A Sapphire Season

by Lynn Morris

  After he’d left, Mirabella thought that aside from her physical and mental and emotional weariness, she was thoroughly, completely tired of trying to figure out how to deal with men.

  * * *

  In some ways Camarden did heal Mirabella. She passed her days doing all the old, sweet, comforting things that she loved. Every day she did some gardening, whether in her conservatory or in one of the several splendid gardens of Camarden, for it seemed to her that this particular June they were more bright and brilliant than they had ever been before. She and Josephine and Lewin, along with their younger sister and brother, toured and inspected the new village stewpond. Josephine had a brilliant idea: as she had said, she had no use for Mirabella’s year-old very fine satin and silk gowns, but she suggested that they donate them to the girls’ school, to remake into usable frocks or trims or embellishments. The young girls were as excited as if they had each received all-new wardrobes themselves, and Josephine and Mirabella spent five enjoyable days working with the girls on their sewing skills.

  They had been home for two weeks, and Lewin was leaving the next day. The three friends decided to picnic at the Camarden stewpond, and Lewin wanted to fish. Josephine and Mirabella said they’d be content watching him do all the work, but they’d be happy to eat any fine catches he might make. The first fish he landed was a fat ten-pound tench. Mirabella vividly recalled last All Hallows’ Eve, of “The Mermaid Song,” her dunking, Monsieur Danton’s delicious tanche à la citronelle, and of course…Giles.

  And this was how coming home to Camarden Court had presented new difficulties to Mirabella. Every scene she saw, every green vista, every expansive night sky, everything she did, all the pleasures she had, reminded her of Giles. The pain she felt was not nearly so keen as it had been at first. Now it was like a dull ache, a tenderness, like a healing bruise. But it would have been immeasurably worse if Giles and Barbara had been at Knyveton Hall.

  With resignation Mirabella accepted this, and found herself, in effect, saying good-bye to Camarden, or at least anticipating the fact that she must someday. Beyond that she could make no plans at all; there was only the insistence in her mind that she could not, would not live her life alone. Occasionally she thought of Lord Trevor Brydges, but as the days went by she learned to mentally stop herself from trying so desperately to arrange her life, for it had certainly worn her down to exhaustion in London.

  Their good-byes to Lewin were poignant, but not really sad because they had all learned to accept that he was called to be a soldier, and he was anxious to rejoin his men. Mirabella learned a lesson from this. Not every parting was tragic; some were just meant to be.

  In addition, Mirabella was actually excited and looking forward to the next two weeks, because Clara and Philip had invited them to Reynes Magna for a visit to meet their new son. Mirabella was also very glad to learn that her Aunt Tirel would be there.

  When Baron Tirel had been awarded the earldom in the sixteenth century, the fourteen thousand acres included three estates. The houses had actually been fortified castles of varying sizes, already old by Tudor times. Over the last two centuries various earls had refurbished, renovated, and rebuilt the fortresses. Reynes Magna (Large Reynes) had become the home seat of the earls; a mile away, Reynes Parva (Small Reynes) had been variously occupied or empty, according to the needs of the earl’s eldest son. Mirabella’s grandfather had given Lady Dorothea a life tenancy at the smallest manor house, which had been renamed Tirel House.

  Reynes Magna was now a spacious, gracious Palladian mansion, and Mirabella’s grandfather had engaged Lancelot “Capability” Brown to landscape the grounds. Wide vistas of rolling grass, little green hillocks, stands of trees, and still small plain lakes were not at all to Mirabella’s liking; she loved formal gardens and the buoyant, vigorous English cottage gardens. Still, she saw that Reynes Magna, situated on a hill above a silvery serene lake, had a simple grandeur.

  Her brother Philip, a younger, taller image of their father, greeted them with his usual stolid friendliness, and chucked Mirabella under the chin as he had done since she was a small child.

  With exasperation she said, “Philip, I’m twenty-two years old now, you simply must stop treating me as if I just learned to toddle and will be allowed a sweetie if I’m good.”

