The Miss Mirren Mission

by Jenny Holiday

  “You can learn a lot from books,” she said defensively.

  “And practical experience isn’t necessary?”

  “Of course it is. But one must start somewhere. And isn’t it more expedient to start here in the library than to amass all the necessary items for a practical experiment?”

  “You, Miss Mirren, are a veritable one-woman literary society. I suppose this is exactly how you learned to swim. Did you take the book to the lake with you, or did you make notes?”

  “How is it generally done?” She still sounded a little miffed—she was delightfully easy to tease.

  “I imagine most people learn to swim by having someone teach them.”

  “Who taught you?”

  He felt the question like a punch to the solar plexus. It was his own fault—play with fire, get burned. “I can’t remember,” he said, summoning a dismissive tone and making his way back to his chair. It was time to put an end to this discussion. “I was never much for swimming.”

  “But that’s not true, is it?” Following him, she set her candelabra down on the table between his chair and its mate. “Mr. Smythe said you enjoyed swimming very much as a child.”

  The mood in the room had changed from playfulness to veiled challenge. He cleared his throat in warning. She was getting too close to a topic he didn’t discuss.

  “If I am not mistaken,” she persisted, “he said that you were a veritable fish.”

  “You must be mistaken, then.” He could hear ice forming around his words, but dash the woman, she kept pushing. Generally, he considered himself a calm sort of person. He kept his emotions in check, channeling his anger toward the cause, using it to propel himself toward the ultimate goal: the end of the war. Harboring anger at any particular person, especially a woman who hardly signified, wasn’t like him.

  Still, there it was—anger. It rose through his spine, a hot eruption, making him sit straighter. He fixed his gaze on Miss Mirren’s lips, which, even in the candlelight, appeared plump and pink.

  “I’m sure if you tried, it would all come right back to you,” she said, lecturing him like a schoolmarm.

  “My hand makes it difficult,” he said, not taking his gaze from her mouth. She caught her lower lip with her upper teeth.

  “That’s not what this is about.”

  He whipped his eyes to hers, which flashed with a spark of defiance. She wouldn’t dare.

  Apparently she would, because those blasted lips started up again. “The loss of hand in a robust man such as yourself shouldn’t have any bearing on your ability to swim.” Each individual word was a piece of kindling she threw on the fire of his ire. “Just as it wouldn’t have any bearing on your ability to dance.”

  Then, suddenly, it hit him. He recognized what was happening. He wanted to kiss her. Oh, God, he wanted to kiss her. It wasn’t just anger that had his limbs abuzz. He wanted to press his mouth over those goddamned lips of hers, to stem this maddening and unceasing flow of words and replace them with shocked gasps, with moans of pleasure and wordless cries for more.

  But he was a man who knew when he’d been bested, a practiced soldier who knew when to retreat. And, conveniently, he was also accustomed to self-denial. He tamped down the twin forces of anger and lust rising through his chest and announced the truth. “My brother died in that lake.”

  He wanted to shock her, to make her ashamed that she’d pushed him so hard about such a private matter. And though it was ungentlemanly, he wanted to hurt her a little, to make her taste the bitter medicine she’d forced him to swallow.

  She did not oblige him. Instead, she merely said, “I’m sorry.” Then she looked down at her hands for an instant before training those blue-violet eyes directly on his. “I liked to swim when I was a girl because it was the only time I didn’t feel alone. And because it was the one thing I had that was mine, that no one could take from me. There were several lakes on Mr. Manning’s property, and I would sneak out at night and swim in the moonlight. That’s the true reason I never swam in the sea, because it was generally the middle of the night when I went swimming.”

  He couldn’t have been more shocked if she’d punched him in the gut. Instead of reacting with hurt or embarrassment like any other lady would have, she had somehow recognized that he’d shared something intensely personal and responded in kind.

  He wanted to ask a thousand questions. Why did you feel alone? What about the Mannings? How did you escape the house undetected? What if you’d drowned with no one there to notice? Why wasn’t anyone paying attention?

