Glimmer of Hope

by Sarah M. Eden

  Carter got to his feet again, pacing in anger and frustration and helplessness. Miranda not wanting to see him was no excuse to keep him in the dark. He realized with a grimace she may have been keeping him away because she was ill. Did she trust him so little? Or did she find him so unbearable she would push him away in her time of need?

  No. Mr. Benton had said Miranda had waited for him, watched for him. Suddenly, the mental image Mr. Benton’s account had stirred, shifted, and changed. No longer the bouncing, always-smiling Miranda glancing hopefully out the windows of Mr. Benton’s home in Devon, Carter saw in his mind’s eye the frail sprite she’d become, eyes heavy with weariness, optimism marred by sickness, hope replaced by desperation.

  I have seen her at death’s door, Carter. Mr. Benton’s words followed him as he paced once more across his bedchamber. Watched as she collapsed in pain, struggling for every breath, her face turning an unnatural shade of gray as if she were already dead at my feet.

  Carter dropped onto his bed, arm across his eyes as if he could block it out.

  Collapsed in pain. Dead already.

  Miranda is dying.

  Dying.

  Dying.

  He felt a hot, angry tear slip from the corner of his eyes.

  Miranda asked for time. And there is so little I can do to give it to her. Carter now echoed Mr. Benton’s words. He felt helpless and desolate.

  Her heart is failing.

  Carter groaned at the cruelty of it all. He’d found her again, the Miranda he’d loved so desperately all through their separation. She was still the loving, caring, generous lady he’d always known her to be. He truly believed she cared for him as well—perhaps more than cared. With time, he felt certain he could win back her love.

  It should have been perfect. They should have been happily planning their trip to London. He ought to have been anticipating a lifetime to make up for the last three years.

  Carter remembered telling Miranda the morning they’d gone out at sunrise that they would have all the time in the world. She’d started to cry after he’d said that. Until now, Carter had wondered why. Now he understood. Miranda recognized the irony of his confident declaration. He had been anticipating a grand future. She was looking into the face of her own mortality.

  Miranda is dying.

  Carter knew those words would haunt him the rest of his days. He lay there staring blindly at his bed curtains. His throat stung painfully. His eyes threatened to overflow. He hadn’t cried since Father died, but he couldn’t seem to deaden the pain of the words that would not be dismissed from his mind.

  He was going to lose her, more truthfully and fully than before. It would be permanent, inescapable. He could do nothing to stop it.

  With a muttered curse, Carter sat up. He set his jaw and his shoulders. Mr. Benton might have accepted this. Miranda might have resigned herself to it. But Carter had no intention of allowing her to quietly slip away. He would do whatever was necessary to see to it she was as healthy as possible for as long as possible.

  Chapter Eighteen

  FROM THE MOMENT SHE’D RETURNED from her walk the previous afternoon, Miranda had found herself receiving more attention than she had ever received before, even while she and Carter were courting. If she hadn’t been starving for his affection the past three years, she might have felt suffocated. But for the moment, it was extremely satisfying. She knew Carter cared for her—something she’d longed for in their time apart.

  At that moment, Carter walked with her hand-in-hand along the beach, just as he’d promised her the afternoon before. Miranda couldn’t remember ever feeling happier.

  “The house will seem very quiet these next few days.”

  He turned his bright green eyes to her and smiled in obvious agreement, though he didn’t seem disappointed by the departure of his guests.

  “I think it will be nice to have the party over,” she added.

  “Are you looking forward to a slower pace?”

  “I am.”

  Carter had been so solicitous the afternoon before. She’d had her nap for the first time in weeks. Miranda was certain Carter had prevented the Dowager Lady Devereaux from interfering with her much-needed rest.

  Her answer seemed to sit uneasily with Carter.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “This house party has been hard on you.” Carter caressed her cheek the way he had been doing more and more frequently. Miranda liked the gesture very much.

  “But it is over now.”

  Carter nodded slowly, his forehead creased in concern. “London can be every bit as demanding.”

