Glimmer of Hope (16 page)

Miranda felt Carter take her hand, hidden from view beneath the folds of her skirts. She looked up into his face as he spoke to Lord Percival. She didn’t really listen to what they were saying, just watched him. He’d promised her time, something she’d come to value over the past three years. Time together, just the two of them. She’d prayed for that so many times in those months after she’d come to Clifton Manor. Now he was giving her his time and his attention and, she hoped, his love.

With a twinge of embarrassment, Miranda felt her eyes sting again. She must have been more tired than she realized. As if the thought made the idea true, a yawn surfaced, turning quickly to a cough. Miranda tried to push it back down, but her efforts only seemed to make the need to clear her lungs more pressing.

Miranda offered an apologetic smile as she rose to her feet, the gentlemen rising as she did. “Pray, pardon me,” she requested, feeling terribly conspicuous. “I must wish you all good night.”

“Retiring already?” Carter asked, looking a little disappointed.

How she wished he hadn’t looked at her that way, as though she’d fallen short of his expectations. “I am sorry.” She felt her face flush from embarrassment. Another cough rasped in her throat. “I really am extremely tired and seem plagued with a sudden tickle in my throat. I think it would be best if I turned in early tonight.”

She didn’t meet her grandfather’s eyes as she offered that half-truth. The cough was beginning to plague her, but it was neither sudden nor a simple tickle. She had learned over the past years to recognize her body’s efforts to clear her lungs of worrisome moisture.

Carter offered her his arm and escorted her across the room. “I suppose I must accept some responsibility for your fatigue.” He smiled ruefully. “I happen to know you were up and about before sunrise. And the cold air this morning likely irritated your throat as well.”

“Yes, it very likely did.”

“You could sleep until a London-worthy hour tomorrow morning,” Carter suggested. “No one in Town is ever out of bed before noon.”

That was true. She would be permitted to sleep late in Town. Never mind that she would be expected to be up until all hours the night before. Carter had promised she could set the schedule.

“Miranda.” She cringed at the voice: Carter’s mother, and she sounded decidedly put out. “How can you even think of abandoning your guests at such an unnaturally early hour?”

“It is nearly nine o’clock.”

That made the dowager stare at her like she was an imbecile and brought something like a laugh to Carter’s eyes.

“If you are going to Town, Miranda, you need to learn that
nine o’clock
is not a proper time to retire,” the dowager insisted. “Especially if one has guests.”

“I am sorry if it is not precisely the done thing,” Miranda said, “but I really am far too weary to do anything else.”

“There will be days when Lord Devereaux will not return from Lords until nearly nine o’clock. What then?” her ladyship said. “Will you leave him to attend alone those functions where any gentleman of his standing
must
be seen? How do you expect him to explain that? Shall he broadcast to all of London that his wife was too
tired
to accompany him?”

Miranda felt her cheeks flame. She would never embarrass Carter that way. “If the function were so important, I would attend regardless.”

“Miranda.” Now Grandfather joined the fray. Thankfully, the other guests remained on the other side of the room, oblivious—or at least pretending to be—to the
contretemps
near the doorway.

“I take leave to doubt your claim, Miranda.” The dowager sniffed. “If you would so easily abandon your own guests tonight, how can a person reasonably suppose you would not abandon your husband on the grounds of being weary.”

“She would not, Mother,” Carter insisted. “Those few times when an appearance was unavoidable, we would be in attendance. I have complete faith in my wife.”

Miranda received a pointed look from Grandfather. He knew as well as she did there would be nights when even a brief appearance would tax her nearly to her limit. She would find a way to make those evenings work, she told herself. Somehow.

But the thought of pushing herself day after day, night after night, was overwhelming and frightening. Miranda had the sudden, alarming feeling of blood rushing from her head and the room swaying beneath her.

“Miranda.” Carter’s anxious voice cut through the faint fog that had momentarily taken over.

