“Did I wake you?” She still spoke quietly.
He shook his head, watching her for some hint as to her reason for being where she was, while at the same time hoping she wouldn’t leave.
“How was the dinner tonight?” She turned so she sat sideways on the settee to face him, in obvious earnest. “Did the evening go well?”
“The dinner was superb, and the evening was a success.”
“The company was congenial and the conversation lively,” Miranda quipped in a prim little voice. Her tone left Carter half expecting to see her roll her eyes. “That is precisely what the columns say about every dinner party that isn’t worth mentioning.”
Carter chuckled. “Touché, Miranda.” There had been a few times in those months they’d spent together when Miranda had absolutely astounded him with some witty rejoinder or another. Few people would guess that his shy, reserved wife could verbally flay him on occasion. “Perhaps you’d better ask more specific questions,” he suggested. “Men, I am afraid, have very little talent for dissecting social occasions.”
She smiled at that, and Carter felt himself returning the gesture. The expression grew rather permanent as she peppered him with questions about the meal and quizzed him over the wine. There was an easiness to their interaction that he’d sorely missed.
“Your mother was appalled that I had not planned any specific entertainments.” Miranda rubbed her eyes. Obviously, she was tired. “It was my intention to give the gentlemen a chance to discuss the affairs of the nation.”
“Which is precisely how we spent the evening.” And they had appreciated the opportunity. That was, after all, one of the reasons they’d planned to spend the holiday together.
“I imagine there is much to discuss.” Miranda’s words were coming slower.
Carter looked more closely at her. She really did look tired. For not the first time, he wondered if she was recovering from some illness or perhaps on the verge of one. He hoped not.
“What with the state of the king’s health and”—she rubbed her eyes again and leaned against the back of the settee—“the embargo against Britain. Not to mention Napoleon deposing the royal family of Portugal and poised to invade Spain.”
Throw in the Catholic question and working class unrest and Miranda could have delivered the Speech from the Throne to open Parliament.
A sleepy laugh broke into his reflections. “No need to look so shocked.” Miranda’s eyelids looked heavier by the moment. “We do receive London papers, even here in Dorset.” The mischievous turn of her mouth took away any censure Carter might have felt in her words. “Grandfather and I have our own lively debates on the issues of the day. I make a point of deciding with which side of each issue you will align yourself.”
“And do you find yourself more often correct or incorrect?” Her confession caught him completely off guard. She thought of him? And read up on the issues he would be dealing with from day to day?
“I am almost always right.” Miranda pulled her feet up and under herself. “I knew you would support the Slave Trade Act.”
“Have you approved of my political positions?” He felt more anxious for her answer than he would have guessed just two weeks earlier.
“Mm-hmm.” Miranda hugged her arms to herself, her eyes slowly opening and closing.
She was falling asleep again, the way she had the first night he’d been at Clifton Manor. They’d been discussing his career then as well. If she hadn’t just described in detail several of the most pertinent issues of the day, he would have thought she had no interest in the discussion.
“I am rather excessively proud of the work you do,” Miranda said quietly, curling into something of a ball beside him.
“Are you, really?” He’d seldom sounded so shocked.
“Shamelessly proud.” Miranda offered a sleepy smile. Carter watched in awed confusion. “You are doing so much good.”
“I am trying.” If she kept up the unexpected compliments, Carter would be blushing like a greenhorn.
“I always knew you would.” Miranda’s eyes were closed, her head slowly sliding lower along the back of the settee.
“Then why did you leave me?” he whispered as her head came to rest against his shoulder. He hadn’t expected an answer, but she replied to his almost inaudible question.
“You left me,” she said equally as quietly. He felt her shift closer, curl tighter.
What did she mean he left her? That wasn’t at all what had happened. She had disappeared, not him. She had walked out, not him.
“I am cold, Carter,” she whispered, and he suddenly realized she was shivering.
“I’m sorry, Miranda. I didn’t even think of that.” Carter carefully slid off the settee and laid her gently down then pulled a counterpane off his bed and laid it over her.
“Thank you.” She mouthed the words.
Carter sat on the floor in front of the settee, positioning himself so he was looking at her face. He brushed back a wisp of copper hair from her forehead. He’d noticed, from the first moment he’d seen her, that she was pale. But for the first time, he really looked into her face and saw weariness there, a hint of dark circles under her eyes. Sleep had eased enough of the usual tension in her face for him to realize just how tense she tended to look despite the initial impression she gave of serenity.
You left me. The words repeated in his bewildered mind. The accusation completely shocked him. She was the one who had left, who had walked out on their marriage.
You left me. She hadn’t flung the words at him or snapped them out in a moment of emotional turmoil. She’d said it so simply, so straightforward, so matter-of-fact.
But he was the one who’d been left. He had come back from London to find her gone. He’d left her in Wiltshire fully expecting—
Carter stopped midthought.
He’d left her in Wiltshire. He’d gone to London and left her behind. Was that what she meant? But they’d talked about that. They’d originally planned to go together, but it had been best for her to remain behind. She’d seemed disappointed but not devastated.
