Marjorie Farrell

by Autumn Rose

  “You speak as a true parent, my dear,” replied her father. “But come, tell me how you came to settle in Hampstead, and of my granddaughter.”

  Nora told him at length of her life in the village, her writing, and the events of the past year.

  “What is she like, this granddaughter of mine?” asked the marquess, terribly moved by Nora’s story, but unable to ask her anything but surface questions.

  “She makes a beautiful countess, Father. She is quite different from your hoydenish daughter, however. Very calm. Very womanly. And very happy in her marriage. Jeremy is almost as dear to me as she is.”

  “Evelyn tells me that you never did marry Breen.” Her father looked at her almost apologetically for asking that question.

  “No, I never had the chance, for he was killed soon after we arrived in Scotland. But you must accept that I gave myself to him willingly. He did not set out to deceive or ruin me. I think he even loved me.”

  “And the earl’s family? Do they know that Miranda is…?”

  “Illegitimate? No, only Jeremy knows that she is the granddaughter of the Marquess of Doverdale. The dowager countess believes Miranda to be the daughter of a deceased naval lieutenant, for that was the background I created for myself.”

  “It hurts me to think that all these years you might have been cared for here; that I would have seen my granddaughter grow up; that you had to struggle so hard…” her father said, in a voice filled with emotion.

  “It was hard at times. But I don’t know but that it was better after all. Perhaps that is the sort of philosophy we hold on to after something is too late to change.” Nora smiled. “But I know I learned much in those years alone. And my writing is a part of me I never would have discovered, living here as your daughter.”

  “Ah, yes, your writing. Evelyn told me, and then went immediately to the bookshelf to pull out one of her favorite novels by one Mrs. Honora Dillon. I think she is as thrilled to meet a favorite authoress as she is to have you home.” The marquess laughed.

  “And you, Father? How have these years been for you?”

  “Good ones, my dear, aside from the pain of losing you. Evelyn has been a wonderful wife and mother, and Richard is an heir to be proud of. I hope you don’t feel displaced?” he asked anxiously. “Now I know you are alive, I will make sure you receive the settlements which would have been due you on your marriage. And you will still inherit a comfortable sum. But the estate is entailed, so it would have gone to your second cousin anyway, you know.”

  “Father, please do not apologize. I did not come for my inheritance, but to see you. I am excited to find I have a half-brother. Perhaps you all will consider coming to London in the spring? I would so love to have you meet Miranda and Jeremy.”

  “And how would you introduce me? As a distant relative, or as her grandfather?”

  “Oh, dear, I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I really don’t want anyone to know Miranda’s background. Well, we will have to come up with some story of an estrangement due to your dislike of the lieutenant. I think they have assumed something of the sort already.”

  “ ‘Mrs. Dillon’ ought to be able to concoct some sort of tale, though,” her father said.

  “Why, yes, indeed, she should,” said Nora smiling.

  Chapter 32

  After that first day, the succeeding ones were more and more comfortable both for Nora and for the marquess and his wife. Nora refused all suggestions for socializing, however.

  “I know you would like to kill the fatted calf, Father, but I do not think I could take all the curious stares and questions. Let us keep this a quiet family visit, and perhaps in the summer I will come home after you have told people of my return.”

  Nora spent her days exploring old haunts on foot or horseback. The riding at Sam’s had been a good way to regain her seat, so she was ready for some wild gallops across the moors, which made her feel seventeen again until she had been sitting for a few hours afterward. Then every additional year made itself known to her as she walked down the halls, hip stiff or knees creaking.

  One afternoon, she and the marquess drove to St. Anne’s. They stood by her mother’s grave quietly. It was well-tended and the rosemary that the young Meg had planted years ago was now a small tree, with a gnarled and twisted trunk.

  “I did love her so, Meg. You know that?” said the marquess suddenly.

  “Yes, Father, I do.” Now, she added silently to herself.