  Clara greeted them with more warmth than usual, looking happier than she ever had before. She dutifully kissed Mirabella, then said, “I suppose as soon as you’ve taken off your cloak and bonnet you’ll be dashing up to the nursery to see Tiberius. Very well, come along, I’ll take you up. And Mirabella, I warn you, he is not to be nicknamed Tibby, that makes him sound like a barn cat.” But she gave Mirabella a small tight smile as she spoke.

  Tiberius had just finished his midday meal, and the nurse was rocking him to sleep. Mirabella begged to be allowed to rock him, and Clara readily assented. But already his nurse was possessive and looked askance at Mirabella, as if she suspected her capable of foul play with her baby. But Clara said, “Newens, stop fussing and fidgeting about and give the baby to his aunt, she’s perfectly capable of rocking him to sleep. Go down to the kitchen and have some tea, Mirabella will send for you when she’s ready to come downstairs.”

  Clara bustled out, and with only one backward suspicious glance, Nurse Newens left, but Mirabella barely noticed. Already she was enchanted with her nephew. He gazed up at her with no sign of alarm at this new person attending him, only, it seemed to her, a mild curiosity as to who this new adorer might be.

  “Hello, Tibby,” she whispered. “I’m your Aunt Mirabella, and we’re going to be great friends.” He clasped her finger as if in assent, and for the first time in many days Mirabella felt a pure, unblemished joy. She started singing “The Mermaid Song” softly, and by the time she had finished, he was sound asleep. A vision of Mirabella rocking her own son rose in her mind, and she prayed, Please, Lord, soon…soon…

  For the next few days Mirabella spent much more time in the nursery, and outside playing with Alexander, than she did with the rest of her family. But on the fourth night, she decided that she would go talk to her Aunt Tirel. On the one hand she’d been longing to confide in her, but she had also been hesitant, because she felt ashamed of her childishness, embarrassed at her foolishness, and guilty for her selfishness. But she knew that her aunt had never judged her, had never censured or condemned her, and always comforted her. Taking a candle, she went down the hall and saw the candlelight glowing underneath her aunt’s door, just as it had on that night seven months ago.

  “Come in, Mirabella,” she called. Mirabella went in, and the scene was almost exactly as it had been then, too: Lady Dorothea was sitting up in bed, her hair tucked away in a nightcap, her spectacles balanced on the end of her nose, reading a book. “I wondered when you’d be ready to confess all, you’ve been looking suspiciously sheepish these last days.”

  Settling comfortably beside her, Mirabella said, “Sheepish may actually be giving me too much credit, sometimes I think I’m much more foolish than the stupidest sheep that ever lived.”

  “You are not stupid, you’re intelligent and clever, and you very well know it. As for being foolish, I agree with Puck: ‘Lord, what fools these mortals be!’ That includes you and me and every other human who’s ever walked this earth.”

  “How odd you should quote that, we went to A Midsummer Night’s Dream on our last weekend in London. That line was one of the few that I recall actually hearing.”

  “I’d love to claim a special prescience, but I practice no such mysterious art. I’m reading A Midsummer Night’s Dream, you see. And so proceed, child. Tell me why you quit your glittering Season so early.”

  Haltingly at first, and then in a flood, Mirabella told her everything. “And so here I am, a forlorn, silly, foolish girl. I was so certain that there was no such thing as romantic love, and I was so wrong and how I wish I had been right. Still I’ve seen, thankfully, that my temperament doesn’t seem to be of the sort that experiences ecs
tatic flights of bliss, nor cataclysmic throes of despair. I’ve prayed much about Giles, and I’ve found that I’ve rather—evened out, you might say.”

  Curiously Aunt Tirel asked, “And so what is the exact nature of your feelings toward Giles?”

  “It seems so trite, but there is no other way to say it. I’m deeply in love with him. But after all my struggles and resentment and anger and jealousy, I’ve come to a point where I only want him to be happy, even if that means for him to marry Barbara.”