She shook off the sensation and mustered an encouraging expression. The effort was marred by yet another cough. There were moments, like that one, when she felt like her body betrayed her.

“Are you unwell? You look ready to faint.”

“I confess I am not at my best. I would appreciate being allowed to retire for the night.”

“Of course.” Carter nodded and slipped an arm around her waist, guiding her from the room.

“I would like to speak with you when you return, Carter,” the Dowager Lady Devereaux said, though her tone indicated it was not a request. “I will await you in my bedchamber.”

“Speak with him now,” Grandfather jumped in.

“Mr. Benton—”

“Allow me to accompany my granddaughter up,” Grandfather requested. “I would like to assure myself that she is well.”

“As would I,” Carter said.

“It so happens these old bones of mine are weary as well,” Grandfather said. “You can check on her later, whereas I hope to be soundly asleep
later
.”

Carter seemed to see the wisdom in the suggestion and bowed to the older gentleman after seeing Miranda transferred into his care.

“You nearly fainted,” Grandfather said as he walked her up the stairs. “And I must say, I was not entirely surprised.”

“The sensation passed quickly.”

“That doesn’t answer, my girl.”

They stopped at the top of the stairs. Miranda’s lungs protested the effort they’d made. The struggle for air had been more noticeable of late. That, she knew all too well, was not a good sign.

They slowly travelled the length of the corridor toward Miranda’s rooms.

“You’ve worn yourself to a thread,” Grandfather said.

“The house party is nearly over, Grandfather.”

“And then you are going to London.” They walked into her sitting room. “The pace will likely be more hectic there, not less. I do not like the sound of that cough, and you’re not eating as you usually do.”

He gave her a very pointed look. They both knew her appetite tended to desert her when her health was on the decline. And even the briefest of dizzy spells was reason for concern.

“Carter has promised to allow me to choose how I spend my days and how we spend our evenings,” Miranda said. “If I require a quiet evening, I am certain he will allow it.”

“I believe he will. But his mother will not.” Grandfather stopped her at the foot of her bed, took her hands in his, and squeezed her fingers as he looked her directly in the eye. “And until Carter is willing to put your needs first, even if that means defying his mother, she will have her way. And you, my girl, will pay the price.”

“Perhaps he will choose
me
this time.” Miranda wished she sounded more hopeful.

“
This
time?”

Miranda realized she’d said more than she’d intended.

“I have to at least try.” She hoped he saw that she was in earnest. “This is one of the only things I have wanted these last three years:
hope
. The hope that he still loves me. If I could only have that, then I could have courage enough to face everything.”

“What else have you wanted? Was there something I might have given you that I didn’t?” He looked so forlorn Miranda was tempted to answer untruthfully. But he deserved better than that after all he’d given her. “The only other thing I have wanted was more time.” She gently touched his wrinkled cheek.

“So have I, my girl. But time passes quickly, I am afraid.”

“Far too quickly,” she agreed, her eyes stinging once more. She had had twenty years with him, twenty wonderful, loving years. There would not, she knew, be many more.

Mother was in high dudgeon.
“With all that is occurring now, here and abroad, all that you do these next months, this coming year or so, will be crucial to your career,” she said, lecturing him from an armchair set near her bedchamber’s fireplace. “You cannot risk all of that.”

“I fail to see how bringing my wife to London with me will threaten my career.” The conversation was far too reminiscent of the one he’d had with Father three years earlier on the subject of Miranda and London.

The tension in Mother’s face mingled with concern. “You need a skilled hostess, Carter. You know that is important for any gentleman who wishes to make the right connections, impress the right people. Miranda has no experience.”

“She will learn.”

“And until she does? What then? We simply allow her to bungle her way through a few dinners and do what damage she can?”

“That is unfair.”

“It is the truth, Carter.” Mother skewered him with one of her looks. “You cannot deny that her presence in London will affect your work and social obligations, especially if she insists on retiring at nine in the evening. Nothing has even begun in London by nine o’clock.”

