Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever (16 page)

“Turner?” she heard from behind her. “He must, or he wouldn't be staying so long. Mama is in a despair, or she would be, if she weren't so busy despairing over me. Now, do you mind if I stay here with you? Haverbreaks is so big and drafty when no one is home.”

“Of course I don't mind.” Miranda remained at the win
dow for a few moments longer, until she thought that she could look at Olivia without bursting into tears. She had been so emotional lately. “It will be quite a treat for me. It's a bit lonely with only Father to keep me company.”

“Oh, yes. How is he? Improving, I hope.”

“Father?” Miranda was grateful for the interruption provided by the maid who answered her earlier summons. She ordered some tea before turning back to Olivia. “Ehm, he is much improved.”

“I shall have to stop in and wish him well. Mama asked me to send her regards as well.”

“Oh, no, you shouldn't do that,” Miranda said quickly. “He doesn't like to be reminded of his illness. He's very proud, you know.”

Olivia, who had never been one to mince words, said, “How very odd.”

“Yes, well, it's a
masculine
complaint,” Miranda improvised. She had heard so much about feminine complaints; surely the men had to have some sort of ailment that was exclusively theirs. And if they didn't, she could not imagine that Olivia would know otherwise.

But Miranda hadn't counted on her friend's insatiable curiosity. “Oh, really?” she breathed, leaning forward. “What exactly is a
masculine
complaint?”

“I shouldn't talk about it,” Miranda said hastily, offering her father a silent apology. “It would embarrass him greatly.”

“But—”

“And your mother would be most upset with me. It's really not fit for tender ears.”

“Tender ears?” Olivia snorted. “As if your ears were any less tender than mine.”

Her ears might not be, but the rest of her certainly was, Miranda thought wryly. “No more on the subject,” she said firmly. “I shall leave it up to your magnificent imagination.”

Olivia grumbled a bit at that but finally sighed and asked, “When are you coming home?”

“I am home,” Miranda reminded her.

“Yes, yes, of course. This is your
official
home, I know, but I assure you, the entire Bevelstoke family misses you very much, so when are you returning to London?”

Miranda caught her lower lip between her teeth. The
entire
Bevelstoke family obviously did not miss her, or a certain member would not have remained so long in Kent. But still, returning to London was the only way she could fight for her happiness, and sitting up here in Cumberland, crying into her journal and gazing morosely out the window, made her feel like a spineless twit.

“If I'm a twit,” she muttered to herself, “at least I shall be a vertebrate twit.”

“What
did you say?”

“I said I
will
go back to London,” Miranda said with great determination. “Father is well enough to get along without me.”

“Splendid. When shall we leave?”

“Oh, in two or three days' time, I think.” Miranda was not so brave that she didn't want to put off the inevitable by a few days. “I need to pack my things, and you are surely tired from traveling across the country.”

“I am a bit. Perhaps we ought to stay a week. Assuming you are not weary of the country life already. I would not mind a short break from the congestion of London.”

“Oh, no, that's just fine,” Miranda assured her. Turner could wait. He certainly wasn't going to marry someone else in the meantime, and she could use the time to bolster her courage.

“Perfect. Then shall we go riding this afternoon? I'm dying for a good gallop.”

“That sounds lovely.” The tea arrived, and Miranda busied herself with pouring the steaming liquid. “I think a week is just perfect.”

A week later, Miranda was convinced beyond anything that she could not return to London. Ever. Her monthly, which was so regular that it truly was monthly, had not arrived. She should have bled a few days before Olivia came. She had managed to stave off her worry for the first few days by telling herself that it was only because she was overset. Then, in the excitement of Olivia's arrival, she had forgotten about it. But now she was well over a week late. And emptying her stomach every single morning. Miranda had led a sheltered life, but she was a country girl, and she knew what that meant.

Dear God, a baby. What was she to do? She had to tell Turner; there was no getting around that. As much as she did not wish to use an innocent life to force a marriage that was obviously not fated to occur, how could she deny her child his birthright? But the thought of traveling to Lon
don was pure agony. And she was sick of chasing him and waiting for him and hoping and praying that maybe one day he'd come to love her. For once, he could bloody well come to her.

And he would, wouldn't he? He was a gentleman. He might not love her, but surely she had not misjudged him so completely. He would not shirk his duty.

Miranda smiled weakly to herself. So it had come to this. She was a duty. She would have him—after so many years of dreaming, she would actually be Lady Turner, but she would be nothing but a duty. She placed her hand on her belly. This should be a moment of joy, but instead all she wanted to do was cry.

A knock sounded on her bedroom door. Miranda looked up with a startled expression and didn't say anything.

“Miranda!” Olivia's voice was insistent. “Open the door. I can hear you crying.”

Miranda took a deep breath and walked over to the door. It would not be easy to keep this a secret from Olivia, but she had to try. Olivia was intensely loyal, and she would never betray Miranda's trust, but still, Turner was her brother. There was no telling what Olivia would do. Miranda wouldn't put it past her to put a pistol to his back and march him north herself.

Miranda took a quick look in the mirror before heading to the door. Her tears she could wipe away, but she would have to blame her red-rimmed eyes on the summer garden. She took a few deep breaths, and then pasted on the brightest smile she was able and answered the door.

She did not fool Olivia for a minute.

“Good heavens, Miranda,” she said, rushing to put her arms around her. “Whatever has happened to you?”

“I'm well,” Miranda assured her. “My eyes always itch this time of year.”

Olivia stood back, regarded her for a moment, then kicked the door shut. “But you are so pale.”

Miranda's stomach began to churn, and she swallowed convulsively. “I think I've caught some sort of…” She waved her hand in the air, hoping that would finish her sentence for her. “Perhaps I should sit down.”

