by Stacy Reid
She hugged her friend tightly. “Thank you, Pippa, I needed to hear this.”
“I missed you,” Pippa said softly, returning her fierce embrace. “I miss our long walks and talks. Let’s promise nothing should ever come between us again.”
“I promise it,” Miranda said.
Almost an hour later she made her way home, a new purpose growing in unchecked leaps and bounds in her heart. From the age of twelve, she had been relentlessly groomed on how to become a wife, how to organize and run a household, and how to select charitable organizations to sponsor. Most attachments she’d observed throughout the seasons appeared cold and impersonal, with both ladies and their lords seeking other lovers to soothe the heartache of loneliness. She couldn’t endure such a union. The notion of marrying a gentleman for his monetary worth and title, without possessing an ounce of regard for the man no longer sat well with her.
Miranda hungered to find her own place within the world which did not solely follow her mamma’s guidance. She did want a prince of her own, a gentleman who would love her as she would love him, a gentleman with whom she could build a happy life and home. But for the first time since Miranda’s come out four years ago, she secretly pledged to only marry a man she loved and one who possessed similar sentiments.
The Marquess of Blythe was the next man her mother had deemed a perfect match for her daughter. Such was his consequences that he could pick any of the debutantes of the season and they would fall gratefully at his feet. It was generally thought his age of five and fifty could be overlooked for his vast fortune and immeasurable connection. Indeed, her mother expected her to overlook the matter, and completely ignore that she would want to marry for a more tender sentiment.
This time she was determined to be the one to choose the man she wished to walk with, to dance with at balls, and to admire. Don’t worry, Mamma, I will ensure he is a prince…or a duke! And that way she would not disappoint her family’s expectation of her, but she would also be true to her heart.
Chapter 2
Simon Percival Astor lifted the young child atop his head to her delight and started a riveting story of wicked witches, princesses, and princes as they strolled along the eastern sections of his estate. The young girl, Emma who had recently recovered from influenza, chortled and gripped tufts of his hair in her excitement.
“Oh, and what happened to the princess after she bit the apple from the wicked witch?” Emma demanded breathlessly.
Simon winced at another tug at his hair, but carried on, his four wolfhounds yipping with excitement at his heels. It had been a fight to save six year-old Emma’s life, and she had been in his home and under his care for almost three weeks. Her mother, his housekeeper, would be quite relieved at her daughter’s progress. They moved at a very brisk pace, for in the distance the breeze moved the clouds swollen with rain closer to him. The deluge would arrive any minute now, and he needed to get little Emma to shelter before it came. It would not do for her to be soaked only days after leaving the sickbed.
“Hurry, Dr. Astor,” the child yelled, as a fat drop of rain splattered on the ground. “The rain is coming!”
Holding firmly to her knees dangling over each of his shoulders, Simon broke into a light, careful run. The child screamed her glee, before breaking into fits of cough. He listened keenly to hear if that awful rattle lingered on her chest and was pleased it did not. They made it inside safely, and with the swift agility of a monkey she clambered down his back with his assistance.
Her mother, Mrs. Clayton, hurried down the hallway, her hands twisting in her apron. The child barreled toward her and was soon swept up into a hug.
“Doctor,” Mrs. Clayton said, “Jim was calling for you. There was a carriage accident by the river, and he fears people might have been hurt, Sir!”
“Are the carriages on the bridge? Or did they make it safely over?”
The housekeeper’s face creased with concern. “On it, Sir.”
Biting back a curse, he ran to his study, grabbed his medical bag and hurried from the manor. The housekeeper had smartly called for his horse, and the small carriage had been readied and waiting. He vaulted onto his horse and nodded to Jim, the coachman. "Follow at a good speed, my man, I will ride ahead." Then he surged away, uncaring the skies had opened, and rain pounded down furiously.
