Whichever. He was only sorry that she would spend her eternity inhis ground, resting among the Bevelstokes of days gone by. Her stone would bear his name, and in a hundred years, someone would gaze upon the etchings in the granite and think she must have been a fine lady, and what a tragedy that she’d been taken so young.
Turner looked up at the priest. He was a youngish fellow, new to the parish and by all accounts, still convinced that he could make the world a better place.
“Ashes to ashes,” the priest said, and he looked up at the man who was meant to be the bereaved widower.
Ah yes, Turner thought acerbically,that would be me .
“Dust to dust.”
Behind him, someone actually sniffled.
And the priest, his blue eyes bright with that appallingly misplaced glimmer of sympathy, kept on talking—
“In the sure and certain hope of the Resurrection—”
Good God.
“—to eternal life.”
The priest looked at Turner and actually flinched. Turner wondered what, exactly, he’d seen in his face. Nothing good, that much was clear.
There was a chorus of amens, and then the service was over. Everyone looked at the priest, and then everyone looked at Turner, and then everyone looked at the priest clasping Turner’s hands in his own as he said, “She will be missed.”
“Not,” Turner bit off, “by me.”
I can’t believe he said that.
Miranda looked down at the words she’d just written. She was currently on page forty-two of her thirteenth journal, but this was the first time—the first time since that fateful day nine years earlier—that she had not a clue what to write. Even when her days were dull (and they frequently were), she managed to cobble together an entry.
In May of her fourteenth year—
Woke.
Dressed.
Ate breakfast: toast, eggs, bacon.
ReadSense and Sensibility,authored by unknown lady.
HidSense and Sensibilityfrom Father.
Ate dinner: chicken, bread, cheese.
Conjugated French verbs.
Composed letter to Grandmother.
Ate supper: beefsteak, soup, pudding.
Read moreSense and Sensibility,author’s identity still unknown.
Retired.
Slept.
Dreamed of him.
This was not to be confused with her entry of 12 November of the same year—
Woke.
Ate breakfast: Eggs, toast, ham.
Made great show of reading Greek tragedy. To no avail.
Spent much of the time staring out the window.
Ate lunch: fish, bread, peas.
Conjugated Latin verbs.
Composed letter to Grandmother.
Ate supper: roast, potatoes, pudding.
Brought tragedy to the table (book, not event).
Father did not notice.
Retired.
Slept.
Dreamed of him.
But now—now when something huge and momentous had actually occurred (which it never did) she had nothing to say except—
I can’t believe he said that.
“Well, Miranda,” she murmured, watching the ink dry on the tip of her quill, “you’ll not achieve fame as a diarist.”
“What did you say?”
Miranda snapped her diary shut. She had not realized that Olivia had entered the room.
“Nothing,” she said quickly.
Olivia moved across the carpet and flopped on the bed. “What a horrible day,”
Miranda nodded, twisting in her seat so that she was facing her friend.
“I am glad you were here,” Olivia said with a sigh. “Thank you for remaining for the night.”
“Of course,” Miranda replied. There had been no question, not when Olivia had said she’d needed her.
“What are you writing?”
Miranda looked down at the diary, only just then realizing that her hands were resting protectively across its cover. “Nothing,” she said.
Olivia had been staring at the ceiling, but at that she quirked her head in Miranda’s direction. “That can’t be true.”
“Sadly, it is.”
“Why is it sad?”
Miranda blinked. Trust Olivia to ask the most obvious questions—and the ones with the least obvious answers.
“Well,” Miranda said, not precisely stalling for time—really, it was more that she was figuring it all out as she went. She moved her hands and looked down at the journal as if the answer might have magically inscribed itself onto the cover. “This all I have. It is what I am.”
Olivia looked dubious. “It’s a book.”
“It’s my life.”
“Why is it,” Olivia opined, “that people callme dramatic?”
“I’m not saying itis my life,” Miranda said with a flash of impatience, “just that it contains it. Everything. I have writteneverything down. Since I was ten.”
“Everything?”
Miranda thought about the many days she’d dutifully recorded what she’d eaten and little else. “Everything.”
“I could never keep a journal.”
“No.”
Olivia rolled onto her side, propping her head up with her hand. “You needn’t have agreed with me so quickly.”
Miranda only smiled.
Olivia flopped back down. “I suppose you are going to write that I have a short attention span.”
“I already have.”
Silence, then: “Really?”
“I believe I said you bored easily.”
“Well,” her friend replied, with only the barest moment of reflection, “that much is true.”
