Nothing in the woman’s expression seemed concerned, yet there was an air of expectancy emanating from her as she said, “The question seems more to be — what did he say to you?”
Even though the dowager waited silently for her answer, Miranda could feel the other woman’s eager impatience as if it were a force of its own. And yet her features were so composed that she gave the impression of a pond that had frozen over. Had this woman no heart? To distress her dying son in this manner and then act as if she were blameless?
Reining in her temper, she answered as politely as she could manage, “He will be in shortly.”
“What a pity.” Again, the dowager’s face held no clue to her thoughts.
Miranda, her temper at the boiling point, had no notion of how to respond to such blatant incivility. She finally decided to do her best to match the dowager’s sangfroid. “I feel certain you will excuse my wish to retire now.”
The dowager smiled, a simple lift of her mouth. “I had held some hope that the young woman who persuaded Simon to marry her at this juncture of his life could persuade him to be civil to his mother.”
Miranda stood rooted to the spot. For a moment she thought she had not heard correctly. Stiffly, she responded to the dowager’s attack. “My concern at this point, as I’m sure you understand, is his health.”
Though she had sworn to herself not to lose her temper again, she could not resist adding, “I don’t pretend to understand what is behind his behavior toward you, Your Grace, but I cannot worry about that when he is dying.”
“It is all that I can worry about.” The deprecating smile was so fleeting that Miranda almost believed she had imagined the slight quirk of the dowager’s mouth.
Her temper flared, and she was too exhausted to fight it anymore. “Do you not care about him?”
The anger that she was poised to vent disappeared in an instant, though, at the sadness that shadowed the dowager’s features as she spoke. “I regret that our relationship must be unmended should I never see him again.”
It seemed a cold way to discuss her son’s death, as if he might simply be leaving for an extended trip. “That is between the two of you. For my part, I can only do what Simon will not.”
“Indeed?” The dowager’s brow rose. “And what is that?”
“He will not consider doctors, apparently they have failed him in the past. So I have found someone to minister to him.”
The instant the words were out of her mouth, Miranda regretted them. She had not confided her actions to Simon, yet she had just told his mother, knowing the two of them could not bear to be in the same room with each other.
Though the dowager seemed not to move, her skirts rippled slightly, as if she had suppressed a start of surprise. “Simon has agreed to this?”
“He has been disappointed by doctors, he says. But a healer is a different cup of tea,” Miranda sidestepped, not wanting to divulge any more to the woman Simon so obviously didn’t trust.
As if sensing that Miranda did not want to lie, the dowager would not be put off. She leaned toward Miranda and fixed her with a stare. “Does he know?” her voice had the stern tone of Miranda’s old nanny.
Responding to both the tone, and the need to explain what she intended for Simon, Miranda looked steadily at the silver locket that hung starkly against the dowager’s black silk. “I hadn’t intended to tell him the exact purpose this person will serve.”
The dowager leaned back and sighed, almost as if she were a tutor who had been disappointed by an errant pupil. “Dishonesty so soon, my dear? Whatever will Simon say?”
Miranda felt as if she were five again, and being scolded for not confessing her part in a midnight raid on the biscuits in the kitchen. “My concern is Simon. I believe that he will resist the healing if he knows about it.”
“Indeed?”
Miranda blushed lightly. It was embarrassing to speak to his mother, who had known him all his life, as if she knew Simon well.
But her feeling about this was strong, and soon, when Katherine arrived, there would be someone to agree with or dispute her deeply-held belief that Simon was preventing his own recovery. “I think he is not pursuing all the avenues available to him for a cure, for some reason. I cannot help but hope, like Briar Rose, a curse of death has been laid upon him and can be lifted.”
Again, Miranda looked up to meet the dowager’s intense gray eyes. The woman’s words were softly spoken, yet there was a tension within her that Miranda could not fathom. “You are a very perceptive young woman. I wonder if Simon knows just how perceptive a young woman he so rashly married?”
