Winter Wonderland (5 page)

“
If
you wish to have it,” Belle had added. “You must not feel in the least coerced. And, of course, you do realize that this invitation does not extend to your Aunt Letty. One can only do so much.”

Miranda had had to use all her control to keep from flying from the room in tears. The offer could not then—nor did it now—make her feel grateful. In her mind it had seemed rather like a prison sentence. Belle had made it quite plain that she did not really want to share her new home with a sister-in-law she hardly knew. On the few occasions they'd come together since Rodney's death, the woman had been just as she seemed at the reading of the will—smugly condescending.
And that's just how she seems now
, Miranda said to herself as she watched Belle looking about the room with the self-congratulating pride of ownership, her plumes waving.

All these months, the prospect of spending the rest of her life in the same house as Belle Velacott, without even the companionship of her beloved aunt to support her, had been most dismaying to Miranda. But perhaps she'd been wrong. Belle
had
offered her a home, after all. She deserved not to be too hastily judged.

Belle looked up at that moment. “Miranda, my dear, let's not waste time over tea. I do so wish to look over the house. Would you like to show me round?”

“Yes, very much,” Miranda said, rising eagerly. “But won't you take off your bonnet first? You are at home now, you know.”

They started in the drawing room, where Belle admired the marble mantelpiece and deplored the portrait hanging over it. “What an ugly thing!” she exclaimed. “It must go! I have a fine painting of my mother dandling me on her knee that will be perfect there. Remind me to tell Nash to take care of it, will you?”

They next surveyed the dining room, where Belle's eyes lit up at the sight of the pieces of china still on the floor beside the almost-filled crates. “What lovely china! Minton, isn't it? I shall have to display it in that armoire there.”

“I'm sorry, Belle, but you can't,” Miranda explained gently. “The china belongs to my aunt. I'm packing it to send out to her.”

“Oh, I see,” Belle said, disappointment and annoyance very clear in her tone and the set of her chin.

They proceeded through the library (where Belle criticized the placement of the furniture), the music room (where Belle disparaged Miranda's taste in draperies) and the other rooms on the first floor, and then up the stairs. Miranda led Belle straight to the two large, connecting bedrooms that would be hers and Charles's, and the mirrored dressing rooms that adjoined them. To Miranda's relief, Belle seemed quite pleased with their size and furnishings. It was not until Belle noticed a closed door that things went seriously awry. “And what is that?” she asked, pointing.

“That is my room,” Miranda said. “Would you care to see it?”

“Of course,” Belle responded in a tone that clearly implied,
That room is part of my house, too, isn't it?

Miranda opened the door and stood aside to let her pass. Belle looked about the room with brows upraised. “Why, it's quite large!” she exclaimed in some surprise.

Miranda suddenly felt guilty, as if she'd somehow overstepped. “Yes, it is,” she said defensively, “but not as large as the other two.”

“And the windows … they face south, if I mistake it not.”

“Well … yes, they do.”

“I have always favored south-facing rooms,” Belle declared sourly. Then her tone changed. “Oh!” she gasped. “
Look
at the
bed
!” She circled the high four-poster, fingering the carvings and eyeing the sheer hangings with a look of pure avarice.

“I believe it's Queen Anne,” Miranda offered.

“It
is
Queen Anne,” the new mistress of the house declared, her tone clearly accusing Miranda of stealing the best of the furnishings for herself.

“It was my mother's,” Miranda said quietly. “It is one of the few things of value that I brought with me when I was wed.”

“Oh, I see,” Belle murmured, taken aback. She bit her lip, resentful and annoyed to learn that she was not mistress of
everything
in this house. “It seems a very fine piece.”

“Thank you.” Miranda wondered if she was expected to apologize for reserving for herself something of value. But she swallowed her irritation and tried to recapture the good feelings with which she'd started out on this tour. “Would you care to see the other rooms on this floor?” she asked pleasantly. “There's a little room down the hall that might do very well as a writing room for you. It has a lovely old desk inset with porcelain tiles, a Sheraton. I'm sure the room will please you—the windows also face south.”

