by Darcy Burke
But should she—could she? She was out of ideas and the only thing resonating in her brain was her mother’s admonishment, “If you can’t think how to behave, simply mimic those around you. That way you shall always fit in.” Perhaps her mother had never been more right. Miranda swallowed a great mouthful of air and burped it out as loudly as possible.
Everyone at the table froze. She couldn’t help but smile at finally getting their attention. After a blissful moment of utter silence, Bernard clapped his hands from the corner. Soon everyone was whooping, laughing, or clapping wildly. And burping. She’d encouraged an epic tournament.
Ah well, she’d have plenty of days to fix their manners. For now, she was tired, hungry, and not at all interested in spoiling their fun. Surprisingly, she found she envied their carefree ignorance—stained dresses and all.
FOX crouched low over the ground, scanning for the slightest sign of life. There! A tiny bit of green poked up from the soft brown earth.
“It’s late.” Rob frowned down at the meager sprout fighting to the surface of the orphanage’s vegetable garden.
Fox stood. “Better late than nonexistent.” He raised his gaze to the gray sky and was rewarded with a fat snowflake in his eye. Blinking, he said, “I was just going to say I brought a cartful of hay from Bassett Manor to cover the plants in case it froze tonight.”
Rob squinted upward as a scattering of flakes fluttered toward the ground. “I’ll get the wheelbarrow.”
“And I’ll get the pitchforks.”
A few moments later, they were pulling hay from the cart amidst a flurry of cold, damp snow. The yard filled with the gleeful shrieks of the children as they played.
By the time Fox and Rob got back to the garden, a thin layer of white covered their tiny seedlings. Fox dumped the wheelbarrow. “Damn. It’s really coming down. I’ll spread this. You go and get another load.”
A wet thwack against Fox’s back made him turn. Philip stood maybe twenty feet away with a mouth-splitting grin. While Fox was anxious to get their precious plants covered, Philip was starting a snowball fight.
“Philip!”
Fox spun toward the voice calling out from the back of the house. Miranda stood at the door garbed in a dark blue gown, her blond hair pulled back from her face in a simple chignon. Even from this distance her beauty made his breath catch. She was a vision of domestic perfection. He imagined her standing on the back terrace at Bassett Manor calling him into luncheon.
His trance was broken when she stalked toward Philip, her brows drawn together. He strained to hear her admonishment over the sounds around him. “Mr. Foxcroft is working there. You mustn’t throw snowballs.”
Too late, Fox noticed Bernard launching a snowball at Miranda’s back. With a gasp, she twirled around.
Fox ran to Bernard and yanked him toward the vegetable patch. “You will spread the hay over the plants. Quickly now.” Fox pointed at Philip. “And you will go help Mr. Knott.”
Philip nodded and took himself off.
Miranda gaped at him. “My goodness, they actually listen to you.”
“It takes a stern tone. And several days supervising them working in the fields.”
She hugged her arms around herself. “I can’t believe it’s snowing.”
He repressed the urge to draw her to his body and warm her. “You should get back inside. You’re not even wearing a cloak.”
Snowflakes clung to her eyelashes, accentuating their lush length. “But you look as if you need help.”
Fox watched as Rob and Philip hurried back to the garden with another load of hay. “It wouldn’t come amiss. Do you think you can round up some children to help?”
She grinned at him and he thought his knees might give out. “I can try.”
He stared after her, unable to tear his gaze away.
Rob cleared his throat as he sidled up next to Fox. “You going to gawk at her backside or take care of our beans and turnips?”
“If only I actually had a choice.” Fox tore his gaze from Miranda’s, yes, backside.
Rob waved at the boys in the vegetable patch. “Careful there! Cover the plants, but don’t step on them!” Three more boys joined Bernard and Philip. They appeared eager to toss hay around in the middle of a snowstorm. Rob addressed Fox again. “You make any further progress with her, then?”
“Not since I usurped Stratham’s place the other day when I took her for a drive.” Fox steered the wheelbarrow back to the cart.
