

  “There is to be a house party.” Carter faced the obviously upset gentleman with determination. “Clifton Manor always was picturesque. It seemed the perfect choice.”

  “Did you never stop to consider the impact your ‘perfect choice’ would have on Miranda?”

  “It was my understanding she was with you, sir, in Devon,” Carter answered evenly. He would not be put on trial here.

  “And what are your intentions now that you know she is here?”

  What are my intentions? It was so ridiculous a caricature of his first truly serious interview with Mr. Benton that Carter couldn’t help a rueful shake of his head. “I do not intend to humiliate her in front of my guests as you seem to suspect. We will simply have to behave as though there is nothing amiss between us.”

  “And was the tense scene I stumbled in on earlier an example of behaving as if ‘nothing is amiss’?” He eyed Carter with obvious doubt. “If so, your guests will never believe it.”

  “Yes, well, Miranda isn’t exactly cooperating.”

  “And your performance was convincing?”

  There was no real response to that. If forced, Carter would have to admit he wasn’t making much of an effort to be peaceable. He knew it was petty, but a small, overly loud part of him wanted to see even the tiniest hint of remorse from her. After all she’d put him through, he wanted her to at least realize what she’d done, what she’d lost.

  “I will not have my granddaughter overset.”

  “Blame for our current circumstances cannot be laid at my feet.” Heaven knew he’d attempted to put things right, at least at the beginning. But he’d been rebuffed at every turn.

  “I am not interested in blame,” Mr. Benton said. “Miranda has never once attempted to blame you for, nor explain what occurred to cause, this rift in your marriage. She still refuses to, in fact. But I am asking you to tread lightly.”

  Miranda hadn’t told her grandfather the reason she had deserted her husband? Then again, she hadn’t told her husband the reason she had run out on their marriage.

  But why would she keep that from Mr. Benton? Did she feel guilty about leaving? Was she unwilling to open herself up to censure? He didn’t want to think about her reasons. He’d convinced himself long ago not to torture himself with questions that couldn’t be answered. The damage was done. All Carter could do was try to maintain a minimal degree of peace between them all.

  “Our circumstances are less than ideal,” Carter said. “But I will not do anything to humiliate her. She will be treated with the deference due her position as the de facto mistress of the manor.”

  “More is at stake here than her pride,” Mr. Benton said.

  Now what did that mean? “Are you asking me to simply overlook the last three years? To pretend we are living an idyllic life with a perfect marriage?” Carter felt his defenses rising. Benton had played a role in Miranda’s defection after all. “She and I are avoiding topics that would inevitably result in an argument or worse. That is the best either of us, or you, sir, can expect.”

  “Do a favor for an old man.” Mr. Benton held a certain level of pleading in his voice that broke through all of Carter’s efforts to remain indignant. “Be kind to my girl.”

  Chapter Four

  Be kind. MR. BENTON’S WORDS repeated in Carter’s mind as he followed Miranda’s path down the back steps the next morning. She hadn’t come down for dinner the night before. It had been an awkward meal, with the tension between her grandfather and himself too marked to be easily overcome. The tension between Miranda and him was palpable as well. Avoiding topics didn’t mean they didn’t exist.

  Still, Mr. Benton had a point, Carter had eventually conceded after hours of tossing in his bed. If he and Miranda didn’t reach some kind of truce, the house party would be a complete disaster. Carter couldn’t entirely dismiss Mr. Benton’s cryptic declaration that “More was at stake than Miranda’s pride.” He hadn’t yet deciphered that warning, and it bothered him.

  He had nearly reached her; she was setting out across the back acres, and she walked slowly. Somehow he’d pictured her as a vigorous walker. He could still remember one particularly sunny afternoon during the first months of their marriage when he’d chased her teasingly around the gardens behind their home in Wiltshire. She’d moved quickly then.

  Carter fought down a surge of frustration at what she’d taken from him and everything he’d lost when she’d left without an explanation. A woman who would walk out on her marriage and never even look back was not to be trusted. He would work at establishing a temporary cessation of hostilities, but he was not foolish enough to expect anything beyond.

  Be kind. He could do that much.

  “May I join you?” Carter asked the moment he reached her side.

  She jumped at his sudden words, stopping on the spot, one hand instantly clamped over her heart, the other tightly clutching a small basket. “You frightened me,” she said after a couple of audible breaths.

  Her cheeks and nose were pink with cold. She looked adorable. The slightest of smiles escaped before Carter could prevent it. “May I walk with you?” he asked again.

  “What of your guests?” she asked, visibly wary.

  So he had made some impression on her. It seemed she wasn’t as unaffected by their circumstances as she usually seemed. Except for the teary
scene with Miranda’s grandfather the night before, Carter had yet to see any hint of emotion in her other than momentary surprise.

