The dowager’s reaction was remarkable. Her eyes closed and her voice hushed to a whisper. “Sometimes I imagine that he did. He was far away in France then, and we did not hear from him. He could have married and been happy for at least a short while before his death. Sometimes I pray it was so.”
There was a tremor of sadness that could not be dismissed. For the first time, Miranda realized that the dowager duchess of Kerstone was still a fairly young woman. No more than forty-five at most.
The thought that Simon might have an unknown niece or nephew set fire to her imagination. “Did he investigate the possibility?”
“No. I don’t suppose he ever thought of it.” With an almost invisible struggle, the dowager regained the cold demeanor that Miranda suspected now was only a facade to hide a lonely and sad woman. “Certainly I didn’t mention the possibility to him. It was merely a foolish fancy of mine.”
Unbearable sadness swept over Miranda. “I don’t suppose it is very likely. Even if he were to have been married, how often does a short marriage produce a child?”
She was not thinking of his brother, though, but of herself. In this gallery of Watterlys, generation after generation, the ache for Simon’s child was sharp.
She fancied, as she glanced from portrait to portrait, the eyes that judged her — women as well as men — seemed to have made up their minds as to her failure. And she was fearful that there was nothing she could do to avert that failure. She could not get close enough to Simon to do her wifely duty without causing him to become overwrought.
The dowager seemed to sense the conflict that percolated through her. “Even a long union is no guarantee of children. Simon was my only child in twenty-five years of marriage.”
Once again struck by the dowager’s youth, Miranda had no time to puzzle the meaning of her statement, for at that moment the sound of childish sobbing, along with the rapid patter of feet along parquet, echoed in the hallway. Both women turned to see Betsy running toward them, tears flowing freely down her cheeks.
“Betsy!” Miranda bent to catch the child and raise her into her arms. Betsy’s arms clung tight and warm around her neck as the sobs continued.
“What on earth is the matter, my sweet?” Miranda murmured soothingly.
Between sobs, the distraught child managed eventually to gasp out, “His Grace is going to turn me and me mam out. He don’t like Mam at all.” Her wails took on a piercing quality as she finished.
Miranda forced herself to smile. “Nonsense. I have hired your mother, and you will both stay here.”
Betsy did not seem convinced, although her wails lessened in volume. Children were often fearful when adults argued, Miranda had found. The best reassurance would be for her to swiftly relegate such fears into the rubbish bin.
However, in order to convince the child, she needed to suppress her own annoyance with Simon. She forced herself to continue smiling as she hugged the child to her. “I’m afraid some of this might be my fault, sweet. You see, I had neglected to inform him that you and your mother would be joining our establishment, so His Grace was merely surprised.”
The child shook her head against the shoulder of Miranda’s gown, which was becoming increasingly damp. “He said he would not have her in his home.”
“Did he indeed?” The dowager’s question was tart. “I wonder why?”
Miranda ignored the pointed dig. “I promise, Betsy, you and your mother are staying here with me. I will explain everything to His Grace, and soon he will tell you so himself.”
Betsy lifted her head from Miranda’s shoulder. “For truth?”
“Of course.” Miranda wondered how difficult it would be to convince Simon. She could not understand his reaction. He had affection for Betsy, that had been obvious when he had caught the child in his arms in the study. Even if Katherine was not experienced, she was intelligent and capable of learning quickly. But she hid her chagrin from the obviously frightened child.
The dowager’s eyes were focused on Betsy’s tearstained cheeks and bright eyes. Her mouth was a thin line broken only when she asked, “Whose child is she?”
“My lady’s maid, Katherine’s.” Miranda explained shortly, still stung by the dowager’s assumption, in the study, that Betsy was Simon’s own child.
The dowager nodded. “So you are certain the child is not his, then.”
“I am quite certain.” Miranda wondered if the dowager was aware that she asked the most outrageous questions as if she were inquiring over the weather. She suspected the older woman actually cultivated the practice, so she dealt with her accusations plainly.
She stopped in the hallway, forcing the dowager to turn and face her instead of walking imperiously forward. “And I must tell you that I would not think less of Simon if he did choose to take a child of his into his home to raise — legitimate or not. That he might do so would only raise him in my esteem.”
“Well, I am glad to see that you have a sensible attitude about such things. So many young women don’t.” There was a wistful look in her eye for a moment and to Miranda’s amazement, the slim and elegant arm extended to allow the dowager to pat Betsy on the head. The child’s last lingering sobs stifled at once and she began to hiccup. “It must have been the blonde hair that made me think ... never mind. Come, I will show you both the line from which Simon has sprung.” She looked pointedly at Miranda. “Perhaps you will understand him better, then.”
With that disheartening statement, she turned and walked briskly toward the end of the hallway in which hung the oldest portraits. As they moved back toward the more recent portraits, Miranda barely heard her pithy descriptions of each of the ancestors, male and female, so busy was she looking for Simon’s portrait. It was puzzling to her, but apparently he had no portrait in the gallery. Perhaps it graced the mantel of another room? Somehow, though, that did not seem in keeping with what she knew of Simon.
