Glimmer of Hope

by Sarah M. Eden

  “You have broken her, young man. You have broken her.” The pain in Mr. Benton’s face and voice was almost unbearable.

  The weight of three desolate years settled firmly on Carter’s shoulders. But with it came unshakable determination. He would not fail her again.

  “Mr. Benton,” he said into the anguished silence, “I cannot begin to tell you how completely I regret these past three years, how greatly I wish I could wipe away the pain Miranda and I have endured. For, I assure you, I did not escape this separation unscathed.”

  Mr. Benton nodded ever so slightly, a gesture of minimal acknowledgment. Carter bit back his frustration—why couldn’t Mr. Benton so much as acknowledge that Miranda’s desertion and subsequent coldness had hurt him?

  “I am attempting to pick up the pieces of both of our lives, sir,” Carter continued, reminding himself of Mr. Benton’s concern for his granddaughter. Love for Miranda was the one thing they would always have in common. “By taking Miranda to London, I am hoping to earn back her affection and her trust so I can finally fix what broke between us three years ago.”

  “Her affection will be easily obtained.” A ghost of a smile flitted across Mr. Benton’s face. “She is already making sheep’s eyes at you.”

  Carter felt an answering smile on his own face. “I am infinitely grateful to hear that, Mr. Benton.”

  “Her trust will come eventually, provided you live up to it.”

  Carter felt confident in that. “I will, I promise you.”

  “It is her well-being I am not sure you can secure,” Mr. Benton said.

  “What do I need to do to convince you?” Carter knew he could never fully mend the rift between himself and Miranda if Mr. Benton couldn’t entrust her to Carter’s care. “You have mentioned setting a slower pace in Town. What else?”

  Mr. Benton eyed him closely as if trying to determine Carter’s sincerity.

  “Miranda needs you to stand up for her, to put her first.”

  “I intend to.” Carter emphasized each word, hoping to convince Mr. Benton.

  “She has been denied the things she needs during this house party. Mostly by your mother.”

  Carter rose to his feet, pacing to the mantel. Mother had been hard on Miranda. Though he wanted to believe it was all in the name of helping her be a success as a hostess, he couldn’t entirely believe that.

  “Miranda has been prevented from taking her walks,” Mr. Benton said. “She has not been allowed to have her nap, which she was used to doing every afternoon.” He let out a frustrated sigh. “And the Dowager Lady Devereaux has threatened the staff if they brew her the lily-of-the-valley tea she ought to be drinking twice a day. She decreed shortly after arriving that hawthorn berries were not to be served any longer.”

  Miranda had told him when he first arrived that she liked hawthorn berries. He couldn’t understand why Mother had objected so vehemently. Hawthorn berries and lily-of-the-valley tea were, perhaps, an odd thing to serve regularly, but if Miranda liked them, she shouldn’t be denied such simple things.

  “She will be permitted to eat anything she chooses in London,” Carter said.

  “Unless your mother determines otherwise.”

  There was no good response to that. Carter would like to think Mother was not so heavy-handed. But the conversation he’d had with her the night before left him in doubt.

  “You have to promise me, Carter.” Hearing Mr. Benton call him by his given name for the first time since shortly after he and Miranda were married immediately grabbed Carter’s attention. “I am not asking you to indulge an old man. I am not trying to pry or interfere. I am trying to give my girl the only thing she has ever asked me for.”

  Carter watched as concern and desperation replaced the anger he’d seen in Mr. Benton’s face moments before. “What is it she has asked you for?”

  “Time,” Mr. Benton said, staring out the window. “She asked for time. There is so little I can do to give it to her.”

  Mr. Benton’s tone was so desolate, so desperate Carter found himself growing more concerned by the moment. What did he mean by “time”? Time for what?

  Mr. Benton didn’t speak for a long moment. Carter listened to him breathe deeply, heard him swallow with difficulty.

  Then he whispered three horrifying words. “Miranda is dying.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  A FIST IN THE GUT could not have rendered him any more shocked. Carter knew his jaw had dropped, that he stared in disbelief. Mr. Benton had to have been exaggerating, or perhaps Carter had misunderstood him.

