Glimmer of Hope (21 page)

Carter stood and stretched, hoping to pull the kinks out of his joints. He passed a small table with a packet lying on top. Glancing quickly as he passed, Carter noticed it was addressed to him. Timms must have brought up the post while Carter slept.

He walked to the window and looked out at a clear, winter morning. It was ironic, really, that such a horrible day could be so beautiful.

“Hoped you’d be up, Lord Devereaux.” Hannah entered the room, carrying a tray. On it, she bore a covered platter, two pots of tea, and the same covered crockery that had held Miranda’s foxglove tisane the night before. “Might as well have your breakfast.”

“Let me help you feed Miranda, first,” he insisted, crossing to the bed. They’d done this four times already.

Carter raised Miranda almost to a sitting position, placing himself behind her for support. They required no words—the routine was already automatic. They started with a single dose of the foxglove tisane, followed by her special tea and runny gruel.

“I think she looks a little better this morning,” Hannah said as they laid Miranda back down after her minuscule morning meal. “The tea and berries have been doing the trick, I suppose. Lady Devereaux didn’t look good this fast last time.”

“How many times has this happened?” Carter remained seated on Miranda’s bed, holding her—as much for his own comfort as for hers. Probably his
more
.

“This’ll be the fifth, my lord,” Hannah answered, reloading her tray. “First un was the worst. Called in the vicar thrice that time. Next two weren’t as bad. Last un near about killed her again. This time, though, she’s been drinkin’ that lily-of-the-valley tea and eating the hawthorn berries like Mr. MacPherson said. He heard from another doctor about how those things are supposed to be good for the heart. Looks as though it’ll go a little easier for her.”

“This is easier?” Carter didn’t want to imagine her worse than she was.

“Laws, yes,” Hannah said with obvious conviction. “That first time she looked dead for days. I was so afraid she was bound to die, and she’d only been here a few months.”

Five instances like the one Carter was witnessing now. That seemed like a lot. “How long ago was the first one?” Carter asked.

Hannah laid out Carter’s breakfast on a long table at the end of Miranda’s bed. “Nearly three years ago, my lord.” She picked up her tray with the remains of Miranda’s breakfast.

Three years ago. Then her heart had been ailing nearly all the time they’d been apart. And Hannah had said that by the time she’d become ill, Miranda had been at Clifton Manor for a few months. That was too long to be a visit.

Hannah had clearly tended to Miranda during all of her episodes, as had MacPherson. Had she been at Clifton Manor all along?

That didn’t make sense at all. They had received a report from Clifton Manor in those early months, just like all the other Devereaux holdings, informing them that Miranda was not at the Dorset estate. Had she hidden her whereabouts? That couldn’t be right. Mr. Benton had said that Miranda had been expecting him. How could she be expecting someone she was purposely hiding from?

There were too many inconsistencies.

MacPherson and Mr. Benton claimed to have written him letters he’d never received, letters that would have told him of Miranda’s condition and confirmed her location.

What was going on?

He’d written to his secretary, Simson, nearly two weeks earlier, asking for what correspondence he could find among the estate papers and Father’s papers concerning Miranda. He hadn’t heard back from him yet.

Then, like a flash of lightning, it hit him: the parcel on the table. It had to be Simson’s reply.

Carter forced himself not to jump up. Quickly but gently, he laid Miranda back down and tucked the blankets around her. “I am going to figure this out,” he said to her. “Then you are going to wake up, and we’ll find a way to make things right between us again.”

She didn’t respond. He hadn’t expected her to.

With a sigh, Carter turned to the end table and picked up the parcel. It was heavy, which meant Simson had found something to send along. Carter dropped back into the chair he’d spent the entire night in and opened the parcel.

There was a stack of papers inside, some wrapped in a protective folder, the entire pile bound together, and a letter lying on top.

Lord Devereaux,

I have undertaken to obtain the information you requested. I have enclosed the correspondence from Clifton Manor to your man-of-business, including the information received in the years since the passing of the Sixth Viscount Devereaux. Among your esteemed father’s papers, I found the folder I am including. Upon first glance, I dismissed the contents as unimportant, the outward label not seeming related to your search. But a quick perusal of the contents revealed that these were indeed the papers you are looking for.

I remain,

Your servant,

James Simson

He
had
found something. Carter untied the bundle, his eyes scanning it anxiously. He recognized Father’s handwriting on the front of the folder. The letters
MB
and nothing else were written across it. Carter understood Simson’s confusion. What did that have to do with any of this?

“Strange,” Carter muttered to himself and opened the folder.

One glance at the parchment sitting on top stole his breath. “My Dearest Carter,” it began. Father had always addressed him as “Gibbons,” his courtesy title until Father’s death. Mother used his given name when speaking to him but was extremely formal in her written correspondence. Only one person would have opened a letter in that particular way—Miranda.

Carter checked the date. “October 17, 1804.” The month and year she’d left Wiltshire. Probably close to the very day.

He swallowed hard and took a deep breath.

October 17, 1804

My Dearest Carter,

No doubt this missive will reach London before you do, considering you have only just quit this house an hour ago. Perhaps I have too many sensibilities, but I miss you already. I so wanted to go with you to London; indeed I have been dreaming of little else since you proposed the trip a fortnight ago.

Please do not be cross with me, Carter, but I really must visit my grandfather. You will be gone for a fortnight at least, and having packed my bags already in anticipation of two weeks in Town, I have decided this would be an excellent time to make the trip to Devon.

