“Those were her more adamant points.” Heavens, it felt good to talk to someone about this. Not just someone—Carter. She used to tell him all the things that worried her. Almost all, at least.
“Did she mention that the beef last night was perfectly cooked?” Carter sounded almost upset. “Or that Lady Percival told her she’d seldom enjoyed a night of cards as much as she had last night? Or that Hartley has already suggested we make this house party an annual tradition?”
“No, she didn’t.” Miranda hadn’t heard any of those things.
“She ought to have,” Carter muttered.
“She is only trying to help.” Miranda didn’t want him to think she was ungrateful. “She knows a lot more about these things than I do.”
“And this is her way of teaching you? Pointing out anything she can possibly complain about?” He sounded so frustrated, so tense.
“Carter.”
“She shouldn’t—”
“Carter.” Miranda stopped him with a hand on his arm. He turned and looked at her, and Miranda recognized the tension in his jaw. He was upset. And he’d been defending her, something he’d quit doing a long time ago. It was the first real sign she’d seen since he’d come that Carter still cared for her, even the tiniest bit. “She has allowed me to plan dinner and the evening’s entertainment tomorrow night.”
He looked suitably confused, and Miranda couldn’t help smiling. She motioned for them to resume their walk, though she slowed the pace. She was growing tired already. The tiniest hint of a cough sat deep in her lungs. The symptoms were a bit worrisome.
“You aren’t offended that she is ‘permitting’ you to plan a dinner when you are, in all actuality, the hostess?” Carter asked.
“I have chosen to see it as a sign of confidence,” Miranda said.
“That is very good of you.” Carter’s expression lightened marginally.
“Perhaps you would be willing to select the wine for the evening,” Miranda suggested, his look taking her back to much happier days. “That way if your mother disapproves, I can blame you.”
Carter chuckled.
Miranda couldn’t help but join in. “If only I could think of a way to blame you for the state of the linens.”
“I will swear to whatever story you contrive, my dear.” His deep laugh echoed across the deserted grounds.
My dear. She hadn’t heard that endearment in years. In that moment, she felt the slightest glimmer of hope. There might be something left to wish for, something to salvage from the dreams she’d once embraced.
Chapter Ten
CARTER ASSUMED HE WOULD BE the first person in the drawing room. The dinner bell had sounded a scant thirty minutes earlier. But he had instructed his valet to begin preparations early, wanting to show his support for Miranda’s dinner. Even with his head start, Carter arrived in the drawing room second.
Miranda was straightening a floral arrangement on an end table across the room and didn’t seem to hear him come in. She stood back from the vase and tipped her head to the side as if analyzing her handiwork. Miranda shook her head and let out a frustrated sigh before setting to work again.
Carter smiled to himself. She was nervous. The unreadable, unreachable Miranda he’d first encountered at Clifton Manor was melting away.
“The flowers are lovely, Miranda.”
She jumped, obviously startled. For the briefest of moments, she looked at him before returning her gaze to the arrangement.
“Your mother has very particular opinions on flowers,” Miranda said as if she expected his mother to disapprove.
“I think they are perfect just as they are.”
“So if they don’t meet with approval, I can say it is your fault?” Her eyes never left the flowers in front of her.
“So I am taking the blame for the wine, the linens, and now the flowers?”
“And anything else I can reasonably lay at your feet,” Miranda quipped, the first hint of lightness he’d heard in her voice all day. He wasn’t sure why this dinner was important to her, but it so obviously was.
“I can reasonably be expected to be held responsible for the after-dinner port as well.” Carter spoke in jest, but his words weren’t taken that way.
In a single fluid movement, she spun to face the drawing room doors. “I never checked the port!”
“Miranda!” Carter reached out and caught her hand. “I meant that as a jest. I checked on the port when I selected the wine.”
She smiled apologetically. “I suppose my nerves are a little on edge.”
