For Elise (23 page)

Elise wasn’t exactly smiling, but
a spark of such honest happiness had entered her eyes that Miles couldn’t look away. He’d decided after spending much of the previous night evaluating the tense and uncomfortable conversation he’d had with Elise about Jim—
St. James
, as Miles found himself thinking of the apparently perfect young man—that he needed to at least attempt to recapture some of the laughter that had once been a part of his connection to her. In their pursuit, he had been more than adequately repaid for his effort.

He smiled at Anne, who was still giggling in his arms. “We won the race.”

He could see she didn’t understand his words, but she didn’t seem bothered by it. He bounced her in his arms, and she smiled almost coyly.

“I lost our race,” Elise said. “But am I permitted to see this great surprise of yours?”

Miles opened the door to a large room. It was an unused bedchamber in an odd corner of the house. There was no furniture, but a set of heavy, dust-laden drapes hung on the window. He’d opened them earlier so there was no need for candles. The items he’d had brought from the Furlong House attics had arrived, and rather than tuck them into another attic, he’d placed them in this room, where Elise could see them again.

They stepped inside.

“My mother.”

Miles had wondered what Elise would notice first. He’d settled on the paintings of her parents and had, it seemed, been spot on the mark.

“And Papa,” she added.

“When the estate was auctioned, I held back a few things I thought might be meaningful to you,” Miles explained. “These portraits had far more sentimental value than monetary.”

Elise had already crossed to where the large paintings of her parents leaned against the wall. “I thought they’d been sold,” Elise whispered.

There was something physically painful about watching her kneel in front of the portraits, her gaze intense and unwavering. If sheer need could bring a painting to life, Elise’s gaze would have done just that.

And Anne, Miles discovered, was watching him with much the same intensity. Though he hadn’t seen it before, there was a deep and unspoken need in her gaze.

She wore somber colors, the same homespun cloth from which Elise’s clothes had been made. Her dark hair hung loose as Elise’s always had. He wanted Anne to be as light and carefree as Elise had always been.

Miles spotted a doll lying in an open crate.
Heloise
. Elise had carried Heloise all around the grounds of their homes for years. Somehow, the poor doll had managed to survive.

He carried Anne to the crate and lifted Heloise out. Miles showed it to Anne, holding it close enough for her to take it. But she only looked, apparently confused.

“A doll,” Miles said when Anne looked at him.

She looked back at Heloise and gingerly touched the doll’s clothes, then its hair. She pulled her hand back quickly. The look she gave Miles next begged for reassurance.

Has she never played with a doll before?
Miles glanced at Elise, who had discovered a short stack of books near the portraits and was thumbing through them. How poverty-stricken had they been since she’d left Epsworth? Had she not been able to afford even a doll for her daughter?

Grateful he’d thought to have a couple of chairs brought up to the room for when Elise undertook the task of sorting through her inheritance, as paltry as it was, Miles lowered himself into a straight-backed chair and settled Anne on his lap. He kept one arm around her. With his free hand, Miles held up the doll, wiggling and bouncing it in a way he hoped made the doll appear to be walking or dancing or anything that would appeal to Anne.

She looked up at him, still uncertain.

I can’t believe I am about to do this
, Miles thought. He held the doll against his chest and hugged it with his empty arm, all the while smiling brightly at Anne. He even went so far as to kiss the doll on its cheek.

Anne smiled at him.

So Miles pressed the doll’s face to Anne’s cheek, then to his own. He repeated the gesture several times. All at once, Anne took hold of Heloise and hugged the doll to her.

“Very good,” Miles whispered. He wrapped his arms around Anne as she studied her new friend.

“Oh, Miles.”

He looked away from Anne toward Elise. She sounded very near tears, and his heart thudded at the sound. She seldom showed her emotions, but they were raw in her voice now.

“Our music box,” she said. “You saved it.”

“You danced your first minuet to that music box,” Miles said.

He had taught her the minuet using “their” music box, which had actually belonged to Elise’s mother but had become a regular part of their time together.

“I remember.” Elise opened the lid.

A composition of Bach’s filled the room. Anne continued playing with Heloise, unaware of the soft music. Slowly, Miles was coming to understand the sweet girl better, to know what volume she required, what speed of words.

Elise stared at the box as it continued playing the very familiar and poignant tune. “You were going to dance the minuet with me at the Christmas assembly.”

Miles lifted Anne from his lap, rose, and set her back on the chair. She looked questioningly up at him. He placed a kiss on her forehead, the familiarity of that gesture hitting him with tremendous force. How often had he done precisely that with Elise? He had, in fact, kissed her forehead after promising to dance with her at her very first assembly.

He stopped just in front of Elise and extended his hand. “Dance with me.”

“Now?” She looked up at him, her eyes mirroring Anne’s from only a moment before.

“You promised me a minuet,” Miles reminded her. There was no teasing left in his tone or in her expression.

“I’m not sure I remember how.”

“You do,” he insisted. “Dance with me, my dearest Elise.”

Her eyes boring into his, Elise laid her fingers on his upturned palm. He closed his fingers around hers and felt warmth spread through him. Slowly, she rose to her feet.

“Papa was going to buy me my first ball gown,” Elise said, pain in her eyes.

Neither of them moved as the music continued to play. A sudden thought flashed through Miles’s brain.

“I nearly forgot,” he said. Still holding her hand, he turned back to the open crate. “I had convinced your father to allow me to choose something for you.” Miles dug through the small crate until he found the narrow box he’d been looking for. “It was to have been an early Christmas present.”

“And you kept it all this time?”