The desk, a large, eight-legged, ornate piece with solid gold pulls and magnificently-painted tiles, made a very distinct impression on Belle. “I suppose you'll now tell me,” she said sarcastically as she ran her fingers over the polished surface, “that this was your mother's, too.”

“I wasn't going to,” Miranda retorted, stung by Belle's tone, “but as a matter of fact it was.”

From Belle's snort, Miranda knew that the grasping little woman did not believe her. They proceeded on, but the feeling of warmth with which Miranda had begun the expedition was gone forever.

After the house had been thoroughly examined, and an impromptu buffet supper had been served in the dining room, Miranda excused herself and bid her new hosts good night. She needed to be alone to think over the day's events. She was still willing to try to find something about Belle to like, but the prospects were gloomy.

Half an hour later, she heard a tap on her door. Already in her nightdress, she only opened it a crack. In the corridor stood Nash, the butler. “I beg pardon for disturbing you at this hour, ma'am,” he said, “but Mr. Velacott would like a word with you in the library before you retire.”

“But I've already retired,” she objected.

The butler bit his lip. “I believe,” he said uncomfortably, “that Mr. Velacott feels that this matter shouldn't wait till morning.”

“Very well. Tell him I'll be down as soon as I can dress.”

In the library, Miranda found Charles pacing back and forth before the fire, looking very unhappy. His wife was nowhere in evidence. “Do sit down, my dear,” he began, not ceasing his pacing. “I don't quite know how to tell you this.”

“Just say it outright, whatever it is,” Miranda said, sitting down at the edge of an armchair facing him. “I dislike roundaboutation.”

“Well, then, without roundaboutation, here it is. My wife feels … that is, we
both
—she wants me to make it clear that I speak for both of us—
we
feel that your room is … well, it faces south, you see, and our bedrooms face west. Belle does love … that is, we
both
like a south-facing room …” His voice failed him, and he flicked her a look of sheer misery.

Miranda tried to make sense of this meandering speech. “Are you saying that Belle wants me to exchange my bedroom for hers?” she asked in disbelief. “But she can't be serious. In the first place, hers is much larger. And in the second, it adjoins yours. I can't take a bedroom adjoining yours.”

“No, no, of course not. I did not explain properly.” He took another quick turn across the room. “Damnation,” he muttered to himself, “Belle should be doing this herself.” He threw Miranda another shamefaced glance. “But she was very tired. It has been a long day.”

“Yes, it certainly has. But you were saying …?”

“Yes, about your room. She … we … are quite content with our bedrooms. We don't want your room as a bedroom but as a … a sitting room for Belle. Facing south, you see.”

“A sitting room. Facing south. I see.” Miranda swallowed hard. “And where would Belle … and you, of course … like me to sleep?”

“She says there's another south-facing room down the hall that would be very pleasant for you. She says you'll know which one she means. You thought it might be a nice writing room for her.”

“Yes, I know the one. But, Charles, it is very small. I don't believe there's a wall wide enough to accommodate my bed.”

“Belle's thought of that. She says that her bed is a good deal smaller than yours. She said to tell you she'd be willing to exchange her bed for yours.”

“Would she, indeed?” Miranda rose from her chair. Her knees were trembling. “How very kind of her,” she said between stiff lips. “Does she wish to make the exchange tonight, or may I sleep in my own bed for one more night?”

Charles's eyes dropped from her face. “Certainly you may stay where you are tonight,” he muttered awkwardly. He turned to the fire and lowered his head till his forehead rested on the mantel. “Tomorrow will be soon enough to move things about.”

“Then I bid you another good night, sir.” And she strode quickly to the door.

“Miranda, I …” He looked up over his shoulder at her, his eyes more miserable than before. “I'm truly sorry. But there is one more thing. In your new room, Belle noticed—”

“I know. You don't have to say it. She wants the desk.”

He reddened to the ears. “Well, you
will
have a bit more room without it.”