The bridge abutted his land only three miles to the east and was known to collapse when the rivers were swollen from a deluge. It took several minutes riding at top speed along the muddied lanes before Simon reached the crash site, and a cursory glance did not show any fatalities. He sent a swift prayer for small mercies as he dismounted and hurried over. The carriages seemed to have collided trying to pass each other on the narrow bridge. He had paid for significant repairs to be done on the bridge only a few months past, and the slats and ropes seemed to be holding steady. The waters below churned violently, it was an intimidating sight to behold.
Simon hurried to a carriage where three men were busy unloading traveling bags and roping them together. He assumed the coachman and his tiger, and perhaps a footman. Clearly, this first carriage belonged to a family of wealth.
“I’m a doctor,” he shouted to be heard over the pounding rain. “Where are the injured?”
The door opened, and inside the darkened carriage he made out the form of three ladies and a gentleman. They seemed more frightened than harmed. One of the ladies’ back was to him as she pressed a lace handkerchief to another woman's forehead who appeared to be unconscious. He hopped into the darkened interiors of the carriage, seeing that the oil from the carriage lantern had spilled.
“Who are you?” the man clipped in tight accents, glancing up from the prostrate woman.
“I’m the doctor.”
“I’m Viscount Sutton, and my mother needs immediate attention.”
Simon turned to the lady in the left corner who held her arm as if pained. He deduced from her dress she was a traveling companion, a maid within their household. "Are you hurt?" he asked gently, seeing the glaze of shock in her eyes.
She shook her head and pressed a hand to her trembling lips.
The young lady of quality bent over the prostrate lady glanced up, but he was unable to discern her features.
“I fear the occupants in the other carriages may be hurt. I heard screams a few seconds ago. I tasked my brother to investigate, but he seemed to be afraid of getting his fine waistcoat wet!”
Her voice was sweet and refined, and quite annoyed.
“Good God, Mira, it is squalling outside. Surely you did not really expect me to go out in that. I also asked the coachman and his tiger to look,” the viscount huffed.
She muttered something under her breath, then said with perfect clarity, “I believe Mamma has fainted. She was quite hysterical a few minutes past and then she collapsed on the cushions,” she said worriedly.
Simon leaned in to check the lady’s pulse. It was strong and steady. “There is no indication of serious distress,” he reassured the daughter, dipping into his medical bag. He wafted an aromatic vinaigrette below the lady’s nose, she twitched then groaned, but kept her eyes closed.
“My man is coming behind me with a carriage pulled by a team of four. He will escort you to my home a few miles from here. I’ll arrange for your valises to be taken there as well.”
“Thank you,” the young lady gasped. “We are most appreciative of your kindness, Sir.”
“And where is your home?” the brother asked with arrogant disdain. “I cannot imagine anything presentable or of reasonable quality in this godforsaken part of Hertfordshire. Are there no inns nearby?”
Simon ignored him, quickly dismounted, and headed over to the next carriage. He wrenched the door open and spied a wailing lady clutching a small boy in her arms. There was a deep gash on his head, and he bled profusely.
“My Tommy won’t wake,” she said, crying copiously.
Simon entered the carriage and took the boy from her. He appeared around e
ight years of age. Simon arranged him on the seat of the carriage and pressed a clean strip of linen soaked in crushed-berry vinegar to the wound. “There now, let me attend him. I’m a doctor.”
The lady visibly wilted with relief. The boy’s pulse was a bit weak and more erratic. Simon scrutinized the boy’s head, seeking more cuts and bumps and did not find any. He dipped into his bag, retrieved more bandages, and quickly wrapped them around the open gash. “My home is a few miles away. If you will allow me to escort you there.”
“Are they well?” a voice cried from behind him.
He twisted around to see the young lady from the next carriage standing in the rain. Her bonnet hung limply on her forehead hiding most of her features, and the narrow-waisted dress clung alluringly to her slim, elegant figure.
She pushed her head inside the carriage. “Is there anything I can do to assist, Sir?”
The offer surprised him so much he stared for a few seconds. "Mrs.….” He turned to the still weeping woman.