Miranda looked back down at the writing desk. Her candle was shedding flickers of light on the blotter, and she suddenly felt tired. Tired, but unfortunately, not sleepy.
Weary, perhaps. Restless.
“I’m exhausted,” Olivia declared, sliding off the bed. Her maid had left her nightclothes atop the covers, and Miranda respectfully turned her head while Olivia changed into them.
“How long do you think Turner will remain here in the country?” Miranda asked, trying not to bite her tongue. She hated that she was still so desperate for a glimpse of him, but it had been this way for years. Even when he’d married, and she’d sat in the pews at his wedding, and watching him meant watching him watch his bride with all the love and devotion that burned in her own heart—
She’d still watched. She still loved him. She always would. He was the man who’d made her believe in herself. He had no idea what he’d done to her—what he’d donefor her—and he probably never would. But Miranda still ached for him. And she probably always would.
Olivia crawled into bed. “Will you be up long?” she asked, her voice thick with the beginnings of slumber.
“Not long,” Miranda assured her. Olivia could not fall asleep while a candle burned so close. Miranda could not understand it, as the fire in the grate did not seem to bother her, but she had seen Olivia toss and turn with her own eyes, and so, when she realized that her mind was still racing and “not long” had been a bit of a lie, she leaned forward and blew out the candle.
“I’ll take this elsewhere,” she said, tucking her journal under her arm.
“Thankthsh,” Olivia mumbled, and by the time Miranda pulled on a wrapper and reached the corridor, she was asleep.
Miranda tucked her journal under her chin and wedged it against her breastbone to free her hands so that she could tie the sash around her waist. She was a frequent overnight guest at Haverbreaks, but still, it wouldn’t do to be wandering the halls of someone else’s home in nothing but her nightgown.
It was a dark night, with nothing but the moonlight filtering through the windows to guide her, but Miranda could have made her way from Olivia’s room to the library with her eyes closed. Olivia always fell asleep before she did—too many thoughts rumbling about in her head, Olivia pronounced—and so Miran
da frequently took her diary to another room to record her ponderings. She supposed she could have asked for a bedchamber of her own, but Olivia’s mother did not believe in needless extravagance, and she saw no reason to heat two rooms when one would suffice.
Miranda did not mind. In fact, she was grateful for the company. Her own home was far too quiet these days. Her beloved mother had passed away nearly a year earlier, and Miranda had been left alone with her father. In his grief, he had closeted himself away with his precious manuscripts, leaving his daughter to fend for herself. Miranda had turned to the Bevelstokes for love and friendship, and they welcomed her with open arms. Olivia even wore black for three weeks in honor of Lady Cheever.
“If one of my first cousins died, I’d be forced to do the same,” Olivia had said at the funeral. “And I certainly loved your mama better than any of my cousins.”
“Olivia!” Miranda was touched, but nonetheless, she thought she ought to be shocked.
Olivia rolled her eyes. “Have you met my cousins?”
And she’d laughed. At her own mother’s funeral, Miranda had laughed. It was, she’d later realized, the most precious gift her friend could have offered.
“I love you, Livvy,” she said.
Olivia took her hand. “I know you do,” she said softly. “And I, you.” Then she squared her shoulders and assumed her usual stance. “I should be quite incorrigible without you, you know. My mother often says you are the only reason I have not committed some irredeemable offense.”
It was probably for that reason, Miranda reflected, that Lady Rudland had offered to sponsor her for a season in London. Upon receiving the invitation, her father had sighed with relief and quickly forwarded the necessary funds. Sir Rupert Cheever was not an exceptionally wealthy man, but he had enough to cover a season in London for his only daughter. What he did not possess was the necessary patience—or, to be frank, the interest—to take her himself.
Their debut was delayed for a year. Miranda could not go while in mourning for her mother, and Lady Rudland had decided to allow Olivia to wait, as well. Twenty would do as well as nineteen, she’d announced. And it was true; no one was worried about Olivia making a grand match. With her stunning looks, vivacious personality and, as Olivia wryly pointed out, her hefty dowry, she was sure to be a success.
But Leticia’s death, in addition to being tragic, had been particularly ill-timed; now there was another period of mourning to be observed. Olivia could get away with just six weeks, however, as Leticia had not been a sister in blood.
They would be only a little bit late in their arrival for the season. It couldn’t be helped.
Secretly, Miranda was glad. The thought of a London ball positively terrified her. It wasn’t that she was shy, precisely, because she didn’t think she was. It was just that she did not enjoy large crowds, and the thought of so many people staring at her in judgment was just awful.
