Glimmer of Hope (11 page)

The dowager pulled Miranda aside almost the instant they reached the drawing room.

“You will be pleased to know the meal was not a complete disaster.”

Complete disaster?
That descriptor had never entered Miranda’s thoughts.

“Of course, in London, the standards are far higher than in the country.” Her mother-in-law emphasized her words with an extremely elegant sigh. “But, then, you’ve never been to Town.”

“No. I haven’t.” The admission was painful. She’d wanted to go, once.

A moment’s uncertainty crossed the older lady’s face. “And you don’t have any pending plans to go to London, do you?”

Miranda shook her head.

The dowager pressed a hand to her heart, the large topaz in her ring glittering in the candlelight. “That is a relief, Miranda. While your efforts tonight were adequate, you would be entirely out of your depth in London. The time we would need to bring you even close to prepared for being a hostess there . . .” She shook her head as though overwhelmed at the very thought.

“It is fortunate, then, I am so firmly established here in Dorset.” Miranda tried to give the words a ring of truth. But having Carter nearby, seeing even momentary glances of the dear man she’d fallen in love with, knowing he would leave again, chipped away at the appeal of her country home.

The dowager turned enough to look at the rest of the room. “Were you going to have the tables set out for cards before the gentlemen joined us or will they be required to wait?”

“Actually, I didn’t arrange for cards tonight.” Miranda summoned what confidence she could. She had thought the evening through many times and in great detail.

The explanation was met with clear surprise. “What
have
you planned, then? A musical evening, perhaps? Or a reading?”

“I thought the guests would appreciate having a quiet evening in which they’re free to converse and simply enjoy one another’s company.”

“Oh, Miranda.” Her shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath. But then she smiled an almost maternal, almost sympathetic smile. “It is a very good thing you are playing hostess here instead of amongst society. In London, a ‘quiet’ evening is nothing more than a conciliatory way of describing a failure.”

Miranda had no reason to doubt her mother-in-law’s words. The dowager viscountess had vast experience with the expectations of London society. And yet, words like
failure
and
disaster
filled her thoughts. She’d wanted to be a successful hostess.

You are not so frail as all that
, she reminded herself. She could receive advice without crumbling or arguing. And she was a woman of reasonable intelligence, more than capable of determining which criticisms were warranted and which might not be.

The meal likely would not have met with the scrutiny of London society; the dowager was correct on that point. But the other guests seemed, at the very least, satisfied with the meal. Cards and musical evenings and such were expected and important when hosting a fete in Town. But the dowager hadn’t said that a quiet evening would be unacceptable in the country.

She took a fortifying breath, presenting what she hoped was a tranquil demeanor, all the while aching inside. Falling short of the mark had ever been a thorn in the side of her marriage, something that had come between Carter and her on too many occasions. She wasn’t hoping to be the greatest hostess in all the world, but she also didn’t want to utterly fail.

Carter sat on the settee
in front of the fire in his bedchamber that night. With his cravat tossed aside, jacket long since shed, waistcoat open, collar loosened, shirttails untucked, shoes and stockings piled beside the settee, he ought to have been quite comfortable; however, his mind was burdened.

He’d assured Miranda the evening would be a success. And, taken as a whole, it had been. But his reassurances had made him more aware of the responses of the rest of the guests. For the most part, the atmosphere was pleasant and approving. Lord Percival had expounded at length over the joys of the boiled potato he’d enjoyed during dinner. Carter himself had relished the roast hare. The menu seemed to meet with nearly universal approval. The night’s entertainment, or lack thereof, actually inspired a sigh of relief from Hartley. He declared his unwavering appreciation for the quiet evening.

Carter was happy with the guests’ responses to Miranda’s efforts as hostess. His mother’s reaction, however, weighed on him.

She had said very little over the course of the evening that could be construed as positive. Lavender, she’d insisted, was not an appropriate color for a hostess to wear to a dinner party unless she was in half mourning, which, she pointed out, Miranda was not. Mother claimed the floral arrangements were a trifle sparse. She had given a begrudging nod to the wine.