Uncertain of the meaning of the dowager’s words, Miranda answered lamely, “I have never considered Simon rash.”
“And yet he chose one day, without warning, to cast his own mother out of his life.”
Miranda had been taught to respect her elders, but caught between Simon and his mother, she knew she must defend her husband. “I cannot think the problem all rests with Simon,” she addressed the dowager duchess warily. “In the short time I have known him, I have given him several reasons to hold me in contempt and he has always listened to my explanation and understood — as best he could — my reasoning, faulty thought he might think it.”
“Indeed?” The dowager’s right eyebrow lifted elegantly. “Certainly he has refused to listen to me. But then, I talk plainly, and not all people care to hear the truth.”
Miranda bit back a harsh defense of Simon and said mildly, “Perhaps, but I have always found Simon to be above all interested in the truth.”
As she stood in the doorway, with the cold night air encroaching from the hallway, she found herself no longer in such pain over Simon’s rejection. This was a house of coldness that sprang from more than the night air. There was much more here than was fathomable in one night.
Whatever drove Simon to refuse a doctor’s help with his illness had its root here in this house, and with his relationship with his mother. Miranda hoped she would be equal to the challenge of divining what ailed Simon’s body — as well as his soul.
There was a flash of some emotion in the dowager’s eyes that was quickly masked by her enigmatic expression. “Be cautious child, thinking you know any man. They are all capable of bending truth to the breaking point if it suits their needs.”
“Not Simon,” Miranda countered flatly.
The dowager smiled. “You are very young, my dear.”
“Good night, Your Grace.” With a weak smile and a nod of her head, she turned and fled up the stairs to her new room and her new bed. Somehow, the thought was not quite so appealing now that she knew Simon had been diverted from his initial intentions.
Hours later, as she sat listening, unable to relax, she heard muffled sounds from the room adjoining hers. Murmured voices — Simon and his valet. A thump as something hit the floor — a boot? Two? And then, presently, silence. She waited, but there was no indication that he even glanced at the door between them, never mind thought to come through it.
She woke from her fitful sleep, forgetting for a moment where she was. She lay half awake, half asleep, unable to pinpoint what had disturbed her. The bed was strange, not her own familiar little one with its cheery yellow curtains.
Behind the massive oak-paneled door that joined her chamber with Simon’s, she heard the faint sounds of groaning. Instantly she came fully awake. She heard nothing more. Could it have been her imagination? What if Simon needed her? She stared at the door. Unable to deny her worries, she slipped quietly to the door, careful not to use a candle lest the light disturb Simon. As the door silently opened into the other room, she heard no more groans.
Still, a nagging worry made her creep into the room, until she was at the foot of the bed. He lay there, his even breathing a testament to his current well-being. Miranda felt a knot of fear ease and she turned to go.
Just then, Simon groaned again softly. Miranda halted. He had said nothing to her of pain, but surely there must b
e some?
Through the dim moonlight, she could see that he was restless as he slept, his bedcovers were twisted and pulled askew. Her heart went out to him. Even in his sleep he could not be at peace: his illness still touched him.
The need to soothe him was too strong to resist. Cautiously, she approached the bed. Simon’s face was in the shadows. The moonlight illuminated only a cheek and a wing of his golden hair, giving him a magical, illusive air. She reached out to touch his face and reassure herself that he was real, and without warning, found herself staring into his alert gaze.
His voice was soft. “Have you come to tell me a bedtime tale? What one have you chosen? Goldilocks and the three bears? The child who’s so bold as to go wherever she will?”
“There is no need for you to be sarcastic. I have every right to worry for your health. I am your wife.”
“I have not forgotten our marriage.” He was silent for a moment, staring into her eyes as if he could not look away. And then he sighed and turned his back to her. “I am well enough, just bedeviled.”
“Is the pain so awful?” Miranda bit her lip, afraid to hear the answer. Simon coughed. If the subject had not been so serious, she might have thought that he was hiding amusement. No, it was a trick of the night.