The dowager’s brisk recitation of history ended so abruptly that Miranda, Betsy still in her arms, nearly bumped into her before she, too, managed to stop. The dowager stood looking up at the portrait of one of the sternest of the men, which hung on the wall next to the one of Peter. There was a streak of white at his temples that seemed to emphasize the sharp jut of both his nose and chin.
“Was that his father?”
A flicker of distaste crossed the dowager’s features. “My husband, God rot his soul.” When Betsy’s head once again came up from Miranda’s shoulder, the older woman seemed to realize what she had said. “Forgive me. Children should not hear such talk. This gallery has always put me on edge. I think it best if we depart.” She turned on her heel to leave and then paused to make one more comment, looking directly at the portrait of the old duke.
“Simon was a beautiful baby. I was happy to have him, despite the fact that his father was a wretched demon.” She broke off, her expression indefinably, unbearably sad as she looked up into the stern eyes of the first duke. “It is sometimes hard to imagine any of these illustrious gentlemen as innocent babes in their mother’s arms, is it not?”
Miranda tried in vain to see Simon as a babe in arms as he paced the room, anger setting his chin at such a sharp angle that he resembled his ancestors’ portraits. A vein at his temple visibly throbbed as he repeated, for the third time, “The woman is no lady’s maid. I will not allow it.”
“I hired her. I think I have that right. After all, you will not have to suffer any mistakes she might make in dressing my hair or tightening my laces.” She truly could not fathom the reason for his upset. She had thought it was simple masculine dismay at not being consulted in the decision. But from his words, it was becoming increasingly clear that his objections were with Katherine herself.
He was adamant. “I could not bear it if she were to lay one finger on your hair, or even your clothing.”
“How can you be so harsh. I realize she is not your typical maid, but with proper training ... “ She felt slightly ridiculous, making a case for Katherine
as a lady’s maid when it was all a subterfuge to keep Simon from finding out that she would be trying to cure him.
“I would prefer to keep you sheltered. Please don’t press me. Simply give the woman notice and send her home again.”
“I know she made her living in a rather unorthodox manner — ”
“Unorthodox?” He paused and glared at her. “Just exactly what do you know of how she made her living? Surely you did not discuss it with her?”
“Of course I did! She has much to teach me — ”
“What?” He found this preposterous conversation was giving him a headache. “I shall be the one to teach you about such things.”
“Well, I don’t see how. You won’t even consult a doctor about your health. I cannot understand why you are being unreasonable. I should be able to choose my lady’s maid for myself.”
“She is a wholly unacceptable person!”
Miranda rounded on him. “ I had no idea you were so intolerant or I would never have married you. Katherine may have had a hard life, but she is a good person — too good to be a lady’s maid. It is simply the best I could offer her.”
“Too good?” He could not believe his ears.
“She has been living with her father, doing her best to keep her daughter fed and clothed with her healing talents. But her village is poor and they had little to offer. I will have her, and you will not stop me.”
“A healer? What nonsense has she filled your head with, Miranda? The woman has been lying with men for money.”
Miranda blinked. For a moment she did not take in his meaning. And then she did. “How dare you say that about Katherine!”
He shook his head. “You sound as if she were your most trusted friend.”
It was true. She did consider Katherine a trusted friend. Miranda reflected that perhaps such was her nature. After all, she had bonded with Simon more quickly and fully than she had imagined possible in a lifetime of days together. “Perhaps that is because she has become one — because I took the time to get to know her.”
He stilled, the muscle that twitched when he was overwrought pulsed in an alarming fashion. “What do you mean, you took the time to get to know her? Have you spent time with this woman?”
She nodded, understanding his dismay now that she knew the misapprehension under which he labored. “And Betsy — in fact it was Betsy I went to see, but Katherine’s plight tore at my heart.”
“And so you offered her a position here?”
“Yes.”
“It will never work.”
“We will see.” She did not really care if Katherine was the worst lady’s maid ever known. She wanted her husband cured and for that she needed Katherine here to help.
“I want her out of my home. You do not know what you are about in this matter. You must trust my judgment.”
His harsh, unfeeling words echoed in her ears. He trusted her no more than her own father had. Worse, he had taken her for wife and did not treat her as a wife. “No. You must trust mine.”
He looked at her seriously, then sighed. “She must go.”
She felt herself inexplicably blinded by tears as she stood. “Very well. If you cannot be reasonable, then Katherine, Betsy, and I will be out of your home within the hour.”
Chapter 14
He watched as she retreated into a cold stranger who could stand there and calmly announce that she was leaving him — as if he did not know what he was doing in refusing Katherine. He thought briefly that she was simply being melodramatic. But a glance into her eyes convinced him otherwise.
She had no idea what she was asking of him, of course. Again, her innocence led her into trouble. Making a friend of a woman like Katherine. It was too absurd for words. And yet, he could still remember the difficulty he had had when his mother had accused him of fathering Betsy.
He wished he dared to throw in her face the simple fact that he would never deny a child of his — never keep a child from knowing the name of his or her true father, as his mother had done with him. But then the scandal would no longer be a family secret. He could not afford that. He had promised.
