There was no censure, no blame in Mr. Benton’s expression, only unwavering empathy.
“The duplicity, it appears, includes the Devereaux man-of-business,” Carter said.
“A blow, indeed.” Mr. Benton nodded. “That is enough to make a man question who he can even trust.”
Carter felt himself relax by degrees. For the first time since he had begun uncovering the lies, he felt as though someone understood some of what he was feeling. “There may very well be quite a long list of people involved in this. I find myself wondering if I will ever uncover it all.”
Mr. Benton wore a look of deep pondering. “If I were in your shoes, I would begin at the top. The chances are very good any of your employees involved are being paid for their duplicity. If those paying them are taken out of the chain, the links should begin to fall apart.”
“Wise.” Carter suspected his mother was paying the man-of-business. It stood to reason the man-of-business was paying anyone beneath him. “I have asked the Duke of Hartley to discover what he can in Town.”
Mr. Benton nodded his approval of the plan. Carter had always respected the older gentleman and appreciated the vote of confidence.
Miranda made the tiniest whimper in her throat. Carter quickly stood, leaning a bit over the bed to look more closely at her. Was she in some kind of pain? She appeared to be sleeping peacefully. He glanced across at Mr. Benton, who remained seated and even looked a little amused.
“She has made noises like that in her sleep ever since she was a little girl,” Mr. Benton explained.
Carter lowered himself back down onto his chair. “What was she like as a child?”
“Very much like she is now. Quiet. Loving.” Mr. Benton watched his granddaughter fondly. “She has been the joy of my life these past years.”
Carter found himself curious about Mr. Benton. Though he had always liked him, he didn’t know much about him. “And what were you like as a child?”
Mr. Benton laughed immediately, a chuckle that came from deep inside. “I was a mischievous, troublesome child. My mother, rest her soul, despaired of me ever outgrowing that.”
Carter let his posture relax, enjoying the turn to lighter topics. “For some reason, I find myself very easily convinced of your mischievous past.”
They laughed together.
“The vicar’s son and I were the terrors of our neighborhood.” Though Mr. Benton smiled at the retelling, he spoke with a tone of sincerity.
“The vicar’s son?” That set Carter laughing again.
Miranda stirred at the noise. Carter laid his hand over hers, where it lay under the blankets.
He lowered his voice once more, not wishing to wake her but wanting to continue the enjoyable conversation. “Did you go about snatching apples off trees or pies off of window sills?”
“Both, and more than once.” Mr. Benton leaned his head back against the chair, his expression distant and happy. “Robert Eager was his name. He joined the army as a young man. Fought in the war with the Former Colonies and lived to return home to his family. By then I was married with a family of my own.”
“And your apple-stealing days were behind you.”
Mr. Benton nodded. “He lived out his years in Devon. Had grandchildren of his own. And great-grandchildren, who he, no doubt, would have spoiled rotten.”
“And taught them to steal apples,” Carter added.
Mr. Benton grinned. “No doubt about it.”
Carter felt an immense gratitude in that moment for Mr. Benton’s presence, both in the room and in his life. Mr. Benton would help both Miranda and himself piece their lives back together and give them the support and love they needed.
“Thank you,” Carter said rather abruptly.
Mr. Benton was understandably confused.
“For talking with me,” Carter explained. “For being a friend and . . . and . . .” He couldn’t quite put it into words.
Mr. Benton didn’t seem to need any. “You are quite welcome, Carter. Quite welcome.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“I HAVE NEVER LIKED BATH chairs.” Miranda tried to make the remark off-hand and light. She detested being pushed about in a wheeled chair like an invalid. She was an invalid, but she simply disliked the constant reminder.
Carter was with her. He hadn’t left her behind. He hadn’t broken his word. He hadn’t complained about pushing her bath chair down the path toward the churchyard, but she did wonder if he resented it even a little. She wanted to be more to him than a burden.
MacPherson had recommended she get some fresh air, though he warned her not to rely on her own strength yet.
Carter turned her chair in at the gate to the churchyard. They had come to visit Alexander’s grave, the first time they’d ever done so together. Miranda was nervous. She’d come to visit her little angel again and again over the years, but Carter had never been with her. What if he felt no special connection to the son they’d lost? She’d imagined him making this journey with her so many times and sharing in her loss and heartache, of them buoying each other up. What if the trip was nothing more to him than an item on a list?
The bath chair came to a halt. Carter stepped around, smiling down at her. “The path is a little too gravelly from this point on,” he said. “If you’ll just point me in the right direction, I’ll carry you the rest of the way.”
She couldn’t tell by the look on his face just how he was feeling about the excursion.
Oh, please let this day mean something to him.
“What is it, darling?” Carter’s eyes searched her face just as she was studying his. “Are you tired already? Do you need to go back?”
She shook her head.
Carter brushed his thumb along her cheek. “I don’t want to cause you pain, Miranda. If this is too difficult—”
“He is just on the other side of the sycamore tree.”