“She is clearly feeling poorly this evening, Mother. You can hardly fault her for seeking rest when she is ill.”

Mother shook her head. “This is not the first time during this house party she has missed an activity or an evening’s entertainment in order to seek her bed. If this is to be her pattern in London, she will impact your time there as well.”

“I expect she will. Her presence will make London all the more pleasant.”

“Are you being intentionally obtuse?” Mother demanded with obvious exasperation. “What of the dinners and routs you must give? And you know that you
must
. Even if she chooses to stay awake long enough to undertake them, she has no idea how to successfully host such an important evening or how to make the most of those she attends.”

“The duchess and Lady Percival will certainly help.” Seeing Mother’s mutinous expression, he added, “Or perhaps you can host them, and we will simply attend.”

“You cannot be a guest at your own political evening, Carter. There is no benefit in that.” She used the same tone she’d used when he was a child and showed a lack of judgment and understanding.

“Miranda is coming with me to London, Mother.” He wasn’t leaving her behind again. “You will simply have to accept that.”

“When are you leaving for Town?” It was a grudging acceptance.

“On Monday.”

“The others are leaving tomorrow,” Mother reminded him.

“Miranda has more to do before leaving than the other ladies.
She
will be closing up a house.”

“So already she is putting you behind schedule.” Mother emphasized the point as though it alone proved everything she’d been trying to say about Miranda holding him back.

“There will be plenty of time to reach London.” Carter’s patience was wearing thin. Mother ought to be happy for him. He was rebuilding his marriage, winning back his wife. He had silently longed for precisely that for three years.

“You do realize the importance of being present for the opening of Parliament, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.” He had been involved with the party long enough to understand what it took for a gentleman to advance his career. “I have never missed a single opening, even when I was there merely as an observer. No man with eyes on a cabinet position would.”

“The party leaders have long memories. And they can be unforgiving,” Mother warned.

“I know.” Carter patted her hand. She was far too worried about this. “Miranda and I will arrive in plenty of time.”

It must have been enough of a reassurance. Mother didn’t offer any further argument. He left before she could think of anything else.

Hannah was preparing to snuff the candles in Miranda’s room when he arrived. He’d been away longer than he’d intended, but Mother had had a lot to say.

“Lord Devereaux.” Hannah curtsied.

“Leave the candles, Hannah. I will snuff them before I go.”

“Yes, my lord.” Hannah offered another curtsy and disappeared through the door, closing it behind her as she left.

A rattling cough broke through the moment of quiet. Carter didn’t like the sound—it had worried him even before Miranda had excused herself for the evening. He hoped she hadn’t contracted an inflammation of the lungs.

He turned toward her bed. She lay there, elevated almost to a seated position by a pile of pillows. He crossed the room and sat on the edge of her bed, facing her. “Are you uncomfortable sitting up so much?” he asked.

“I don’t cough as much this way,” she answered sleepily. She turned her head in his direction but otherwise didn’t move.

“You turned white as a sheet earlier, my dear.” Carter smoothed back the hair above her forehead. “I thought for a moment you were going to faint.”

“So did I.” She seemed to smile a little.

“Fainting spells, weariness, and that cough.” Carter laid a hand on her cheek, checking for fever but finding none. “And you hardly touched your dinner.”

“My appetite seemed to retire for the night even before I did.”

Her attempt at humor was appreciated but didn’t dispel his worries. “You’re ill, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

Carter looked at her closely. She looked exhausted. Miranda was lying so still he wondered if she was too tired to so much as move. Her eyelids were noticeably heavy, like they’d been the night she’d sat beside him on the settee by his fire. Dark circles marred her undereyes. “Was our outing too early this morning?” Carter asked, a little surprised that one predawn excursion would weary her so much or make her so quickly ill.

No. She had this cough before, only not as constant or deep.

As if her lungs could read his thoughts, another series of deep coughs shook her frame. He filled a glass on the bedside table with water from the wash pitcher.