  She spoke before he could decide what to say. “Drowning must be a horrible way to die. I hope your brother didn’t suffer overmuch.”

  No one ever asked about his brother or overtly referenced his death at all. He knew her words had the power to send him back to the lake that night. Sweat beaded on his brow as he resisted. He wasn’t at the lake. He was in his own house, with Captain Mirren’s daughter, and he rather thought she was trying to be kind.

  Blackstone obeyed a small voice in his head that urged him to continue this conversation of confessions. “He killed himself.” He searched her face for the inevitable recoil. “Does that shock you?”

  She merely shook her head.

  He took her silence for encouragement, and now that he’d started talking, he found he did not want to stop. “My brother wasn’t well. It started when he was in his final year at Eton. By the time I came back from Spain, he’d become a man of extremes. He’d be wildly happy, in love with the world. ‘You can sleep when you’re dead, Eric!’ he’d shout, dragging me out before dawn to swim.” He smiled, thinking back to those giddy mornings. That’s how he wanted to remember Alec. “But then, suddenly, he’d become the reverse—sluggish, tired, and it would worsen until it seemed he literally could not rise from his bed for weeks at a time. The misery that gripped him during these spells was, in the beginning, balanced by the exuberance that characterized the opposite periods. But the despair became stronger, dominant. Eventually it was all that was left.”

  “The world can weigh heavily, can’t it? And perhaps more heavily on some than on others.”

  She lowered herself to the chair opposite him. He realized with belated embarrassment that she had been standing though his speech while he sat in front of her, as if she were a goddess towering over him in judgment. She seemed about to speak again, but he raised a hand. He couldn’t risk her pity, because that would stop him in his tracks.

  “I moved him to the estate. He hadn’t taken up any of the responsibilities of the title, and I hoped getting to know some of the tenants might spark some feeling of obligation in him, give him something to focus on other than his demons.

  “We spent a month here together—though ‘together’ isn’t really the right word. I watched him descend into a hell of his own making. He rarely got out of bed. When he did it was to drink himself senseless or—” Good God, he couldn’t tell a gently bred maiden like Miss Mirren about the macabre madhouse they had inhabited in those awful weeks.

  “What?” she asked gently.

  He closed his eyes. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, it might as well have been Bedlam—him a raving lunatic; me, with my maimed arm, pacing the halls all night.”

  “But you got better.”

  “No.” he said, more sharply than he’d intended. “He died, so that particular torture abated, and I moved on.”

  “He died in the lake. I shouldn’t have said all that about swimming. I’m sorry.”

  Unwilling to hear exclamations of regret, he shook his head vehemently. She didn’t need to know the horrific particulars, but he was determined to finish the broad outline of the tale.

  “There was a terrible storm the night he disappeared.” He stared at the floor, remembering—and editing out—the details. “We dredged the lake the next morning and found him.” He met her eyes. “The truth is, it was partly a relief.”

  There. That was it. Did he feel guilty that he hadn’t taken his b
rother’s condition more seriously before he went off to war? Yes. Did he torment himself every day with the thought that if he’d just acted faster that night, things might have ended differently? Yes. But the thing he was most ashamed of, most tortured by, was the relief. If Alec’s death had plunged him into an endless tunnel of grief, it had also brought with it a tiny shaft of light, the alleviation that came with the cessation of effort.

  Relief. That was what he judged himself most harshly for, what he choked on at night. Even whispering the word aloud made his heart pound. He squeezed his good hand in a tight fist to still its shaking. He was waiting for judgment. Always waiting.

  It seemed, though, that the creature before him was going to offer absolution instead. A tear gathered at the corner of one of her eyes and hovered for a moment. She wouldn’t be so generous if she knew about the rest of his sins. He wanted to wipe the tear away, but he didn’t want her to see how badly his hand shook.

  Mesmerized by that single tear, a tiny slow-moving river down her cheek, he didn’t notice her hand until it was on his. First, she wrapped her palm around his clenched fist and squeezed. After a moment of stillness, she pried his thumb up and wormed her fingers under his, forcing his hand to open.

