After The Storm (27 page)

Down below, Elyse and Sarah Thorpeton stood in the entrance. Neither looked particularly happy, and Miranda found it most difficult to meet either stare. Still, she took a deep breath and lifted her head. Elyse’s gaze met hers, so much like Hugh’s. Miranda felt a sharp pang and wondered where he was.

“I am sorry,” she murmured, looking from Elyse to Sarah and back. “I meant no harm. I am afraid I don’t fit in and I doubt I ever will. I do hope you will allow me to reimburse you for the mare’s injury.”

“That won’t be necessary. It is not as serious as we first feared.” Sarah’s voice was flat and unemotional. Her lips pursed and her chin rose. “Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for your time here.”

Her words stung, but Miranda did not flinch. Instead, she nodded. “I do think you ought know, Your Grace, you have no need to be concerned. The duke was quite the gentleman.”

“I am certain he was. But that does not exc—”

“Mama,” Elyse broke in sharply, her eyes red-rimmed and shiny. “Please…this is difficult enough.” She turned a pained gaze to Miranda. “Perhaps when Derek and I return to London, we might pay a call.”

The dowager looked decidedly ill. “I think not,” she declared frostily. “This will be the end of your association with her. She is no longer welcome in my home. And you will
not
associate with her once she takes her leave.”

Miranda’s cheeks burned even as Elyse rounded on her mother. “That is uncalled for, Mother. Not to mention, terribly rude.”

But the dowager wasn’t the least bit repentant. Rather she stared down at Miranda as though she were an insect on the carpet. “Mind your tongue, Elyse.”

She could stand it no longer. “My lady, please, it’s best if I just bid you farewell and take my leave. I will not forget all you’ve taught me, and I will forever be grateful for it, and your friendship.”

Elyse looked about to cry, her bottom lip quivered. Arabella tugged on Miranda’s arm. “Come, Miranda. I refuse to stand here and suffer
her
insults.”

“Yes, Aunt Arabella,” she replied. With a heavy heart, she turned to follow her aunt out into the cold to the waiting carriage. As she settled in beside Arabella, silence descended and she was thankful. She didn’t want to talk. She just wanted to sit back and try
not
to think about the mess she’d created. The grayness of her mood thickened to black and then, they were off. As they bounced down the drive, she peered through the window to see the stone manor house shrink until it disappeared from sight.

Chapter Twenty-Two

London seemed even stuffier after the holiday in Nottingham, and Miranda’s dark gray sadness only swelled as she plodded up the steps to her aunt’s townhouse. Dickson, the butler, held open the door to let her pass, and she stepped into the front hall feeling as cold and stony as the marble beneath her feet.

Arabella came up behind her, peeling off her gloves as she said, “Tea, Dickson.”

“At once, madam.”

She whisked off her traveling cloak to hand to Anna, the maid who’d silently appeared moments after the door swung open. She waited patiently for Miranda to divest herself of her cloak, then took both and disappeared as if she was never there. It was amazing, really, how little noise a houseful of servants made when their mistress was in residence. She wondered if it was the same when Arabella was not around.

“You will come and have tea with me in the drawing room after you’ve freshened up.”

It was said pleasantly, but was most definitely a command, and though she preferred to lock herself alone in her chambers, she had no choice but to comply. How could she deny the request after what she’d done? “Yes, Aunt.”

“Go on then.” Arabella waved her toward the stairs. “Do not tarry long. I have something I wish to discuss with you.”

Were they going to talk about what happened in Nottingham
again
? She sighed. Perhaps now Arabella was ready to blast her with the full force of her anger, or lecture her on the depth of her disappointment. The entire journey back to London, she waited on edge for her aunt to broach the subject. Much to her disappointment, however, Arabella slept most of the way.

Miranda made her way above, to her chambers, where she found the washbasin sparkling clean, and the delicate china ewer filled with tepid water. A clean chemise and stockings had been set out, along with a fresh gown in soft lavender muslin, and she eyed them appreciatively after taking in her own haggard, wrinkled appearance in the mirror beside the washstand.

She stripped off her worn clothes, splashed her face with water, and redressed as quickly as possible, taking time only to brush out her hair and catch it in her favored long plait. It was best not to keep Aunt Arabella waiting, so she hurried back down and made her way to the drawing room.