Carter leaned his head against the back of the settee and closed his eyes. The picture that immediately entered his mind was Miranda as she’d looked in the nursery. He’d watched her, standing in the light of the window, smiling gently down at baby Henry. The sight had brought yearnings he’d long suppressed back to the surface. There’d been a time he’d dreamed of being a father and seeing Miranda hold their children.

He felt the cushion beneath him shift and the unmistakable warmth of another person beside him.

“Carter, are you asleep?” Even whispered, Carter knew that voice.

He opened one eye to look. “Miranda?” He couldn’t mask his surprise. She was sitting beside him on the settee, in his bedchamber. She still wore the same lavender gown she’d worn all evening, but her hair was pulled down into a braid that hung over one shoulder. Three years ago, he wouldn’t have batted an eye at her presence there.

“Did I wake you?” She still spoke quietly.

He shook his head, watching her for some hint as to her reason for being where she was, while at the same time hoping she wouldn’t leave.

“How was the dinner tonight?” She turned so she sat sideways on the settee to face him, in obvious earnest. “Did the evening go well?”

“The dinner was superb, and the evening was a success.”

“The company was congenial and the conversation lively,” Miranda quipped in a prim little voice. Her tone left Carter half expecting to see her roll her eyes. “That is precisely what the columns say about every dinner party that isn’t worth mentioning.”

Carter chuckled. “
Touché
, Miranda.” There had been a few times in those months they’d spent together when Miranda had absolutely astounded him with some witty rejoinder or another. Few people would guess that his shy, reserved wife could verbally flay him on occasion. “Perhaps you’d better ask more specific questions,” he suggested. “Men, I am afraid, have very little talent for dissecting social occasions.”

She smiled at that, and Carter felt himself returning the gesture. The expression grew rather permanent as she peppered him with questions about the meal and quizzed him over the wine. There was an easiness to their interaction that he’d sorely missed.

“Your mother was appalled that I had not planned any specific entertainments.” Miranda rubbed her eyes. Obviously, she was tired. “It was my intention to give the gentlemen a chance to discuss the affairs of the nation.”

“Which is precisely how we spent the evening.” And they had appreciated the opportunity. That was, after all, one of the reasons they’d planned to spend the holiday together.

“I imagine there is much to discuss.” Miranda’s words were coming slower.

Carter looked more closely at her. She really did look tired. For not the first time, he wondered if she was recovering from some illness or perhaps on the verge of one. He hoped not.

“What with the state of the king’s health and”—she rubbed her eyes again and leaned against the back of the settee—“the embargo against Britain. Not to mention Napoleon deposing the royal family of Portugal and poised to invade Spain.”

Throw in the Catholic question and working class unrest and Miranda could have delivered the Speech from the Throne to open Parliament.

A sleepy laugh broke into his reflections. “No need to look so shocked.” Miranda’s eyelids looked heavier by the moment. “We do receive London papers, even here in Dorset.” The mischievous turn of her mouth took away any censure Carter might have felt in her words. “Grandfather and I have our own lively debates on the issues of the day. I make a point of deciding with which side of each issue you will align yourself.”

“And do you find yourself more often correct or incorrect?” Her confession caught him completely off guard. She thought of him? And read up on the issues he would be dealing with from day to day?

“I am almost always right.” Miranda pulled her feet up and under herself. “I knew you would support the Slave Trade Act.”

“Have you approved of my political positions?” He felt more anxious for her answer than he would have guessed just two weeks earlier.

“Mm-hmm.” Miranda hugged her arms to herself, her eyes slowly opening and closing.

She was falling asleep again, the way she had the first night he’d been at Clifton Manor. They’d been discussing his career then as well. If she hadn’t just described in detail several of the most pertinent issues of the day, he would have thought she had no interest in the discussion.

“I am rather excessively proud of the work you do,” Miranda said quietly, curling into something of a ball beside him.

