All the Pleasures of the Season (7 page)

 

C
HAPTER
T
WELVE

T
he rain turned to snow as Miranda traveled north toward Cumbria and the lakes and fells that surrounded Carrington Castle. Usually Miranda loved traveling through the beautiful landscape, especially at Christmas when the snow blanketed the hills and made everything crisp and magical, and she was filled with the anticipation of all the pleasures of the season: the joy of family and friends, warm fires, merry parties, and wonderful surprises.

But on this journey, Miranda scarcely looked out the window. She was trying to think of how to tell her grandfather the news.

“Look, my lady, there's the castle at last,” her maid said, pointing.

The red stone turrets and green copper roofs glowed against the white snow, and the castle stood like a friendly sentry, looking down over the road as if it had been watching for her arrival.

“Oh, Gil,” she murmured as they drove through the gates and up the long driveway.

In a few days, the pristine carpet of snow that covered the lawns would be marred by the footprints of some two hundred houseguests when they came to celebrate Christmastide—and the wedding of the year—at the duke's magnificent home.

There would be a good deal of disappointment, and speculation. Gossip and scandal would surely follow by Twelfth Night and spread the tale far beyond Carrington's walls.

Miranda shut her eyes. She'd spent three days imagining what she might say to Carrington, and afterwards how she might explain the situation to the guests. She would have to tell them
something
, since she could not hide in her room for the whole twelve days of Christmas.

Goodwin, Grandfather's butler, hurried down the front steps as they pulled up, wrapping a bright knitted muffler over his black coat.

“We did not expect you until tomorrow, my lady,” he said, as he handed her out of the coach with a smile, “but it's a good thing you arrived today. There'll be more snow overnight.”

“Are Mr. Wilkins's bunions acting up again?” Miranda asked. The old coachman's bunions had been accurately predicting Carrington's weather for forty years.

“He reports that we can look for a foot or more of snow.”

“Keep him by the fire, and ask cook to send him some of her lineament,” Miranda instructed. “Is my grandfather in his study?”

Goodwin smiled. “Taking his afternoon nap upstairs. You have time to go up yourself and freshen up, my lady, and have a cup of tea and some of Mrs. Harris's biscuits to warm you up.”

“Thank you,” she said, and lifted her snow-crusted hem to climb the steps.

“My lady? May I offer congratulations on behalf of the staff? We are all looking forward to the wedding.”

Miranda's heart sank. She had forgotten she'd also have to tell the servants, people as dear to her as family, men and women who had watched her grow up and wished her every happiness. She paused, wondered if she should tell Goodwin now, let him warn the cook and the maids and the housekeeper that all extra effort of scrubbing and extra cleaning for the wedding wouldn't be necessary now.

She had to tell her grandfather first.

Miranda climbed the oak staircase of her home, running her hand along the wooden banisters and railings, worn and polished by a dozen generations of Archer hands. She breathed in the welcome scent of the house, listened to the creak of the floorboards that chimed a welcome on cue, each in its own familiar voice, like music, as she passed by.

Her bedchamber was a sanctuary, high up the West Tower, overlooking the gardens, the lake, and the endless hills. She untied her bonnet, tossed it on her bed, and crossed to the fire to warm her hands. They must have been watching for her indeed, seen her coach coming, and raced up to light the fire.

The footmen came in with her trunk, and her maid followed, directing them to carry it to her dressing room so she could unpack.

“Go down to the kitchen and have a cup of tea, Annie,” Miranda said. “I'll be fine for a little while.”

She waited until the door closed on the servants.

She sat on her bed.

She got up and went to the window seat.

She rose and paced the floor. She imagined herself standing on the carpet in Grandfather's study—before his desk, her feet on the red oval in the exact center, her hands clasped behind her back, listening to his stern lecture about the duties of a lady—just as she had when she was a child.

But she wasn't a child any more. She was a grown woman.

“I broke my engagement to Lord Kelton because he could never make me happy,” she said to the empty air, but it sounded petty and childish. “I love someone else” was also pointless.

