Carter’s voice broke on the last word. He dropped the letters again. “These are all my letters, Mother, addressed to me, though I never received them. Not a single one. They answer the questions that have haunted me these past three years, but they were kept from me. I want to know why.”
“What leads you to suspect I know anything about these letters?”
That had Carter’s hackles up again. “You knew about Alexander,” he flung back.
“Who is—?”
“My son!” Carter snapped. “You knew about my son. You knew he existed, which is more than I knew. And you knew he hadn’t lived. You knew that, and I didn’t.”
Carter watched her, very nearly glaring. She shifted in her chair, the only outward indication that she found the topic at all uncomfortable. She didn’t otherwise appear even remotely disturbed by what he said, almost as if she thought it inconsequential.
“Do you have any concept of what I have been robbed of?” Carter asked, his eyes boring into hers. “I could have held my child. I could have comforted and cared for my wife. I could have been here to mourn my son. I might have secured the very best physicians to care for them both—perhaps it would have made a difference. Instead, I have been left to learn all of this three years after the fact, by letter.”
“Letters seemed to suit you fine once upon a time.” Bitterness had entered Mother’s voice. Carter had never heard her sound anything but entirely in control of her emotions. It was disorienting. “‘Dear Father and Mother,’” she said in a mock-sweet tone, “‘I am getting married in three weeks. Come if you can.’ You gave us no chance to even meet the girl before you committed yourself. We were given absolutely no say in the matter.”
“The decision was not yours to make.”
“You were incapable of making a decent decision, as it turned out.” She looked away from him, anger, pain, and frustration on her face.
“I love Miranda, Mother.”
“Sometimes love is not enough.” When she looked back at him, her entire countenance had drooped. “You have talked your entire life about your dreams for a career: a seat in Parliament, a cabinet position, prime minister. You have the ambition and the ability, Carter. We saw that in you from the beginning. But your father and I knew more than you did.”
“Father?” Carter’s rose-colored memories of that gentleman had begun to tarnish.
“A wife has as much influence on her husband’s career as he himself does, Carter. If you were to accomplish what was always so important to you, the right wife would be essential. She would need to be active in society, with beneficial connections, cultivating those she did not already have, well versed in current issues, a political hostess.”
“And you didn’t believe Miranda could have—”
“Carter.” She sounded exasperated. “The lady you introduced to us as your future bride was too shy to speak to us. She clung to you, depended on you. A heady feeling for a young man, to be sure, but hardly what you required in a wife. She was countrified in every aspect, no Town bronze, no social distinctions or connections.”
“I thought you approved of her.” Looking back, he didn’t remember any animosity.
“I have no idea why you thought that. We spent countless hours explaining to you our misgivings, offering a handful of examples of more suitable brides. But you were beyond reasoning with. Realizing it was a lost cause, we opted to curtail damage.”
“Curtail damage?” Carter tapped the stack of letters. “This was curtailing damage?”
Mother sighed. “She needed time, Carter. We were going to invite you two to come to London with us at the start of the next Season so I could help Miranda get her feet wet. We could ease her into her obligations. Then you two came up with the crazy scheme of taking her to London with you during the Little Season. I wasn’t even there, and your father was too busy to be ape-leading a green girl through Town.”
Carter’s memories began to shift and reform. His talk with Father that had convinced him not to take Miranda to London had been calculated, planned—not the heartfelt man-to-man talk he’d thought they’d had.
“At least you didn’t bring her then.” Mother spoke as though such a thing would have been entirely unthinkable. “Given the choice between an absent wife and a disastrous wife, an absent one was far less troublesome.”
“Why wasn’t I given her letter?”
“What would you have done if you’d received it?”
“I probably would have gone to Devon.”
“Precisely,” Mother said. “You were building the foundation of your career, and you would have left. She would have been back when you returned, and the letter could have been explained away as lost.”
“And the second letter?” Carter paced a little away, the continuing revelations chipping away at his peace of mind. “The letter that said she was here and ill?”
“We were absolutely certain you would leave then.”
“But after the trip to London you still didn’t say anything, you or Father.” Carter ran his hand through his hair. He wanted to find a reason to excuse it all, to continue believing that his parents hadn’t lied to him for years. But Mother was essentially confessing and without the slightest hint of guilt or remorse.
“There was going to be a Christmas house party,” Mother said, as if that explained the whole thing.
“I fail to see—”
“People you needed to know better had been invited to that party. That is where you met Lord Percival, you will remember. If you had gone to Clifton Manor, you would have missed it.”
“But Miranda was increasing! How could I not go? She wanted me there; I would have wanted to be with her.” How could she not understand this?
“There was plenty of time,” Mother said, dismissing the argument. “And then Parliament opened, and your father was sponsoring you in London again. You seemed to have gotten over your initial shock. You were going about again and not mentioning her every other sentence. It was best that way.”
“Best?” His frustration and disbelief nearly had him shouting. “Best that I leave Miranda suffering alone? To ignore pleas for comfort?”
