Marjorie Farrell (20 page)

The next morning a heavy fog shrouded the countryside, and Nora feared it would last all day, casting a pall over the festivities. But by nine it had burned away, to her great relief, for she wanted the day to be perfect for Miranda in every way.

Nora’s hands shook as she helped her daughter dress. The ivory silk hung perfectly and she thought that with her pale-rose complexion and the pearls, her daughter looked beautiful, as though all the colors that are inside a shell had taken on a woman’s shape. Nora herself looked lovely, but she was not even aware of it. The viscount was, however. He watched her pale, set face as she emerged from the carriage and knew that she must be in the grip of conflicting emotions: happiness, pride, anxiety, and perhaps sadness as she remembered her own wedding? He wondered if she still felt bound to the dead lieutenant.

For Nora, the ceremony and the breakfast that followed were a blur. Sam was, in part, correct: she was not only happy for Miranda, but also felt she had completed the work that had been given to her. Miranda was a lovely young wife, more mature than she herself had been at the same age, and Nora had no doubts about the rightness of this match. But the tears that had risen when she and Jeremy exchanged vows were not just tears of happiness. They sprang from a deeper source, for she had never uttered those solemn words to anyone, nor had anyone wished to commit himself to her for life. And now that part of her life was over, and she could not feel the unalloyed happiness for Miranda she should. She was ashamed of herself for it, but there it was.

And so, back at the house, when the viscount brought her her second glass of champagne and asked her solicitously if she had been reminded of her own wedding, she almost lost control.

She turned the beginning of what she knew to be hysterical laughter into a cough, and gripped the glass so tightly that it broke in her hand. She looked, as though from very far away, as a drop of blood welled up from her finger and turned the dripping champagne pink. Sam rushed off to get a napkin, and she stood there holding the broken glass in her hand, feeling she herself had been broken. She took a deep breath, telling herself that all she needed was to get through this day, see the young couple off and return to Hampstead in the morning, where she could seek the comfort of her bed. She would crawl into it and never get out.

“Let me see your hand, Nora.”

Sam’s return startled her and she stuck out her hand to him without thinking and then drew it back, exclaiming that it was nothing, just very stupid of her to be so nervous, but it was her daughter’s wedding, after all.

“Stop being so damnably independent and let me see that finger. There might be glass in it.” He examined it carefully and pronounced it clean, and Nora brought her hand automatically to her mouth, sucking at the cut and looking at it for all the world as though she were little Sophy and not a grown woman, thought Sam. He wanted the right to comfort her and the opportunity to make her forget that dead husband of hers. But today is not the day for that, he thought, and he offered his arm and led her to the table.

* * * *

Nora managed to get through all the well-wishing and Miranda’s departure. They were going to spend a few days on one of Jeremy’s small estates in Cornwall.

“It is by the sea, Mother, so we will be able to take long rambles by the shore.” This was not, of course, a fashionable honeymoon, but Jeremy himself had suggested it. “We will travel to the Continent soon,” he had told her, “but for these few weeks I want you to myself.”

Miranda had turned to her mother at the last minute and held her close, whispering, “I don’t want to leave you.”

“But you must, ‘ma dearie,’ and I will always be home for you to come and visit.”

“And you will visit us here?”

“Of course.”

“I must go, Mother. I will see you soon.” And she turned toward Jeremy and her new life. Nora watched them drive away, and remained for a long time after the carriage had disappeared from sight. She felt an arm around her shoulders. It was Joanna, who had, as her closest friend, been invited to the wedding.

“She will do fine, Nora.”

“I know.”

“I think it is good we are going home together. And I do wish you would stay at my house for your first night alone.”

“Thank you, Joanna, but I must get used to it sooner or later.”