“It couldn't have been something you ate,” Olivia said, helping her to her bed. “You hardly touched your food yesterday, and in any case, I had everything you did and more.” She nudged Miranda forward on the bed while she fluffed the pillows. “And I feel as fine as ever.”

“Probably a head cold,” Miranda mumbled. “You should probably return to London without me. I wouldn't wish for you to fall sick as well.”

“Nonsense. I can't leave you alone like this.”

“I'm not alone. My father is here.”

Olivia gave her a look. “You know I would never wish to disparage your father, but I hardly think he knows what to do with an invalid. Half the time, I'm not even sure he remembers we are here.”

Miranda closed her eyes and sank into the pillows. Olivia was right, of course. She adored her father, but truly, when it came to matters that involved actually interacting with another human being, he was fairly well hopeless.

Olivia perched on the edge of the bed, the mattress
sighing with her weight. Miranda tried to ignore her, tried to pretend that she didn't know, even with her eyes closed, that Olivia was staring at her, just waiting for her to acknowledge her presence.

“Please tell me what is wrong, Miranda,” Olivia said softly. “Is it your father?”

Miranda shook her head, but just at that moment Olivia shifted her weight. The mattress rocked beneath them, rather like the movement of a boat, and although Miranda had never been seasick a day in her life, her stomach began to churn, and it suddenly became imperative—

Miranda leaped from the bed, knocking Olivia to the floor. She reached the chamber pot just in time.

“Good gracious,” Olivia said, keeping a respectful—and self-preservational—distance. “How long have you been like this?”

Miranda declined to answer. But her stomach heaved in reply.

Olivia took a step back. “Er, is there anything I can do?”

Miranda shook her head, thankful her hair was neatly pulled back.

Olivia watched for another few moments, then went over to the basin and wet a cloth. “Here you are,” she said, holding it forward, her arm entirely outstretched.

Miranda took it gratefully. “Thank you,” she whispered, wiping her face.

“I don't think this is a head cold,” Olivia said.

Miranda shook her head.

“I'm quite certain the fish last night was perfectly good, and I can't imagine—”

Miranda did not have to see Olivia's face to interpret her gasp. She knew. She might not yet quite believe it, but she knew.

“Miranda?”

Miranda remained frozen in place, hanging pathetically over the chamber pot.

“Are you—did you—?”

Miranda swallowed convulsively. And she nodded.

“Oh, my. Oh, my. Oh oh oh oh oh…”

It was perhaps the first time in her life that Miranda had heard Olivia at a complete loss for words. Miranda finished wiping her mouth, and then, her stomach finally at a somewhat even keel, moved away from the chamber pot and sat up a little straighter.

Olivia was still staring at her as if she'd seen an apparition. “How?” she finally asked.

“The usual way,” Miranda retorted. “I assure you, there is no cause to alert the Church.”

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry,” Olivia said hurriedly. “I didn't mean to upset you. It's just that…well…you must know…well…this is just such a
surprise
.”

“It surprised me, too,” Miranda replied in a somewhat flat voice.

“It couldn't have been that much of a surprise,” Olivia said without thinking. “I mean, if you had done…if you had been…” She let her words trail off, realizing that her foot was lodged firmly in her mouth.

“It was still a surprise, Olivia.”

Olivia was silent for a few moments as she absorbed this shock. “Miranda, I have to ask…”

“Don't!” Miranda warned her. “Please don't ask me who.”

“Was it Winston?”

“No!” she replied forcefully. And then muttered, “Good heavens.”

“Then who?”

“I can't tell you,” Miranda said, her voice breaking. “It was…it was someone totally unsuitable. I…I don't know what I was thinking, but please don't ask me again. I don't want to talk about it.”

“That's fine,” Olivia said, clearly realizing that it would be unwise to push her any further. “I won't ask you again, I promise. But what are we going to do?”

Miranda could not help but feel a little warmed by her use of the word
we
.

“I say, Miranda, are you certain you're expecting?” Olivia asked suddenly, her eyes brightening with hope. “You could just be late. I'm late all the time.”

Miranda threw an obvious glance at the chamber pot. And then she shook her head and said, “I'm never late. Never.”

“You'll have to go somewhere,” Olivia said. “The scandal will be amazing.”

Miranda nodded. She planned to post a letter to Turner, but she could not tell that to Olivia.

“The best thing to do would be to get you out of the country. The continent, perhaps. How is your French?”

“Dismal.”

Olivia sighed wearily. “You never were very good with languages.”

“Nor were you,” Miranda said testily.

Olivia declined to dignify that with a response, instead suggesting, “Why don't you go to Scotland?”

“To my grandparents?”

“Yes. Don't tell me they would turn you out because of your condition. You're always talking about how kind they are.”

Scotland. Yes, that was the perfect solution. She would notify Turner, and he could join her there. They would be able to marry without posting banns, and then all would be, if not well, at least settled.

“I shall accompany you,” Olivia said decisively. “I will stay as long as I can.”

“But what will your mother say?”

“Oh, I'll tell her that someone's gone ill. It worked before, didn't it?” Olivia leveled a shrewd look at Miranda, one that clearly said that she knew that she had made up the story about her father.

“That's an awful lot of ill people.”

Olivia shrugged. “It's an epidemic. All the more reason for her to remain in London. But what will you tell your father?”

“Oh, anything,” Miranda replied dismissively. “He doesn't pay very much attention to what I do.”

“Well, for once that is an advantage. We'll leave today.”

“Today?” Miranda echoed weakly.

“We're already packed, after all, and there is no time to wait.”

Miranda looked down at her still-flat stomach. “No, I don't suppose there is.”