Carter smiled back, still holding her hand. She didn’t pull away, something he found surprisingly satisfying. He was warming to her, he could sense it, yet he held his breath, waiting for something to pull them apart again. Their relationship had taken on the qualities of a seesaw.
“You look beautiful this evening,” he said. She didn’t look as though she believed him. “That’s a new dress, I think.”
“I haven’t worn it since you arrived.” Color rose a little in her overly pale cheeks.
“You should wear that color more often. Lavender, I believe.”
She nodded. “It is left over from half mourning after your father died. Though Hannah replaced the black lace with blond. I didn’t think it looked too somber.” A note of uncertainty entered her tone.
She had observed half mourning for his father? That thoroughly surprised him. Clifton Manor was too isolated for her to have undertaken mourning for the sake of appearances. She hadn’t known Father well or long, certainly not enough to have developed a particular fondness for him.
He almost asked if she’d observed mourning for his sake, out of deference to the pain she must have realized he felt at the loss. But he couldn’t force the words out. They had found some common ground, had learned to be friendly with each other again. He couldn’t risk that by introducing such sensitive topics. Not yet.
Footsteps echoed from the hall. Miranda pulled away from him.
“Everything will be fine, Miranda,” he whispered as they turned toward the door. “Just fine.” He hoped the words convinced her, because he wasn’t entirely sure.
* * *
Miranda had debated doing away with the formal seating arrangements at the table that night. She meant the evening to be informal, more of a family dinner than a dinner party. But they had all grown very accustomed to taking up the same seats night after night. Changing that would make her dinner less comfortable, not more.
So, in the end, she still sat with the Duke of Hartley on one side and Lord Percival on the other. Carter still sat with the two ladies on his sides. Carter’s mother sat beside the duke. Somehow, even though Carter sat at the head of the table and Miranda at the foot, the dowager reigned over every meal.
Miranda had chosen a simple menu for the evening. She was rather looking forward to it. The menus had been filled with rich, heavy foods, the kind that no doubt graced all the best tables in London. Miranda was more accustomed to simpler fare. She’d missed it since the dowager’s arrival.
What the guests would think of the comparatively plain meal she had chosen, she didn’t know. But she would soon find out. The footmen set out the first course. Miranda watched the faces around her.
Please let them approve.
“Pea soup?” Her mother-in-law managed a tone that was somehow equal parts sweetness and disdain. “I can honestly say I haven’t been served this in a very long time.”
“We have had oxtail and mock-turtle soup these past few nights,” Miranda explained. “I thought this would be a nice change.”
“A change. Yes.” The dowager dripped soup off her spoon back into the bowl. Though she clearly didn’t like the offering, she still sent smiles across the table at each of the guests in turn.
Miranda looked across the table at Carter. He didn’t seem to have any objections. Indeed, he and the duchess and Lady Percival were tucking enthusiastically into the cod. Salmon and halibut had been the fish of choice thus
far during the house party.
“I believe you have read my wife’s thoughts, Lady Devereaux,” the duke said between bites. “Pea soup is the first dish she ever had upon arriving in England. It is a particular favorite and one she always eats with great pleasure.”
Miranda very nearly allowed relief to fill her expression. But she remembered the admonition that a lady, a true hostess, remained tranquil and composed at all times. Unnecessary shows of emotion, even positive emotion, were a mark of commonness and a lack of upbringing. In the first months of her marriage, Miranda had heard that particular instruction again and again.
Conversation around the table was easy and unrushed. Miranda saw that as a good sign. The first course was going well.
“Is this . . . hare?” The dowager eyed the dish sitting at the far end of the table, her nose scrunched as if she smelled something foul.
No unnecessary shows of emotion. “Lord Devereaux is very fond of hare.”
Miranda’s mother-in-law pasted a frozen smile on her face and nodded, though she didn’t request a footman bring her the hare. But, Miranda reassured herself, the dish was not going untouched. The other guests seemed to enjoy the offering.
