Glimmer of Hope (9 page)

“What is it, Miranda?” Carter looked at her, confused, perhaps even a little concerned.

A wavering smile worked its way across Miranda’s face. He’d kept a promise. He’d shown her a kindness. This was her Carter! “Thank you,” Miranda whispered. She raised up on her toes and kissed his cheek. Then, realizing what she’d done, she spun around and hurried away as quickly as she could manage.

* * *

She’d kissed him.

Carter couldn’t move from the spot, only stared blankly ahead. He’d dismissed her years ago as a heartless wench. He’d convinced himself he didn’t care for her, that he was better off without her in his life.

Then Miranda had kissed him, and he wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

Numb, he sank down onto the stair. He propped his elbows on his knees and rubbed his face with his hands.

He could think of a hundred times Miranda had kissed him precisely that way. During their engagement, a kiss on the cheek was her usual greeting and farewell. He’d looked forward to those moments every bit as much as the handful of stolen kisses he’d managed in those weeks of waiting for the wedding. Perhaps more. Those brief salutes fit Miranda perfectly: affectionate, shy, and unvarying. She’d continued to greet him that way after they were married.

Carter felt a smile fight free as a memory, long forgotten, surfaced.

They’d been married three months or so, and he’d been away visiting a small farm near their home—a difficult visit, he remembered. The farmer, a man of very limited means, had lost a son, and the family was struggling. He had spent the better part of an hour trying to help the man work out a solution to all of their difficulties, though there was little Carter could do. He’d returned to the house feeling worn and weary and helpless.

“Hello, my love,” Carter said to Miranda when he’d reached the sitting room, though he was certain the greeting sounded halfhearted.

But Miranda smiled and, as always, crossed the room to welcome him home with a kiss on the cheek. He needed that, needed her dependability and unwavering faith in him. Carter, needing another welcome, turned on his heel and walked back out of the room.

“Carter?” Miranda’s confused voice followed him.

Then he turned back around and walked through the door again. “Hello, my love,” he said once more, holding out his arms and presenting his cheek for a second salute.

Miranda laughed, raised again on her toes, kissed his cheek, and then wrapped her arms around him and leaned her head against his chest. They stood there for he wasn’t sure how long, giving and receiving comfort. As he held her, Carter congratulated himself on his excellent wife.

Three months later, she left him.

And now, he was in Dorset, sitting on the stairs at Clifton Manor, entirely confused. She had kissed him again just the way she always had. He’d spent much of the last three years convincing himself that she had changed. But that kiss had been the same.

He’d tried very hard during the past week to see the Miranda he’d long ago created in his mind: selfish, haughty, unfeeling. He’d looked for a woman who could callously leave her husband, a woman as different as possible from the lady he’d married.

Carter stood at the foot of the steps, pondering. If she wasn’t entirely the monster he’d created in his mind, then why had she left? The Miranda he’d known, the one he loved, would never have left him without a reason.
She would not have left without reason.

Carter marched to his book room and closed the door firmly behind him. He needed time to think.

What could possibly have driven her away? He thought they’d had a good marriage. He thought he’d been a good husband. Was she so unhappy with him that she would leave without a word, without ever writing to him?

Carter paced around the room.

Had he done something? Not done something? Miranda had never been unreasonable. Whatever had occurred had to have been significant. So why couldn’t he think of a single reason for her flight?

He dropped into the chair behind the mahogany desk.

Talk to her
, a voice in his head insisted. How often had he told one or another of his friends that very thing when they were at odds with their wives?

“It’s a simple conversation,” he had told his frustrated friends. “This would be so easy to mend,” he’d insisted. “The entire ordeal would be put behind you with a simple half-minute’s conversation.”

What an insufferable idiot I must have seemed to them.
There was nothing remotely easy or quick about having that kind of conversation. He would, for all intents and purposes, be approaching Miranda with a target on his chest, showing her without question precisely where to plunge her dagger and hurt him most. Conversations that would leave a person vulnerable when he was already hurting, carrying unhealed and raw wounds, were anything but easy or simple. Anyone who insisted otherwise had never known true heartache.