  “Mother should arrive quite late this afternoon,” Carter said. “The other guests are not expected until tomorrow.”

  Miranda chewed on her lower lip, a mannerism he remembered well. She did that whenever she thought hard about something. It was the first glimpse he’d seen since he’d arrived of the Miranda he remembered.

  Don’t be fooled by it. She seemed sweet and adorable and kind before, and you know how that turned out.

  “I am walking to the home farm,” she said. “It is cold, and the ground is still a little wet.”

  You need to reach some kind of truce, he reminded himself. “Will you allow me to accompany you?”

  “If you wish” was Miranda’s less-than-enthusiastic response as she began walking again.

  Carter bit back a twinge of disappointment. He told himself her feelings, or lack of, didn’t matter to him.

  “Have you walked to the home farm before?” Carter asked, matching her indifferent tone.

  Miranda nodded but didn’t look at him.

  They continued walking in awkward silence. A hint of pink had risen in her cheeks, but Carter couldn’t say if it was the result of exertion or discomfort at having him nearby. Either way, he was inexplicably glad to see her looking a little less pale.

  That would never do! he chided himself. Being kind was one thing. Being empathetic was something else entirely. He’d been gammoned by her before. Carter wasn’t about to let Miranda dupe him again.

  They reached the quaint farm in silence. Carter was pleased to see that the small home looked well kept up. A man, probably not too many years older than Carter—thirty, perhaps—stood just inside the doors of a tall wooden barn and was cleaning the hooves of a healthy-looking workhorse. Otherwise, the farm seemed empty.

  She was visiting a man, a young, relatively good-looking man, alone? And she’d done so several times? Willing even to trudge through the mud for a visit? Carter felt his jaw tighten even as he told himself he didn’t care.

  The man noticed their approach and made his way to the gate, opening it for them.

  “Mr. Milton,” Miranda greeted in the excessively tranquil manner Carter realized was now typical for her. She’d been quiet before, but there had always been a spark of feeling in her voice when she spoke. Now it was almost as if she were sleepwalking. He didn’t like it.

  “Lady Devereaux.” Mr. Milton greeted her with a friendly expression, tempered by an appropriately humble bow.

  “Carter, this is Mr. Milton.” Miranda began the introductions with her usual unreadable expression and tone. “Mr. Milton. My husband, Lord Devereaux.”

  Carter received an enthusiastic welcome. “Well, won’t Harriet be that pleased!” Mr. Milton led Miranda and Carter up the path to the front door. “Lord Devereaux’s come to Clifton Manor after all these years.”

  Had he been expected? That hardly seemed likely. Carter shot a glance at Miranda. She didn’t look nearly as confused as he felt. If anything she looked embarrassed. Odd.

  “Mrs. Milton.” Miranda greeted the young woman who stood just inside the door of the cottage as they entered.

  She was very small and very young and, apparently, Mr. Milton’s wife—the Mr. Milton Miranda had seemingly been visiting. Which meant, of course, that she had been visiting the Milton family. Why that pleased Carter, he was not willing to ponder.

  “Lady Devereaux.” The woman’s gaze darted momentarily to Carter, a look of confusion mixed with curiosity in her eyes.

  Miranda repeated the same introductions she’d made earlier, and Mrs. Milton’s eyes grew large.

  “Oh, milady,” Mrs. Milton said, her voice clogged with tears. “How happy you must be!”

  The color rose ever higher in Miranda’s cheeks. “I’ve finished the blanket for Mary.” Miranda handed her basket to the tiny woman. “Now little George will not need to give his up.”

  “He’ll be that pleased to hear it, milady.” Mrs. Milton motioned Miranda toward the far corner of the room. “George’s been beside ’imself, fearin’ he’d never get his Lady ‘Verow’ blankie back.”

  Miranda followed their hostess without looking back at Carter.

  “Lady Verow!” a childish voice exclaimed downright gleefully. A blond head popped up from behind a high-back chair.

  “George,” Miranda replied, the first hints of cheerfulness Carter had yet to hear surfacing in her voice.

  “I hope, my lord, you’ve not come ’cause you’re unhappy with my work,” Mr. Milton said, obviously uneasy.

  Carter looked away from Miranda, who had lowered herself to little George’s level—he being probably about three years old. “Not at all,” Carter reassured him. “I was simply accompanying Lady Devereaux.”

  “Her ladyship’s awful good to the missus,” Mr. Milton said with a fond look at his family. “And the children. Right good to all the children hereabouts. She must’ve made a score of them blankets.”