In the weeks after the wedding, Nora alternated between feelings of intense longing to have Miranda restored to her as a little girl, and a complete lack of feeling. She had the house and garden to keep her busy, and even managed to guide Lady Cordelia to the successful conclusion of her adventures by the end of the summer. This was, of course, a good thing, because she needed the money and had promised the novel to her publisher by September. On the other hand, the emptiness which accompanied the completion of a book, the feeling that she had lost another child, most certainly did not help her state of mind.

She was very much alone in August. Miranda was on her honeymoon. Joanna had left after the wedding for a visit to Scotland. Nora made a point to get down to the village more than a few times a week, just to have some human contact, however trivial, but for the most part her days fell into a rhythm of writing, walking, and gardening without an exchange of words with anyone.

In some ways she was reminded of the weeks after her mother’s death. She found herself again in a sort of limbo. Indeed, there were moments, working on her herbs, that she felt herself a shade, someone who was not her mother’s daughter or her daughter’s mother, hence no one. Luckily, these moments were infrequent and fleeting, or she would have been concerned for her sanity. But she felt lost in Dante’s dark wood, with no guide at all.

And so, at the end of the month, when she heard someone on the walk early one afternoon, she gave the viscount a welcome that would have at least satisfied an old friend, if not a new and hopeful lover.

“What a surprise,” Nora exclaimed.

“I am sorry for barging in like this without permission,” Sam said at the same time.

“Please do not apologize, my lord. I am delighted to see you. Although I always seem to be full of dirt when you arrive.” Nora laughed, looking down at her hands, which she had just been washing, and at her old blue dress, which was worn at the knees and splashed with water and soil.

“Perhaps I should come back another time?”

“No, no. Just go into the parlor and give me a moment to change and get the kettle on. Have you seen Miranda and Jeremy? I am so eager to hear everything.” Sam smiled as she paused for a moment to hear the answer, and was gone an instant later, saying over her shoulder. “Don’t answer now. Wait ‘til I am proper and can hear the news at my leisure.”

Nora was back very quickly, having grabbed the first clean dress she could find, a faded sprigged muslin. Her hair was all flyaway about her face and her hands and face were red from the cold water, but to Sam she looked lovely.

“The kettle is on, so we will have our tea in a moment,” she said as she sat down. “Now, give me the news.”

“Miranda and Jeremy returned two days ago, and since I was returning to London early, I promised I would come and give you their love.”

“How did she look?”

“Radiant. I must say I cannot help but be reminded of my first visit here, and am thankful that our ‘best laid plans went agley.’ ”

Nora’s face changed subtly at the reminder, but the shuttered look passed almost immediately, and she agreed, quite sincerely, Sam thought.

“When will they arrive in London?” she asked eagerly. Sam got a hint of the lonely month she must have spent.

“They need a while to unpack and close up the house before they repack for the Little Season. They hope to be here by the third week in September.”

“Three more weeks,” exclaimed Nora.

“I am afraid so,” Sam replied, automatically reaching out to cover her hands with his in sympathy.

Just as a thrill went through her from his touch, the kettle started shrieking, and Nora jumped up, confused by her reaction and thankful of the interruption. Sam was busily cursing the fool who had invented singing kettles, tea, and boiling water for good measure, as she ran out to the kitchen, but had calmed himself down by the time she returned with the tea and biscuits. They chatted away as though nothing had happened.

Well, nothing had happened, Sam thought, and he took his leave shortly thereafter. He rode toward the city and realized he was quite pleased, after all, with his visit, despite cups of tea and howling kettles, for why would a woman start up as though she’d been scalded if there was not some response to a man’s touch?

Nora was left feeling not quite so pleased. She felt rather foolish, in fact. She had jumped up like a nervous schoolgirl, startled more by her own reaction than by the damned teakettle. She did not know why she had these fleeting but strong reactions to the viscount. What did she know about him, after all? He was Jeremy’s godfather, a seemingly intelligent man. Serious about his work in politics. But aside from his brief reference to his travels, she had no idea what his life had been like for the past eighteen years. He had been in love with Lady Whitford, but had never married. Well, that didn’t mean anything, she thought, since most men occupied themselves elsewhere, married or not. The viscount, she knew, had had a mistress or two; perhaps Lady Maria would be the one to bring him to the altar…

Nora caught herself up short. One of the hazards of being a novelist, she had found, was the tendency to write stories in one’s head about friends and acquaintances. She really had no idea about the viscount’s past or present
chères
amies
,
she told herself, and what did it have to do with her anyway?