“I spent my confinement alone in Leicestershire.”
“That is not what I wanted for Miranda,” Carter said.
“It was best.” She stated it again as fact.
“And what of the letters I sent inquiring after her?” he asked. “The ones I gave to Father to frank? Were they ever even sent?”
She didn’t answer, but she didn’t need to. He could see the truth in her eyes. His efforts at finding Miranda, however inadequate, had all been for naught. The letters had never been sent.
Carter clenched his fists and forced out his words. “When word came of her early lying-in? Of the surety that the child would not live? Why was I not told of that? I was less than a day’s ride from here. I could have come.”
“And done what?” Mother answered impatiently. “Could you have saved the baby? Could you have restored Miranda’s health? Sped up the delivery? No. There was no point in it, Carter. We both agreed.”
We both agreed. His parents had sat in council, deciding between themselves what he was entitled to know of his wife and child.
“I should have been there. More than that, it ought to have been my decision! You took that from me, Mother. You stole my family.”
“We are your family!”
“Family does not do this.” Carter snatched the papers again and turned to the letter hardest to read. “‘I am asking once more for you to come to Dorset to be with your wife in what may be her final hours. I have instructed the messenger delivering this letter to await a reply so I might know in what way I should proceed. Arrangements for your son’s burial’”—the word was hard to get out—“‘are being held until we know both your wishes and the fate of your wife.’” He took a breath to steady himself. “Who sent the reply?”
“Your father.”
Father. Carter had thought his sir
e was so empathetic, so understanding during the months he’d been tormented over Miranda’s flight. Lies, all of it.
“What reply did Father send?”
“He told her grandfather to make the arrangements, to send any bills to your father, but that you would be unable to travel to Dorset.”
Carter muttered a curse. “I am surprised Mr. Benton didn’t call me out.”
“He wouldn’t have dared.”
“I would have deserved it,” Carter snapped back. “Did you never question what you were doing? Did you never wonder if you were wrong to keep this from me?”
“She would have held you back.” Mother appeared entirely undisturbed. “You are on your way to being appointed to the cabinet. Prime minister is within your reach. A wife with a failing heart would only be a burden.”
She obviously didn’t realize what she’d just revealed. “When did the letter arrive revealing that?” Carter asked. “I have only been privy to that bit of information for a few days.”
Only a momentary heightening of her color revealed any distress on Mother’s part. “Her grandfather wrote, and that blustering fool of a physician too. Something about illness and the strain of a difficult delivery damaging her heart.”
Was that letter in the pile as well, among those he hadn’t read yet? How many other painful things would be revealed?
“You never said anything to me.”
“They expected her to die at practically any moment. They thought that for nearly six months.” Mother waved off the objection. “You would have been free.”
The heartlessness of that statement pierced him. His own parents had looked at Miranda’s possible death as nothing but an opportunity for him to marry again. They’d hidden her away, lied to him, all in the name of cold ambition.
A tired emptiness settled over him. He’d thought his parents were his allies the past three years. Being so utterly wrong was devastating.
“If you wanted so badly for me to avoid seeing her, why did you not object to the house party being held here? Obviously you knew she lived at Clifton Manor.” He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer, but if he was to explain to Miranda the forces that had kept them apart, he needed an explanation.
“She had always before spent Christmas in Devon. It was my understanding she would not be here.” Still so unconcerned, so unburdened by her conscience.
“And when you realized she was?”
“From the moment I saw her here, I have tried to convince her to go. The stubborn girl has refused to leave.”
Hidden underneath those simple sentences was the truth that Mother had, in fact, tried to force Miranda from her own home.
“She wouldn’t be persuaded, and I couldn’t make you unsee her. So I made the best of it.” Mother further straightened her posture. “You have matured and learned a lot these past years. I hoped you would now, being with her again, have the intelligence to realize what was best for you.”
“And what exactly did you think was ‘best for me’ now?” He spoke through clenched teeth. The meddling never stopped. The interference ran so deep Carter wondered if he’d ever find the end of it.
“She is ill,” Mother said, very matter-of-fact. “She is weak and entirely unsuited to society. She could never be the wife you need. You have seen that for yourself. It is best that you leave her behind for whatever time she has left.”
“I have heard enough.” He eyed her sharply. “Miranda will never be left behind, Mother. She will never be forced out of my life. Not by anyone. You, on the other hand . . .”
“I what?” For the first time, Mother looked concerned for herself.
“Can get out.” Carter spoke evenly, but forcefully. “You will pack your things and get out.”
“Carter!”
“I will have my man-of-business find you some respectable lodgings in Town where you can play God with someone else’s life,” Carter said.
“I am your mother!”
“Something I do not find pleasant at the moment.”
Mother rose to her feet with overdone dignity. “You would toss me out of the house of which I have been mistress for thirty years? All of London will know of your dishonorable actions toward me.”
“Dishonorable? Perhaps London would be interested in knowing that the reason the current Lady Devereaux has not been seen these past three years is because the Dowager Lady Devereaux kept her in the country, hoping she would die.”