Miles placed the box in her hand. She only looked at it, unmoving.

Finally, Elise untied the green ribbon, faded and dusty with age, and lifted the lid. He heard a sharp intake of breath and prayed it was a positive reaction. Elise pulled from the box a fan made of ivory so thin and delicately carved it resembled lace. She gently opened each section, lightly fingering the carvings as she did.

“Every young lady needs a fan,” Miles said in explanation of his reasoning at the time of the purchase, which, in light of the crippling poverty she’d endured, seemed ridiculously frivolous. “I was certain the moment I saw it that you would love it. I couldn’t pass it by.”

Elise laid the fan back in its box, refitting the lid. Her head was lowered over her task, and Miles couldn’t see her expression. Was she disappointed? The thought knotted his stomach. He watched, discouraged, as she laid the box on a closed crate just behind her.

“Elise—”

Elise set her hand gently on the side of his face, cutting off his apology. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered and didn’t pull away.

Elise wrapped her arms around him. Miles returned the gesture. He wasn’t sure what he’d done to finally break through Elise’s wall, but he was grateful just the same. Indeed, in that moment, he never wanted to let go again.

The music box was winding down, the notes coming more slowly.

“The fan is beautiful, Miles,” Elise said from within his embrace. “And to have my parents’ portraits . . .” He felt her lean more heavily against him.

“Your mother’s pearls are here also,” Miles said when Elise didn’t say anything more. “As well as her betrothal ring. I am afraid I had to sell the rest of the jewelry and the other paintings from the portrait gallery.” Miles held her tighter, the guilt of those decisions washing over him anew. “There were so many debts. I simply couldn’t—”

Elise’s fingers were suddenly pressed to his lips. “Do not worry over it, Miles.”

“You ought to have been left with more,” he insisted when she shifted her fingers enough to allow him to speak.

“You saved what was most important.”

No. I didn’t save you.
The silent words pierced his brain. He hadn’t saved Elise. She’d said so herself.
Jim
had saved her.

“Truly, Miles.” The slightest hint of a chuckle slid into her voice. “Where would we be without Heloise?”

He realized Elise was watching Anne. His gaze shifted to her as well. Anne gestured to the doll, attempting to make the doll’s hands return the words.

“I would like to get her another doll,” Miles said, still keeping Elise in his arms. He’d needed her there the past four years. She fit there, belonged there even more than she had in their youth. “I don’t believe there is one in the nursery.” Not if Anne’s confusion over what to do with Heloise was any indication.

“Perhaps for her birthday?” Elise laid her head on his shoulder.

“Need I wait so long?” Miles had hoped to send to Derby for one that very day.

“Two months is not so very long.”

“A little girl ought to have an entire collection of dolls,” Miles said. “Enough for imaginary teas and lessons—”

“Under a tree in a meadow,” Elise finished for him. “How many of those very activities did I force upon you?” She laughed as she said it.

“All of them. Hundreds of times.” Miles had attended more teas as a boy than he had as a grown man. “And I plan to have precisely those things forced upon me by Anne, but she cannot possibly do so with only Heloise to join us.”

“All these years, I wanted her to have a doll.” Elise sighed. “I never could.”

“Let me do this, Elise. It would mean a great deal to me.” He couldn’t explain precisely
why
, beyond a desperate desire for Elise and Anne to be happy
.

“You are very good to her, Miles.” Elise looked up into his eyes. “To
us
.”

She had the bluest eyes. A deep, dark blue, like the sky just after sunset. And her hair had begun to escape its knot, no doubt from their race through the halls of Tafford. Miles brushed a nearly black curl from her face, his hand lingering on her cheek.

“The music has stopped,” Elise whispered, her eyes locked with his.

“We never had our dance.” He was whispering as well.

A flicker of a smile lit Elise’s eyes. “You seem almost disappointed.”

“I am, in fact. Do you waltz, Elise?”

“Waltz? No.” Heavens, she was adorable when she blushed—she always had been, he remembered.

“You must learn to waltz, my dear.” Miles continued caressing her cheek, finding the gesture almost addictive. It was not one left over from their younger years.

“My lord.” A footman stood in the doorway, bearing a tray laden with tea things.

“I’d forgotten I asked for tea to be sent up,” Miles said. He stepped away from Elise to direct the setting down of the tea. “Please place it here on this end table.”

The footman brought the tray in, a maid directly behind him with linens. As they worked to set out the tea, a second footman entered.

“A letter for Mrs. Jones,” he said.

Elise stiffened noticeably. Miles indicated the footman should give the letter to her. She accepted it with a “Thank you.”

The tea was set out. Both footmen and the maid slipped out, leaving Miles, Elise, and Anne alone in the room once more. Elise stood at the window, glancing down at the grounds. She held her letter, unopened, in her hand.

“Another of his letters, no doubt,” Miles said.

“Yes. Can he not even allow me one day’s respite?” An enormous amount of frustration filled her tone. The lighthearted, smiling Elise he had seen only moments before had disappeared entirely.

“Would you like me to open the letter?”

She shook her head. “I will this time.” Her lips pressed tightly together as she broke the seal. “Do not underestimate me,” she read.

Miles had no intention of taking these threats lightly. “I have made progress with the inquiry,” he said. He’d avoided the topic of late, not wishing to give her false hope. His progress had, in all actuality, been minimal. “My solicitor and Mr. Cane will be arriving in a few more days,” Miles said. “They are bringing our fathers’ financial papers. I found a note amongst my father’s things shortly after his death that indicated he had some idea of how to turn around his and your father’s financial situation.”