Marjorie Farrell (24 page)

“Yes, Evelyn told me. All these years I thought you dead, and you thought me unforgiving, all because of an undelivered letter. I suppose I had got the address wrong or some such thing.”

“Or perhaps Breen’s relatives did not know who Lady Honora Margaret was. To them I was Nora Breen.”

Her father winced at the name and flushed with anger. “Breen! That scoundrel.”

“Hush, Father. He was someone to be pitied more than hated, and he is dead. And, Father, it was my choice to go,” she added quietly.

“You always were a passionate child, Meg. Your mother and I worried about you. If your mother hadn’t died, all this would not have happened.”

And had you not married so soon afterward, thought Nora. But she was unable to accuse her father. And indeed, now that she was older, she had more understanding of why he had sought comfort.

“I miss her more than I could tell you, Father, but had she not died, I would not have Miranda. I do not wish to shock you, but were I offered a choice, I would choose my daughter. I never knew till now I felt that way,” Nora continued after a moment’s silence, “but I do.”

“You speak as a true parent, my dear,” replied her father. “But come, tell me how you came to settle in Hampstead, and of my granddaughter.”

Nora told him at length of her life in the village, her writing, and the events of the past year.

“What is she like, this granddaughter of mine?” asked the marquess, terribly moved by Nora’s story, but unable to ask her anything but surface questions.

“She makes a beautiful countess, Father. She is quite different from your hoydenish daughter, however. Very calm. Very womanly. And very happy in her marriage. Jeremy is almost as dear to me as she is.”

“Evelyn tells me that you never did marry Breen.” Her father looked at her almost apologetically for asking that question.

“No, I never had the chance, for he was killed soon after we arrived in Scotland. But you must accept that I gave myself to him willingly. He did not set out to deceive or ruin me. I think he even loved me.”

“And the earl’s family? Do they know that Miranda is…?”

“Illegitimate? No, only Jeremy knows that she is the granddaughter of the Marquess of Doverdale. The dowager countess believes Miranda to be the daughter of a deceased naval lieutenant, for that was the background I created for myself.”

“It hurts me to think that all these years you might have been cared for here; that I would have seen my granddaughter grow up; that you had to struggle so hard…” her father said, in a voice filled with emotion.

“It was hard at times. But I don’t know but that it was better after all. Perhaps that is the sort of philosophy we hold on to after something is too late to change.” Nora smiled. “But I know I learned much in those years alone. And my writing is a part of me I never would have discovered, living here as your daughter.”

“Ah, yes, your writing. Evelyn told me, and then went immediately to the bookshelf to pull out one of her favorite novels by one Mrs. Honora Dillon. I think she is as thrilled to meet a favorite authoress as she is to have you home.” The marquess laughed.

“And you, Father? How have these years been for you?”

“Good ones, my dear, aside from the pain of losing you. Evelyn has been a wonderful wife and mother, and Richard is an heir to be proud of. I hope you don’t feel displaced?” he asked anxiously. “Now I know you are alive, I will make sure you receive the settlements which would have been due you on your marriage. And you will still inherit a comfortable sum. But the estate is entailed, so it would have gone to your second cousin anyway, you know.”

“Father, please do not apologize. I did not come for my inheritance, but to see you. I am excited to find I have a half-brother. Perhaps you all will consider coming to London in the spring? I would so love to have you meet Miranda and Jeremy.”

“And how would you introduce me? As a distant relative, or as her grandfather?”

“Oh, dear, I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I really don’t want anyone to know Miranda’s background. Well, we will have to come up with some story of an estrangement due to your dislike of the lieutenant. I think they have assumed something of the sort already.”

“ ‘Mrs. Dillon’ ought to be able to concoct some sort of tale, though,” her father said.

“Why, yes, indeed, she should,” said Nora smiling.

After that first day, the succeeding ones were more and more comfortable both for Nora and for the marquess and his wife. Nora refused all suggestions for socializing, however.