“Are you, really?” He’d seldom sounded so shocked.

“Shamelessly proud.” Miranda offered a sleepy smile. Carter watched in awed confusion. “You are doing so much good.”

“I am trying.” If she kept up the unexpected compliments, Carter would be blushing like a greenhorn.

“I always knew you would.” Miranda’s eyes were closed, her head slowly sliding lower along the back of the settee.

“Then why did you leave me?” he whispered as her head came to rest against his shoulder. He hadn’t expected an answer, but she replied to his almost inaudible question.

“You left me,” she said equally as quietly. He felt her shift closer, curl tighter.

What did she mean
he
left
her
? That wasn’t at all what had happened. She had disappeared, not him. She had walked out, not him.

“I am cold, Carter,” she whispered, and he suddenly realized she was shivering.

“I’m sorry, Miranda. I didn’t even think of that.” Carter carefully slid off the settee and laid her gently down then pulled a counterpane off his bed and laid it over her.

“Thank you.” She mouthed the words.

Carter sat on the floor in front of the settee, positioning himself so he was looking at her face. He brushed back a wisp of copper hair from her forehead. He’d noticed, from the first moment he’d seen her, that she was pale. But for the first time, he really looked into her face and saw weariness there, a hint of dark circles under her eyes. Sleep had eased enough of the usual tension in her face for him to realize just how tense she tended to look despite the initial impression she gave of serenity.

You left me.
The words repeated in his bewildered mind. The accusation completely shocked him. She was the one who had left, who had walked out on their marriage.

You left me.
She hadn’t flung the words at him or snapped them out in a moment of emotional turmoil. She’d said it so simply, so straightforward, so matter-of-fact.

But he was the one who’d been left. He had come back from London to find her gone. He’d left her in Wiltshire fully expecting—

Carter stopped midthought.

He’d left her in Wiltshire. He’d gone to London and left her behind. Was that what she meant? But they’d talked about that. They’d originally planned to go together, but it had been best for her to remain behind. She’d seemed disappointed but not devastated.

He’d left her behind because it was the wisest thing to do. Father had pointed that out to him. They’d sat in the library in the Wiltshire home long after Miranda had retired for the night, discussing Parliament and the people he’d meet during their trip to London. Father was going to spend much of their London trip taking Carter around to rub elbows with the men who could make his career.

Father had expressed concerns about Carter’s lack of connections among the more important men in Town. Few of Carter’s Harrow or Oxford friends had much influence. And Father had worried over Miranda. He had suggested he wait until the next time to bring her with him to London.

Carter remembered agreeing. Perhaps it would be best. He’d discovered in the few months since their marriage that he accomplished more around the estate when he went about his business on his own. It was only a fortnight after all.

But a fortnight was all it had taken for her to leave.

You left me.
Had she misunderstood? Perhaps she’d thought he was leaving for good and not simply a quick journey to Town. No. They’d talked about it. He had explained the reasons and the short duration of his time away.

But if she knew he was coming back, why would she run off? Perhaps her pride had taken a beating at being left behind, or she’d seen his leaving as a sign of disapproval. Perhaps she’d simply decided to make a point that she had all the power in their relationship.

His parents had expressed misgivings shortly after the marriage. They were concerned that Carter had married someone too far outside their social circle. Father had worried about Miranda’s ability to be an effective political hostess. Mother had been distraught for some time over Miranda’s lack of refinement and connections. But Carter’s devotion to her had never waned. He had defended her to them again and again. In the end, she’d proven his parents correct.

He stood and paced away from the settee. She had abandoned him and the life they’d started together on a fit of pique. The Miranda he thought he’d married would not have done that.

“Well, then, Miranda,” Carter whispered to his sleeping wife. “Is that really why you left? You were cross because I didn’t take you with me to London?”

The weight in his chest twisted and pulled as it always did when thinking back over the past years. She’d tossed their marriage aside like rubbish. Quiet, friendly moments like the one they’d shared that night only served to remind him of how much he’d lost, of all they might have been to each other.