The Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheevers

by Julia Quinn

  Miranda nodded again. It was uncommonly warm for March.

  "You can take Olivia's pony. I'm sure she won't mind."

  "Livvy hasn't got a pony," Miranda said, finally finding her voice. "She has a mare now. I've one at home, too. We're not babies, you know."

  Turner suppressed a smile. "No, I can see that you are not. How silly of me. I wasn't thinking."

  A few minutes later, their horses were saddled, and they set off on the fifteen-minute ride to the Cheever home. Miranda stayed silent for the first minute or so, too perfectly happy to spoil the moment with words.

  "Did you have a good time at the party?" Turner finally asked.

  "Oh, yes. Most of it was just lovely."

  "Most of it?"

  He saw her wince. Obviously, she hadn't meant to say so much. "Well," she said slowly, catching her lip between her teeth and then letting it go before continuing, "one of the girls said some unkind words to me."

  "Oh?" He knew better than to be overly inquisitive.

  And obviously, he was right, because when she spoke, she rather reminded him of his sister, staring up at him with frank eyes as her words spilled firmly from her mouth. "It was Fiona Bennet," she said, with great distaste, "and Olivia called her a silly old cow, and I must say I'm not sorry that she did."

  Turner kept his expression appropriately grave. "I'm not sorry that she did, either, if Fiona said unkind things to you."

  "I know I'm not pretty," Miranda burst out. "But it's dreadfully impolite to say so, not to mention downright mean."

  Turner looked at her for a long moment, not exactly certain how to comfort the little girl. She wasn't beautiful, that was true, and if he tried to tell her that she was, she wouldn't believe him. But she wasn't ugly. She was just…rather awkward.

  He was saved, however, from having to say anything by Miranda's next comment.

  "It's this brown hair, I think."

  He raised his brows.

  "It's not at all fashionable," Miranda explained. "And neither are brown eyes. And I'm too skinny by half, and my face is too long, and I'm far too pale."

  "Well, that's all true," Turner said.

  Miranda turned to face him, her eyes looming large and sad in her face.

  "You certainly do have brown hair and eyes. There is no use arguing that point." He tilted his head and pretended to give her a complete inspection. "You are rather thin, and your face is indeed a trifle long. And you certainly are pale."

  Her lips trembled, and Turner could tease her no more. "But as it happens," he said with a smile, "I myself prefer women with brown hair and eyes."

  "You don't!"

  "I do. I always have. And I like them thin and pale, as well."

  Miranda eyed him suspiciously. "What about long faces?"

  "Well, I must admit, I never gave the matter much thought, but I certainly don't mind a long face."

  "Fiona Bennet said I have big lips," she said almost defiantly.

  Turner bit back a smile.

  She heaved a great sigh. "I never even noticed I had big lips before."

  "They're not so big."

  She shot him a wary glance. "You're just saying that to make me feel better."

  "I do want you to feel better, but that's not why I said it. And next time Fiona Bennet says you have big lips, tell her she's wrong. You have full lips."

  "What's the difference?" She looked over at him patiently, her dark eyes serious.

  Turner took a breath. "Well," he stalled. "Big lips are unattractive. Full lips are not."

  "Oh." That seemed to satisfy her. "Fiona has thin lips."

  "Full lips are much, much better than thin lips," Turner said emphatically. He quite liked this funny little girl and wanted her to feel better.

  "Why?"

  Turner offered up a silent apology to the gods of etiquette and propriety before he answered, "Full lips are better for kissing."

  "Oh." Miranda blushed, and then she smiled. "Good."

  Turner felt absurdly pleased with himself. "Do you know what I think, Miss Miranda Cheever?"

  "What?"

  "I think you just need to grow into yourself." The minute he said it, he was sorry. She would surely ask him what he meant, and he had no idea how to answer her.

  But the precocious little child simply tilted her head to one side as she pondered his statement. "I expect you're right," she finally said. "Just look at my legs."