Rob walked alongside. “Brilliant move, that. You don’t want him stealing her away.” Color crept up his neck, and he looked away, either suddenly interested in the swirling snow or belatedly realizing he was a complete ass for saying such an imbecilic thing.
Fox glared at his friend. “You know full well Jane didn’t choose him of her own accord, and neither will Miranda. I may not look as fancy as Stratham, but she’ll recognize I’m the better man.”
Rob glanced down at Fox’s clothes: ancient gloves pocked with holes, work clothes, which were as patched and worn as the quilt his great-great grandmother had made, but nodded anyway. “I’m sure you’re right. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with a man who works.”
They believed that, but did Miranda? The boys were throwing snowballs again. “Lads! If you’re finished spreading that hay, move the snow away from the seedlings. We don’t want them catching cold.” Fox shook his head.
Rob pointed toward the vegetable patch, indicating the wheelbarrow was full and they should return. “You know, you could, ah, there is one way to ensure a trip to the altar.”
Fox pinned him with an incredulous stare. “You aren’t suggesting I abduct her to Gretna Green?”
“God, no! Just a situation that might infer you needed to marry her.”
Fox stood rooted to the ground, not sure he’d heard his steward correctly. “Compromise her, you mean?”
Rob lifted a shoulder. “You know she’s a bit brazen. Seems like it could work with little effort.”
Yes, she’d proven herself more than a bit brazen. Still, the idea of trapping her was distasteful. “I’ll take it under consideration. But for now, I prefer to court her as I am.” He pushed the hay toward another part of the garden.
Miranda had come to supervise the nearly ten boys now tending to the plants. Aside from the occasional miniature snowball making its way down some lad’s neck, they did a good job separating plant from snow.
She rubbed her hands up and down her arms. “These were all I could manage. The other children are too intent on making the most of snow in June.”
“I’m impressed you got this many.” And he was. She might look like a delicate flower, but she was proving to be as hardy as any wild rose.
Mrs. Gates joined them. “Lady Miranda, Mr. Stratham is here to see you. I brought your cloak.” She wrapped the wool around Miranda’s shoulders.
Miranda’s cheeks were pink from the cold, but Fox detected a further blush. “How thoughtful. Thank you, Mrs. Gates.”
Mrs. Gates couldn’t help but mother everyone in her path—a fact that had probably saved Fox from following his father’s example and leading a life of ruin. “It’s no problem, dear. Go on in and see your Mr. Stratham.”
Fox gripped the pitchfork. “Her” Mr. Stratham?
Philip took the implement from his hand. “I’ll get the next load, Mr. Foxcroft.”
“Thank you, Philip.”
Miranda pulled her cloak more securely around her. “I think I’m needed out here. Would you mind telling Mr. Stratham I’m otherwise engaged?”
Mrs. Gates blinked. “I should round up the other children.”
And now Miranda’s face flushed even more. “Of course. I’ll just run inside and send him on his way.”
Fox shrugged. “You could make him wait. If he wants to see you, he’ll come outside.” Or maybe he’ll just leave.
“Now, Fox, that isn’t polite.” Mrs. Gates clucked her tongue, but as she walked away, Fox could have sworn he h
eard her chuckle.
Miranda’s tongue darted out and caught a snowflake. Fox couldn’t move. The sight of that luscious pink tip was enough to cause his groin to heat despite the freezing temperature.
One side of her mouth turned up. “Sorry. A childhood habit I can’t relinquish, apparently.”
And Fox hoped she never did. The moment stretched toward two before Fox remembered there was a vegetable patch to protect from the snow. He opened his mouth to excuse himself just as he saw Stratham picking his way over the frozen ground.
“Lady Miranda!”
Miranda turned and smiled prettily. “Mr. Stratham. As you can see, we’ve been a bit surprised by the weather.”
Stratham perused Fox and then the boys spreading hay. “Indeed. But, fortune has smiled upon you because I’ve come to rescue you from your drudgery. My carriage awaits your beautiful presence.” He grinned, his eyes crinkling as if he laughed often, as if he hadn’t a care in the world—except perhaps whether his constituents could afford the tribute he demanded.