The silver tea service had not yet been brought in, but Aunt Arabella was there, in her favorite tapestry chair by the fire, a needlepoint resting on the piecrust table beside her. Above the fireplace mantel hung a life-sized portrait of Arabella dressed in an elegant ball gown of pewter, with thick ropes of pearls about her neck and wrists, and more dangling from her ears. Her lustrous dark hair was piled high atop her head, encircled with a pearl and diamond tiara.

Miranda fingered her own braid. Their hair was very much the same shade—a Marchand trait no doubt. But that was where the similarities ended. she wondered if her mother also had hazel eyes, for Angus’s eyes were an odd mix of greenish-gray. “Shall I see what is taking so long?”

“Oh, no.” Arabella waved away the offer. “There’s no need for you to go anywhere, Miranda.” A smile lifted the very corners of her lips. “Please, sit.”

Miranda did as she was told, but it was difficult, as she was so terribly on edge. She struggled to keep from fidgeting, from fussing with her skirts, or pick at imaginary lint on the arm of the sofa.

Arabella looked her over from head to toe, as if appraising her, and then she sighed, her smile fading. “I must admit, I am quite disappointed with how the house party ended. It was quite foolish, what you did. Very foolish, actually.”

Shame pricked at her insides and she nodded. “I know. And I have no words to convey how very sorry I am. It was not how I wished things to end.”

“I know you did your best to secure a proper suitor. And I thought with Elyse playing matchmaker, and teaching you the ways of the
ton
, you’d be a success.” She shifted to tuck her feet beneath her, and smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle from the skirt of her sedate brown gown. “And that was my mistake.”

“Your mistake? But, Aunt Arabella, Lady Elyse
did
teach me some very useful things.”

“And in doing so, led to your downfall. Had I but known you’d become acquainted with the Duke of Thorpeton, I doubt I’d have asked her in the first. I never even stopped to consider he might be in residence.”

The warm, cozy feeling of having her aunt’s approval began to fade. “He is not to blame.”

“No. Not entirely. And neither are you.” Arabella sighed softly, looking far older in years than her two score. The lines on her face seemed more pronounced and the shadows beneath her eyes were darker than usual. “I cannot say I am surprised. Hugh Thorpeton turns quite a few heads, and has since he was a boy. He’s handsome and charming, and I cannot fault you for losing your heart to him.”

“I’ve not lost my heart,” Miranda disputed. “What I mean is, yes, I do find him very charming, and he
is
quite handsome, but he was—is—only a friend.”

Arabella’s gaze was direct, but not unkind. “Do you think me so great a fool? Or do you think me blind? I have seen him grow from a beautiful baby into a striking young man and then into the rake he was before the North American War.”

“Yes, well—”

“Why, if circumstances had been different, I think you’d make quite a perfect couple. However—”

“I know. He is a duke. I am a common girl,” Miranda supplied dully and stared down at the toe of her slipper, peeping out from beneath her skirts. “And Sally is the daughter of an earl.”

“That may be, but she is also hardly fit to wipe Lord Thorpeton’s boots.” As Miranda snapped her head up in surprise, Arabella continued with, “I heard him laugh with you. Really laugh. He seemed to limp far less and smile so much more during your lessons. Why, I
saw
his demeanor brighten when you and he were in the same room. I saw faint glimpses of the man he was before the war. And he was quite the charming rogue at one time. He’d enter a room and capture every female heart in a single beat. Your presence made him happy.”

Miranda pressed her lips together and closed her eyes at those words. It hurt so much to hear them, to think they might be true. Her eyes stung with unshed tears. Arabella sounded as though she thought Hugh belonged with her rather than with Sally.

She opened her mouth to respond, but the words died on her lips when Arabella added a weary, “It is my fault, you know. I had no idea how lovely you were going to be.”

“I...I beg your pardon?”

“You were an adorable child, Miranda. Curious and impish. Into everything and always sneaking away to ride one of those blasted ponies your father spoiled you with. Often borrowing them if you weren’t allowed to ride. I told Angus he ought not let you run so wild, but he said you had my spirit and he’d not tame it if possible. He’d not crush it, the way my own father had crushed mine.”