“I know you would like to kill the fatted calf, Father, but I do not think I could take all the curious stares and questions. Let us keep this a quiet family visit, and perhaps in the summer I will come home after you have told people of my return.”

Nora spent her days exploring old haunts on foot or horseback. The riding at Sam’s had been a good way to regain her seat, so she was ready for some wild gallops across the moors, which made her feel seventeen again until she had been sitting for a few hours afterward. Then every additional year made itself known to her as she walked down the halls, hip stiff or knees creaking.

One afternoon, she and the marquess drove to St. Anne’s. They stood by her mother’s grave quietly. It was well-tended and the rosemary that the young Meg had planted years ago was now a small tree, with a gnarled and twisted trunk.

“I did love her so, Meg. You know that?” said the marquess suddenly.

“Yes, Father, I do.” Now, she added silently to herself.

“I could not have lived alone. She understood that very well. I am not sure you did?”

She knew that this was the closest her father could come to asking for forgiveness.

“I understand now, Father.”

The marquess’s hand sought hers and they walked back in silence to the carriage, closer than they had been since Nora was sixteen.

* * * *

That night she had a hard time getting to sleep. The visit to her mother’s grave had brought her full circle, for the last time she had stood there it had been with Breen, as a young woman who was suffering from the loss of her mother. Now she was a grown woman who was, in a sense, suffering from the loss of her daughter. As she tossed and turned, it felt to her like something in her had never lived these past nineteen years. That in some strange way she was still standing with Breen by her mother’s grave, fallen into a trance. That she had awakened from a strange sleep and found herself in a grown woman’s body, with a daughter and no recollection of the intervening years. These feelings so disturbed her that she forced herself to concentrate on her breathing and finally fell asleep.

* * * *

She was nineteen again, and at the bottom of a steep hill. She knew she must climb to the top by herself. All around at her feet were boxes and bags that also must get up the hill. And a baby. A small, laughing little girl: Miranda at two. The baby, the boxes, and all must go up, and there was no one else to help. She, Meg, had to do it herself. She started pulling boxes and bags together, and was finally able to fashion a haversack that fit on her back. She slung it over the shoulders, and thought she would go over backward from the weight and the incline of the hill. But when she picked up Miranda, the little girl’s weight counterbalanced what was on her back, and she started to climb. Every few feet she would stop, and wanted to sit down and cry and wait for her father or mother to find her. And then she would remember: her mother was dead, her father didn’t love her, and she would start up again. The little girl gurgled and laughed and stroked Meg’s face, but Meg felt nothing. She could not afford to feel anything if she wanted to get to the top of the hill. And so she climbed, and stopped, wanting her parents, and shutting them out, knowing she could not go on if she remembered them. She was close to the top when she saw someone waiting, someone tall and thin, who “helloed” her and asked if she needed any help. She sat down, knowing that she could not take another step and also knowing that she could not let this stranger help her. She had to get to the top and she was not going to make it, and she woke up, torn by the unresolvable conflict.

The nightmare had been so vivid it had thrown her back into her childhood, and she found herself crying out as she had as a little girl, “Papa, Papa, Papa.”

And miraculously he was there, as he had been for her when she was nine or ten.

“Meg, Meg, my dear, what is it? I was unable to sleep and heard you cry out.”

“Oh, Papa. I am so tired. I can’t do it all myself anymore. But I have to, I have to get Miranda to the top.”

Her father put his arms around her and pulled her head onto his shoulder.

“Hush, hush, my dear. I know you are tired. Where do you need to take Miranda?”

“To the top of the hill. But I have this heavy bag on my back and I can’t carry it all by myself. But Mother is dead and you are gone and I can’t just ask a stranger to help.”

The marquess stroked his daughter’s hair, realizing for the first time just what these past years had been like for her on her own.

“Yes, your mama is dead, and I am not there…?”

Nora was sobbing like a child, freely and without self-consciousness. She was still half-asleep, and the marquess hoped she would stay that way, for, awake, he suspected she would never have revealed so much.

“He asks me if I need help. But I have to do it myself.”

“Why, Meggie?”