  A discreet cough masked the chuckle that welled up in Turner's throat. "What do you mean?"

  "Well, they're far too long. Mama always says that they start at my shoulders."

  "They appear to begin quite properly at your waist to me."

  Miranda giggled. "I was speaking metaphorically."

  Turner blinked. This ten-year-old had quite a vocabulary, indeed.

  "What I meant," she went on, "is that my legs are all the wrong size compared to the rest of me. I think that's why I can't seem to learn how to dance. I'm forever trodding on Olivia's toes."

  "On Olivia's toes?"

  "We practice together," Miranda explained briskly. "I think that if the rest of me catches up with my legs, I won't be so clumsy. So I think you're right. I do have to grow into myself."

  "Splendid," Turner said, happily aware that he had somehow managed to say exactly the right thing. "Well, we seem to have arrived."

  Miranda looked up at the gray stone house that was her home. It was located right on one of the many streams that connected the lakes of the district, and one had to cross over a little cobbled bridge just to reach the front door. "Thank you very much for taking me home, Turner. I promise I'll never call you Nigel."

  "Will you also promise to pinch Olivia if she calls me Nigel?"

  Miranda let out a little giggle and clapped her hand to her mouth. She nodded.

  Turner dismounted and then turned to the little girl and helped her down. "Do you know what I think you should do, Miranda?" he said suddenly.

  "What?"

  "I think you ought to keep a journal."

  She blinked in surprise. "Why? Who would want to read it?"

  "No one, silly. You keep it for yourself. And maybe someday after you die, your grandchildren will read it so they will know what you were like when you were young."

  She tilted her head. "What if I don't have grandchildren?"

  Turner impulsively reached out and tousled her hair. "You ask a lot of questions, puss."

  "But what if I don't have grandchildren?"

  Lord, she was persistent. "Perhaps you'll be famous." He sighed. "And the children who study about you in school will want to know about you."

  Miranda shot him a doubtful look.

  "Oh, very well, do you want to know why I really think you should keep a journal?"

  She nodded.

  "Because someday you're going to grow into yourself, and you will be as beautiful as you already are smart. And then you can look back into your diary and realize just how silly little girls like Fiona Bennet are. And you'll laugh when you remember that your mother said your legs started at your shoulders. And maybe you'll save a little smile for me when you remember the nice chat we had today."

  Miranda looked up at him, thinking that he must be one of those Greek gods her father was always reading about. "Do you know what I think?" she whispered. "I think Olivia is very lucky to have you for a brother."

  "And I think she is very lucky to have you for a friend."

  Miranda's lips trembled. "I shall save a very big smile for you, Turner," she whispered.

  He leaned down and graciously kissed the back of her hand as he would the most beautiful lady in London. "See that you do, puss." He smiled and nodded before he got on his horse, leading Olivia's mare behind him.

  Miranda stared at him until he disappeared over the horizon, and then she stared for a good ten minutes more.

  * * *

  Later that night, Miranda wandered into her father's study. He was bent over a text, oblivious to the candle
wax that was dripping onto his desk. "Papa, how many times do I have to tell you that you need to watch the candles?" She sighed and put the candle in a proper holder.

  "What? Oh, dear."

  "And you need more than one. It's far too dark in here to read."

  "Is it? I hadn't noticed." He blinked and then narrowed his eyes. "Isn't it past your bedtime?"

  "Nanny said I could stay up an extra thirty minutes tonight."

  "Did she? Well, whatever she says, then." He bent over his manuscript again, effectively dismissing her.

  "Papa?"

  He sighed. "What is it, Miranda?"

  "Do you have an extra notebook? Like the ones you use when you're translating but before you copy out your final draft?"

  "I suppose so." He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and rummaged through it. "Here we are. But what do you wish to do with it? That's a quality notebook, you know, and not cheap."

  "I'm going to keep a journal."