The viscount visited Hampstead twice more before Miranda and Jeremy’s return. On one visit, he accompanied Nora on a long walk on the Heath, marveling at her knowledge of flowers and birds and small animals, and at her stamina. Their conversations were always comfortable, and the informality of a day outdoors loosened both their tongues. Sam talked about his travels in India, and Nora was fascinated to learn that a country she had pictured as only steaming jungles and dry plains also had lakes and snow-covered mountains.

“My travels took me up north, and I cannot really describe to you the beauties of Kashmir. We have no scenery quite so majestic in Britain.”

“What did you think of the people?”

“They are very different in thought from ourselves. I do not share my compatriots’ distaste for darker-complexioned peoples. I was lucky to spend some time with a Nawab and his family, and came to understand something of their culture. I suspect our policies there will one day cause us much embarrassment, if not tragedy. I returned because I could not stomach them.”

The viscount continued with some thrilling tales of his adventures among the mountain peoples, and Nora realized that behind his rather ordinary exterior was an adventurous risk-taker, who in order to become more familiar with a country had gone where most Europeans did not. He had begun his travels soon after Lavinia married Charles, and Nora imagined his journeys over the years must have been quite effective in helping him forget his heartache.

She was glad of his company, for she was still suspended, waiting for Miranda. When she and Jeremy finally arrived one morning in late September, Nora flew down the path, meeting an equally eager Miranda halfway. They both cried and laughed and cried again.

“Let me look at you. Why, you are magnificent,” said Nora, rather in awe of her daughter, who was dressed in the height of fashion.

Miranda smiled. “My wardrobe, Mama, would have dressed and fed us for several years. I confess it is hard to get used to.”

Jeremy, who had been standing by the carriage, allowing mother and daughter their private reunion, came down the path and very naturally slipped his arm around Miranda’s waist.

“Is she not a beautiful countess?” he asked Nora.

“She quite intimidates me,” replied Nora, only half-joking.

She was aware, over the course of the morning, of many small and natural gestures of affection between the young couple. She had always known, and indeed was happy, that a strong physical attraction accompanied Miranda and Jeremy’s love, but before the marriage, she had never seen that many signs of it. Oh, she suspected that they embraced privately, but since she had not seen it, it was easy not to think about it. Now, however, she had to let the fact in; her daughter was a married woman, with all that meant.

What it seemed to mean for Nora, over the next weeks, was a deepening feeling of loneliness, as well as the reappearance of that awful jealousy. As Miranda’s mother, she was invited to private family dinners as well as some of the social events that Lavinia had planned for the Little Season. She was not inclined to go often, but realized if she didn’t, she would hardly see her daughter. Miranda had been pulled into a social whirl almost immediately. It was her duty as Jeremy’s countess, and although she preferred the country, and missed the quiet times she had hoped to have with her mother, she could not help but enjoy her social success.

The viscount was present on most of the occasions that Nora was invited to. He did not monopolize her, but always made sure that he had his chance to escort her to supper or claim a waltz. She was too grateful for his familiar face and the easy conversations with him to think much of his attention. He paid equal attention to Lavinia, the young ladies, and various widows, after all.

At home, especially after a dinner at Lavinia’s or a night at the theater, Nora wandered about, all the old habits and patterns gone, now that Miranda was not there. There was no one to laugh with over the latest black-pig episode and no one to listen to her difficulty with a character. Worst of all, there was no Miranda to put her arms around in a good-night hug, no Miranda interrupting her at her work, no Miranda needing the comfort of her presence.