  Then she simply held his hand. The comfort of the gesture was uncomplicated and profound. To have someone touch him with concern, with a kind of sympathy that didn’t feel like pity, nearly took his breath away. He was exhausted, hollow—but the despair was lessened.

  “You are cold,” he said. The soft, pale hand in his might as well have been an icicle.

  “Yes,” she agreed.

  He wished more than anything he had his missing hand back, just for a minute, so he could take her hands between his and rub some warmth into them. Rearranging his grip, he tried to cover as much of her icy fingertips as possible.

  He wanted to say, “It’s your turn,” and ask why she had felt so alone as a girl, what it had been like growing up with the Mannings. The irony did not escape him. He and Bailey had discussed this very thing—finding a way to get Miss Mirren to talk about Mr. Manning. But now, here, he wanted to know for entirely different reasons. He wanted to know about her.

  Instead, he settled for, “You should go back to bed. It’s late, and you’re freezing.” He gave her hand a final squeeze before dropping it. “And we shouldn’t be here like this. This is…”

  “Highly improper? Shockingly scandalous?” She smiled and rose, moving toward the window behind his desk. “I can see the scandal sheets now. Earl of Blackstone caught alone with heretofore-unknown spinster. They were…conversing!”

  He didn’t respond at first, just took in the sight of her, a river of moonlight making her curls come alive as it painted them with diamonds. He had the idea that most gently bred ladies slept with their hair in braids, but the two times he’d encountered Miss Mirren in the house at night, her hair tumbled loose over her shoulders.

  All that unconstrained hair—it suddenly felt dangerous. “It wouldn’t be good for either of us if anyone found us here.”

  She made her way to the door, opened it a crack, and peeped into the hallway, lifting her candelabra to light the way. Looking back over her shoulder before she disappeared into the blackness of the corridor, she whispered, “Don’t worry. Your secrets are safe with me.”

  If only that could be true.

  But if Miss Mirren knew all his secrets, she wouldn’t be so kind.

  Chapter Six

  Emily never slept in. She was not a woman who lay abed while the sun shone, oblivious while responsibility beckoned. In the four days she’d been at Clareford, she’d found herself up before the other guests, well before breakfast was laid. She spent her mornings walking the earl’s magnificent gardens. Knowing that Mr. Manning would remain abed for several hours after she rose allowed her to enjoy herself without worrying she might miss an opportunity to discover his plans.

  So she was nothing short of appalled when, after awakening to a gentle tapping on the door, one of the earl’s upstairs maids appeared, curtsying apologetically, declaring that she’d been sent to ensure that Miss Mirren was well.

  Emily eyed the bright shaft of light spilling through the slit in the room’s heavy damask draperies. “What time is it?”

  “Ten of the clock, miss.”

  “Oh, my heavens!” Mortified, she struggled to a seated position. “I never sleep this late.”

  “Indeed, miss. That’s what his lordship said when he sent me to look in on you.”

  Memories of the previous night came rushing in, and she prayed the maid would not notice her heated cheeks. “His lordship sent you?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Talbot was remarking upon your absence, and he noted that you hadn’t been on your morning stroll through the gardens.”

  “How does he know I walk the gardens?”

  “He’s an early riser like you, miss. Doesn’t sleep much at all, in fact. He takes his coffee on the back terrace, usually just as the sun is coming up, so I suppose he sees you.” The maid moved to the window. “Shall I open these, then, if you mean to get up?”

  “Thank you, yes.” It was unsettling to think that all these mornings she’d thought she’d been enjoying solitary walks, Lord Blackstone’s dark eyes had been following her.

  “Breakfast is still laid out if you’ve a mind to go down. Or I shall I ring for a tray?”

  “Don’t ring! I’ll go down.”

  “Let me help you.” The maid hurried over as Emily pulled on her stays.

  “They lace up the front, so I can do them myself.” Emily demonstrated.