He knew in his mind that forcing the topic with Miranda would answer at least some of his questions, but his heart was too scared to take that risk yet. He might discover things he would rather not know. He might simply push her further away.

No. He would have to find at least some of his answers on his own.

Father had always kept all of his correspondence with the stewards of his various estates. Clifton Manor was too small for a steward, but Father would have received estate reports from someone. If Carter could find those reports, he might be able to piece together what had happened. Perhaps they would mention when Miranda had arrived at Clifton Manor, how often she’d come, and if she’d stayed for very long. Maybe knowing that piece of the puzzle would help him solve the rest of it.

He pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment and began to write a letter.

“And so I think it
is time you tried your hand at organizing an evening.” The Dowager Lady Devereaux summed up her long, drawn-out speech as Miranda listened in stunned silence alone in the sitting room. “You are meant to be hostess here, so perhaps a little practice would not be amiss.”

Miranda stood for a moment, digesting what she’d heard. “Th-thank you.” She stumbled a little over the words. “I . . . I would be honored to be given the opportunity.”

“Very well.” Her mother-in-law did not seem terribly thrilled with the prospect. “Tomorrow evening, I think.”

Miranda nodded her agreement.

“Well, best begin your preparations,” the dowager suggested.

Grateful for the excuse, Miranda curtsied and left the room. There really was little needed as far as preparations. She would simply ask Cook to revert to the original menu for that evening—the one she had created before Carter’s mother had arrived and changed it. The meal would be simpler than any served thus far but, in Miranda’s opinion, would be far more appropriate for what was essentially a family meal.

They had only four guests. And Miranda had noticed Carter regarded his grace and Lord Percival almost as brothers. Except for the elaborate meals the dowager set out each evening, the house party had proven a relatively informal affair.

Yes, she decided. A simpler repast would be more appropriate. And probably appreciated. One could only indulge in such rich cuisine so often before wishing for at least one day’s reprieve.

Miranda retrieved her heavy woolen cloak. She was late for her daily walk. The timing wasn’t particularly crucial in the ordinary course of things, but with Carter’s mother insisting she be present for most everything that occurred at Clifton Manor and the necessity of receiving from that same lady word of each and every shortcoming she found in the household at whatever time of day she might encounter it, Miranda’s schedule was far too often disrupted beyond repair.

She’d missed her walk yesterday. She’d not been able to have her usual nap since the day the dowager had arrived. Miranda had debated which she ought to choose for that afternoon, knowing she’d find time for only one.

In the end, she came to the indisputable conclusion that if she remained in the house, something would pull her away from her room. So she’d chosen to walk. She couldn’t help thinking she needed the rest more—she had barely managed to keep her eyes open during the previous evening’s entertainment, which her ladyship had mentioned first thing that morning.

Miranda was grateful she’d opted for her heavy half-boots once she’d stepped out of doors. Though the rain had let up and the ground was relatively dry, the air had turned significantly colder. Perhaps a short walk would be best.

Not fifty feet from the house, Miranda heard her name. Her face flamed despite the biting cold. She recognized Carter’s voice. She’d had only a handful of encounters with him since her ill-conceived kiss on the stairs the morning before. Heaven only knew what he’d thought of that.

“Miranda.” His voice reached her again, this time from very nearby.

She turned to face him, hoping she didn’t look too unnerved. He was bundled against the cold: a heavy coat, thick gloves, and a deep-blue scarf wrapped around his neck. A second coat hung over one arm. She wondered if her own cheeks were as cold nipped as his appeared.

“Hello, Carter,” Miranda said, trying to sound at ease.

“Come back to the house, Miranda.” Carter sounded concerned. “It is far too cold out.”

“A walk will warm me up,” Miranda insisted. She’d walked every day of the past two winters.

“But what if you take ill?”