“Mrs. Denniston,” she hiccupped.
Simon nodded. “Mrs. Denniston could use some comfort. Her son has taken quite a knock on the head and must be attended to right away.”
The clatter of his carriage sounded, and the young lady glanced around. “I believe your carriage is here, Sir!”
And so it was. The young lady stepped back, and he stepped out of the carriage. He beckoned one of the footmen over, who jumped into the carriage, lifted the boy and placed him in Simon’s arm. The young lady, Mira if he recalled the name her brother used correctly, hurried over and assisted Mrs. Denniston down. A loud gasp sounded from the young lady, and he shifted his regard to them and immediately saw the cause for that breathy sound.
Mrs. Denniston’s bosoms were fairly spilling out of her red dress, and upon closer inspection, he supposed she would not be the kind of woman with whom a young lady would consort. A memory teased, and he seemed to recall a rumor that Esquire Johnson had retained the widowed Mrs. Denniston as his mistress.
A swell of admiration rose for the young lady, as she gently took Mrs. Denniston’s hand and led her off the bridge to the waiting carriage. Upon his approach he heard Mira gently assuring her that Tommy would be well, assurances Simon himself never gave. A head wound might very well be perilous, though he would do everything in his power to ensure the boy mend.
Mrs. Denniston was made comfortable in the carriage, and he laid the boy on the cushions and placed his head gently in her lap. Then he dipped into his bag and waved smelling salts under his nose. The boy jerked, and that was a good enough sign for Simon.
The viscount hurried over with their mother clasped against his side, and from the look of it, she had come around. They entered the carriage, and she shuffled over to the corner, her wide violet eyes pinned on Mrs. Denniston’s revealing attire.
The rain had blessedly lessened, and Simon hurriedly closed the door on the occupants—Mira, her mother and brother, Mrs. Denniston and her son Tommy.
“Take them to the manor,” he said. “Send more men to attend with unhitching the horses and lead them to the stables. The village blacksmith will also need to attend to the carriages.”
Everyone hurried to do his bidding, and Simon made his way over to his horse and followed.
A large-boned and quite handsome woman ushered Miranda, her brother, and Mamma inside a large and brightly lit manor house. When the carriage had drawn up in the circular driveway, the doctor had assisted Mrs. Denniston and her son toward a side entrance and disappeared with them. This lady had been awaiting them and had urged them inside before the rains returned. Inside was warm, inviting, and the scent of lemon, beeswax, and roasting meat was redolent on the air. Miranda’s stomach made an embarrassing rumble, reminding her they had not eaten since breaking their fast early that morning before departing the inn.
“I’m Mrs. Clayton, and I am the housekeeper here at Riversend Manor. I’ll soon show you to your rooms and supper will be ready by seven. There are blankets in the parlor with tea and cakes, if you’ll follow me,” she said with a kind smile.
“Who is the lord of this manor?” Miranda’s mother imperiously demanded of the hovering housekeeper. “I expect the best rooms to be prepared right away." Her lips were pinched in pain and when she tried to move the countess cried out in pain.
“Mother, what is it?” Henry asked, his brows furrowed with concern.
Mamma had insisted he accompanied them to Lady Peregrine’s house party, putting a halt to the amusements he had planned for himself in town. Her brother had not been a happy follower, but invariably he always obeyed Mamma’s commands.
"My right ankle pains me horribly," she replied, her eyes watering.
“I’ll summon Dr. Astor right away, milady," Mrs. Clayton replied and scuttled from the room.
Miranda swiped the wet ringlets from her face and glanced around. It was an impressive manor and elegantly appointed. The hallway was lined with richly carved oak paneling, and the décor one of luxurious elegance. How fortunate a physician had been on call here and could have attended them so readily. She dearly hoped that the little boy would be well.
The sound of booted feet echoed in the distance and the man who had been out in the ghastly weather barking commands appeared. In the dark by the bridge, it had been very hard to ascertain his features. Now under the warm glow of candles and lamps, he looked a bit wild and unkempt but so astonishingly virile he stole her breath.