  “I’ve heard of that! Very clever! Still, you should let me help.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Angela, miss.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Angela. I’m all but finished. All that’s left to do is to tame this unruly mop of mine.” Sitting at the dressing table, she sighed. She always came away from sleep looking as if she had done battle with a wild beast of some sort. Braids didn’t help—they only made her hair look even more out of control when they came out.

  “Oh, but you must let me help. My sister has a head of curls like yours. I used to dress them for her.”

  Emily smiled at the maid in the mirror. “You’re welcome to try.” Angela came forward and surveyed the collection of pins and combs on the table.

  “Where is your sister now?” Emily asked.

  “In London. She’s a lady’s maid. She used to serve at a neighboring estate here in Essex, but a guest of her master took a liking to her and wooed her away! Can you imagine? It’s like a fairy tale.”

  A fairy tale in which the servant remained a servant. “London’s not so far. You must get to see her from time to time?”

  Angela shook her head as she wound two long sections of Emily’s hair around each other, fashioning a two-strand plait. “It’s too far a journey for my half day—on the mail coach, at least. But I did take a holiday last year and went to stay with her.”

  “How did you find it?”

  “I adored it! I wish I could find myself a situation there.”

  “I might be able to help with that,” said Emily, skeptically eyeing the maid’s progress. She was making a series of twists, leaving each one to hang, tied off at the ends with a strip of muslin. “I live in town and could provide a character reference.”

  “Oh, would you?” Angela’s green eyes sparkled, and if she hadn’t been tethered to Emily by a handful of hair, she might have jumped for joy.

  Emily liked the ambitious Angela. And it seemed the girl was even going to impose some order on Emily’s head. She’d begun twisting the plaits she’d created around each other, fastening them at the nape of Emily’s neck.

  “What is it like, serving here, when Lord Blackstone is so rarely in residence?”

  “Indeed, I’d not met him before a few days ago, miss.” Angela paused with a pin in her mouth, contemplating the question. “I suppose it’s a very good situation. I’m not usually a l
ady’s maid, on account of there being no ladies here. His lordship pays high wages. Ridiculously high, says Mrs. Sheldon, given that there’s never anyone in residence.” She patted Emily’s hair. “Though I, for one, prefer to have some excitement in the house!” Standing back, she cocked her head, assessing her handiwork.

  Emily thought of the immaculately maintained gardens that surrounded the stately, graceful house. How strange that the earl would be such a generous employer and keep his empty estate at the ready, when she’d overheard him intimating to Mr. Manning that he was short of funds.

  “How lovely!” said Emily, her attention drawn back to the glass. The girl had wound her hair around itself, creating a low knot that managed to be neat, yet preserve the suggestion of curl. It was as if instead of wrestling with her curls, Angela had made them her allies. “You’re a marvel!”

  Emily left Angela to her tidying and hurried downstairs, hoping to find the breakfast room empty. It had been so easy to share confidences with Lord Blackstone in the dark quiet of the library, but she felt uncomfortable now, as if she were in possession of information that wasn’t rightly hers.

  “Ah! The onetime lark appears!” said Lord Blackstone, holding a cup of tea and looking up from a plate piled high with ham and eggs. He stood. “We’d begun to suspect you’d perished in your bed, Miss Mirren.”

  The Smythe twins tittered, and the other men in the room—Mr. Manning and Mr. Talbot—rose, too. Emily flushed. Lord Blackstone was never in the breakfast room. He and Mr. Bailey always seemed to be off doing something else in the mornings. Today, though, he filled the space with his dark presence. Even now, having sat back down, he seemed too large for the dainty, yellow-papered room. It was an effort to tear her eyes from him to properly greet the others. Though she knew it irrational, she feared they might be able to see that she had held Lord Blackstone’s hand last night.

  “Did you have a late night?” he inquired. His face was a placid mask, but he tapped his plate slightly with his fork as he gazed at her. The nerve! She was tied up in knots over their encounter, and he was going to tease her?