Do not worry for me. The traveling coach is, as you know, conveying you to London, but I have sufficient pin money to hire a coach and coachman for the journey to Devon. Sally Mills, an upstairs maid, will be serving as my companion. She is returning to her family in Devon. Do not be concerned that I will be unprotected. Mr. Henson and his son, the elder being recently widowed, were in need of a means to reach his family in Cornwall, a journey that would take them through Devon. They will be riding up with the coachman, and we shall, I am certain, be perfectly safe.

Write to me in Devon if you are able to find the time. I know that you have my grandfather’s direction. I will see you in Wiltshire in two weeks’ time.

All my love,

Your dear wife,

Miranda

Carter stared. This letter had been written the day he’d left for London. It was addressed to him, and yet he’d never received it. Obviously it had been delivered. But why was it in among Father’s papers, opened and apparently read?

If Father had opened it himself by mistake, he would have told Carter of it. Carter grabbed the next paper in the stack. Another letter. Again, addressed to him and dated a mere four days later.

October 21, 1804

Lord Gibbons,

I am writing to inform you that Lady Gibbons has arrived this morning at your family’s estate, Clifton Manor in Dorset, and wishes you to be notified of her presence here. She further instructs me to inform you that were it not for the sudden onset of what she fears may be an influenza, she would write to you herself and tell you not to worry for her and that her grandfather, Mr. Benton, has been sent for and will see to her needs until she is well enough to return to your home in Wiltshire. She anticipates no change in her original day of return.

Your most humble

and obedient servant,

Josiah Timms

Butler, Clifton Manor

Not stopping to ponder beyond the fact that Miranda had arrived at Clifton Manor directly after leaving Wiltshire, Carter grabbed the next letter.

Oct 22, 1804

Lord Gibbons,

I have this day arrived at Clifton Manor, summoned by Miranda. She assures me you have been informed of her location and have been told not to worry over her condition. She is indeed ill but appears in good spirits for the present. We have sent for the local surgeon—a Mr. MacPherson, who has been most highly praised by the staff—purely as a precautionary measure.

While she insists that you need not make the trip to Dorset strictly for her sake, I would urge you to do so. Ever since the passing of her parents during an epidemic of fever she has been most fearful of illnesses, and your presence, I believe, would be soothing. At the very least, I would ask that you send her word that you are thinking of her and offer some written encouragement.

I will, of course, remain with her for as long as is necessary.

Yours, etc.

Mr. George Benton

Carter tore through the pile.

Oct 29, 1804

Lord Gibbons,

I do not wish to alarm you, but Miranda continues to be ill. She is not feverish but cannot manage to retain any nourishment. We are calling once again for the surgeon in hopes that he may know of a tisane or soothing tea to settle her stomach.

Miranda will not, I am afraid, be arriving in Wiltshire in two days’ time as she had originally planned and has asked me to write to inform you of that and urge you to come to Clifton Manor. She is bearing up well under the worry that being ill inevitably casts upon her, but I believe she would be greatly improved by even a single word from you.

I remain,

Yours, etc.

Mr. George Benton

Carter let his hand and
the letter he held drop to his lap. He’d been back in Wiltshire on the second or third of November—only a few days after this letter was sent to London. Miranda hadn’t been at home when he’d arrived. The only thing the staff could tell him was that she’d left in a hired conveyance and had taken only a maid who had quit her post in the household to return to her home county.

Father had suggested that she might be at one of the other estates or perhaps in Devon with Mr. Benton. Suddenly, that bit of logic seemed a little too insightful, especially considering the fact that Father had, in this
MB
folder, letters saying precisely where Miranda had been the entire time.

“No.” Carter shook his head. “Father wouldn’t have done that.”

Certain he’d find another explanation, he turned back to the pile. The next letter was dated more than a month since the previous letter.

Dec 6, 1804

My Dearest Carter,

I am not sure why I haven’t heard from you yet. I know Grandfather has written to you, though not for a month or more. I can only assume you have not written or come because you either are not able to at this time or do not want to. I pray your reason is not the latter.

Since the letter Grandfather sent you in October, Mr. MacPherson has determined the reason for my continued illness. I am still unwell, I fear, but knowing the source of my illness has made it easier to endure.

It seems, my dear, that we are in May to become parents.

Carter stopped there.
Parents?
She’d been increasing? He looked around the room, almost as if he expected to see a baby somewhere. Except, given the passage of time since the letter was written, the child would now be more than two years old. Carter dropped his eyes again to the letter and began reading more anxiously.

Mr. MacPherson tells me it is not unusual for a woman in my condition to have difficulty containing a meal. For most, the ailment passes.

I do wish you would come to Clifton Manor, Carter. Mr. MacPherson does not think it wise for me to travel until my stomach has settled and I am showing signs of improvement. Should that not happen soon, I would find myself unable to travel because of my condition.

I so want you to be here, for myself and for the baby. Please come!

Your loving wife,

Miranda

Carter immediately jumped to the next letter but stopped before reading more than the date— February 16, 1805—and the salutation—My Dearest Carter. Two and a half months had passed since the last. He held his breath and continued reading.

February 16, 1805

My Dearest Carter,

I have waited these several months since coming to Clifton Manor for some word from you and watched hopefully to see you ride up to the house. I cannot pretend to not realize now that you do not wish to come. At risk of having my plea thrown back at me, I am asking you once more, my dearest, to come to Dorset.

I would not ask were I not desperate. And I am indeed desperate. More than that, I am afraid. I am still unwell, and I feel very weak. Mr. MacPherson speaks encouragingly, but he looks concerned.

Please, Carter! I am begging, quite literally begging, for you to come, even for only a few days. Come and hold me, if only for a moment, and tell me all will be well. A week is all that would be required. I am asking for a week. Not only for myself but for this child, your child.