No one looks disgusted or horrified. The dishes are being eaten and, it would seem, enjoyed. Miranda decided to see that as a success.
She folded her hands in her lap as the second course was set, closely watching the changing of dishes. The staff managed the task with near-perfect fluidity. Miranda caught the eye of Timms and offered the blessedly competent butler a small smile of gratitude.
Roast beef. Ham in a raisin sauce. Boiled potatoes in cream. Brussels sprouts and chestnuts. All simple dishes but traditional favorites. That, Miranda had decided, would be the theme for her meal. The food, though enjoyable and filling and satisfying, would not draw undue attention to itself. Dinner would be about the company and the conversation.
With satisfaction, Miranda listened as the guests joined in lively discussions and shared entertaining anecdotes. The menu might not be long remembered, but that night would solidify friendships and provide an evening’s enjoyment. Even the dowager took part in the discussions. Perhaps the need to keep up her end of the conversations would distract the woman from her evaluation of the menu.
Lord Percival turned his attention to Miranda. “These potatoes are delicious. I have always appreciated a good boiled potato.”
“As have I,” Miranda answered. The compliment was more appreciated than he likely realized. “And this cream sauce is a particular specialty of the cook’s.”
“It is excellent.” Lord Percival punctuated his declaration by returning his attention to savoring the potatoes.
The dowager took the tiniest sip of her wine. “This is an unusual choice.”
“You don’t care for it?” Miranda asked, fighting the sinking feeling in her stomach.
“Oh, it isn’t a matter of not caring for the selection. I simply wasn’t expecting . . . this.” Her mother-in-law’s look of reassurance held just a touch too much condescension.
“The wine was chosen specifically to pair with the menu,” Carter said.
Miranda hadn’t realized that the dowager’s comments had been noted by those on the far end of the table. The group was small, certainly, but she thought Carter and the two ladies were deep enough in their own conversation to not have taken note of the criticisms. Her abilities as hostess were being called into question in front of two ladies she very much wanted to impress, and she disliked looking incompetent in front of the gentlemen as well.
But you are at least a little incompetent. You’ve never been the hostess of a gathering like this.
The dowager set her glass back on the table with a genteel finality that said more clearly than any words might have that she didn’t intend to take the glass up again.
Miranda picked a bit at her plate of food. The duchess enjoyed the pea soup, she reminded herself, trying to cling to the little successes of the dinner. Lord Percival vocally approved of the potatoes. Carter likely appreciated the hare.
When the dessert was laid out and everyone, even the dowager, enjoyed the pear compote without a single word of complaint, Miranda felt some of her worry slip from her shoulders. The meal was ending on a good note.
She rose to signal to the ladies that they could make their way to the drawing room and leave the men to their port. She caught Carter’s eye as she walked toward the door. His quick, encouraging smile soothed some of her anxiety. He didn’t seem disappointed, and that meant more than the approval of anyone else in attendance.
The dowager pulled Miranda aside almost the instant they reached the drawing room.
“You will be pleased to know the meal was not a complete disaster.”
Complete disaster? That descriptor had never entered Miranda’s thoughts.
“Of course, in London, the standards are far higher than in the country.” Her mother-in-law emphasized her words with an extremely elegant sigh. “But, then, you’ve never been to Town.”
“No. I haven’t.” The admission was painful. She’d wanted to go, once.
A moment’s uncertainty crossed the older lady’s face. “And you don’t have any pending plans to go to London, do you?”
Miranda shook her head.
The dowager pressed a hand to her heart, the large topaz in her ring glittering in the candlelight. “That is a relief, Miranda. While your efforts tonight were adequate, you would be entirely out of your depth in London. The time we would need to bring you even close to prepared for being a hostess there . . .” She shook her head as though overwhelmed at the very thought.