He’d left her behind because it was the wisest thing to do. Father had pointed that out to him. They’d sat in the library in the Wiltshire home long after Miranda had retired for the night, discussing Parliament and the people he’d meet during their trip to London. Father was going to spend much of their London trip taking Carter around to rub elbows with the men who could make his career.
Father had expressed concerns about Carter’s lack of connections among the more important men in Town. Few of Carter’s Harrow or Oxford friends had much influence. And Father had worried over Miranda. He had suggested he wait until the next time to bring her with him to London.
Carter remembered agreeing. Perhaps it would be best. He’d discovered in the few months since their marriage that he accomplished more around the estate when he went about his business on his own. It was only a fortnight after all.
But a fortnight was all it had taken for her to leave.
You left me. Had she misunderstood? Perhaps she’d thought he was leaving for good and not simply a quick journey to Town. No. They’d talked about it. He had explained the reasons and the short duration of his time away.
But if she knew he was coming back, why would she run off? Perhaps her pride had taken a beating at being left behind, or she’d seen his leaving as a sign of disapproval. Perhaps she’d simply decided to make a point that she had all the power in their relationship.
His parents had expressed misgivings shortly after the marriage. They were concerned that Carter had married someone too far outside their social circle. Father had worried about Miranda’s ability to be an effective political hostess. Mother had been distraught for some time over Miranda’s lack of refinement and connections. But Carter’s devotion to her had never waned. He had defended her to them again and again. In the end, she’d proven his parents correct.
He stood and paced away from the settee. Sh
e had abandoned him and the life they’d started together on a fit of pique. The Miranda he thought he’d married would not have done that.
“Well, then, Miranda,” Carter whispered to his sleeping wife. “Is that really why you left? You were cross because I didn’t take you with me to London?”
The weight in his chest twisted and pulled as it always did when thinking back over the past years. She’d tossed their marriage aside like rubbish. Quiet, friendly moments like the one they’d shared that night only served to remind him of how much he’d lost, of all they might have been to each other.
“I didn’t leave you,” he repeated, though he knew perfectly well she couldn’t hear him in her sleep. “I didn’t leave, and I didn’t stay away.”
Tension gripped him tighter and tighter. He couldn’t make sense of what had happened between them. The pain she’d put him through had long ago been replaced by frustration and anger.
They’d only just found the smallest thread of connection again. It was too fragile, too new for discussing. He knew himself well enough to realize he’d snap at her or throw accusations at her if the topic came up between them. And yet they couldn’t go on as they were.
He tucked her hand back under the blanket and kissed her gently on the cheek. Somehow, at some point, he’d find the courage to ask at least one of the questions weighing on his mind. He was determined to, for nothing would ever be resolved between them if he didn’t.
Chapter Twelve
FOR THE SECOND TIME IN two weeks, Miranda woke in her bed without the slightest idea how she’d come to be there. The last thing she remembered was talking with Carter on the settee in his bedchamber. Looking back, Miranda could hardly believe she’d gone there, but his reassurances had assuaged so much of her anxiety that she couldn’t regret what had been a rather impulsive decision.
At some point during the night, she must have returned to her own rooms. More likely than not, she’d fallen asleep and he’d brought her back. She had been so overwhelmingly tired the past few weeks. Carter hadn’t mentioned her weariness or her pallor. Miranda preferred it that way—hoped, in fact, he hadn’t noticed, though she couldn’t imagine how he couldn’t. She wanted to believe that when he looked at her, he saw the vibrant woman he’d married and not the wraith she knew she had become.
As usual, she was the first person down for breakfast that morning—the others would not arrive until well after she’d broken her fast and begun preparations for the day. Before the house party had descended upon Clifton Manor, Miranda had slept as late as her body required. But the Dowager Lady Devereaux had quickly insisted that such laxity would be a disastrous indulgence for any hostess. So Miranda rose with the dawn and began overseeing the day’s events long before she felt ready to.
Miranda seldom had an appetite for breakfast, owing to the fact that her morning meal was inevitably followed by a less-than-heartening interview with her mother-in-law. That morning’s list of complaints of the evening before was longer than usual, no doubt because Miranda had been its planner. Only Carter’s praise of the night before kept the dowager’s evaluation from being completely mortifying.
By the time Miranda reached the morning room, it was hardly morning any longer. Thankfully, the rest of the party was either still engaged in breakfast or out riding, as the morning was unusually mild. Miranda allowed herself a sigh of relief as she crossed to the high windows overlooking the grounds of Clifton Manor and the not-too-distant sea.
“Was she particularly unpleasant this morning?”
“Perhaps a little,” Miranda answered, turning back to face her grandfather. He sat in a high-backed chair near the fireplace, a book open in his hand. Miranda hadn’t seen him there when she’d first entered.
“I cannot for the life of me understand why you continue to endure her presumptuous lectures, Miranda.”