That did give her pause. She hadn’t the fortitude she once did. Even minor illnesses were worrisome. But, she reminded herself, a very competent doctor had told her to take her daily exercise. “I will not be out for long.”

Carter took the coat hanging over his arm and pulled it around her. One of his, she was certain, for it fit her too large and smelled like him. “Slip your arms through,” he gently instructed.

Miranda obeyed mechanically, allowing her arms to be lost in the too-long sleeves of his coat. He was being so solicitous. Up until then, he’d spent most of the visit distant and cold. Except, she admitted to herself, in the nursery.

Carter buttoned the coat without a word then looked up into her face. “You’re cold already,” he said.

Cold? She wasn’t feeling the slightest bit cold. Miranda shook her head.

“You’re determined, then, to walk despite the chill?”

“It is one of my new hobbies, Carter.”

“Yes, I remember you told me that.” He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his coat, no doubt to protect them against the chill in the air. “I had no idea how dedicated a walker you are.”

They stood there, awkwardly quiet. Miranda dropped her eyes, too flustered to maintain that contact. She felt Carter step closer, and her heart seemed to flutter at his proximity. Miranda watched him out of the corner of her eye.

Carter reached out and tenderly turned up the collar of the coat he’d bundled her in. He unwound the thick scarf around his neck and wrapped it, instead, around hers.

“Carter.” Miranda laid her hand on the scarf in an attempt to protest.

“You need a scarf,” he insisted.

“Thank you,” Miranda whispered, too overwhelmed by the sudden reemergence of the gentle side of Carter she had once cherished to say anything more.

“Now,” Carter’s voice was cheerful, “where are we headed?”

“We?” The word came as a shock.

“I am an accomplished walker myself, Miranda.”

“You don’t mind the cold?” If he meant to change his mind and walk away, she’d rather he do it sooner than later. And she would much rather give him an impersonal reason to abandon her.

“A walk will warm me up,” he said.

“I was only planning to walk down to the coast and back.” Miranda couldn’t fathom why he wanted to accompany her.

“The coast it is.”

“Do you really want to walk with me?” The question she asked in her thoughts was slightly different.
Do you really want to be here with me?

He laid his hands high on her arms and looked her in the eye. “I really do,” he said with every evidence of sincerity.

If only she could be certain that was the way he’d answer the question she
hadn’t
asked. Pain and pride and fear kept so many of her questions silent and unspoken. Carter had been kind and compassionate in the nursery the morning before. For those brief moments, she could have almost believed she had Carter back the way he’d once been. Those glimpses gave her some hope.

“We used to walk down to the beach, remember?” Carter said, still not releasing her arms. “In Devon while we were engaged.”

She remembered well. He’d held her hand as they’d walked, and James, the groom assigned to chaperone them, would smile and pretend he didn’t see their linked hands. Those walks were among her happiest memories. “I remember,” Miranda quietly answered.

“Then let me walk with you. For old time’s sake.”

“It’s not the same anymore, Carter.” Miranda’s heart wrenched at that small reminder of all that had happened in the past three years. It truly wasn’t the same. Too much pain separated them now.

“I know.” Carter dropped his hands to where hers were hidden beneath the sleeves of the coat she wore.

Her heart fell. The angry tension that had punctuated their earliest encounters that week had eased. But beneath the more friendly overtones was the lingering chasm of years’ worth of broken promises.

He took her hands through the thick fabric. “We were always able to talk during our walks.”

There was truth in that statement. They’d talked about so many things during those walks: planned their future, talked about the family they’d have one day, shared their past and their dreams. She’d wanted that back for so long, since
before
she’d left Wiltshire.

“Can’t we at least try?” Carter asked.

The conversation had taken a somber tone. She wasn’t ready to broach difficult topics with him yet. “I suppose if we don’t start, we’ll freeze to the spot.” Miranda tried for a teasing tone.

“Very likely.” Carter’s lighthearted expression seemed a little forced as well.