His voice was gruff and rasped out at her. “Almost unbearable right at this moment. But I am sure it will ease if only I could know that you slept soundly.”
“Perhaps if I remain here tonight?” The idea came to her unbidden and she was suddenly warm, even in the night chill. She smiled. “Didn’t Goldilocks try out all the beds?” It was a pleasant thought, lying next to him, being held in his arms. Perhaps even —
“No. And, if you remember, Goldilocks ran screaming from the bed in terror.”
The cold rejection hurt more than Miranda expected, although after the events in the stable, she had been forewarned. Still, she was reluctant to release her pleasant dream. “But I could — “
He turned back to face her and sat up slightly, so that his whole face was lit by moonlight. “Believe me, Miranda, you would cause me greater pain that way.”
She found her gaze caught by the smooth bare shoulder the moon exposed with its silver light. “I should have realized that.” She admired him for keeping the depths of his pain a secret from her. That having her next to him would hurt had never crossed her mind.
She laughed, as if to make light of her suggestion. “I suppose it is just that I feel so alone here. There are no sisters to slip into my room and ask for a drink of water or a story. I am not used to being so ... unnecessary.”
He was silent for a long moment and she met his steady eyes. It made her shiver to see the same intensity that had been in the dowager’s eyes only hours before. He said, “I have told you before, Miranda. I do not need a mother — not even the one I already have.”
“I know, Simon. I don’t want to be your mother. I want to be your wife.”
He sighed. “Please, go to sleep now. I promise I shall introduce you to your new home properly tomorrow. Such an introduction will require you to be well rested. I can’t have my servants thinking their new mistress is dull and foolish, can I?”
Miranda sighed in unconscious imitation of him, seeing the sense in his words and trying hard not to be too disappointed. “Very well. I shall see that your mother is gone in the morning.”
“If you can dislodge that woman before she is ready to go, I really will begin to believe in happy endings.”
She smiled. “Then you will believe in them very soon. I’ll leave you to rest.” Impulsively, she bent to kiss him. Her hands came down on his shoulders to brace herself for the light peck on the cheek she intended. But the feel of warm bare skin under her fingers send a shock of wanting coursing through her and she sought his lips instead.
He did not respond. Indeed, he remained still as stone as she pressed her lips to his. The sting of rejection left her feeling the cold night air and the flimsiness of her thin nightgown and robe. When she pulled back, she could not look at his face. “Good night.”
His own “Good night” in answer to hers was terse.
She could not doubt that he wished her out of his room. For the first time, she began to wonder if he regretted their impulsive marriage and wished her out of his life, as well.
Chapter 12
Simon opened the door to Miranda’s adjoining room quietly and glanced inside. If she was not yet fully clothed, he wanted to be able to perform a rapid tactical retreat. He told himself he was relieved when he saw that she was almost ready to go down to breakfast.
Something made him pause in the doorway, though, just watching as a maidservant fluttered around, offering scents and powders. He smiled at Miranda’s courteous rejection of all offerings. He liked the vanilla scent of her and the near perfection of her powder-free skin.
He stepped into the room. “Are you ready to meet Arthur this morning?” He kept his tone light and bantering, hoping that a maid’s presence would encourage Miranda to do so also.
She whirled from her toilette, surprised that he would just walk in on her as she dressed. The maid, too, seemed more startled than she ought. For a moment he considered turning around and leaving them in peace to get on with the business of dressing. The impulse passed quickly as he savored the view of Miranda with her hair still down, as she had come to him last night.
Though she was already dressed for the morning in a peach gown with cream trim, the fall of her hair made her seem barely decent. It was a luxury he had decided to allow himself. There was little danger of anything untoward happening between them once she was safely dressed and the day had begun. It was evening — and the middle of the night, that were dangerous.
Miranda smiled uncertainly at him and once again settled herself so that the maid could pin up her hair. Her eyes met his in the looking glass. “You seem to be well rested and cheerful again.”