  “I could not have lived alone. She understood that very well. I am not sure you did?”

  She knew that this was the closest her father could come to asking for forgiveness.

  “I understand now, Father.”

  The marquess’s hand sought hers and they walked back in silence to the carriage, closer than they had been since Nora was sixteen.

  * * * *

  That night she had a hard time getting to sleep. The visit to her mother’s grave had brought her full circle, for the last time she had stood there it had been with Breen, as a young woman who was suffering from the loss of her mother. Now she was a grown woman who was, in a sense, suffering from the loss of her daughter. As she tossed and turned, it felt to her like something in her had never lived these past nineteen years. That in some strange way she was still standing with Breen by her mother’s grave, fallen into a trance. That she had awakened from a strange sleep and found herself in a grown woman’s body, with a daughter and no recollection of the intervening years. These feelings so disturbed her that she forced herself to concentrate on her breathing and finally fell asleep.

  * * * *

  She was nineteen again, and at the bottom of a steep hill. She knew she must climb to the top by herself. All around at her feet were boxes and bags that also must get up the hill. And a baby. A small, laughing little girl: Miranda at two. The baby, the boxes, and all must go up, and there was no one else to help. She, Meg, had to do it herself. She started pulling boxes and bags together, and was finally able to fashion a haversack that fit on her back. She slung it over the shoulders, and thought she would go over backward from the weight and the incline of the hill. But when she picked up Miranda, the little girl’s weight counterbalanced what was on her back, and she started to climb. Every few feet she would stop, and wanted to sit down and cry and wait for her father or mother to find her. And then she would remember: her mother was dead, her father didn’t love her, and she would start up again. The little girl gurgled and laughed and stroked Meg’s face, but Meg felt nothing. She could not afford to feel anything if she wanted to get to the top of the hill. And so she climbed, and stopped, wanting her parents, and shutting them out, knowing she could not go on if she remembered them. She was close to the top when she saw someone waiting, someone tall and thin, who “helloed” her and asked if she needed any help. She sat down, knowing that she could not take another step and also knowing that she could not let this stranger help her. She had to get to the top and she was not going to make it, and she woke up, torn by the unresolvable conflict.

  The nightmare had been so vivid it had thrown her back into her childhood, and she found herself crying out as she had as a little girl, “Papa, Papa, Papa.”

  And miraculously he was there, as he had been for her when she was nine or ten.

  “Meg, Meg, my dear, what is it? I was unable to sleep and heard you cry out.”

  “Oh, Papa. I am so tired. I can’t do it all myself anymore. But I have to, I have to get Miranda to the top.”

  Her father put his arms around her and pulled her head onto his shoulder.

  “Hush, hush, my dear. I know you are tired. Where do you need to take Miranda?”

  “To the top of the hill. But I have this heavy bag on my back and I can’t carry it all by myself. But Mother is dead and you are gone and I can’t just ask a stranger to help.”

  The marquess stroked his daughter’s hair, realizing for the first time just what these past years had been like for her on her own.

  “Yes,
your mama is dead, and I am not there…?”

  Nora was sobbing like a child, freely and without self-consciousness. She was still half-asleep, and the marquess hoped she would stay that way, for, awake, he suspected she would never have revealed so much.

  “He asks me if I need help. But I have to do it myself.”

  “Why, Meggie?”

  “I don’t know, Papa. I just do. If Sam helped me, I would just give up.”

  “Go to sleep now, dear. It is only a dream,” whispered the marquess.

  Nora’s crying stopped, and after a few shuddering sobs she slid under the covers, pillowing her head on her hand, just as she had done as a child. The marquess stroked her shoulder, feeling disoriented and very old. He hoped he had done the right thing, coming into his daughter’s room. He hoped he had said the right things. And he knew they must talk in the light of day.