  Aunt Tirel said approvingly, “Then I would say that now you do understand the true meaning of real love. The thirteenth chapter of First Corinthians gives us a perfect picture of it. Real, long-lasting, godly love is completely unselfish, and wishes only well for the beloved. In some ways your instincts were right, Mirabella. Romantic love does exist, but it has nothing to do with the kind of love that represents a lifelong commitment between a man and a woman. It’s simply an emotion, a sentiment, a passion. In my long years I’ve seen that it almost always passes away, and if there is no foundation of godly love between a husband and wife, it also almost always means a troubled and unhappy marriage.”

  Mirabella sighed. “Yes, I’ve come to understand that. But the emotions, sentiment, and passion are still real, and even though, as I’ve said, I’m not running melancholy mad, it’s still difficult for me to overcome the grief. I thought I would find sanctuary and peace at home, for I was certain it would be so much easier if I didn’t have to see him with Barbara. But I was wrong, at Camarden I think of Giles even more, and miss him more painfully. I just cannot think what I shall do, Aunt Tirel.”

  “Mirabella, ever since you grew old enough to have a mind of your own you’ve always forged straight ahead to what you’re going to do, before you look around and see exactly what it is that needs to be done, if anything. Before you force me into drawing up your charts and tables and lists as you did poor Josephine, allow me to clarify some points. Have Giles and Miss Smythe actually made an announcement of their betrothal?”

  “No, but as I told you, their mutual attraction is obvious, they were spending much time together, and I know Giles well enough that he wouldn’t—wouldn’t—dally around with a young lady unless his intentions were serious. And of course there is the fact that even though they’ve made no public declaration, Mrs. Smythe has confidently let it be known that they are a couple.”

  Lady Dorothea almost snorted. “Oh, yes, of course Fanny Smythe knows all the intimate details of Sir Giles Knyvet’s affections and intentions. I’m surprised at you, Mirabella, you know very well how silly that woman is. Even I know she’s a prating, title-hunting busybody, and I haven’t seen her for more than fifteen years. And as for Giles, he’s an amiable, popular young man, and he’s perfectly capable of making friends with a young lady and enjoying her company without being dumbfounded in love with her.”

  With a hint of impatience Mirabella said, “But I’m telling you, Aunt, that with Barbara he’s different. I can see it, and sense it.”

  “How is that? Exactly what are you seeing, and sensing?”

  Mirabella reflected ruefully that in her mind she might have glossed over the memories of her Aunt Tirel’s difficult questions. Lamely she answered, “I see that they seem to have a measure of mutual warmth and affection when they’re together. And—and—I suppose I sense that Giles has been treating me differently lately. He’s been more distant, more aloof, and I must assume that it’s as you tried so hard to tell me, he knows that any woman might object to me being her husband’s close friend.”

  “I’m not so certain that you’re seeing or sensing things at all clearly just now. That last little speech of yours included ‘it seems thus’ and ‘I suppose this’ and ‘I assume such and the other.’ But never mind, one thing I do see clearly is that we could argue about this all night, and it’s a waste of breath. The first thing you must do, child, is ask Giles about this girl. I cannot fathom why you haven’t thought of that one simple thing.”

  “But I have thought of it,” Mirabella said in a small voice. “I can’t, I simply can’t. I so resented my friends asking me, or teasing me, about Lord Southam and Mr. Aldington, and I even suffered a jibe or two from Lady Jersey about Lord Trevor, although we had only been—whatever we are—for a few days. I would never embarrass Giles so. Mrs. Smythe’s syrupy public declarations are bad enough for him to endure.”

  “There is something in that,” Lady Dorothea agreed. “But still, Mirabella, if the opportunity presents itself, I think you could talk to him about Miss Smythe without making him uncomfortable.”

  “Perhaps, but I should be horridly uncomfortable. I don’t think I could keep my countenance if I had to listen to Giles talk about being in love with another woman.” She looked down and shook her head slightly. “No, I think I shall try to avoid any private conversation with him at all, assuming that the occasion ever again arises.”

  “It will, and I think it’s entirely possible the circumstances may be very different from what you anticipate,” Lady Dorothea said, somewhat obscurely to Mirabella. But immediately she went on, “Now, what’s all this about young Aldington?”

  “Aldington? Do you mean Lord Trevor Brydges?”