  “We have sought the opinions of several doctors over the past three years,” Mr. Benton continued, mercilessly unaware of the brick in Carter’s stomach. “Two surgeons and three physicians, one of whom is reputed to be something of an expert in this field. They all agree on the diagnosis.”

  “That she is dying?” Carter meant to speak with determination and strength. He’d barely managed a strangled whisper.

  “That her heart is failing.” Mr. Benton pinched the bridge of his nose with two shaking fingers.

  “Good heavens,” Carter muttered, sinking into a chair. This could not be happening.

  “The general consensus is that Miranda’s heart was damaged by the fever she barely survived as a child—the one that killed her parents.”

  Carter listened in complete shock, his body suddenly too heavy for him to do anything more than shake his head. “I didn’t—I didn’t realize—”

  “She needs rest, Carter.” Mr. Benton looked like he needed rest as well. “She hasn’t the stamina she used to, nor that of other ladies her age.”

  That explained his insistence that Miranda have her daily nap.

  “And her walk?” Carter’s brain struggled to form the words, to make sense of what he was hearing, to do anything but inwardly deny everything Mr. Benton was saying.

  “To keep her heart strong,” Mr. Benton explained. “MacPherson, the surgeon near here, feels that since the heart is a muscle, it ought to be treated as such and kept fit by regular use.”

  “This MacPherson, he knows what he’s about?” Carter leaned forward, balancing his head in his hands, elbows on his knees, his own heart thudding painfully in his chest.

  “An excellent surgeon,” Mr. Benton confirmed. “He has saved her life on more than one occasion. Literally saved her life.”

  “And you are certain of this?” Carter grasped for any hope he could find. “There couldn’t be a mistake? The diagnosis overly pessimistic perhaps?”

  Mr. Benton shook his head. “I hoped for that myself at first, even after the others agreed with MacPherson’s suspicion.”

  “But you are now convinced?” Carter waited. His mind had seized on the possibility that the situation was not as bleak as it appeared.

  “I have seen her at death’s door, Carter,” Mr. Benton answered heavily. “Watched as she collapsed in pain, struggling for every breath, her face turning an unnatural shade of gray as if she were already dead at my feet. That, alone, would have convinced me. The repeated confirmation of the diagnosis only solidified my acceptance.”

  “Acceptance?” Carter jerked his head off his hands. “I am not, personally, ready to accept any of this.” Carter paced, running his hand tensely through his hair. “She seems healthy.”

  “Then you have been blind,” Mr. Benton said. “Look more closely next time you see her. Think back on what you have seen since arriving. The pieces will begin to fit.”

  What had he seen of Miranda’s health since arriving? Growing fatigue. Pallor. Decreased appetite. A persistent cough. Miranda had nearly fainted the night before. He’d wondered if she had contracted an illness, but he’d never imagined something truly serious, something life-threatening.

  Muffled voices sounded in the corridor. Carter paced to the window, staring out over the grounds. The door opened, but he didn’t look back because he didn’t trust himself not to give away his tumultuous emotions.

  Dying? It wasn
’t possible! There must have been some kind of mistake. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t accept it.

  “You are late, my girl.” Mr. Benton only ever called Miranda “my girl.”

  Carter spun around rather abruptly. Mr. Benton was on his feet already, looking calmer than he had any right to be. But watching him, Carter realized he was putting on an act for Miranda’s benefit—attempting to appear more at ease and relaxed than he really was. “I was beginning to worry.”

  “I am sorry, Grandfather.” Miranda kissed Mr. Benton on the cheek. “I am afraid I walked rather farther than was wise. I had to stop and rest before walking back.”

  Alarm crossed Mr. Benton’s face, and Carter knew his countenance must have undergone the same transformation. She’d pushed herself too hard. Was she in danger? He crossed immediately to where she stood.

  “Good heavens, girl.” Mr. Benton voiced their mutual alarm even as Carter reached Miranda’s side. “Do you need to sit?”