  “I understand it can be. But you said I could spend my days any way I choose, that we could sit around the fire at night if we wanted.”

  “That won’t always be possible.”

  “I know.” Miranda began to feel a little wary.

  Carter was obviously worried about something. He looked uneasy, weighted down. “I think maybe you ought to have a few days’ rest before jumping into the whirl of Town.”

  “We aren’t leaving for three more days,” Miranda reminded him.

  “I am not sure that is enough.”

  “But Parliament opens on the twenty-first.” Miranda felt a shiver of apprehension slide down her spine. “Monday is the latest we could leave and still reach London in time.”

  “The distance could be covered in a day and a half on horseback.” Carter’s eyes shifted to the sea.

  “I cannot ride for a day and a half,” Miranda said. “I would not last more than a couple of hours at most.”

  “But I could.” Carter turned to Miranda, an anxious expression on his face—the one she remembered him wearing when trying to convince her of something he didn’t think she would be easily persuaded to accept. Miranda’s heart dropped to her stomach. “I could stay until Wednesday morning. If I left at first light, I would have time. Only one night on the road. I would be there a few hours before I had to be to Westminster.”

  Miranda dropped his hand, telling herself frantically that she was overreacting. Carter wouldn’t do this to her again. He wouldn’t. “What of me, Carter?” she heard the words break free, quiet but intense.

  “I think it might be better if you stayed here. The pace in London is unforgiving.”

  Miranda shook her head in shocked denial. She stepped back almost blindly. He’d said almost those exact words three years earlier. He’d led her to believe they were going to London together, had planned with her and allowed her to dream of a glorious time together. Then he’d left her behind because it would be “better.”

  “You would leave me again?” The panic she felt was obvious in her voice. She continued backing away from him. “You are. You are going to leave me again.”

  “No. Miranda, it’s not like that,” she heard him say. “I would come back.”

  “You aren’t taking me with you.” She felt her heart wrench as the weight of what was happening washed over her. “You promised.”

  “Miranda.” There was a pleading quality in his voice, but he made no attempt to reassure her of his intention to keep his promise.

  “What a fool I am.” She felt on the verge of collapse. “A fool! I actually believed you!” Her emotions were raw—anger warred with disbelief and physically painful disappointment.

  “I don’t want to leave you behind, Miranda.” Carter reached out for her, but she backed farther away.

  “Then don’t.”

  “I have to. I cannot take you to London.”

  The pain of that night years earlier swept over her. He was breaking another promise. He stepped toward her. She backed up again, eluding his reach.

  “How could you do this?” she sobbed. “How could you come here and make me think you loved me?”

  “Miranda—”

  “How could you?”

  Miranda spun on her heel and ran as hard and as fast as she could, desperate to put distance between Carter and herself. She felt again the agony of tha
t day he’d left her behind, of the weeks and months that followed. Wounds she thought had healed tore open once more, raw and bleeding.

  She ran up the path that led back to the house. His voice calling after her and the sound of the surf faded into the background, both drowned out by the pounding of blood in her head. She thought of nothing but getting as far away as possible.

  She could easily see Clifton Manor. No fog or rain obscured her path. She tried to fill her lungs with the cold, biting air, but the struggle grew harder. Not much farther, she told herself.

  Soon she could reach her room—her sanctuary since the first time Carter had left her behind. She would simply stay there until he left for London, steeling herself to endure the heartache she knew would follow.

  “Miranda!” He was closer.

  She felt herself slow down; she couldn’t keep up the pace. She didn’t usually run. The effort quickly took a toll.

  Her lungs refused to take in a single breath. Excruciating, familiar pain sliced through her chest. Miranda pressed a hand to her chest, directly above her heart. Her heart raced. Her pulse pounded erratically. Pain all but blinded her.

  She felt her legs stumbling beneath her. She was less than one hundred yards from the front steps of the house. Less than one hundred yards, and still, she knew she wasn’t going to make it.

  * * *

  In growing alarm, Carter watched Miranda stumble a little. She stopped beneath the branches of an ancient tree. Her shoulders heaved as if she struggled for each breath she took.