  "Are you now? Well, that's a worthy endeavor, I suppose." He handed the notebook to her.

  Miranda beamed at her father's praise. "Thank you. I shall let you know when I run out of space and need another."

  "All right, then. Good night, dear." He turned back to his papers.

  Miranda hugged the notebook to her chest and ran up the stairs to her bedroom. She took out a pot of ink and a quill and opened the book to the first page. She wrote the date, and then, after considerable thought, wrote a single sentence. It was all that seemed necessary.

  2 March 1810

  Today I fell in love.

  Chapter 1

  Nigel Bevelstoke, better known as Turner to all who cared to court his favor, knew a great many things.

  He knew how to read Latin and Greek, and he knew how to seduce a woman in French and Italian.

  He knew how to shoot a moving target while atop a moving horse, and he knew exactly how much he could drink before surrendering his dignity.

  He could throw a punch or fence with a master, and he could do them both while reciting Shakespeare or Donne.

  In short, he knew everything a gentleman ought to know, and, by all accounts, he'd excelled in every area.

  People looked at him.

  People looked up to him.

  But nothing— not one second of his prominent and privileged life— had prepared him for this moment. And never had he felt the weight of watchful eyes so much as now, as he stepped forward and tossed a clump of dirt on the coffin of his wife.

  I'm so sorry, people kept saying. I'm so sorry. We're so sorry.

  And all the while, Turner could not help but wonder if God might smite him down, because all he could think was—

  I'm not.

  Ah, Leticia. He had quite a lot to thank her for.

  Let's see, where to start? There was the loss of his reputation, of course. The devil only knew how many people were aware that he'd been cuckolded.

  Repeatedly.

  Then there was the loss of his innocence. It was difficult to recall now, but he had once given mankind the benefit of the doubt. He had, on the whole, believed the best of people— that if he treated others with honor and respect, they would do the same unto him.

  And then there was the loss of his soul.

  Because as he stepped back, clasping his hands stiffly behind him as he listened to the priest commit Leticia's body to the ground, he could not escape the fact that he had wished for this. He had wanted to be rid of her.

  And he would not— he did not mourn her.

  "Such a pity," someone behind him whispered.

  Turner's jaw twitched. This was not a pity. It was a farce. And now he would spend the next year wearing black for a woman who had come to him carrying another man's child. She had bewitched him, teased him until he could think of nothing but the possession of her. She had said she loved him, and she had smiled with sweet innocence and delight when he had avowed his devotion and pledged his soul.

  She had been his dream.

  And then she had been his nightmare.

  She'd lost that baby, the one that had prompted their marriage. The father had been some Italian count, or at least that's what she'd said. He was married, or unsuitable, or maybe both. Turner had been prepared to forgive her; everyone made mistakes, and hadn't he, too, wanted to seduce her before their wedding night?

  But Leticia had not wanted his love. He didn't know what the hell she had wanted— power, perhaps, the heady rush of satisfaction when yet another man fell under her spell.

  Turner wondered if she'd felt that when he'd succumbed. Or maybe it had just been relief. She'd been three months along by the time they married. She hadn't much time to spare.

  And now here she was. Or rather, there she was. Turner wasn't precisely sure which locational pronoun was more accurate for a lifeless body in the ground.

  Whichever. He was only sorry that she would spend her eternity in his ground, resting among the Bevelstokes of days gone by. Her stone would bear his name, and in a hundred years, someone would gaze upon the etchings in the granite and think she must have been a fine lady, and what a tragedy that she'd been taken so young.

  Turner looked up at the priest. He was a youngish fellow, new to the parish and by all accounts, still convinced that he could make the world a better place.

  "Ashes to ashes," the priest said, and he looked up at the man who was meant to be the bereaved widower.

  Ah yes, Turner thought acerbically, that would be me.

  "Dust to dust."

  Behind him, someone actually sniffled.