  Nora remembered only a little of the night before. She thought she had had a nightmare. She thought her father had come in to comfort her, as he had in the old days. But maybe that was a dream too? She felt exhausted and empty, and was too embarrassed to go to breakfast with her father and Evelyn, so she had it brought up for her, sending the maid down with her apologies. She fell asleep over her roll and chocolate, and awakened close to noon.

  The weather had changed. It was colder, and an icy rain was beginning to fall. She realized that she would have to start home soon. She dressed in her old kerseymere and went downstairs to seek the warmth of the library.

  Her father was there, working at his desk. She smiled hesitantly, still not sure what had transpired last night.

  “Did you sleep well after your nightmare, Meg?”

  Nora flushed. “Then you did come in. I thought it part of my dream. I am so embarrassed, Papa. I never lose control like that.”

  “But this has been an unusual week for both of us. It is understandable you would be affected by it. Come, sit down by the fire.” The marquess moved from behind his desk, and sat opposite his daughter.

  “I think you needed the dream. And perhaps me to comfort you. Do you remember any of it?”

  “Just the feeling I had to climb and climb and everything was so heavy.”

  “And who is Sam?”

  “Sam? How did you know his name?”

  “He seemed to be someone who was wanting to help you. Who is this Sam?”

  “He is Jeremy’s godfather. A friend. A good friend, I thought, but…”

  “But…?”

  “It seems he wants more than friendship.”

  “And you?”

  “Me? I don’t know, Father. I am quite happy with my life as it is.”

  “Nora.”

  Nora looked up, surprised.

  “You are Nora, you know. A grown woman, no longer my little Meggie. Why would you be so determined not to let this Sam into your life?”

  “You don’t understand, Father.”

  “You are right, I don’t. But I am trying to.”

  “I do like him. I have to admit that. But I cannot feel that way, ever again,” she continued vehemently. “Look what happened when I did with Breen.” Nora was staring at the fire as though her gaze were all that kept it burning.

  “Nora, I am not the one who should be talking to you. Your mother would have known far better what to say. But I am the one who is here, so I will do my best. My dear, you made one mistake, many years ago. You are older now, not the same impressionable, lonely girl. And you said yourself, had you not been with Breen, you would not have your lovely daughter. I forgave you, if that is what you returned for, years ago. And I suspect I need to ask your forgiveness for leaving you so alone after Margaret’s death. Can you forgive me and yourself?”

  Nora, who had felt so empty, who believed she could never shed another tear, felt them pouring down her cheeks. She turned to her father and said: “Oh, Father, can you forgive me?”

  The marquess reached out and took her hands in his.

  “My dear daughter, you are so welcome here and have been in my thoughts for so long. You have done so much with your life and I am so proud of you. But you must not keep yourself from human love because you think yourself too ‘loving’ or believe you need my forgiveness.”

  “So I’m ‘welcomed back to Northumberland,’ ” said Nora. “Sam sang that one evening, and I think it must have started me on my way home. He has a lovely voice,” she said shakily.

  “Ah, yes, the old ballad,” said the marquess. “The parents do welcome her home, don’t they? A rare happy ending for one of those old songs.” He smiled. “And is your love still so ‘easy won’?”

  “I’m afraid at least my passionate feelings are,” replied Nora, embarrassed to be talking with her father about such matters. “But I have not let my attraction for Sam grow into love. I have been too scared.”

  “Do you think you can love him?”

  “I don’t know, Father.”

  “Well, much as I hate to let you go, you shall have to return home and find out, won’t you?”

  “I suppose I will.” Nora squeezed his hands, crushing the signet ring against his fingers until he winced.

  “Your heart!” she said, frightened the strain of her return had brought on an attack.

  “My fingers,” he replied, and she let go, and they both laughed, breaking the unwonted intimacy between them.

  * * * *

  Nora stayed only a few days more, and left Moorview one morning smiling and crying at the same time. Her father and Lady Evelyn, as well as many of the servants, stood by the door to wave her off. She had gotten the marquess to promise to visit London during the Season. Her half-brother would be able to join them, and Nora looked forward to meeting him and introducing Miranda to her newfound relatives.