  She smiled up at Carter, and when he put an arm around her, she didn’t pull away. In fact, she leaned into him.

  “I took my rest at the Miltons’,” Miranda told her grandfather. “I sat in their kitchen for a full half hour. Mrs. Milton all but drowned me in hot tea and attempted to force an entire loaf of bread down me.”

  “Do you feel well now?” Mr. Benton pressed.

  “I am a little worn,” she admitted and looked chagrined. “Perhaps more than merely a little.”

  Carter tightened his hold on her.

  “But nothing beyond,” she said. “The rest did me a world of good.”

  Mr. Benton didn’t relent. “No pains or palpitations?”

  Carter held his breath.

  Miranda shook her head.

  “Your breathing?” Mr. Benton asked. “Is it labored?”

  “It was perhaps a little difficult earlier. And the coughing worried Mrs. Milton; she wouldn’t let me even stand up until it passed.”

  “Do you need to lie down?” Carter asked in sudden alarm, ready to carry her bodily to the sofa if she looked at all unequal to crossing the few feet on her own.

  “You two are as fussy as a couple of old spinsters.” Miranda shook her head at them. “I have done nothing but sit these past thirty minutes. Mr. Milton even saddled their old nag and required that I sit on it as he led the horse back here. I am perfectly content to remain standing.”

  Carter reached out and touched her face. She was so pale. And though he’d noticed it from the moment he’d first seen her, the observation meant more now. His heart squeezed painfully at the thought. “Can I get you anything?” he asked, stroking her cheek with his thumb.

  Miranda shook her head.

  Uncaring that Mr. Benton observed them, Carter bent and kissed her gently. The anguish he felt ripped at his heart. He wanted to stand there holding her indefinitely. He was attempting to cling to the hope that Mr. Benton was wrong, that there was nothing the matter with Miranda. But as the older gentleman had predicted, the evidence was right in front of him.

  Miranda reached up and touched his cheek. “I had forgotten how well you do that, Carter.” She sighed before letting her hand drop to rest against his chest, and she leaned against him.

  Carter stroked her hair and held her to him, resting his head on hers. Miranda seemed to disappear in his embrace. She was too thin, he added to his growing list of warning signs he’d noticed before but had foolishly dismissed.

  Carter felt and heard her yawn. “You should rest, my dear.” He held her a fraction tighter for a brief moment. “Lie down for an hour or two.”

  “I am supposed to meet with your mother in a few minutes,” she said, still enclosed in his arms, still leaning against his chest. “She says we need to begin planning our itinerary for London.”

  The infernal trip to London! Mother would run her ragged in a matter of days. The bustling metropolis was no place for a woman with a delicate constitution. No wonder Mr. Benton was worried. Carter was days from dragging her into the one place she was guaranteed not to rest or keep to a proper schedule.

  “London can be addressed later,” he insisted, needing to think through their trip himself. “You go have a nap.”

  “Truly?” Miranda looked up at him then. “Your mother will not object?”

  The plaintive look in her eyes only added to Carter’s growing feeling of guilt. Mother would most certainly object. And until his interview with Mr. Benton, Carter would most likely have done little to stop the lecture that would have followed. No wonder Mr. Benton didn’t trust him to care for his granddaughter. Carter had begun to question his own ability.

  “Don’t worry about Mother.” Carter pulled one of Miranda’s hands to his mouth and tenderly kissed her fingers, hoping he wasn’t holding them too tightly. “Just go rest before dinner.”

  “I could use the rest.” Miranda’s cheeks pinked at the admission. “I know that is rather pathetic.”

  Carter shook his head. “Not at all.” He tried to appear lighthearted for her sake. “In fact, I will escort you up.”

  “And fight off any dragons I might stumble upon?” Miranda asked with a little laugh. “I have always wanted my very own brave knight.”

  Carter knew she’d meant it in jest, but it tore at his conscience. Where had he been, her brave knight, while she’d faced all of this? In London, nursing his pride. It seemed a ridiculously feeble excuse in light of all he had learned.