  And the priest, his blue eyes bright with that appallingly misplaced glimmer of sympathy, kept on talking—

  "In the sure and certain hope of the Resurrection— "

  Good God.

  "— to eternal life."

  The priest looked at Turner and actually flinched. Turner wondered what, exactly, he'd seen in his face. Nothing good, that much was clear.

  There was a chorus of amens, and then the service was over. Everyone looked at the priest, and then everyone looked at Turner, and then everyone looked at the priest clasping Turner's hands in his own as he said, "She will be missed."

  "Not," Turner bit off, "by me."

  I can't believe he said that.

  Miranda looked down at the words she'd just written. She was currently on page forty-two of her thirteenth journal, but this was the first time— the first time since that fateful day nine years earlier— that she had not a clue what to write. Even when her days were dull (and they frequently were), she managed to cobble together an entry.

  In May of her fourteenth year—

  Woke.

  Dressed.

  Ate breakfast: toast, eggs, bacon.

  Read

  Sense and Sensibility, authored by unknown lady. Hid

  Sense and Sensibility from Father. Ate dinner: chicken, bread, cheese.

  Conjugated French verbs.

  Composed letter to Grandmother.

  Ate supper: beefsteak, soup, pudding.

  Read more

  Sense and Sensibility, author's identity still unknown. Retired.

  Slept.

  Dreamed of him.

  This was not to be confused with her entry of 12 November of the same year—

  Woke.

  Ate breakfast: Eggs, toast, ham.

  Made great show of reading Greek tragedy. To no avail.

  Spent much of the time staring out the window.

  Ate lunch: fish, bread, peas.

  Conjugated Latin verbs.

  Composed letter to Grandmother.

  Ate supper: roast, potatoes, pudding.

  Brought tragedy to the table (book, not event).

  Father did not notice.

  Retired.

  Slept.

  Dreamed of him.

  But now— now when something huge and momentous had actually occurred (which it never did) she had nothing to say except—

  I can't believe he said that.

&nb
sp; "Well, Miranda," she murmured, watching the ink dry on the tip of her quill, "you'll not achieve fame as a diarist."

  "What did you say?"

  Miranda snapped her diary shut. She had not realized that Olivia had entered the room.

  "Nothing," she said quickly.

  Olivia moved across the carpet and flopped on the bed. "What a horrible day,"

  Miranda nodded, twisting in her seat so that she was facing her friend.

  "I am glad you were here," Olivia said with a sigh. "Thank you for remaining for the night."

  "Of course," Miranda replied. There had been no question, not when Olivia had said she'd needed her.

  "What are you writing?"

  Miranda looked down at the diary, only just then realizing that her hands were resting protectively across its cover. "Nothing," she said.

  Olivia had been staring at the ceiling, but at that she quirked her head in Miranda's direction. "That can't be true."

  "Sadly, it is."

  "Why is it sad?"

  Miranda blinked. Trust Olivia to ask the most obvious questions— and the ones with the least obvious answers.

  "Well," Miranda said, not precisely stalling for time— really, it was more that she was figuring it all out as she went. She moved her hands and looked down at the journal as if the answer might have magically inscribed itself onto the cover. "This all I have. It is what I am."

  Olivia looked dubious. "It's a book."

  "It's my life."

  "Why is it," Olivia opined, "that people call me dramatic?"

  "I'm not saying it is my life," Miranda said with a flash of impatience, "just that it contains it. Everything. I have written everything down. Since I was ten."

  "Everything?"

  Miranda thought about the many days she'd dutifully recorded what she'd eaten and little else. "Everything."

  "I could never keep a journal."

  "No."

  Olivia rolled onto her side, propping her head up with her hand. "You needn't have agreed with me so quickly."

  Miranda only smiled.

  Olivia flopped back down. "I suppose you are going to write that I have a short attention span."

  "I already have."

  Silence, then: "Really?"

  "I believe I said you bored easily."