They stopped at the top of the stairs. Miranda’s lungs protested the effort they’d made. The struggle for air had been more noticeable of late. That, she knew all too well, was not a good sign.
They slowly travelled the length of the corridor toward Miranda’s rooms.
“You’ve worn yourself to a thread,” Grandfather said.
“The house party is nearly over, Grandfather.”
“And then you are going to London.” They walked into her sitting room. “The pace will likely be more hectic there, not less. I do not like the sound of that cough, and you’re not eating as you usually do.”
He gave her a very pointed look. They both knew her appetite tended to desert her when her health was on the decline. And even the briefest of dizzy spells was reason for concern.
“Carter has promised to allow me to choose how I spend my days and how we spend our evenings,” Miranda said. “If I require a quiet evening, I am certain he will allow it.”
“I believe he will. But his mother will not.” Grandfather stopped her at the foot of her bed, took her hands in his, and squeezed her fingers as he looked her directly in the eye. “And until Carter is willing to put your needs first, even if that means defying his mother, she will have her way. And you, my girl, will pay the price.”
“Perhaps he will choose me this time.” Miranda wished she sounded more hopeful.
“This time?”
Miranda realized she’d said more than she’d intended.
“I have to at least try.” She hoped he saw that she was in earnest. “This is one of the only things I have wanted these last three years: hope. The hope that he still loves me. If I could only have that, then I could have courage enough to face everything.”
“What else have you wanted? Was there something I might have given you that I didn’t?” He looked so forlorn Miranda was tempted to answer untruthfully. But he deserved better than that after all he’d given her. “The only other thing I have wanted was more time.” She gently touched his wrinkled cheek.
“So have I, my girl. But time passes quickly, I am afraid.”
“Far too quickly,” she agreed, her eyes stinging once more. She had had twenty years with him, twenty wonderful, loving years. There would not, she knew, be many more.
Chapter Sixteen
MOTHER WAS IN HIGH DUDGEON. “With all that is occurring now, here and abroad, all that you do these next months, this coming year or so, will be crucial to your career,” she said, lecturing him from an armchair set near her bedchamber’s fireplace. “You cannot risk all of that.”
“I fail to see how bringing my wife to London with me will threaten my career.” The conversation was far too reminiscent of the one he’d had with Father three years earlier on the subject of Miranda and London.
The tension in Mother’s face mingled with concern. “You need a skilled hostess, Carter. You know that is important for any gentleman who wishes to make the right connections, impress the right people. Miranda has no experience.”
“She will learn.”
“And until she does? What then? We simply allow her to bungle her way through a few dinners and do what damage she can?”
“That is unfair.”
“It is the truth, Carter.” Mother skewered him with one of her looks. “You cannot deny that her presence in London will affect your work and social obligations, especially if she insists on retiring at nine in the evening. Nothing has even begun in London by nine o’clock.”
“She is clearly feeling poorly this evening, Mother. You can hardly fault her for seeking rest when she is ill.”
Mother shook her head. “This is not the first time during this house party she has missed an activity or an evening’s entertainment in order to seek her bed. If this is to be her pattern in London, she will impact your time there as well.”
“I expect she will. Her presence will make London all the more pleasant.”
“Are you being intentionally obtuse?” Mother demanded with obvious exasperation. “What of the dinners and routs you must give? And you know that you must. Even if she chooses to stay awake long enough to undertake them, she has no idea how to successfully host such an important evening or how to make the most of those she attends.”
“The duchess and Lady Percival will certainly help.” Seeing Mother’s mutinous expression, he added, “Or perhaps you can host them, and we will simply attend.”
“You cannot be a guest at your own political evening, Carter. There is no benefit in that.” She used the same tone she’d used when he was a child and showed a lack of judgment and understanding.
“Miranda is coming with me to London, Mother.” He wasn’t leaving her behind again. “You will simply have to accept that.”
“When are you leaving for Town?” It was a grudging acceptance.
“On Monday.”
“The others are leaving tomorrow,” Mother reminded him.
“Miranda has more to do before leaving than the other ladies. She will be closing up a house.”
“So already she is putting you behind schedule.” Mother emphasized the point as though it alone proved everything she’d been trying to say about Miranda holding him back.
“There will be plenty of time to reach London.” Carter’s patience was wearing thin. Mother ought to be happy for him. He was rebuilding his marriage, winning back his wife. He had silently longed for precisely that for three years.
“You do realize the importance of being present for the opening of Parliament, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.” He had been involved with the party long enough to understand what it took for a gentleman to advance his career. “I have never missed a single opening, even when I was there merely as an observer. No man with eyes on a cabinet position would.”
“The party leaders have long memories. And they can be unforgiving,” Mother warned.
“I know.” Carter patted her hand. She was far too worried about this. “Miranda and I will arrive in plenty of time.”
It must have been enough of a reassurance. Mother didn’t offer any further argument. He left before she could think of anything else.
Hannah was preparing to snuff the candles in Miranda’s room when he arrived. He’d been away longer than he’d intended, but Mother had had a lot to say.