  Carter allowed his own eyes to travel back to Miranda. Little George was enthusiastically showing Miranda a roughly carved soldier, telling her something Carter couldn’t overhear, though he thought he recognized the word Christmas form on the boy’s lips.

  “My George there was the first,” Mr. Milton said. Carter could hear the pride in his voice. “Got the first blanket Lady Devereaux made. Treasures it, he does. All the children love the blankets she makes them.”

  Just how many children in the area had she made blankets for? She must have visited several times to have become acquainted with the local families, or her current visit to Clifton had simply been longer than a few days. It seemed an odd choice for a holiday location. Then again, he had chosen Clifton Manor for his holiday.

  Mr. Milton’s ears reddened, and his eyes and head lowered. “Apologies, Lord Devereaux. Here I am chatterin’ on when I have work to do. You’ll think you’ve a layabout kinda man workin’ for you.”

  “Not at all, Milton,” he reassured the man and held his hand out.

  Mr. Milton’s relief was palpable as he enthusiastically shook Carter’s hand. “Lady Devereaux said you was a right one!”

  Miranda said that? Or anything remotely resembling that compliment? The woman who’d run out on their marriage? Left him no word of her whereabouts? Rebuffed every effort he’d made to see her once he’d finally tracked her down? The two images couldn’t be reconciled. Why would a woman with such an obviously low opinion of her husband be willing to praise him to strangers?

  “Carter.” Miranda whispered from surprisingly nearby. Carter turned toward the sound of her voice, only to be greeted by the cottage’s low light reflecting off the golden-brown hue of her hair. For a moment, he was tempted to reach out and touch it.

  With a shake of his head Carter pulled himself together. Mrs. Milton stood not far off with little George clasping his mother’s hand. At some point during Carter’s ruminations, Mr. Milton had left.

  “If you’re ready to leave,” Miranda hinted.

  “Of course. Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Milton. And you as well, George.”

  The little boy laughed up at him. Carter had to laugh back.

  He held the door for Miranda, decidedly ignoring her tempting hair, then followed her through. Mrs. Milton stopped Miranda at the gate. In a quiet and obviously concerned voice, she said to Miranda, “I hope my Joseph didn’t talk too much to Lord Devereaux. He sometimes forgets himself and chatters on when he really oughtta hold his tongue. I wouldn’t want his lordship offended or—”

  “Lord Devereuax is a good and kind gentleman.” Miranda touched the woman’s shoulder softly. “You have no reason to worry on his account.”

  Carter wondered about that as they walked back toward the house. Why would she run from a man who was “good and kind”? But she had. The words were clearly for Mrs. Milton’s benefit, to ease her worries. Miranda, after all, knew how to make a person thin
k she cared.

  They’d just crested the hill that afforded passersby a first view of Clifton Manor when Carter heard the tiniest of sighs from Miranda. She was looking out over the land, her expression one of a person far away in thought. Surprisingly, a tear traced its way down her cheek. The cold had once more brought hints of pink to her cheeks and the tip of her nose. Was the sting of winter air making her eyes water? Or was she crying?

  They continued to walk. Carter watched her, baffled. Miranda’s eyes wandered in his direction, but the moment their gazes met, she looked away, but not before Carter saw uncertainty and embarrassment sweep across her face.

  “Are you unwell, Miranda?”

  She waved her gloved hand as if to dismiss the concern she heard and swiped at the tears coursing down her face. “I am perfectly—” She sighed again. “I suppose I am a little . . . emotional. I—” She wiped at another tear. “I was feeling . . . disappointed, is all.”

  In him? Carter tried to convince himself he didn’t care. “You wanted to visit longer with the Miltons?” Carter hoped it was something as easy as that.

  “I wanted to hold the baby,” Miranda said in a tiny, sad voice.

  “The baby?”

  “But she was asleep.”

  “And that is why you’re crying?” That didn’t make a lot of sense.

  “I am sure I seem ridiculous to you.” She sounded instantly defensive.

  Her words two days earlier came back to him in a rush: Why must you mock me with every word?

  “It isn’t ridiculous at all,” Carter heard himself reassure her. So much for trying to make Miranda as miserable as she’d made him.

  She looked at him for a moment before looking away again, surprise showing on her face. She didn’t say anything else as they continued to walk. Had she expected to be laughed at?

  She’d told him he’d changed, and she obviously hadn’t meant it as a compliment. Had he really changed so much? He didn’t like to think of himself as unkind or mocking, but Mr. Benton had seemed to come to the same conclusion.

  “I am glad to hear you like babies, Miranda,” Carter said when the silence had become too uncomfortable to allow. “The Duke and Duchess of Hartley will be arriving tomorrow, along with their two children. The youngest, Henry, is only two or three months old.”