“I’m afraid I couldn’t leave just now. We need to cover the fledgling vegetables.” The sound of her saying, “we” made Fox’s chest swell. Then she touched Stratham’s sleeve briefly and he deflated. “Have you brought your donation today?”
Stratham allowed his gaze to rest a trifle too long on Miranda’s bosom, and now he snapped his head up. “Indeed, I brought a donation. I will give it to Fox.”
Fox’s fingers itched to break the man’s head clean off. Was his irritation due to a true depth of feeling for Miranda or the fear of losing to Stratham once again?
“It doesn’t look as if you are contributing, ”Stratham observed. “Why not enjoy the warming brick I have in my carriage?”
Did the idiot not realize he’d insulted her? Fox waited to see her reaction and wasn’t disappointed.
Frowning slightly, she said, “Perhaps another time.”
“Be assured of it.” Stratham’s lips parted in a grin. He hadn’t recognized his faux pas at all. His straight, white, perfect teeth begged for Fox’s fist to shatter them. And didn’t he recall that Miranda wasn’t allowed to drive with anyone? He was either incredibly obtuse or overwhelmingly self-involved. Both, Fox reasoned.
“Lady Miranda, would you mind helping me with Molly?” Mrs. Gates called from the other side of the yard. She held a coughing child whose dress looked to be sopping wet. Fox hoped she wasn’t catching something.
“Here’s the donation.” Stratham tossed Fox a small purse.
The bag felt light. The biscuits and hairpins Miranda had stowed in his cloak the night on the road had weighed more. “Thank you for your generosity.” Fox’s gaze slid to Miranda who watched the exchange with a pleasant smile. No doubt she found Stratham a hero.
“Think nothing of it. See you next time.” Stratham spun about and tiptoed back across the snow.
Fox wanted so badly to launch a giant snowball at Stratham’s head.
“I’d do it if I were you.” Rob came up beside him, reading Fox’s mind.
“And I would if I wasn’t trying to set an example for the boys.” Responsibility was a terrible nuisance sometimes.
“What’s that?” Rob inclined his head toward the bag in Fox’s hand.
Fox opened the purse and surveyed the two shillings inside. “Stratham brought this.”
Rob curled his lip. “Bloody plague, that one.”
“Plague?” Yes, it was as accurate a description as any. Fox would add son of a bitch, corrupt, slimy, insincere, jackanapes—
Rob shook snow off his shoulders. “The assembly’s coming up, and Miranda will surely be going. Stratham, too. You need to go. Do you have anything to wear?”
Fox pulled the pouch closed. He hadn’t been to a quarterly assembly in years. Not since he’d courted Jane. “Of course, I have nothing to wear. Doesn’t matter anyway, she won’t be there. She’s been forbidden from socializing. All of my courting will have to be done here, I’m afraid.”
Rob frowned at Fox’s clothes. “Unfortunately, I think you’re right. You can’t court her looking like that all the time, especially after seeing you next to Stratham.” At Fox’s sharp glare, he added, “Sorry, but ’tis true.”
Fox’s hand closed over the purse in his palm. He could scarcely believe he was discussing fashion—of all things—with his best friend in a vegetable garden in the middle of a snowstorm in June. “While I appreciate your statement of the obvious, is there a chance at all you’ll leave this matter to me?”
“You said yourself you don’t have any nice clothes. I’ll ask Mrs. Knott to make you something.”
“Your wife has supplies for such an undertaking?”
Rob grasped the wheelbarrow for another trip. “Eh, leave it to her. Mrs. Knott can make anything out of nothing.”
If only she could turn snow into money, all of their problems would be solved.
Chapter Five
LATER that night, Miranda sat at the small desk in her bedchamber and plucked up a quill to write a letter to her parents, only to drop it as a violent sneeze wracked her frame. Another threatened, but she quickly dabbed at her nose with a handkerchief. Wonderful—helping at the orphanage earlier had made her ill. So much for her nightly walk in the garden.
She picked up the quill, but then dropped it in resignation as another sneeze claimed her. Writing to her parents was a pointless exercise anyway, since they would likely respond that three weeks in the country hardly qualified as appropriate punishment.