“It is fortunate, then, I am so firmly established here in Dorset.” Miranda tried to give the words a ring of truth. But having Carter nearby, seeing even momentary glances of the dear man she’d fallen in love with, knowing he would leave again, chipped away at the appeal of her country home.
The dowager turned enough to look at the rest of the room. “Were you going to have the tables set out for cards before the gentlemen joined us or will they be required to wait?”
“Actually, I didn’t arrange for cards tonight.” Miranda summoned what confidence she could. She had thought the evening through many times and in great detail.
The explanation was met with clear surprise. “What have you planned, then? A musical evening, perhaps? Or a reading?”
“I thought the guests would appreciate having a quiet evening in which they’re free to converse and simply enjoy one another’s company.”
“Oh, Miranda.” Her shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath. But then she smiled an almost maternal, almost sympathetic smile. “It is a very good thing you are playing hostess here instead of amongst society. In London, a ‘quiet’ evening is nothing more than a conciliatory way of describing a failure.”
Miranda had no reason to doubt her mother-in-law’s words. The dowager viscountess had vast experience with the expectations of London society. And yet, words like failure and disaster filled her thoughts. She’d wanted to be a successful hostess.
You are not so frail as all that, she reminded herself. She could receive advice without crumbling or arguing. And she was a woman of reasonable intelligence, more than capable of determining which criticisms were warranted and which might not be.
The meal likely would not have met with the scrutiny of London society; the dowager was correct on that point. But the other guests seemed, at the very least, satisfied with the meal. Cards and musical evenings and such were expected and important when hosting a fete in Town. But the dowager hadn’t said that a quiet evening would be unacceptable in the country.
She took a fortifying breath, presenting what she hoped was a tranquil demeanor, all the while aching inside. Falling short of the mark had ever been a thorn in the side of her marriage, something that had come between Carter and her on too many occasions. She wasn’t hoping to be the greatest hostess in all the world, but she also didn’t want to utterly fail.
Chapter Eleven
CARTER SAT ON THE SETTEE in front of the fire in his bedchamber that night. With his cravat tossed aside, jacket long since shed, waistcoat open, collar loosened, shirttails untucked, shoes and stockings piled beside the settee, he ought to have been quite comfortable; however, his mind was burdened.
He’d assured Miranda the evening would be a success. And, taken as a whole, it had been. But his reassurances had made him more aware of the responses of the rest of the guests. For the most part, the atmosphere was pleasant and approving. Lord Percival had expounded at length over the joys of the boiled potato he’d enjoyed during dinner. Carter himself had relished the roast hare. The menu seemed to meet with nearly universal approval. The night’s entertainment, or lack thereof, actually inspired a sigh of relief from Hartley. He declared his unwavering appreciation for the quiet evening.
Carter was happy with the guests’ responses to Miranda’s efforts as hostess. His mother’s reaction, however, weighed on him.
She had said very little over the course of the evening that could be construed as positive. Lavender, she’d insisted, was not an appropriate color for a hostess to wear to a dinner party unless she was in half mourning, which, she pointed out, Miranda was not. Mother claimed the floral arrangements were a trifle sparse. She had given a begrudging nod to the wine.
Carter leaned his head against the back of the settee and closed his eyes. The picture that immediately entered his mind was Miranda as she’d looked in the nursery. He’d watched her, standing in the light of the window, smiling gently down at baby Henry. The sight had brought yearnings he’d long suppressed back to the surface. There’d been a time he’d dreamed of being a father and seeing Miranda hold their children.
He felt the cushion beneath him shift and the unmistakable warmth of another person beside him.
“Carter, are you asleep?” Even whispered, Carter knew that voice.
He opened one eye to look. “Miranda?” He couldn’t mask his surprise. She was sitting beside him on the settee, in his bedchamber. She still wore the same lavender gown she’d worn all evening, but her hair was pulled down into a braid that hung over one shoulder. Three years ago, he wouldn’t have batted an eye at her presence there.
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