That Kind of Woman (8 page)

Much awaits you here, Major. Treasure that thought when the days seem long.

Respectfully,

Miranda Carrington

My Dearest Miranda,

The length of the days is nothing to the length of the nights, when I seem entirely unable to think of anything but you and the scent that clings to parchment I unfold with shaking hands when I see the writing upon it is yours…

Andrew wadded the paper, ink still wet, and sent it sailing across his tent. He hurled himself from his chair and paced for several moments before he sat back down, dipped his pen into the inkwell, and began again:

Dear Lady Danford…

Late autumn had the countryside in its bleak grip, winter swirling around its edges. A year ago, as she had prepared for the arrival of her mother and George’s family, Miranda had felt eager and excited. Granted, she had faced more than her share of disappointment, but the holidays had shimmered before her, one dream untouched by the state of her marriage. The memories coaxed a smile from her, even as tears filled her eyes. It had been a grand holiday season, despite everything. Why only one? It seemed so unfair that the peculiar joy they had all found together was falling apart around them.

Miranda pulled aside one of the wine-colored velvet drapes and cast a worried look into the courtyard below. Snow drifted into it in fat flakes that clung together then settled atop one another, dusting the withered garden and bare trees, creating lace of painfully pure whiteness. She hoped the light would not wake the man who slept in the canopied bed behind her. Dark curtains enclosed it, too. Nonetheless he called to her from within his cocoon.

“Randa?”

“Yes, George?”

“Is it snowing?”

Forcing a note of cheer, she replied. “Oh, yes, it’s a fine snow!”

“Help me to the window. I’d like to see.”

She left open only that one side, keeping the rest of the window and the remaining three dark. By the time she parted the drapes around the bed, she had wiped the worried, melancholy look from her face and smiled gently at her husband.

“Come, I’ll help you, but you must go slowly.”

Miranda helped him pull up from the pillows to sit, legs dangling over the edge of the bed, while she pushed back the covers. She picked up the warm, thick robe, which no longer closed over his unnaturally distended stomach, and, averting her eyes, pulled the garment on over his nightshirt, leaving it open in the front.

“Do you think Andrew and the others will try to come through the storm?” he asked. “I would hate for them to get stuck somewhere along the way.”

“It isn’t really a storm, George, and your brother is an officer in the British army. He’s been fighting the French in the bitterest cold. I don’t think a few snowflakes will stop him.”

“What of the rest?”

“Emma is thirteen now, hardly a frail child. She’ll be fine. Lettie is a practical woman and will dress for the weather. As for Henry, trust me, he is sure to have something with him to keep his belly warm. Besides, if Andrew thinks the snow is a problem, he’ll wait until it clears, and he would have sent word if he expected a delay.”

There was more to his worrying, and Miranda waited patiently for George to speak of it.

With a sigh, he asked, “What will he think of me, Randa? His big brother, a frail old man though not yet fifty.”

She touched his hand. It was gaunt, and the yellow skin on the back of it felt thin and brittle, like paper. “I sent a letter. It was to be given to him once he was told of your illness and the fact that he must sell his commission to take over your responsibilities. I was completely frank. He will know what to expect.”

Still, she felt the same concern as George. Was there any way to truly prepare Andrew for the way the tumors in his brother’s stomach had ravaged his body? She didn’t think so. George’s face was sallow and sagging, his stomach swollen, though the bones in his shoulders showed sharply through his jaundiced flesh.

Despite her gloomy thoughts, she helped George rise to look out the window at the snow-covered courtyard. “See how lovely it is? But not so much of it we need worry about your kin. You’ll see.”

It was a welcome relief to them both when Reggie swept into the room. His Beau Brummell air whisked away their distress, as it almost always did. His maroon coat and gray trousers were impeccable, his pure white linen cravat tied in a crisp knot, and his blond hair framed his face in perfect curls. There was something about him that filled a room. There was simply no space left for gloominess.

“Oh, look! We’re out of bed, even,” Reggie said, his blue eyes sparkling. He set about straightening the bedclothes and fluffing the pillows.