  She went in her father’s coach; he had insisted, and she had not protested. It would make for a more comfortable and restful ride. In fact, it seemed to her that she slept much of the way home, napping in the coach, or much of the time in a daze that felt like sleep. Often, even on short journeys, she found herself using the time to plot her next book, letting the voices of her characters rise and fall like waves. But on this trip her mind was blank as she gazed out the window for hours, watching the countryside roll by, watching the rain run down the window, or looking at the innyards with little interest, despite the comings and goings of travelers, which usually stimulated her imagination.

  When she finally reached Hampstead, she felt she was being pulled back into a life she hardly remembered. She sent the coachman and groom back immediately, and then crawled under the quilts of her own bed and slept the rest of the day and the night through.

  She awoke to the sound of wind and rain. She was glad she had returned right away, for the rain beating at the cottage was mixed with ice. In Northumberland it would have been snow. She huddled under the quilts for a while, letting herself become accustomed to being home. Yes, it was home. Moorview welcomed her, but here was where she had found a life, had made her own way. She pulled on an old wool wrapper, thrust her feet into worn shearling slippers, and went downstairs, feeling more awake than she had in days.

  She brewed herself a pot of tea and unwrapped the remnants of a small loaf of bread she had carried from the last inn. She had to drink the tea black, because she had no milk in the larder.

  She would have to brave the weather later on and get milk and butter and vegetables. At the moment, however, she was delighted to be here in her own kitchen, warmed by the fire and the drink in her hands.

  She wandered through the house later, opening the shutters and tossing out some flowers that she had left in vases, in her rush to leave. By midmorning, however, she was ready to go out, whatever the weather. She pulled on her oldest brogues and her heavy wool cloak that was almost waterproof and made her way to the village, happy to be filling her basket at the market. She also bought a ready-made loaf and buns at the baker’s, since she knew she wouldn’t get to any baking until tomorrow.

  On the way ho
me, she turned into Holly Bush. Joanna was sure to be in, and she wanted to tell her friend she was back and that the trip had been, after all, the right thing to do. Joanna’s housekeeper pulled her in out of the rain and sent her right into the morning room, where a fire burned warmly in the grate.

  “Miss Baillie’s writing, but I’m sure she’d want to see you, Mrs. Dillon.”

  Before Nora could protest, she was gone and a few minutes later Joanna was with her, enfolding her in a warm hug.

  “It is so good to have you back, Nora,” she said as she let go.

  “It is good to be back,” and as she said it, Nora realized just how much she meant it.

  “Come, sit down and tell me all. I will ring for some sherry in honor of your return.”

  The sherry warmed Nora and relaxed her as she told Joanna of her travels.

  “You were right, Joanna,” she said after she had recounted the essentials. “It was important for me to go home. I was very moved to see my father again. I understand his actions and my feelings better than I did twenty years ago. He did mourn my mother, although he married again, and he did love me, although I didn’t feel it at the time.”

  “I knew there had to be some explanation for your not hearing from him.”

  “Who knows what my life would have been had I received his letter asking me to come home?” mused Nora. “I most certainly wish I’d known he wanted me. But what would I have been there but a dependent daughter? I have made my life here, and, you know, Joanna, I feel it no tragedy that my life was changed by a misdirected letter.”

  “No, you’ve grown into a fine woman, one who found her calling as a mother and an artist.”

  “Hardly an artist, Joanna,” protested Nora. “I am content to be a plain novelist. My work is hardly comparable to yours, after all.”

  “We shall see what happens with it in the future, my dear. Now, what of Miranda? Do you think she will be eager to meet her new family?”

  “I think she will be thrilled with her new grandfather. Their visit in the spring should ease the way for all of us to go back for a few weeks in the summer.”