Carter smiled gently. “Shall we, then?”
Miranda took a fortifying breath.
I want him to love our son. I need him to.
He lifted her from the chair and carried her toward the tree. Her insides tied in anxious knots. So much pain still sat deep in her heart when she thought of little Alexander. She’d told herself many times over the years that if only Carter would come, he would love her through it all. He would understand the grief she’d never been able to fully articulate to anyone. She’d clung to the belief that Carter, the Carter she’d fallen in love with, would grasp her heartache without words. She would simply fall apart if her faith in him proved misplaced.
“Grandfather had that bench put in.” She motioned toward the elegant stone bench beneath the tree’s protective branches. She could talk about the bench without growing emotional. “He worried I would wear myself to a thread standing during my visits.”
“The grave marker must be very nearby, then.” Carter sounded a little nervous.
She swallowed hard. “It’s the rounded headstone just there, with the angel carved at the top.”
Carter set her on the bench and carefully tucked her woolen blanket about her legs. With a look, he asked if she needed anything else. She answered by taking his hand and holding fast to it. All she needed was him there with her, sharing the difficult moment.
He sat beside her, looking in the same direction she was looking. “That marker, there?” He motioned to the headstone directly in front of them.
“Yes.”
Carter set his other hand on top of hers, clasping her hand between both of his. For a long, drawn-out moment, they sat in silence. A cold breeze blew, rustling the branches above their heads. The day was overcast but not dismal. Miranda bent her fingers around his.
“What did he look like?” Carter asked after a time.
A thickness instantly filled her throat. Still, she managed a response. “I don’t know.”
His gaze returned to her, confusion in his eyes.
“I was not conscious when he came into the world.” Pain nearly mute
d her. “By the time I awoke, he was buried and gone.” She closed her eyes against the tears forming. “I never even saw him.”
She felt Carter lean his cheek against her head. The very beginnings of his afternoon stubble tickled at her temple. He slipped an arm around her.
“I am so sorry, Miranda.”
“Grandfather said he was perfect in every way except size. Little Alexander was tiny, he said. So very, very tiny.” Her heart ached for that child. She’d thought and worried and cared about him all the months she’d carried him, and cruel fate hadn’t even granted her a single glimpse of her son. She never saw him. She never held him.
“Alexander George.” Carter whispered the name. “Did you choose his name?”
“Yes. Alexander for you.” Alexander was Carter’s middle name. “And George in honor of my grandfather.” She nestled into his embrace. “I hoped he would grow to appreciate the men he was named for. That was before I realized he wouldn’t—that he would never—”
The words stopped there. She slipped her hand from his and wrapped her arms around his waist, clinging to him.
A trickle of moisture ran down her cheek. But she knew the tear hadn’t fallen from her own eyes. She reached one hand up, pressing it lightly to the side of Carter’s face and finding it wet. She turned her head enough to place a kiss on his jaw.
“I should have been here with you, Miranda. I might have helped. I might have made a difference, might have changed the outcome.”
Miranda knew the endless supply of regrets life could provide. She’d spent weeks and months lost in that abyss. She didn’t want to see Carter pass through that kind of pain. “MacPherson said the damage to my heart was done years ago. There is every possibility the outcome would have been the same no matter what we might have done differently.”
“But if I had come, you wouldn’t have been alone,” he insisted.
“I am not alone now.”
She pulled a bit away and caught his gaze. The pain in his eyes, the tears yet hovering on his lashes, tugged at her heart. He did care. He felt at least some of what she felt.
“I have learned something over the past years, my dear,” she said. “Time is a precious thing. Please, let’s not waste what we have left regretting what we’ve lost.”
Carter pressed a light kiss to her lips then another to her cheek. He pulled her back into his arms. “You are a better woman than I deserve. You always were.”
His embrace was as warm and loving as she remembered. Sitting there with him, mourning their child together, comforting each other, she felt at peace. The road ahead would not be an easy or a smooth one, but they would walk it together.
Chapter Twenty-Six
OVER THE NEXT WEEKS, MIRANDA slowly regained enough strength to take short walks around the knot garden. Carter walked at her side every day.
She looked forward to her daily exercise, knowing he would hold her hand and sit with her if she grew fatigued. Even with the lingering pain and weariness, the chest-rattling coughs, the occasional moment of dizziness, she was content. She was more than content—she was happy.
“I don’t know that the weather’ll hold today, Lady Devereaux,” Hannah said, helping Miranda with her coat. “Looks like rain out.”
Carter stepped up beside her in time to reply. “I promise to bring her ladyship back in immediately if the clouds break.”
He set Miranda’s bonnet on her head, tying the ribbons in a little bow beneath her right ear. He did that before every outing and always followed the gesture with a gentle kiss on her cheek.
They walked hand-in-hand down the garden path, a light breeze rustling the still-bare branches of the hedge. Their pace was leisurely. Miranda would have chosen a slow walk even if her health didn’t demand it. During their daily excursions, she felt as though they were newly married again. Conversation came easily. There were no awkward silences, no moments of painful uncertainty.