  “Yes, yes, whoever,” she said testily. “I found your explanation of what you two are doing so vague as to be meaningless. What exactly do you want from him, Mirabella?”

  “Why, I don’t want anything at all from him, at least not now, and I think I made that perfectly clear to him, and I think that he’s content.”

  “Then why are we talking about him at all?”

  “Because—because—I know I’m not like you, Aunt Tirel, I want more than anything to marry and have children and a home of my own. And Lord Trevor is—well, he’s handsome and diverting and exciting, and—and—”

  “He’d do as well as anyone? When you decide that you’re ready to return to your list of fiancé-marriage-home-children?” Mirabella looked so downcast that Lady Dorothea immediately softened. “I apologize, I’m a crusty impatient old woman, and you don’t deserve to be spoken to so harshly. I love you so much, Mirabella, and it pains me to see you making mistakes that I know will hurt you in the end, so let me try to explain. You said that you had been praying much about Giles, and the Lord has given you comfort and strength?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Mirabella said softly.

  “Of course He has. We should always ask Him for grace and mercy in our times of need. But Mirabella, there is so much more to being a faithful Christian than merely attending church and being charitable and seeking God when we’re troubled. The only way that we can know true peace, and find the right and righteous path for our lives, is when we obey Him. To obey Him, you must know His perfect will for you. Have you sought the Lord about whom you should marry, or even if you should marry at all?”

  Long moments passed before Mirabella answered. “No, ma’am, I haven’t. I’m afraid to. I’m so afraid that He’ll say I should not marry. It only makes sense, doesn’t it? I mean, I’m in love with Giles, so how could it possibly be even fair, much less virtuous, to marry a man when I’m in love with another? I know all this, I’ve thought of this, though I’ve tried hard to ignore it. But I suppose I can’t, not really.”

  “Not any more,” Aunt Tirel said gently. “But you must come to this surrender yourself, in your own spirit, Mirabella, so I’ll say no more about it. I will tell you this, from long experience, that most of the time when we think we are giving up something for the Lord, we actually gain much, so much more than we lose. Christ Jesus said, ‘My yoke is easy, and my burden is light.’ I think you’ll find that whatever the Lord has planned for you will be so much easier and full of light and more joyful than you can imagine.”

  * * *

  After breakfast the next day Mirabella followed Philip to his study. “What are you on about this morning, Macaroon?” he asked. He had always called her “Coconut” or “Macaroon” because they’d been her favorite sweet since sh
e was two years old.

  “I’d like the keys to Reynes Parva, please. I’m of the mind that I’ll go see it, I haven’t been there for so long I can barely remember it.”

  He unlocked a drawer in his desk and handed her a bunch of very old keys. “Touring the manorial holdings, eh? Do you want me to send my steward with you to show you around the grounds and outbuildings?”

  “Thank you, no, I just want to poke around in the house a bit.”

  She rode a calm old gelding, and she allowed him to dawdle along, as she was in no hurry. In fact, she was half-dreading going into the house, for she had a specific reason for doing so, and it was going to be hard for her. As she made her slow way, Mirabella felt exasperated amusement at herself. As Aunt Tirel said, I’m a “doer,” I simply must make a plan and then step by step follow through it until I reach my goal. I’m hardly the adventurous, spontaneous type, am I?

  Reynes Parva was aptly named, as it was much smaller than Reynes Magna. The last of the renovations had been done in 1710, the finished product a graceful two-story manor house with a symmetrical façade of mellow golden brick. At dinner on the previous night there had been much discussion in the family about Reynes Parva. The house, along with eight thousand acres, had come out of entailment when Philip had turned twenty-eight. At that time one of Clara’s cousins, General Yerby, had just retired from the army. He had a house in Portsmouth, but he wished to live in the country, so Philip had granted him a life tenancy in Reynes Parva. He had lived there quietly and simply for the last ten years, and had died in February. The talk at dinner had been about exactly what to do with the house. No landowner ever wanted to sell any part of his holdings, so there was no question of that, but Philip and Lord Camarden had discussed whether to shut up the house and leave it empty, or try to find a new tenant and lease it.