For a moment, he forced himself to consider letting Miranda go. Just nodding, saying nothing as she walked out, her spine stiff, Betsy’s tiny hand cradled in her own. She would do it, he had no doubt. She was not threatening him, she was laying down the battle lines and the terms of surrender in one clean shot.
Valentine would take her in. Her sisters would divert any lingering shame or misery with their demands upon her time. Miranda would go back to her old life as if she had never married. And he would be free of the torment of being married to her yet unable to make love with her.
But the thought of living the rest of his short life as the duke without her near enough to touch was unbearable. “Don’t be ridiculous. You are my wife, you will go nowhere.”
“Oh, Simon,” she whispered. “I must.”
“I will not allow it,” he said, slowly and clearly. He wanted her to know it would be a waste of time to argue. In this matter, he knew better than she. Though he did not expect her to surrender easily.
She smiled, almost involuntarily, and his heart gave an extra jolt when he saw that there were tears in her eyes. “It seems that I am the pea to your Princess.”
For a moment, he was flummoxed. And then he remembered the tale to which she referred, in which a princess was so delicate that a pea placed under twenty mattresses disturbed her sleep.
Fairytales again. Would she never realize that they lived in a world that did not often see a happy ending? “Do not spout your fairytales at me.”
Anger, hurt, and distrust warred on her expressive face as she said softly, “It hardly seems a fairytale to me, who must live it.” Her eyes were liquid with pain, but she met his gaze without flinching.
Her pain echoed within him and intensified as he realized that she was, for the first time, not convinced of a happy ending for them. He had wanted this, but the slow death of her innocence was horrifying for him to watch. As horrifying as the eager young faces of the men he had daily sent off to their deaths as a result of an indifferent ball of lead.
But what courage she had. Even with her assurance rocked, her voice was steady. “You have told me that to be your wife I must not try to stem the course of your illness.” She clenched her fists convulsively as she spoke, he noticed, but otherwise she projected a calm front. “I must not sleep next to you at night — nor kiss you too passionately.” A faint blush stained her cheeks and he felt ashamed of how badly he was hurting her. “Now you tell me that I am not capable enough to hire my own lady’s maid.” Her chin came up. “I am capable of running my own life. I don’t need you.” She paused and closed her eyes. “I just want you.”
His throat closed as her quiet words cut through him.
She opened her eyes and made as if to step closer to him, but halted. Her gaze was clear and certain. “Don’t you understand? If you do nothing to stop the course of your illness, you will die. And then I will need to do much more than hire a servant on my own.”
The thought of her, alone, after his supposed death, was not a pleasant one. But then, neither was the thought of her being taken advantage of by people with the base kind of motives she was too goodhearted to comprehend. That was the battle, after all. Her autonomy. Not Katherine herself. “I will take you to London. You may hire anyone you choose there —”
She tried to interrupt, but he held up his hand and finished forcefully. “But Katherine is unsuitable. To be plain, the woman lies with men for money and is no fit company for you.” He knew her well enough by now not to be surprised that she did not react with shock or surprise to his bald statement.
“I see you have made up your mind.” There was a touch of scorn in her voice that he could not credit.
“Some things must be done a certain way. It is not a matter of making up one’s mind, but of knowing the difference between right and wrong.”
“And Katherine
is wrong?” she challenged, her voice taut with sudden fury.
“She does what she must, no doubt. But I will not have a person like that in my household.”
“Your definition of right and wrong is too restrictive for me.” She shook her head. “Perhaps for any frail mortal being, but especially for me. You were the one who insisted we marry and now that I am here, as your wife, I feel as if you wished me anywhere but here.”
The truth of her statement jolted through him, but he rejected it with his very soul as well as his words. “Of course I don’t want you to want to be rid of me. You do not understand — ”
“Oh, but I do, Simon.” It was her turn to override him. She did so with an imperious military flare, sharply raising her arm high to halt his words.
“Katherine does not lie with men for money. She is a vicar’s widow. From her mother, she has learned herbal healing. People come from London for her help, as Giles Grimthorpe did.”
He was surprised at her naivete. “She is no vicar’s widow — she would not be living as she is, threadbare, poor. You have been gulled by a pretty story. But then, you are known to believe in fairytales.”
Indignation burned in her eyes. “So you would think, Simon. But that is because you are a man.” She said man as if it were an epithet.
“When you are a woman and your husband dies, you must fall back on the kindness of relatives.” Her eyes widened and he knew she was realizing that very likely she would soon be in a similar position.
Certainly, he was realizing what that would mean to her as he watched her argue her case for her friend. Thankfully, she had Valentine to fight for her. But it would no doubt set her pride on edge to be beholden to her twin brother for a home.
Her voice was slightly unsteady as she continued. “Katherine’s father was a humble man before his daughter married the vicar, but he gladly gave her and her daughter room in his cottage when her husband died and she was turned out of the vicarage.”
He saw the certainty in her eyes and realized abruptly that he had been the fool, not Miranda. He had come to a conclusion and forgotten to question it. Such things got men killed in war. Fortunately for him, it only lost him this one skirmish with Miranda.
[Once Upon a Wedding 01.0] The Fairy Tale Bride Page 15