They navigated the first turn in the path. Miranda rested her head against Carter’s arm.
“I imagined this,” she whispered.
“Imagined what, darling?”
Darling. He always used to call her that. “I imagined you coming here and walking with me in this very garden just as we are now. I dreamed of it.”
“I wish I’d come.”
Miranda had learned to recognize the tone Carter used when chiding himself. “We have an agreement, dear,” she reminded him. “No more sorrow over lost time. No more tears for past mistakes.”
Carter raised her hand to his lips, kissing it lightly. “I don’t deserve to have been forgiven as completely as I have been.”
She gave him a coquettish look. “I am something of a saint.”
His smile was the lightest, easiest she’d seen him wear in some time. The sight lightened her own heart. Odd how, even as life grew difficult and burdensome, a person could feel as though weights were being lifted from her shoulders rather than added.
“I will suggest your name for official sainthood if you’ll agree to sort through the correspondence waiting for me in the book room,” Carter said.
He received letters every single day from Town. His secretary sent regular reports of the goings-on in Lords. His friends and acquaintances sent letters. His land stewards sent reports.
Carter’s attention was in great demand, and still, he took time every day to walk with her. He sat with her in the evenings. He had breakfast with her each morning. This was what she’d longed for the past three years. This was the Carter she’d fallen in love with.
They finished their first circuit of the garden just as rain began to fall. She hated to see their walk end so quickly. Carter kept at her side as Hannah took Miranda’s coat and bonnet. He walked with her up the stairs. At his book room, she raised up on her toes and kissed his cheek.
“Enjoy your letters, dear,” she said.
“And you, darling.”
She silently laughed. “You know perfectly well I never receive any letters.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? Because I could have sworn there was a letter addressed quite specifically to you here on my pile of papers.”
He thoroughly piqued her curiosity. She leaned a bit to one side, looking beyond him to the book room desk.
“It’s just to the left of the blotting paper,” Carter said, moving so she could easily pass by.
Just as he’d said, a letter sat apart from the others, her name written across the front. “But this is your handwriting,” she said.
“Indeed.”
Miranda took up the letter. “Did you think I was mourning my lack of correspondents?”
He shook his head. “The way I see it, I owe you a few years’ worth of letters. I intend to see to it you receive them.”
A sweet and thoughtful thing to do. “Do you mind if I stay in here and read it while you work?”
Carter crossed to her. He set his hands on either side of her face. He gently kissed her forehead. In the weeks since she’d awakened, Carter had been as tender and careful with her as though she were spun glass. “Miranda, darling. I would like nothing more than to have you with me always.”
She held his letter to her heart and wrapped her other arm around him. “I am so glad you didn’t go to London.”
“You and I both.”
He tipped her face up toward him and slowly, purposefully lowered his mouth to hers. He pressed a brief kiss to her lips then another. He took his time on the third one. His hands slid an inch at a time from her face, past her shoulders, to her back, pulling her into a warm embrace.
Miranda leaned into him. Three years she’d hoped and prayed for him to come hold her again. She hoped she never reached the point when she no longer felt grateful and amazed at having him in her life once more.
“You are distracting me, woman.” He used the tone of feigned frustration that never failed to make her smile.
“I will see to my letter, and you can see to yours,” she said.
He
saw her situated comfortably in the leather armchair near the fire. She pulled her boots off and put her feet up on the footstool. Carter sat at his desk, leaning over his paperwork.
Miranda flipped her letter over. He even used a wax seal. Carter apparently meant to take his letter writing very seriously. She broke the wax and unfolded the parchment.
The letter didn’t begin with the customary date or salutation but with a few words across the very top of the page.
“The letter I would have written if I had received the first one you wrote to me.”
The first one you wrote to me. Her first letter to Carter was the one she’d sent to London telling him she had left their home, intending to visit her grandfather. She never did receive a response. Her letter had been kept from him.
The letter I would have written.
Below Carter’s introductory line, the letter began in the more traditional manner.
My dear Miranda,
I have sent a runner with all possible speed to Devon to make absolutely certain you have arrived safely. If I had realized you meant to travel so far, I would have made other arrangements, better arrangements for you. Your grandfather could have come to Wiltshire to stay with you while I was in London.
(I had to put that bit in, Miranda, rather than inviting you to join me in Town. I was still inexcusably thick three years ago, not realizing what an utter fool I was. But as this is meant to be the letter I would have written then, I am determined to be accurate, even at the risk of proving how entirely stupid I was.)
London is lonely without you, darling. I spend my days discussing the state of the kingdom with a great many pompous and arrogant men then spend the evenings doing exactly the same thing with an even greater number of tiresome people. The fortnight ahead will be a long and tedious one. Please let the man I’ve sent to inquire after your well-being know if you mean to remain with your grandfather longer than two weeks. If those are your intentions, I will meet you there rather than in Wiltshire.
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