Can’t be helped, she thought as she made her way down the stairs. And at any rate, it would be far worse to be stuck out in Ambleside, without Olivia for company.
Miranda paused at the bottom of the stairs, deciding where to go. The west sitting room had the better desk, but the library tended to be warmer, and it was a bit of a chilly night. On the other hand—
Hmmm…what was that?
She leaned to the side, peering down the hall. Someone had a fire burning in Lord Rudland’s study. Miranda couldn’t imagine that anyone was still up and about—the Bevelstokes always retired early.
She moved quietly along the runner carpet until she reached the open door.
“Oh!”
Turner looked up from his father’s chair. “Miss Miranda,” he drawled, not adjusting one muscle of his lazy sprawl. “Quellesurprise.”
Turner wasn’t certain why hewasn’t surprised to see Miss Miranda Cheever standing in the doorway of his father’s study. When he’d heard footsteps in the hall, he’d somehow known it had to be she. True, his family tended to sleep like the dead, and it was almost inconceivable that one of them might be up and about, wandering the halls in search of a snack or something to read.
But it had been more than the process of elimination that had led him to Miranda as the obvious choice. She was a watcher, that one, always there, always observing the scene with those owlish eyes of hers. He couldn’t remember when he’d first met her—probably before the chit had been out of leading strings. She was a fixture, really, somehow alwaysthere , even at times like these, when it ought to have been only family.
“I’ll go,” she said.
“No, don’t,” he replied, because…becausewhy ?
Because he felt like making mischief?
Because he’d had too much to drink?
Because he didn’t want to be alone?
“Stay,” he said, waving his arm expansively. Surely there had to be somewhere else to sit in here. “Have a drink.”
Her eyes widened.
“Didn’t think they could get any bigger,” he muttered.
“I can’t drink,” she said.
“Can’t you?”
“Ishouldn’t ,” she corrected, and he thought he saw her brows draw together. Good, he’d irritated her. It was good to know he could still provoke a woman, even one as un-schooled as she.
“You’re here,” he said with a shrug. “You might as well have a brandy.”
For a moment she held still, and he could swear he could hear her brain whirring. Finally, she set her little book on a table near the door and stepped forward. “Just one,” she said.
He smiled. “Because you know your limit?”
Her eyes met his. “Because Idon’t know my limit.”
“Such wisdom in one so young,” he murmured.
“I’m nineteen,” she said, not defiantly, just as statement of fact.
He lifted a brow. “As I said…”
“When you were nineteen…”
He smiled caustically, noticing that she did not finish the statement. “When I was nineteen,” he repeated for her, handing her a liberal portion of brandy, “I was a fool.” He looked at the glass he’d poured for himself, equal in volume to Miranda’s. He downed it in one long, satisfying gulp.
The glass landed on the table with a clunk, and Turner leaned back, letting his head rest in his palms, his elbows bent out to the sides. “As are all nineteen-year-olds, I should add,” he finished.
He eyed her. She hadn’t touched her drink. She hadn’t even yet sat down. “Present company quite possibly excluded,” he amended.
“I thought brandy was meant to go in a snifter,” she said.
He watched as she moved carefully to a seat. It wasn’t next to him, but it wasn’t quite across from him, either. Her eyes never left his, and he couldn’t help but wonder what she thought he might do. Pounce?
“Brandy,” he announced, as if speaking to an audience that numbered more than one, “is best served in whatever one has handy. In this case—” He picked up his tumbler and regarded it, watching firelight dance along the facets. He didn’t bother to finish his sentence. It didn’t seem necessary, and besides, he was busy pouring himself another drink.
“Cheers.” And down it went.
He looked over at her. She was still just sitting there, watching him. He couldn’t tell if she disapproved; her expression was far too inscrutable for that. But he wished that she would say something. Anything would do, really, even more nonsense about stemware would be enough to nudge his mind off the fact that it was still half eleven, and he had thirty more minutes to go before he could declare this wretched day over.
“So tell me, Miss Miranda, how did you enjoy the service?” he asked, daring her with his eyes to say something beyond the usual platitudes.
Surprise registered on her face—the first emotion of the night he was clearly able to discern. “You mean the funeral?”
“Only service of the day,” he said, with considerable jauntiness.
“It was, er, interesting.”
“Oh, come now, Miss Cheever, you can do better than that.”
She caught her lower lip between her teeth. Leticia used to do that, he recalled. Back when she still pretended to be an innocent. It had stopped when his ring had been safely on her finger.