His Hessian boots were muddied, his black hair plastered to his forehead, his white shirt clung to the wall of his chest, and with each movement, the muscles rippled and twisted. The man was shockingly without a jacket or a waistcoat, and his cravat was unknotted. His gaze narrowed in on Miranda. His eyes were the darkest blue of midnight—and she fancied she could drown in their unfathomable depths. A sweet, mystifying ache trembled low in her belly, and it appalled her for she’d never had such a reaction to any gentleman before in all her years. It shocked her that he did not give her more than a cursory glance. No doubt she looked like a drowned rat.
Those eyes returned to her. “Are you hurt, miss?”
Before she could reply, her mother bit out, “It is Lady Miranda to you, Sir, and I am Countess Langford.”
Brief irritation furrowed his brow, but then he bowed with charming elegance and clipped, “Are you hurt, Lady Miranda?”
“Are you a physician?” her mother demanded.
“I am, my lady. I am Dr. Simon Astor.”
Her belly flipped when his regard returned to her. "I ask again, are you hurt?”
She assessed him with a critical eye. “I am not, Sir, but Mamma has been piteously complaining of a pain in her ankle.”
He moved then with sharp competency despite her mother’s bluster.
“May I have permission to lift you in my arms, my lady?”
Her mother gasped, flushed, and glared at him. Miranda bit back her smile.
“If you wish, I could summon two footmen to assist you. Or perhaps your son might do the honors.”
Her mother nodded, and he swept her into his arms with impressive strength. With quick strides, he made his way down the hallway, and Miranda hurried after them with Henry following. A maid opened a large oak-paneled door, and they entered a small but tastefully furnished parlor. He lowered her mother to the chaise longue with care, then glanced at the hovering maid.
“A basin of warm water, towels, and strips of linens. Also the rubbing liniment.”
The maid hurried away to do his bidding. A clap of thunder startled Miranda, and she rushed to her mother's side. The doctor tried to remove her mother's boot to her great distress. Her pain was genuine, and she clasped her mother's hand and muttered soothing nonsense.
“We will have to cut this boot off,” he said. “The ankle is too swollen and will cause you considerable pain if I should attempt to tug it off.”
Her mother’s eyes glistened with tears, and her lips were pinched. “Very well,” she said with a s
niff. “Please do hurry about it, I am dreadfully uncomfortable and put out!”
A decidedly imperious brow rose from the doctor, but he made no reply and went to work, and soon after the swollen ankle was freed. The stockings were removed, and Miranda gasped to see the awful mottled purple which surrounded her mother’s ankle down to her toes.
“Good heaven, mother!” Henry exclaimed, bending for a closer inspection.
“What is wrong?” Miranda asked anxiously.
Dr. Astor sent her a reassuring smile while tenderly probing her mother’s ankle. “It seems there is a bad sprain.”
"I believe it happened when I was flung from the seat of the carriage, and I struggled to find purchase. I placed most of my weight on this right leg, and there was horrible pain," her mother said fretfully.
“I will soak it in a bit of warm water and, my lady, you will have to be off this foot for at least a week."
“A week! Dr. Astor,” her mother began, appearing considerably stricken. Henry looked as if he had been given a reprieve from the hangman’s noose, and Miranda wanted to do a happy twirl.
“That just will not do. My daughter and I have a house party to attend, and it starts tomorrow. We must be there! Please summon the master of this residence."
“At your service, madam.”
Her mother stared at him in apparent shock. It was unexpected for a physician to have such evident wealth and property. It was unusual, and Miranda stared at him with abashed inquisitiveness.
“Well,” the countess said, “I would like for you to have your best carriage ready so we may depart early tomorrow.”
Dr. Astor stood. "You are a great deal too injured to move. There might be a small fracture, and once the swelling reduces, I shall bind your ankle with linens. I daresay it may be a full two weeks before I would recommend any walking and another three for dancing."