  “No,” he whispered almost frantically and began running toward her.

  Miranda reached out a shaking hand toward the tree trunk as Carter watched her sink to the ground. Just as he reached her, Miranda rasped out something that sounded like his name then collapsed facedown onto the grass.

  “Miranda!” He heard the panic in his voice, felt it in every inch of his body. She didn’t respond. “Miranda!” Carter rolled her onto her back.

  His heart seemed to thud to a stop. Every drop of color had drained from her face. Carter looked around desperately. He needed a doctor. He needed to get Miranda back into the house.

  He picked her up off the ground, praying like he never had before, his heart wrenching at the lightness of her and breaking at her stillness.

  Fifty yards from the house, he ran into Hill, who worked in the stables. “Send someone for the doctor,” Carter commanded, not pausing or waiting. Hill was one of the Clifton Manor servants; he would know who to send and where.

  “Yes, Lor’ Devereaux,” came the urgent reply, and Hill ran toward the stables.

  Carter moved as swiftly as possible up the front steps of the house. Timms, the butler, met him at the front door, his usual unruffled demeanor collapsing at the sight of Miranda lifeless in Carter’s arms.

  “Joseph,” Timms yelled as Carter continued toward the stairs. The footman appeared almost immediately. “Tell Cook we need Lady Devereaux’s tisane.”

  Carter barely registered what they were saying. Miranda hadn’t moved since he’d picked her up. He kicked open the slightly ajar door of her sitting room and pushed through to her bedchamber, laying her on her bed.

  “Please, Miranda.” He touched her face. Her coloring had turned gray just like Mr. Benton had said. An unnatural shade of gray as if she were dead already.

  Hannah rushed into the room in that moment. “Laws,” she cried out. “Breathing? Check for breathing,” she shouted.

  Carter obeyed immediately as Hannah climbed onto the bed, her shaking hand pressed to Miranda’s neck. Carter held his fingers just above Miranda’s mouth, feeling for air. He leaned over her, watching her chest with an intensity that almost terrified him. His thoughts became a chain of silent prayers.

  “Please, Miranda,” he whispered. He felt the slightest expulsion of air. It was shallow, quick, almost undetectable. “I think she’s breathing.”

  Carter watched Hannah press her fingers against Miranda’s neck. A pulse, he suddenly realized. She was seeking a pulse.

  Carter held his breath, his hand involuntarily stroking Miranda’s hair. Silent, urgent prayers flew heavenward. He couldn’t lose her this soon, not when he’d only just found her.

  Shuffling footsteps sounded at the door. Carter looked up, already knowing who he would see. Mr. Benton was nearly as devoid of color as Miranda.

  “Pulse, Hannah?” Mr. Benton spoke as though he’d asked the question before and was working entirely on instinct, too frightened to think independently.

  “All crazylike,” she answered.

  “The tisane?” Mr. Benton asked.

  “Cook’s makin’ it up now.”

  “MacPherson?”

  “I sent Hill from the stables,” Carter answered, recognizing the name of the local surgeon.

  Mr. Benton nodded. Cook herself arrived in the next moment, a piece of lidded crockery in her hands.

  “She has to drink it, m’lor’.” Hannah’s voice cracked with strain, but she looked determined.

  Carter realized somehow what she wanted and slid his arm beneath Miranda’s inert form and lifted her to more of a sitting position.

  “C’mon, M’randa.” Hannah cooed as if speaking to a child who wouldn’t eat her gruel. “One swallow. C’mon.”

  She dipped a spoon inside the cuplike crock Cook held for her. She carefully shifted, spoon in hand, so she faced Miranda. Hannah dripped the tiniest bit of fluid into Miranda’s mouth.

  “Swallow. Come now.”

  Miranda didn’t follow the instructions. Without warning, Hannah blew a puff of air hard directly into Miranda’s face. Miranda swallowed.

  “Works with babies,” Hannah told Carter. “Sometimes with adults too.”