Miranda walked up behind him and put her arm around his shoulders. “What would I do without you, Reggie? And now that you’ve been so helpful with the bed, could you go downstairs and sweet-talk Mrs. Applebee into pudding for dessert? I think George might be up to some. Would you like that, dear?”

George nodded, and Reggie grinned. “George is up to pudding and out of bed. It’s a red-letter day. Don’t use up all your energy, now. You’ll want to visit with Andy when he gets here.”

“I’ll take things slowly,” George assured him.

“And I’ll tuck him back into bed in a few minutes, I promise,” Miranda added. Reggie set out on the quest for pudding.

*

Andrew had spent the last four days stuffed in a coach with his family, and he longed to spend an hour or two just standing still. Even more, he longed for an hour or two of solitude. Soft snow fell in thick clumps outside the coach, but the inside was cramped and stifling.

Beside him, Henry took another pull from the silver flask that had been his constant companion on their journey. His hair and cravat were both rumpled, and while his bottle-green jacket was of the very finest cut and unimpeachably stylish, it was also badly stained. Not yet twenty, barely out of short pants it seemed to Andrew, and Henry had already cultivated the jaded ennui of the English
ton
.

Andrew cast a quick glance down at his own crisp, white shirt and cravat, then over the sleeve of his navy woolen jacket, flicking away a tiny bit of lint. It seemed so odd to be out of his scarlet uniform. He tried to stretch his long legs, but his Hessian boots, polished with military precision, collided with the lavender skirt of his daughter’s gown.

Emma scowled and pulled her skirt aside. “Honestly, Father!” she huffed. “Couldn’t you have bought a bigger coach before we left? We told you this one was too small the last time we went to Danford in it.”

His voice was heavily tinged with irritation when he answered her. “I had hoped to buy one before you made the trip again. I could hardly be expected to know we’d need to make such haste to return.”

“Now, Emma,” Letitia interrupted, gently patting the girl’s hand, “I know you’re uncomfortable, but we must all try to make the best of this.”

Andrew looked over at Lettie, which left him with a bit more sympathy for Emma. Lettie’s more than generous girth and voluminous gown left the girl with precious little space on the tufted seat. Fashion dictated a skirt that fell straight from a high waist, but Lettie’s figure required a great deal more fabric than usual.

Emma cast a petulant glance around her, then arched her back stiffly. “I do not think we shall
ever
arrive!”

“Nor do I,” Andrew muttered under his breath. Louder, he added, “Listen to your grandmother, Emma. This is a big change for all of us, and everyone is a bit on edge. Try not to be difficult, will you?”

Emma crossed her arms defiantly. “You always assume the worst! You haven’t even seen me in over a year, and you just assume I’m going to be difficult.”

Andrew gritted his teeth and fought to keep his tone even. “Perhaps that’s because you’ve done nothing but whine for the last twenty miles,” he snapped.

“Andy, dear,” Lettie said, “Emma has made marvelous progress since you’ve been away.”

“And yet we are on our way to Danford without a governess.”

“It wasn’t my fault this time,” Emma protested. “She didn’t want to leave London. Besides, Randa can teach me!”

“Lady Danford has more than enough on her mind,” Andy reminded her, and was surprised to see a look of genuine contrition on his child’s face.

“I’m sorry. I forgot, for just a minute. I wish…” She let the sentence trail off.

Andrew closed his eyes for a moment and waited for the sharp and unbidden wave of grief to pass. He wished things were different, too. The one benefit of the crowding and chatter inside the coach had been the fact that it had distracted him from the reason he was returning home.

Lettie patted Emma’s knee. “I know you will be such a comfort to her, dear.”

“Dear Randa,” Henry drawled. “She won’t be a widow long, I’ll wager.” At Andrew’s disapproving scowl, he added, “No really, I will. Ten pounds she only waits the year she must to mourn. She’s a prize, that one.”

Andrew shot his half-brother an irate glare. “For the love of God, Henry, have some respect!” But he remembered a regal bride facing down the disdain of Society, and rose-scented letters that had brought home to him on the battlefield. Henry was right; there would be dozens of offers when the year was out. Miranda was, indeed, a prize.