“So I will,” Miranda agreed, adding as she pulled the door closed behind her, “How considerate of Belle to think of that.”

She was trembling with fury by the time she reached her room.
That blasted female!
she cursed in her mind.
She has everything in the world! Must she have my bed, too?

She could not sleep. She prowled about her room for hours, like a tiger caged. In one short evening, Belle had proved herself selfish and manipulating. There was no other way to describe her. Was it to be Miranda's fate to spend the rest of her life in the same house with such a woman?

No!
she told herself vehemently. There
had
to be another way she could live. She had to find a way to support herself, there was no other choice. She had to find work of some kind. Anything, any kind of humble life, would be better than to be in this humiliating, degrading position. She would be a barmaid in a tavern, a lady's maid, a cook … anything! There was work to be had in this world. Hadn't she seen, this very afternoon, a list of advertisements—?

She gasped, blinking into the darkness, as an idea took hold. Quickly she lit a candle, slipped out of her room and ran down the stairs to the dining room. Shaking with eagerness, she set the candle on the floor, knelt before the still-open packing crate and took out the last saucer she'd wrapped. She unwrapped it and spread the crumpled newspaper on the floor. According to the date at the top of the page, it was almost a month old, but she prayed she would not be too late. In the dim candlelight, she skimmed the column of advertisements. There it was, just as she remembered it:
Mrs. Terence Traherne of Wymondham, Norfolk, seeks the assistance of a gentlewoman to supervise the education of three boys, ages five through twelve
. She had never supervised the education of anyone, but she
was
a gentlewoman. Perhaps she might qualify!

She ripped the advertisement from the page and dashed back up the stairs to the room into which she was to be moved at daybreak. She set her candlestick on the Sheraton desk that Belle lusted after and propped the torn piece of paper up against it. Then she pulled a sheet of writing paper and a quill from a drawer, cut a point, dipped it in an inkwell and began to write:
To Mrs. Terence Traherne of Norfolk: Dear Madam, In response to your advertisement in the London Times of 15 October
…

Four

The Honorable Barnaby Traherne turned up the collar of his greatcoat and huddled deeper into the cushions of the stagecoach seat.
December
, he said to himself, shivering,
is not the time to travel north
. The wind rattled the loose-fitting windows and whistled in at the edges of the doors, making the inside of the carriage feel as cold as outdoors. He'd had to rise before five this morning, dress in the dark and hurry through the cold streets to the Swan With Two Necks Inn to catch the stage.
Perhaps I shouldn't have agreed to go to Terence's for Christmas
, he mused.
I could still have been comfortably asleep right now, and I could have spent the holidays lazing about in my flat right here in London
.

He glanced over at the one other passenger, a heavyset fellow with a florid complexion and a bulbous nose, who was busily chewing away on a large sugared bun and seemed undisturbed by the cold. At first Barnaby, who hated any sort of crush, had been glad there were no other passengers on the London-to-Norwich stage, but now he was sorry; two more passengers on each of the wide seats would have made the coach warmer. But there was still a stop to be made at Islington before the coach turned onto the North Road. Undoubtedly, a few more passengers would be picked up there.

He opened the newspaper he'd purchased at the Swan before departure but then resisted the compulsion to read it. He was on holiday, after all. He didn't want to trouble his mind with his usual foreign-office concerns: the unrest in Germany, Turkey's troubles with the Serbs, the workers' riots in Derbyshire, and all the rest. The world, in spite of its problems, would surely keep on turning on its axis without him.

He turned to the window and gazed out at the passing landscape, but it gave little pleasure. The sky hung heavy and dark over a gray December world, and to make things worse, a few flakes of snow drifted by his window. Snow! That was all he needed to solidify his regrets that he'd undertaken this journey. It would be seven o'clock at night—eleven hours from now—when the stage would reach Barnaby's destination, Wymondham. There he expected to be met by his brother's carriage, which would take him three miles west, probably another half hour of travel. It would be a long, tedious day before he reached his destination. If a heavy snowfall should develop, and the coach delayed, it would be the last straw!