Miranda begged to differ. Every evening stretched monotonously without the benefit of a book to read or people to talk with. Mr. Carmody shut himself in his study. Mrs. Carmody did needlepoint, quiet needlepoint as she seemed bent on reminding Miranda. And, after a bit of time spent with her mother in some inane after-dinner activity, Beatrice went to her room. Miranda didn’t know what Beatrice did there, but she never invited Miranda to share her company.
A soft knock on her door interrupted her reverie. With a sniffle, she turned toward the door. “Enter.”
Beatrice stepped inside. “I saw your light. I hope I’m not disturbing you.” Her appearance at this hour was a singular event.
Miranda gestured for her to come further into the room. “Not at all. Would you care to sit?”
She shook her head. “No, thank you. I merely wanted to ask if you might…would you show Tilly how to arrange my hair in a more fashionable style?”
Miranda wondered at this sudden interest. “I should be delighted. Tomorrow morning, after breakfast?”
Beatrice nodded. “Thank you. Good night.”
“Is there someone whose attention you’re trying to win?” Miranda couldn’t resist asking.
The older girl blushed. “Perhaps, but that’s none of your affair.”
Actually, Miranda thought it might be, given the Carmodys’ expectation she help Beatrice in her search for a husband, but decided not to argue. Instead she stood. “Beatrice, why don’t Mr. Foxcroft and Mr. Stratham like each other?”
Beatrice folded her arms over her chest. Did she realize how closed and uninviting she appeared? “It really isn’t polite to gossip.”
Miranda fought the urge to roll her eyes. “I’m not asking for gossip. I just wondered why they are at such odds.”
A sigh escaped Beatrice’s mouth. “I guess it doesn’t matter if I tell you. You’ll hear about it eventually.” She paused, and for a moment Miranda couldn’t be certain if Beatrice would continue. “Fox, Mr. Foxcroft that is, courted a local girl, Jane Pennymore. Just when everyone expected them to announce their betrothal, she became engaged to Mr. Stratham.”
“She chose Stratham over Foxcroft?” What a horrible girl to lead Mr. Foxcroft on and then throw him over for someone else.
“Without regret, I’m sure.” Beatrice said this with absolute finality, but without rancor, as if he were the obvious choice. And wasn’t he? “Stratham is very handsome, he’s the MP, and he’s worth a lot more than Fox.”
<
br /> Miranda shook her head, fighting off another sneeze. “Which doesn’t excuse Miss Pennymore’s scandalous behavior. In London, her position in Society would have been drastically reduced, perhaps even ruined.”
“Mr. Stratham carries quite a bit of importance in northern Wiltshire. Generally, people go along with whatever he does.”
Interesting. “What happened to Jane?”
“She died of fever within a year of their marriage.”
“How awful.” And it was. Miranda sneezed, hoping she too wouldn’t catch an ague and die.
“And please don’t think I’m trying to excuse her behavior—what she did to Fox was perhaps cruel—but I understood why she chose Stratham. Whoever marries Fox will always come after the orphanage.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Miranda could well imagine what was wrong with that for her, but for these provincial folk? “I thought you liked working at the orphanage?” She dabbed at her nose once more.
Beatrice leaned against the doorframe. “Certainly I do, but it’s not the focus of my life. It is, however, Fox’s priority. Along with Bassett Manor. His ancient estate requires nearly as much work as Stipple’s End.”
Miranda couldn’t help but pity the Mr. Foxcroft who’d been jilted by the woman he’d hoped to marry. No wonder the two men hated each other. Or at least, no wonder Mr. Foxcroft hated Mr. Stratham.
“You’re not actually interested in either of them, are you?” Beatrice asked.
Miranda paused a moment before responding. She’d never consider either of them, would she? “No, certainly not. I was merely curious.”
Beatrice arched one brow as if she didn’t believe her. “Well, good night, then. I’ll send up some hot tea. You sound wretched.” She closed the door behind her as she departed.
Miranda sat back down in the chair before her desk. Yes, and she was beginning to feel wretched.