“Lady Worthington says you’re a hopeless lecher,” Emma cheerfully announced, and Andrew felt his heart stutter in his chest. His reaction was unwarranted. Her wide, blue eyes were fixed on Henry, not him.

“Lady Worthington is a nasty gossip,” Henry replied. “She’s only bored and jealous because no one feels lecherous about her. Not even Lord Worthington!”

It was hardly a suitable conversation to be having with an impressionable, young girl, but the adults in the coach could only laugh softly. The bit of humor made the final few miles more bearable, and then they arrived at last. The coach pulled into the grand driveway of Danford manor.

Like the army commander he had been, Andrew issued orders to the servants. They gathered around to unload luggage strapped to the vehicles that had followed the carriage. The rest of his family had not waited outside with him, so he took a deep breath and followed them in.

Miranda must have been told they had arrived, for she was already greeting Henry and the two women. Ever the gracious hostess, she was telling them their rooms were ready and she would have hot tea sent up at once while they freshened up.

Her chestnut hair had been pulled away from her long neck and allowed to cascade in intricate curls around her face. Her wide mouth curved into a smile, though it seemed strained. He noticed immediately that she had lost weight, and her cheeks were more pronounced. There were tired circles under her dark brown eyes. But even exhausted and distraught, she was as exquisite as she had been the day she married his brother.

She turned to look at Andrew, and he knew he would have struck any other man who dared to think what shot through his mind. He had absolutely no business noticing such things about her.
Good God, man,
he chided himself silently,
snap out of it! You’re as bad as Henry.
He was thoroughly disgusted with himself.

As she greeted Henry, Miranda watched Andrew pause in the entryway and stare at her. Then his green eyes narrowed, almost imperceptibly, in distaste. It took her completely off-guard. She thought immediately of the letters they had exchanged and how kind he had been when she had first met him, and the hurt she felt at his reaction cut right through her.

True, he had made it perfectly clear when she married George that he didn’t want her to have too much influence over Emma, but she had thought that to be the extent of his objection to her. Still, he looked haggard, and she worked hard not to let her own distress overwhelm her feelings of sympathy. However Andrew may have felt about her, his love for George was genuine. At the moment, it was all that mattered.

“Thank goodness you could get here in time,” Miranda said, holding out her hand.

With a weary smile, he took her fingers in a light grasp and bowed formally over them. She couldn’t help but notice how careful he was not to keep her hand in his a moment more than courtesy required. Then he released it as though it burned him. In spite of his cold demeanor, his touch was as she remembered—warm and firm, the fingers work-worn.

“It was fortunate I was on my way back to England anyway. If I had still been in Madrid …” He stopped and shook his head.

“You’re here,” she reassured him. “That’s what’s important.”

“How is he?”

Miranda resisted her natural urge to place a comforting hand on his arm. Instead, she clasped her hands formally in front of her. “He’s sick, Major Carrington. Very, very sick.”

He nodded. “Your letter made that hauntingly clear.”

“Forgive me if it seemed insensitive.”

“No, no, I’d quite rather know in frank terms what it is we’re facing. I appreciate your warning. And how are you?”

“I’m fine.”

He nodded stiffly. “That’s good. You have enough help then?”

“Reggie’s here,” Henry offered dryly.

“Of course,” Andrew returned in the same tone. “He would be.”

Miranda shifted uncomfortably on her feet. “Reggie is tireless and always a ray of sunshine. I can’t imagine what George and I would have done without him. The servants, too, have gone above and beyond their duties. Everyone just adores George. Speaking of my husband, he is looking forward to seeing all of you.”

Henry cast an uneasy glance around him. “Well, Emma’s a bit young, don’t you think, to be faced with all this? Maybe I should stay with her. Besides, too much activity will only tire poor George. I’ll just peek in on him later. I mean, if you think it’s best.” He gave Miranda a wan smile.

Poor Henry, she thought to herself. For all his worldly airs, he really was still very juvenile. She politely followed his cue. “You are so thoughtful, Henry. I do think it would be best if George and Major Carrington had a bit of time alone first.”