“I don’t know, Papa. I just do. If Sam helped me, I would just give up.”

“Go to sleep now, dear. It is only a dream,” whispered the marquess.

Nora’s crying stopped, and after a few shuddering sobs she slid under the covers, pillowing her head on her hand, just as she had done as a child. The marquess stroked her shoulder, feeling disoriented and very old. He hoped he had done the right thing, coming into his daughter’s room. He hoped he had said the right things. And he knew they must talk in the light of day.

Nora remembered only a little of the night before. She thought she had had a nightmare. She thought her father had come in to comfort her, as he had in the old days. But maybe that was a dream too? She felt exhausted and empty, and was too embarrassed to go to breakfast with her father and Evelyn, so she had it brought up for her, sending the maid down with her apologies. She fell asleep over her roll and chocolate, and awakened close to noon.

The weather had changed. It was colder, and an icy rain was beginning to fall. She realized that she would have to start home soon. She dressed in her old kerseymere and went downstairs to seek the warmth of the library.

Her father was there, working at his desk. She smiled hesitantly, still not sure what had transpired last night.

“Did you sleep well after your nightmare, Meg?”

Nora flushed. “Then you did come in. I thought it part of my dream. I am so embarrassed, Papa. I never lose control like that.”

“But this has been an unusual week for both of us. It is understandable you would be affected by it. Come, sit down by the fire.” The marquess moved from behind his desk, and sat opposite his daughter.

“I think you needed the dream. And perhaps me to comfort you. Do you remember any of it?”

“Just the feeling I had to climb and climb and everything was so heavy.”

“And who is Sam?”

“Sam? How did you know his name?”

“He seemed to be someone who was wanting to help you. Who is this Sam?”

“He is Jeremy’s godfather. A friend. A good friend, I thought, but…”

“But…?”

“It seems he wants more than friendship.”

“And you?”

“Me? I don’t know, Father. I am quite happy with my life as it is.”

“Nora.”

Nora looked up, surprised.

“You
are
Nora, you know. A grown woman, no longer my little Meggie. Why would you be so determined not to let this Sam into your life?”

“You don’t understand, Father.”

“You are right, I don’t. But I am trying to.”

“I do like him. I have to admit that. But I cannot feel that way, ever again,” she continued vehemently. “Look what happened when I did with Breen.” Nora was staring at the fire as though her gaze were all that kept it burning.

“Nora, I am not the one who should be talking to you. Your mother would have known far better what to say. But I am the one who is here, so I will do my best. My dear, you made one mistake, many years ago. You are older now, not the same impressionable, lonely girl. And you said yourself, had you not been with Breen, you would not have your lovely daughter. I forgave you, if that is what you returned for, years ago. And I suspect I need to ask your forgiveness for leaving you so alone after Margaret’s death. Can you forgive me and yourself?”

Nora, who had felt so empty, who believed she could never shed another tear, felt them pouring down her cheeks. She turned to her father and said: “Oh, Father, can you forgive me?”

The marquess reached out and took her hands in his.

“My dear daughter, you are so welcome here and have been in my thoughts for so long. You have done so much with your life and I am so proud of you. But you must not keep yourself from human love because you think yourself too ‘loving’ or believe you need my forgiveness.”

“So I’m ‘welcomed back to Northumberland,’ ” said Nora. “Sam sang that one evening, and I think it must have started me on my way home. He has a lovely voice,” she said shakily.

“Ah, yes, the old ballad,” said the marquess. “The parents do welcome her home, don’t they? A rare happy ending for one of those old songs.” He smiled. “And is your love still so ‘easy won’?”

“I’m afraid at least my passionate feelings are,” replied Nora, embarrassed to be talking with her father about such matters. “But I have not let my attraction for Sam grow into love. I have been too scared.”

“Do you think you can love him?”

“I don’t know, Father.”

“Well, much as I hate to let you go, you shall have to return home and find out, won’t you?”

“I suppose I will.” Nora squeezed his hands, crushing the signet ring against his fingers until he winced.