Miranda recognized the bubbling resentment in his tone. He did not like the dowager. He never had.
“She is trying to be helpful.” Though Miranda had begun to doubt that. Few of the dowager’s remarks could be even remotely construed as constructive suggestions.
“She is trying to humiliate you,” Grandfather countered. “This is her way of maintaining control despite the precedence you must naturally be given in this situation.”
“I do not believe she sees it that way.” Miranda crossed to sit in a chair near her grandfather.
“That she is humiliating you?”
“That I should be given precedence.”
“That much I could have told you before she ever arrived at Clifton Manor,” Grandfather retorted. “She has felt that way since the moment she met you.”
“That is not fair.” Miranda attempted to stand up for her mother-in-law. She was, after all, Carter’s mother.
“It is entirely truthful,” Grandfather insisted. “She never approved of Carter’s selecting you as his wife. Neither did her husband. She made every attempt at civility, but her true feelings were not difficult to decipher. They still are not.”
“She has not been unkind.” Miranda knew she wasn’t very convincing.
“She has been everything but kind. She belittles you in company. Lectures you in private. She changes menus and entertainments on a whim and then places blame for the resulting chaos on your shoulders.”
Miranda felt her spirits drop at the reminder of the past two weeks. The Dowager Lady Devereaux had been difficult.
“I could excuse all of that, my girl, if I thought you were equal to it.”
“Equal—?”
“I do not mean as a hostess,” he quickly corrected. “I believe you to be excellent in that respect. I meant if I thought you could endure the burden being placed on you.”
Miranda looked away. She knew what was coming, and she’d tried so diligently to put it from her mind the past few days.
“I see the impact this visit is having on you, Miranda.” Grandfather leaned forward in his chair to take her hand between his. “You are obviously not sleeping as you should. I do not believe you have had a single afternoon’s nap since that woman arrived. The tension and anxiety I see in your face and in your eyes tells me a great deal of the strain you are carrying with you. If you fall ill, Miranda, the results could be devastating, and you know it.”
“It isn’t so bad as all that.” She attempted to dismiss his worries, though everything he’d said was true.
“I have not seen you take any lily-of-the-valley tea recently. Has she disallowed that as well?”
Miranda didn’t answer. Of course the dowager had put a stop to that. As a proper English hostess, she ought to be seen drinking proper English tea.
“And hawthorn berries? You are supposed to have them in one form or another several times during the day. Have you been?” Grandfather quite obviously didn’t expect an answer. “You had been doing so much better, Miranda. Now that woman descends on us and everything is undone!”
“She will not be here long, Grandfather.”
“The servants won’t bring you your tea or berries?” His mouth assumed a grim look of disapproval.
“I believe they fear for their positions,” Miranda admitted. “If she complains to Carter, they could very well be dismissed.”
“Then I shall have a talk with that husband of yours.” Grandfather began pulling himself out of his chair.
“No!” Miranda immediately objected. “You promised not to interfere.”
“Miranda.” Grandfather gave her one of his more pointed looks as he lowered himself back into his chair. “He obviously does not understand the extent of the situation. He needs to understand.”
“Please.” Miranda moved from her chair to kneel in front of him. “Please let things be. Carter doesn’t know, he doesn’t understand, and . . . and I would rather he didn’t. He has only just begun looking at me without the resentment that was there at first. There is even tenderness there. I couldn’t bear it if he began looking at me with pity.”
He’d been pleas
ant lately, smiling and gentle. She wanted to have those memories to wrap around herself in the days and months ahead. And she wanted them untarnished.
“Tell me honestly, Miranda, with no whitewashing.” Grandfather’s gaze held hers. “How are you?”
She couldn’t lie to him, not when he sounded so worried. “I am growing short of breath a little easier than I ought, and I am frustratingly short on energy.”
“Have you had dizzy spells?” he pressed. “Episodes of lightheadedness?”
“No.” She was grateful for that and could see by his look of relief that he was thankful as well. “And while I haven’t had an enormous appetite of late, I truly suspect that has more to do with nerves over this house party than anything else.”
“Are you certain?” he asked.
“When was the last time we were truly certain about anything regarding my health?” Miranda laid her hand on his arm, letting her love for the sweet man show in her eyes. “Will you worry less if I promise to tell you if things take a decided turn for the worse?”
“I would much rather you not wait that long.”
Miranda nodded.
“Will you have your nap this afternoon?” he asked.
“I will try.”
He didn’t look satisfied, but it was all she could offer him. Miranda gave him the best smile she could conjure. “I am charged today with producing a centerpiece for the table tonight, one less countrified. So I had best go raid the conservatory while I can.”
Grandfather’s return smile was halfhearted. He patted her cheek and let her go.
Miranda walked from the room with a heavy heart. She knew the demands of the house party were taking a toll on her, but she regretted far more the impact Grandfather’s worry was having on him. He was not a young man, and he had done so much for her in the past three years. How she wished she had not been such a source of worry to him in his old age.
Glimmer of Hope Page 9