She sighed. There was simply no easy way to tell her grandfather the truth without hurting him, shocking him, and disappointing him.

He would probably banish her to her room for the whole of Christmas, as if she was a child of four. She straightened her shoulders, crossed to the dressing table to check her hair—done in a grown woman's elegant coiffure, not the braids of a little girl. She would face her grandfather bravely, and tell him the truth. She owed him that.

An hour later, Goodwin sent a maid upstairs to tell her that Carrington was awake and would see her in the study. Miranda felt her stomach drop. She clasped her hands and paced the long gallery under the watchful painted eyes of her ancestors.

She paused before the portrait of her mother. She smiled down at her with the confidence of a happy woman, her eyes warm. Miranda had seen the same look in Marianne's eyes when she smiled at Adam. And Isobel, her brother's new wife, had the same glow.

They had all chosen to marry men they loved.

Even her grandmother, married to Carrington for fifty-four years, smiled softly down at her, the secret to a happy life clear in her eyes.

Love.

Miranda turned and headed down the staircase, her shoes clicking on the old limestone steps. She knocked on the door of the study.

“Come,” her grandfather said gruffly. She took a breath and entered. He immediately looked behind her.

“Is Kelton not with you?” he asked.

She studied the rug, positioned herself in the red oval. “No, Grandfather. He won't be coming.”

“Not coming?” the duke growled. “Is he arriving tomorrow then? The wedding is only three days away!”

She raised her eyes. “He isn't coming at all. I have broken my betrothal to the Earl of Kelton. There will be no wedding.”

She held her breath as his brows closed in, furrowing the skin between his eyes. His face reddened dangerously.

“I'm sorry to disappoint you, Grandfather,” she rushed on, “but I could not marry someone I did not love, or could even hope to
grow
to love. Even with time.”

The room was so silent she could hear the tick of the ormolu clock on the mantle. The Chinese lion statues that flanked the fireplace stared at her with pop-eyed surprise that mirrored Carrington's own.

“Did something occur after I left Town?” he asked carefully, his tone even, almost calm. Miranda swallowed, knowing that meant he was very, very angry indeed. She watched as his knuckles whitened on the arm of his chair.

“I realized—” she began. “That is, I—” She swallowed.

The door crashed open. “You can't simply come in here without being announced!” Goodwin cried, chasing a caped, snow-covered intruder into the room. A flurry of footmen followed him, all armed with a variety of kitchen tools, fireplace pokers, and even an umbrella.

“Miranda, come here at once,” Carrington commanded, reaching for an ornamental sword that hung over the fireplace.

But Miranda couldn't move. The unannounced guest looked like—

“Gilbert?” she whispered. Surely it wasn't possible—it simply couldn't be. He'd left England, sailed for Spain. She held her breath and waited for him to lift his head, take off his hat, and undo the high collar that hid his face.

“Stop!” she said to the footmen who had now taken hold of his arms to drag him out. “Wait, please!”

He lifted his head and met her eyes. “Good afternoon, my lady, Your Grace.”

“Do you know this person?” Carrington spluttered.

“Grandfather, this is Gilbert Fielding. He's a friend of Phineas's, and—”

She broke off. And what? The man she loved? “Why have you come?” she asked, her heart in her throat. She couldn't move.

“I've come to speak to your grandfather,” he said, looking into her eyes, making his meaning clear. Her heart melted.

“Gentlemen make appointments,” Carrington snapped. “What's the meaning of this intrusion?”

“Shall I remove him, Your Grace?” Goodwin asked. The footmen bristled in readiness.

“I've ridden all the way from London, Your Grace. I wish to ask for Lady Miranda's hand in marriage.”

Goodwin gasped. The footmen began to mutter among themselves.

“Gilbert!” Miranda said. She would have rushed to him, but Carrington caught her arm, held her by his side.

“Grandfather, please!” she whispered, and he scanned her face for a moment before he sighed.

“It appears Lady Miranda knows this gentleman, Goodwin. Take his hat and coat, and wait outside while I get to the bottom of all this.” He waited for the servants to leave, then pointed to a chair by the desk. “Miranda, sit down at once, and don't move. Is that clear?”