“Lord Devereaux.” Hannah curtsied.
“Leave the candles, Hannah. I will snuff them before I go.”
“Yes, my lord.” Hannah offered another curtsy and disappeared through the door, closing it behind her as she left.
A rattling cough broke through the moment of quiet. Carter didn’t like the sound—it had worried him even before Miranda had excused herself for the evening. He hoped she hadn’t contracted an inflammation of the lungs.
He turned toward her bed. She lay there, elevated almost to a seated position by a pile of pillows. He crossed the room and sat on the edge of her bed, facing her. “Are you uncomfortable sitting up so much?” he asked.
“I don’t cough as much this way,” she answered sleepily. She turned her head in his direction but otherwise didn’t move.
“You turned white as a sheet earlier, my dear.” Carter smoothed back the hair above her forehead. “I thought for a moment you were going to faint.”
“So did I.” She seemed to smile a little.
“Fainting spells, weariness, and that cough.” Carter laid a hand on her cheek, checking for fever but finding none. “And you hardly touched your dinner.”
“My appetite seemed to retire for the night even before I did.”
Her attempt at humor was appreciated but didn’t dispel his worries. “You’re ill, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
Carter looked at her closely. She looked exhausted. Miranda was lying so still he wondered if she was too tired to so much as move. Her eyelids were noticeably heavy, like they’d been the night she’d sat beside him on the settee by his fire. Dark circles marred her undereyes. “Was our outing too
early this morning?” Carter asked, a little surprised that one predawn excursion would weary her so much or make her so quickly ill.
No. She had this cough before, only not as constant or deep.
As if her lungs could read his thoughts, another series of deep coughs shook her frame. He filled a glass on the bedside table with water from the wash pitcher.
She sipped a bit before sinking back against her pillows.
Miranda slipped her hand out from under the blankets, laying it on top of his on the bed beside her. “It was a wonderful morning, Carter.”
“Even though you’re ill tonight?”
She nodded her head slowly. Carter sat beside her for several quiet moments, holding her hand in one of his, stroking her hair with the other.
“Tell me about where you live now,” Miranda said quietly.
“What would you like to know?” She had always been an easy person to talk to before his pride had gotten in the way.
“Do you spend most of your time in London?”
“While Parliament is in session, I do. The rest of the year I spend in Leicestershire at the family seat.”
She coughed again. He rubbed her arm, feeling helpless to do anything for her. After a moment, her lungs settled and she lay back once more. Her posture, filled with exhaustion a moment before, spoke of bone-deep weakness.
“Do you ever go back to Wiltshire?” she asked.
Wiltshire. Where they’d once lived. “No, Miranda,” Carter answered truthfully. “I haven’t been back there in a very long time.” It was too painful, he added silently. He shifted his hand from her hair to her cheek. Miranda closed her eyes. She was far too pale.
“Do you miss it? The house and land?” She didn’t open her eyes as she spoke, and Carter recognized the slurring effect of approaching sleep. “It seemed very important to you then.”
“Honestly, Miranda, the only thing I have missed about the Wiltshire property is you.”
He wondered if she was asleep already. There was no immediate reply. He listened to her slow, slightly wheezy breaths.
He hated seeing her ill. Perhaps he should send for the local physician or apothecary. There had to be something that could ease her discomfort.
“Why didn’t you come for me?” Miranda’s whispered question came suddenly, taking him entirely by surprise.
Why hadn’t he come once he knew where she was? Perhaps because she didn’t want him to. Or perhaps he’d told himself that since she had left, she ought to be the one to return. Perhaps he’d been too hurt.
“I should have,” Carter admitted, his voice not much louder than hers. He ought to have gone to Devon himself the moment he’d heard she was there. He hadn’t been willing to risk the rejection. “I should have.”
She didn’t reply, didn’t move. He listened to her slightly deeper breathing for a moment longer and guessed she slept.
Feeling somehow safer knowing she was oblivious to his words, Carter found a measure of courage he’d been lacking for too long.
“I love you, Miranda,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss her cheek. She didn’t answer. Listening, Carter was certain she was asleep then.
Carter adjusted her blanket, tucking it tighter around her shoulders. He snuffed the candles at her bedside, then the one near the door, and walked away, smiling at the prospect of a Season in London with Miranda at his side.
* * *
Carter was grateful not to see Miranda at breakfast the next morning. He missed her company but felt certain she needed to rest. His room was very near hers, and he thought he heard her coughing in the night.
He saw Perce and his wife off late that morning.
Later, Adèle pulled him aside for a brief moment. “It seems you and Miranda have found some common ground once more,” she said.
Carter smiled, as much to himself as to her. “Yes. Things are looking much better these last few days. Not perfect, but better.”
“I am so pleased. I do like her a great deal. And you know perfectly well that I am fond of you as well. I would so dearly love to see the two of you reconciled.”
“I am working on it,” he assured her. “We haven’t yet reached a place where we can talk about everything that has happened between us, but we’re moving forward.”
“Good.” Adèle nodded firmly. “Just so long as you haven’t given up. There’ll be time for difficult conversations when you have learned to trust each other again.”