The little maidservant seemed unnerved by his presence, and Miranda winced as a lock of her hair was clumsily tangled in the brush. As she let out a soft cry of pain, the girl stopped her ministrations and looked as if she might burst into tears.
He stepped forward and took the brush from the maid’s trembling fingers. “You may go.”
The girl stared uncomprehendingly at him for a moment. “But Your Grace, I must see to Her Grace’s hair.”
“I shall take over for this morning.” Simon gave the girl a slight push toward the door, afraid if he didn’t she might remain rooted to the floor forever. With a muted cry, she ran from the room, her cheeks blooming scarlet, her eyes filled with tears.
Simon brushed Miranda’s hair gently. “I’m sorry, my dear. I know she is inexperienced, but I thought you might prefer to hire your own personal maid, so I had Mrs. Hoskins promote her into the position of temporary maid.”
“She has done her best, Simon. She is simply very young.” There was a reproachful look in Miranda’s eyes that suggested she was displeased with him, almost as if he had beaten the girl instead of dismissing her from the room.
“Of course. I would never have promoted her, not even temporarily — to this position if she had not shown promise.”
“She just needs someone to show her how to behave as a lady’s maid.” Her eyes met his in the mirror and she smiled warily. “Someone to show her how to brush hair as well as you do it. I must wonder where you learned such skills. Did you ever serve as a lady’s maid?”
He laughed and kissed the top of her head. It was sweet torment to go no farther, and he began to regret having sent the maid from the room. “It is not proper for a wife to be jealous of her husband’s acquired skills, merely to appreciate them. Some things a wife is not meant to know.”
In the mirror, he could see the confusion in her expression. He did not want to explain himself, or last night, however. Explanations would close the distance between them, and for his sanity he needed to keep Miranda a few steps away from him, emotionally as well as physically.
&
nbsp; So instead of answering, he concentrated on brushing out the tangles he found, reveling in the smooth silky feel of her hair in his hands. He had decided during his sleepless night that he would enjoy every aspect of being a husband, except one. And he meant to record each day in his memory to warm him in the long, lonely years ahead. He absorbed the feel of her hair into his fingertips as he brushed.
Soon it lay shining and tangle free as it fell down her back. His very own Rapunzel. Simon enjoyed the sight for a moment before he lifted his gaze to hers in the mirror. “I’m afraid my expertise ends here.” He sighed, laying the brush on the table beneath the looking glass. “I could no more put your hair up than I could stitch you a gown of moonbeams and sunlight.”
His words surprised him, coming from nowhere. But he could see her thusly dressed and suddenly wished he could order it done. Impossible dreams, like the ones he sometimes had of a wife, a family, a life that was truly his own.
“Perhaps you can. Hero once called you our fairy godfather.” She smiled, her eyes alight with imagination at his fanciful analogy and he felt a breath of relief that she had put aside her questions about the previous evening. “I can put it up, Simon. I haven’t had a maid since — “
She paused. Her eyes darkened briefly before she smiled again. “Hero and Juliet used to help me, but I’ve often done it myself. I suppose I shall have to get used to doing without their help in the future.”
He heard the lonely note in her voice and stilled the hands she had raised to pin her hair. “Leave it like this for today, and come and meet Arthur.”
She lifted one hand to her hair. “He shall be forever shocked. I cannot meet him like this.” She looked at him uncertainly, and he cursed himself for bringing her to this. She was bright and beautiful, not meant to be buried in a mausoleum, as this house was. And it would be dangerous for him to offer her too much companionship to ease her natural loneliness.
“Of course you will not shock him. He will be charmed by you, my dear. And jealous of my having rescued my own Rapunzel.” At her continued doubt, he added, “I’ll take all the blame upon my head for not finding you an experienced lady’s maid.”
[Once Upon a Wedding 01.0] The Fairy Tale Bride Page 13