Mother actually looked shocked and a little threatened.
“Or,” Carter continued, “that the Dowager Lady Devereaux, knowing her daughter-in-law was in fragile health, ran her as hard and as long as possible during a house party she forced on the younger lady and pushed her into heart failure. That would make a fascinating story to retell over tea, don’t you think?”
“You would not be so unfeeling!”
“If I am unfeeling, I apparently come by it rightly.”
They stood silently, staring at each other.
Her jaw tense, shoulders flung back, chin slightly up, Mother made one last declaration. “Know this, Carter. If you miss the opening of Parliament, you can forget about being prime minister. There is too much of significance occurring now for any man with ambitions to be absent. Unless your presence is felt, you will be passed up. That is ground you will never be able to make up. Think about that before you give it up for a nobody from the country who never did you a bit of good.”
She spun on her heel and flounced from the room.
Carter dropped into a chair, suddenly too worn to even stand. He pulled a sheet of paper from the stack of letters. “Come and hold me, even for a moment, and tell me all will be well.” He read Miranda’s shaky words. “Let me know I am not forgotten.”
“No, Miranda,” Carter whispered to the empty room. “You were never forgotten.”
But he was the one who needed reassurance that all would be well. He suddenly questioned everything he’d ever assumed about his parents, his ambitions, and his life.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“GOOD AFTERNOON,” CARTER OFFERED to Mr. Benton and MacPherson as he stepped into Miranda’s room again. She still slept. He could easily have lain down and slept for days himself.
“Did ye learn about your letters?” MacPherson asked, obviously not one for wasting time with pleasantries.
Carter nodded.
“So you really never did receive them?” Mr. Benton looked both horrified and relieved. Perhaps even a little contrite.
Carter shook his head. “I’ve begun reading them though. I am beginning to realize just how much my parents kept from me.”
“I think I owe you an apology, Lord Devereaux,” Mr. Benton said.
“I am the one who ought to apologize. I should have followed Miranda when I didn’t hear from her.”
“Seems to me,” MacPherson joined in, “the person who should be apologizing is your mother, since she is the only one here who did anything wrong.”
Carter sighed. It was hard to accept that his own parents had been so cruel and done such a hateful thing regardless of their intentions. “Mother even knew about Miranda’s heart. She knew, and she pushed her anyway. She saw Miranda growing weak and weary this past fortnight, and still, she didn’t let up.”
“She probably hoped you would decide Miranda wasn’t well enough for the London whirl so you would leave her behind again,” Mr. Benton said.
“Do you think she is strong enough for it?” Carter looked over at Miranda, sleeping and still.
“Not to the extent your mother expects,” Mr. Benton said.
“And not immediately,” MacPherson added. “She will not be ready to travel for many weeks.”
“I . . . I haven’t gotten down to the letter that explains what exactly is wrong with her.” Carter laid the stack of papers on the bedside table, where he’d first found the parcel that morning. “I’d like to know.”
“How far did you get?” Mr. Benton asked.
He swall
owed. The letter he’d read last, he was certain, would haunt him the rest of his life. “The letter you wrote telling me I had a son. And that he was . . .” Carter forced down another difficult swallow.
Mr. Benton nodded. “That was a hard letter to write.”
“It was a hard letter to read.”
“I was angry when I wrote it. Angry and grieving and worried about Miranda. Everything got worse after that.”
“I would like to know.” Carter had spent too many years in the dark. He needed to know.
“Aye. And ye should.” MacPherson motioned to the chair nearest Miranda’s bed. “Sit down, then. ’Tis a long story.”
Carter sat and prepared himself. Mr. Benton said things had gotten worse. Carter could hardly imagine what could be worse than what he’d read so far.
“She was past forty-eight hours delivering that bairn—baby,” MacPherson said, explaining the decidedly Scottish word to Carter. “That’d be enough to tax any woman. But toward the end, something went wrong. She wasn’t just tired; she was barely conscious, and her coloring went gray, like it did yesterday.”
“Her heart?” Carter asked.
“Aye. Seems she’d been ill when she was young. Very ill.”
“The fever that took her parents.” Mr. Benton joined in the story to clarify.
“Sometimes,” MacPherson said, “infectious fevers can weaken a heart, especially in the very old or the very young.”
Carter nodded. Miranda had been only three when her parents died. He remembered learning of that when he’d first met her.
“She’d always been a quiet thing, not inclined to run about or ride hard or work herself into a dither,” Mr. Benton said. “It was just her way, so it never occurred to me that she might be so, at least partly, because she grew weary more easily than others.”
“So her heart’s been bad all this time?”
“I wouldn’t say ‘bad,’” MacPherson said. “Just not as strong as it ought to have been. If her lying-in hadn’t been so difficult, we probably still wouldn’t know her heart was damaged. About a week before, she came down with a fever, and that after months of losing every meal and growing weak and worried and feeling lonely.”
Glimmer of Hope Page 18