“That is exactly what I am counting on,” he said.
In a flurry of activity, the duke and duchess settled their young family into the elegant traveling carriage and disappeared down the lane.
Carter made his way to the sitting room to gather some papers he’d left there.
Miranda’s grandfather came in. He had aged in the past three years, but until that minute, Carter hadn’t realized how much. The gentleman looked frail.
“Devereaux.”
“Mr. Benton.”
“I’ll not wander around my purpose,” Mr. Benton said. “I need to discuss something with you, and though I am not relishing this conversation, there are a few things that simply need to be said.”
Here it comes, Carter thought. He’d wondered from the day he’d arrived at Clifton Manor just when Mr. Benton planned to ring a peal over his head for what he must have considered to be severe neglect on Carter’s part over the past three years. While Carter knew he ought to be absolved of some of the blame, he had come to accept that a great deal of the difficulty could be laid at his feet. He ought to have tried harder to find Miranda, to see her before three years stretched out between them. Even though she had indicated she did not wish to see him, he should have gone to Devon in person to find out why and try to change her mind.
Carter motioned that they should sit near the fire. Mr. Benton lowered himself into the armchair and waited for Carter to do the same.
“You are taking Miranda to London,” Mr. Benton said.
“I am. Do you disapprove?”
“No.” He hesitated. “But I do worry.”
“What is it that worries you?” Hadn’t he just had this conversation with his mother? He was certain, though, Mr. Benton’s worries were for Miranda, not about her.
Mr. Benton sat silently. Carter could see in his expression that a war of sorts was being waged in the gentleman’s mind, perhaps in his conscience. He waited, wondering.
“I will not be there to look after her, and I worry that she will not take proper care of herself,” Mr. Benton said awkwardly, giving the very real impression there was more he wasn’t saying.
“She will not be alone, sir. The staff will see to her every comfort. She can, of course, bring her maid. And I will be there.”
Mr. Benton didn’t look satisfied. “Even here, where the staff knows and cares for her, she often neglects herself.” His snowy white eyebrows pulled together. His mouth turned down. “These past two weeks, I fear she has worn herself to shreds.”
Carter thought of how Miranda had looked the night before: exhausted, pale. She had seemed to grow frailer since his arrival. Perhaps she was pushing herself too hard. But, Carter told himself, Miranda would not be the hostess of a house party in London.
“The pace outlined last evening for her trip to Town concerns me greatly,” Mr. Benton said.
“Most people find the pace of London a bit of a shock at first, but Miranda will have time to accustom herself to it.”
Mr. Benton shook his head. “She doesn’t need to adjust. She needs to . . . to be cared for. And . . . and she needs to have rest and quiet and . . .”
“I realize you are solicitous of your granddaughter’s well-being,” Carter replied, excusing Mr. Benton’s worries as a product of so many years spent as her sole caregiver. Mr. Benton had raised Miranda from the time her parents had died when she was still very young. “I share your desire to see her happy.”
“It is more than her happiness, Devereaux.”
“Her well-being, then,”
Carter amended. “I will never require her to exert herself beyond her strength.”
“But that is precisely what has been required of her during the course of this infernal house party.” Mr. Benton’s brows pulled downward, his mouth tightening into a tense line.
What had brought on this sudden attack? He hadn’t been taxing Miranda. The past week or more he’d been courting her. “I have asked very little of her in regards to the party. My mother has taken the entire thing in hand and—”
“She has demanded much of Miranda and offered her insults at every turn!” Mr. Benton’s eyes snapped. “And you have turned a blind eye and a deaf ear to it all.”
“So,” Carter replied, his cold civility marred by sarcasm, “not only do you feel I intend to ignore all of my wife’s needs, but I also apparently plan to give my mother leave to walk rough-shod over Miranda’s sensibilities? I truly appreciate the vote of confidence.”
His response failed to quail Mr. Benton. The tension in the other gentleman’s jaw visibly increased, and his eyes sharpened, narrowing on Carter. “And what, Devereaux, have you done in the last three years to earn my confidence?”
It was such a palpable hit that Mr. Benton would have been justified in gloating. In fact, Carter rather expected him to. Instead, the older gentleman seemed to crumple as if weighted down by his own thoughts.
“Miranda watched for you.” Mr. Benton sighed forlornly. “She attempted to hide it, but I saw her lingering at windows, staring down at the empty lane leading to the house. I had to endure the sight of her disappointment—at times to the point of tears—when the post inevitably contained not a word from you. Only after a full year did she stop looking hopeful when presented with the day’s post. After two years, she stopped gazing out of windows. So, no. You have not earned my vote of confidence.”
Carter doubted he could have been humbled more quickly than he was by those words. She had watched for him, expected him to arrive. More than ever, he wished he’d made that trip to Devon years earlier.
She had refused to write to him, even declared her desire not to see him, apparently needing him to bridge that gap. In the face of such unequivocal rejection, he had stopped writing. If it had been a test of his devotion, as unfair as such a thing was, Carter had failed completely.
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