  Miranda wasn’t leaning on him too heavily, Carter noticed with some relief. That had to be a sign that she was not too unwell, he told himself. But he kept his arm around her waist just the same.

  They walked past Mr. Benton, and Carter was certain he saw the older gentleman mouth a sincere “thank you.” Carter nodded and continued out the door with Miranda beside him.

  At the foot of the stairs, Carter felt Miranda stiffen and hesitate. One look at her face told him she felt a little daunted. At climbing the stairs? He looked more closely, a gesture she seemed to notice.

  Embarrassment pinked her cheeks. “I am still a little tired from my overlong walk.” She looked very much as though she’d confessed to some grave misdeed. “I am bracing myself to climb the stairs.”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Carter swept her from the floor and began climbing the stairs, carrying her in his arms. She couldn’t have weighed much more than one hundred pounds—far too light and far too frail. How had he not noticed it and been appropriately concerned from the moment he’d first laid eyes on her? he wondered once again. The signs were obvious now.

  “I didn’t mean for you to—”

  “I know.” He pulled her a little closer. “Now, put your arm about my neck; you will be more comfortable that way.”

  She obeyed, and he heard a happy giggle. Confused, Carter looked down at her as he carried her across the threshold of her sitting room.

  “That is much more comfortable.” Miranda smiled brightly at him.

  For the first time since Mr. Benton’s heart-wrenching declaration, Carter felt the weight on his heart lighten by the smallest of degrees. “It is rather convenient when practicality joins forces with enjoyment.” Carter bent slightly to kiss her upturned nose, so close to his face.

  He shifted and set her on her feet once more but didn’t release her. He linked his hands behind her waist. “Is there anything I can do for you, Miranda?” he asked, feeling suddenly overwhelmingly protective. “Anything at all that you need?”

  “Anything at all?” Mischief lit her eyes. Miranda used to look at him that way fairly regularly. He’d reveled in it, enjoyed teasing her just to see her regard him the way she did just then. “In that case, perhaps an overly gaudy diamond necklace. A new wardrobe made entirely of imported silks. A summer home in every fashionable town in the kingdom, perhaps a few outside the kingdom as well.” She counted the completely fabricated requests on her fingers, continuing to regard him teasingly.

  “Is that all?” Carter answered dryly. He pulled her a little closer
, unwilling and unable to release her.

  “I am sure I can think of a few other necessities if I put my mind to it.” A sudden yawn broke her smile.

  “You can think while you rest.” Carter led her through the door to her bedchamber. He tugged on the bellpull to summon her maid and took her to her dressing table, knowing from those few months they were together that she never slept with her hair up. She would want Hannah to help her with it. “I will see you at dinner, Miranda, love.”

  He watched her in the mirror. Though she looked happy, he saw the exhaustion in her eyes, in the set of her jaw, and in the slump of her shoulders.

  “Will you allow me to go with you on your walk tomorrow?” he asked. If she overdid it again, he would like to be on hand to bring her back before she wore herself to the breaking point.

  “I would like that very much, Carter.” Miranda’s weariness noticeably grew by the moment.

  Carter kissed the top of Miranda’s head. “Rest well, my dear.”

  “Thank you.”

  Hannah entered, so Carter let himself out, going to his own bedchamber, suddenly every bit as weary as Miranda had appeared. He sank onto the settee, the same one he’d shared with Miranda only a few evenings earlier, completely oblivious to her situation. She’d fallen asleep right there as they’d spoken. He’d wondered, at the time, if she’d been bored or uninterested.

  Carter bit back an angry retort at his own stupidity. He fell back against the settee, allowing his head to lie back, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

  He ought to have seen it. He ought to have at least suspected something wasn’t right beyond a mere bout of sniffles or a tickle in her throat. Miranda hadn’t changed in essentials, but she’d transformed significantly physically. She was still beautiful—Carter doubted he’d ever see another woman as lovely as she—but she’d grown frail, beyond what could possibly be explained away by anything other than a lingering serious illness.

  Three years, Mr. Benton had said. She’d been ill for three years. Why hadn’t he been told? They knew where he was—he hadn’t made any efforts to hide himself away.