  Twice more the ritual was repeated.

  “Lay her back down, Carter,” Mr. Benton instructed.

  Carter wanted to hold her, to keep her close to him, leaning against him, but he obeyed, afraid he’d do something to make her worse. She still breathed fitfully but didn’t move otherwise. He rested her head on the pillows, waiting, expecting the tisane to do something.

  Several minutes passed.

  Hannah checked again for a pulse. It hit Carter then that Hannah had done this before. He ought to have realized it but hadn’t. He looked around at Cook, at Hannah, at Mr. Benton. He could tell by their expressions this was nothing new. How often had this happened? How did they endure it?

  Carter took Miranda’s still, cold hand in his, chafing it between his palms to warm her fingers, and watched Hannah expectantly.

  “Seems a touch more steady,” she told the room at large.

  “Tisane’s done its magic,” Cook nodded, though she didn’t look relieved.

  Neither did Mr. Benton.

  “We could give her more,” Carter suggested. If the tisane helped at all, he would douse her with it.

  But three faces turned to him, horrified.

  “It’s foxglove, my lord,” Cook said in an eerie whisper.

  Foxglove? Carter shot to his feet. How had he missed that? “Foxglove is poisonous!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “NOT IN WEE QUANTITIES” CAME an entirely unfamiliar voice.

  Carter spun to the doorway. A man, middle-aged, sharp-eyed, and authoritative, stepped into the room.

  “Is her heart up and drummin’?” the man asked Hannah in tones decidedly Scottish. He crossed to the bed and dropped a leather bag on the blanket beside Miranda.

  “A little better, Mr. MacPherson.” Hannah stepped back and allowed the man Carter now realized was the surgeon to examine his patient.

  “And ye’ve given her three sips of the foxglove tisane?” The surgeon mimicked Hannah’s search for a pulse, and he seemed to locate it almost instantly.

  “Yes, Mr. MacPherson,” Hannah said.

  MacPherson continued his ministrations silently, except for an occasional grunt. His visage was stern and focused.

  “Her coloring has improved a wee bit just since I arrive
d,” MacPherson finally said. He pressed a finger to Miranda’s neck. “Rhythm’s not regular yet.”

  “Is that what this is?” Carter asked, desperate for some information. “Her heart’s out of rhythm?”

  “Aye.” MacPherson nodded and continued to check his patient, not so much as looking at anyone else in the room. “What brought this on? Lady Devereaux seemed improved of late. She hasn’t been ailing, has she?”

  “She’s been very tired,” Mr. Benton answered. “I believe she has slipped from her regimen.”

  “She hasn’t been eating the hawthorn berries? Lily-of-the-valley tea?” MacPherson looked over his shoulder to where Mr. Benton sat wearily.

  Mr. Benton shook his head. Miranda hadn’t been eating or drinking either one. Mr. Benton had told Carter as much.

  “They’re not worth a docken if she doesn’t take them,” MacPherson grumbled. “Did she collapse suddenly or was she exerting herself?”

  “She was running,” Carter said, trying to make sense of the conversation he was being excluded from.

  Three pairs of eyes turned to Carter, wide with shock.

  “Running?” Mr. MacPherson asked in obvious astonishment.

  “Why the deuce was she running?” Mr. Benton was on his feet, looking positively livid and, Carter could see, more than a little accusatory.

  “I didn’t—”

  “How far did she run?” the doctor asked, curiosity in his eyes.

  “From the beach almost to the house.” Carter preferred the look in MacPherson’s eyes to that in Mr. Benton’s.

  “Well, now.” MacPherson looked back down at Miranda. “That’s aye something. She couldn’t run across her room when we started with the hawthorn berries and her tea.”

  Carter wrapped his mind around the man’s heavily inflected words. If he was interpreting correctly, Miranda had improved drastically since undertaking her treatment of berries and tea. The realization made Carter kick himself ever harder. The food Mother had been denying Miranda was medicinal—for her heart. No wonder Mr. Benton was so furious with both Mother and him.