Miranda stared. The world had gone wildly askew again. Arabella sounded so…wistful. Her eyes held a faraway look, as if she’d slipped back in time. The result was quite unsettling.

“I am afraid I don’t understand,” Miranda said when Arabella paused to draw a breath.

“I thought it best if your father kept you and encouraged your spirit. And when you were ready, I’d simply bring you here and set you free. All I ever wanted was for my child to have the freedom I never had.

“Your
child
…?” Ice plummeted into Miranda’s belly with a horrific, nauseating splash. “You mean to say…
you
are my
mother
?” Her jaw went slack as Arabella nodded.

Her heart ceased to beat.

No.

It wasn’t true.

Aunt Arabella Marchand...
her mother?

Her throat closed. She thought of all those years when she’d dreamed of having a mother, when she’d pined for one...when she’d
needed
one.

And she was here, in London, the entire time.

Her mother.

Only in her dreams did she ever imagine her mother was alive and well. Now, with such stunning clarity, it all made sense. Why it seemed as though Aunt Arabella bent over backward to make her feel wanted and at home. It was the only way for her to try to make up for the years of lies.

“No.” Her tongue felt thick as she forced out, “My mother is dead. She died when I was but a babe.”

Arabella shook her head. “No, Miranda. I have proof, if you’d like to see for yourself.”

Wrapping her arms about herself to ward off the sudden, discomforting chill, Miranda nodded. “Yes. Please.”

Arabella withdrew a missive from the folds of her skirts. Miranda recognized the dark green wax seal imprinted with the bold
M
her father always used. Her aunt’s slender hand trembled as she held it out, but not nearly as greatly as Miranda’s when she accepted it.

The aged wax crumbled into Miranda’s lap as she broke the seal and smoothed out the creased, yellowed stationery she recognized as Angus’s. The parchment crinkled as she fought to control her tremble. Her belly roiled and she swallowed hard, willing her eyes to focus on the old parchment. Tears blinded her at first, but she blinked them back to focus on her father’s elegant handwriting:

Dearest Miranda,

If you are reading this, then you know the woman you have always thought of as your aunt is, in fact your mother. She has told you the truth. I beg you will forgive us both in time. You are angry, I am certain. You want to rail and scream and throttle me, so it is probably just as well I am not here.

Know that your mother and I did this
not
to hurt you, but to prevent that from ever happening. In time you will understand. Arabella did not abandon you because she didn’t love you. She wanted you.
 
It was
because
she loved you she felt it necessary to leave you and me behind.

I only hope you will one day forgive us both.

Her hands shook harder and she gave up trying to steady them. A single tear trickled alongside her nose to
splop
on the parchment below her father’s signature
.
It was fortunate she was sitting, for her legs surely would have betrayed her. She stared, dazed, at Arabella without truly seeing her. Finally, she found her voice, and whispered, “But why?”

“We were but children. Young, in love, quite impetuous. But I was the only daughter of the Marquis of Weston and as such, Angus wasn’t considered at all acceptable by my father. He would never have allowed Angus to court me. It was unthinkable, the daughter of a marquis marrying a mere stable boy.” Arabella’s smile grew wistful, her stare faraway as she slipped into her memories. “It was all terribly exciting, the sneaking about, the stolen moments. I loved Angus with all of my being.

“When I realized I carried you, I panicked. I had no doubt my father would have done anything in his power to be rid of you. He’d already chosen my husband and a half-Scottish grandchild born on the wrong side of the blanket, sired by a lowly servant, was unacceptable, given his carefully arranged plans.

“I ran all the way to Scotland, and stayed until you were born. Your father and I agonized over what came next. I wanted to stay with him, wanted so very much to marry him and just make a home for the three of us. But he knew better. He was a realist, your papa. I wasn’t suited to be a groom’s wife and he knew it. He knew in time I’d come to resent him and most likely you and insisted I return.”

Arabella lifted watery eyes to gaze at her. “The truth was he did not want to marry me. Not then, anyhow. We were both so young and he still had oats to sow. But he wanted you, Miranda. Never doubt that.”