She obediently did so, her skin tingling. She clasped her hands and studied Gilbert's face. He looked cold and tired. He needed a bath, and shaving. There was frost on his hair and mud from the road on his clothing. She had never seen any man look so handsome.

“Has this sudden proposal got something to do with the news my granddaughter has just imparted?”

“I told him I've broken my betrothal,” Miranda said.

“Miranda, hold your tongue, if you please,” Carrington commanded.

“I wish to marry Lady Miranda,” Gilbert repeated.

Miranda stifled a cry. “Yes,” she whispered instead. Her grandfather ignored her.

“Am I to expect a whole parade of new suitors riding in at odd hours, unannounced, to propose marriage?” he demanded.

“It is three o'clock,” Gilbert said.

“What has that got to do with it?”

“I waited for the appropriate time to call.”

Miranda giggled. “He means it isn't an odd hour at all. It's quite mannerly, Grandfather.”

Carrington's face turned as red as the very stones of the castle. “Miranda, if you continue to interrupt, I shall send you upstairs.”

She smiled fondly at him. “Yes, Grandfather.”

He turned to Gilbert. “Now, sir, who are you?”

“I am Gilbert Fielding, Your Grace. My Father is Baron Sir William Fielding of Melton Hall in Shropshire.”

“And you are his heir?”

Gilbert shook his head. “I am his second son.”

Carrington's frown deepened. “And you have come to propose to my granddaughter? I trust you have a private fortune? Estates?”

Miranda felt her heart quail, but Gilbert looked undeterred. There was a statue of St. George facing a dragon in the gallery, and the hero had the same expression on his face as Gilbert did now: a mixture of determination and belief in his cause. She felt her heart flutter.

Gilbert reached into his coat and pulled out a piece of paper, which he laid on the desk. “This is my estate. Wintercliff, in Shropshire.”

Carrington raised his quizzing glass and examined it. The glass popped out like a cork. “One hundred and twenty acres?” Carrington sputtered. “Is that all?”

Gilbert nodded. “I have an option to purchase an adjoining property within the next two years, and I will have the money to do so. I have ideas, you see. There are new breeds of sheep I wish to add to the stock at Wintercliff, which are quite excellent already. Did you know there are weavers and craftspeople being evicted from the land? They're being forced to leave England, go to North America, or go to the slums of the cities and take jobs in the new factories. I understand that Miranda has plans to import silk and dyes, and we can bring the displaced weavers to live at Wintercliff, where they can work at their trade.” He glanced at her. “They'll have a home whether we marry or not.”

“Oh, Gil,” Miranda sighed.

“Miranda,” Carrington warned.

“I do realize I haven't much of a fortune, Your Grace, but I love your granddaughter, and will spend my life making her happy,” Gilbert finished.

Carrington sat silently and pondered the young man before him, and Miranda held her breath.

She looked at the tapestry behind the desk, now faded and old, which depicted the proud beginnings of the Archer family. A bold bowman held a French knight at bay at Agincourt while the English King Henry V escaped. The clock ticked, loud in the silence.

“Young man, as heartfelt as I'm sure your proposal might be, I'm afraid I must consider Miranda's welfare, and I—”

Miranda got to her feet and pointed to the tapestry “Grandfather, remember Thomas Archer!”

“What has that to do with anything?” Carrington demanded.

“Everything!” Miranda said. “Please don't reject Gilbert's proposal without giving it proper consideration.”

The mighty Duke of Carrington searched his granddaughter's face, and she saw his eyes soften, just a little. Hope soared, but he shook his head. Picked up the deed to Wintercliff and the document from Adam's man of affairs showing details for moving the weavers to the estate.

“It's started snowing again,” he grumbled, glancing at the windows.

“Wilkins's bunions are predicting at least a foot,” Miranda said sweetly, holding her grandfather's gaze. He sighed and looked at Gilbert.

“Someday, young man, you will have your own children and grandchildren. May you have an easier time with yours than I have had with mine.”