Marjorie Farrell (16 page)

Simon reached out, found Nora’s hands, and held them. “I promise that unless you give me leave, I will never repeat what you tell me.”

“Did you listen to the song the viscount sang last night?”

“Yes,” said Simon, wondering at this seeming change in direction.

“Well, I am that ‘maiden.’ Or rather, I
was
that maiden,” said Nora with a tinge of bitterness in her voice. “When I was seventeen, I ran away with a handsome young Scotsman, just like the provost’s daughter. Actually,” she added with a strained humor, “he was a charming Irishman, but he lived in Scotland, and my love was ‘easy won.’ We were to be married at Gretna…”

“Of course,” murmured Simon.

“Somehow, we never got there. We went directly to Edinburgh. We did not keep apart from one another, Simon,” Nora said in a low voice. “And it was not Breen’s fault. I was as much to blame. But I became pregnant…” Nora could feel Simon stiffen, and was almost unable to continue. “I am not Mrs. Nora Dillon, widow of a sailor, but Lady Honora Margaret Ashton, and Miranda is illegitimate. Now you know why she can never marry the Earl of Alverstone,” and Nora pulled her hands out of Simon’s and turned away.

Simon sat back, trying to absorb what he had just heard. The mystery was solved. Nora was indeed from a good family. But she was right. Illegitimate daughters did not usually marry into highborn families, no matter what their background. And yet, he thought, surprising himself, must it come out?

“And this man, Breen, is he really dead?”

“Oh, yes, he died in a tavern brawl after someone accused him of cheating at hazard. We were to have been married that week.” Simon was silent and Nora continued.

“I am sure you have lost all respect for me, your grace, but when we eloped I loved him so much…and was…so physically drawn to him, that we seemed to be living in another world, one where it didn’t matter whether one had said one’s vows in public, if one had in private. And then we were in Edinburgh only a short time before he was killed.”

Nora’s embarrassment at speaking about physical desire was palpable, and Simon, who knew gentlewomen were supposed to be passionless, yet reveled in the passionate nature of his own wife, knew not how to address the question. It was not a subject to be discussed, except in the privacy of the marriage bed. Or with a mistress, thought Simon inconsequentially.

“And when Breen was killed? Why did you not go home?”

“I wrote to my father and he never answered me. Breen’s uncle and aunt helped me for a while, but I did not want to be too dependent so I took Miranda and came south. Hampstead seemed like a good place to bring up a child, and so I stayed.”

“How did you support yourself at first?”

“I had a very little I had kept for such an emergency. It got us to Hampstead. And then I worked as a barmaid.”

“Who watched Miranda?” Simon asked, shocked to hear how difficult Nora’s life had been.

“We were so lucky, Sam. The owner of one of the local taverns was understanding and his wife had two children of her own, so Miranda would play with them and sleep upstairs while I worked.”

“How did you manage to stand such a job?”

“Oh, I was young, and I had no other choice.”

“But didn’t it leave you open to all kinds of…” Simon wasn’t sure how to continue.

“Offers? Of course. But one learns to laugh away drunken proposals. You are shocked, your grace?” Nora asked somewhat coldly.

“No. Yes. Well, also utterly astounded by how much you have coped with.”

“I had to. I never thought much about it. I just did it. And Miranda…well, she was the joy of my life. I tell you, Simon, I have never for a moment, until now, regretted my choice, for I had her. And my regret now is not for me, but that I must bring heartbreak to her.”

Simon sat quietly, trying to absorb all he had heard. He
was
a little shocked at what she had revealed. He didn’t know what he would have felt had it been Judith’s story. Would he have married her had she been Nora, or Miranda? He thought not, although he was ashamed to admit it. Am I that conventional? he wondered. He thought back on the past week. There was nothing in either mother or daughter that was not fine, intelligent, and honest. If he hadn’t heard this story, would he have objected? No. Now that he had? He still could not object.

“If Breen is dead, and no one knows your secret, then why not just let Miranda marry Jeremy?”

Nora looked at Simon in surprise. “Why, how could I let them, knowing what I know? If I didn’t care about Jeremy…and his family, it would be different.”

“What does Miranda think?”

“She doesn’t know,” Nora replied flatly.

“Nora, how can you forbid her marriage to Jeremy without telling her her history?”

“I can’t. That is why I am so overset. She will hate me for causing her so much heartbreak.” Nora knew if she let one more tear fall, she would never stop crying, so she sat there rigidly controlling her emotions.

“You are well-named ‘Honora.’ But as much as I admire honesty, I still believe it best in this situation to lie…or at least, not reveal the truth. I am surprised to hear myself say that, but as a friend of the family, and as, I hope, your friend, I cannot see the use in opening up the past.”

“I must tell Miranda,” replied Nora. “More and more I am convinced she has a right to know. She can then make her own decision, and I would abide by it.”

“Tell me, Nora, if Jeremy were to agree to the marriage, having heard the truth from you or Miranda, would you feel honor-bound to tell anyone else?”

“I suppose it would be enough for me that
he
knew, since he is the one most closely concerned.”

“Can I at least persuade you to give him a choice? To tell Miranda and Jeremy and see how he reacts?”

“All right, I will do that,” Nora promised.

“Come, we had better get back before Sophy has exhausted Nellie,” Simon joked. He stood up and reached his hand toward Nora. She took it and he pulled her up. He reached down and felt gently for her face, wiping away the traces of tears with his thumb. “I wish I could be more of help, Nora. You have had a hard enough time without this.”

“You have helped, Simon. I am relieved to have told someone.”

Simon let her take his arm, and they walked slowly back to the house.

Simon was not the only one who had noticed Nora’s absence from breakfast. The viscount had wondered whether she was truly tired, or upset by something. He was unusually quiet during their morning ride, although Miranda assured him that Nora was only tired and would be down by the time they returned.

The Dillons’ visit was drawing to a close, and although Sam had not had much direct conversation with Lavinia, he knew she could be persuaded to the marriage. When they returned to London, he was prepared to let Jeremy place a notice in the
Post
and make the betrothal official. In fact, for his own reasons, he was happy to have Miranda brought into the family. It meant he would have reason and opportunity for seeing Nora on a regular basis.

He had laughed at himself, over the course of the visit, as he realized what was happening to him. Here he was, an old bachelor mothers had despaired of, who had been content to form a series of fairly long-termed alliances with available gentlewomen, falling in love with an unfashionable widow who was anything but dashing. He had long ago diagnosed the state of his heart: given once, years ago, in calf love, and afterward, disillusioned by his first
tendre
,
kept protected and never fully given again, until now. He was not a cold man, and had had genuine affection for his mistresses, but not one had drawn from him the response Nora did.

He was feeling younger than Jeremy, as he watched himself hoping Nora admired his seat on a horse, or his intelligent and witty comments on politics. He had sung last night with great feeling, knowing his voice was good and hoping to impress her. Instead, he had, it seemed, driven her to bed!

She had shown no real signs of interest in him. But she seemed comfortable with him, which was a start. He sensed he would have to go slowly. The few times in the last two weeks he had offered to do the smallest service, she had refused, lightly, of course, but he felt a reserve and guardedness that went beyond independence.

He knew none of the details of her life, but it could not have been easy to support herself and her daughter. He wanted her to tell him her story. He wanted her to allow him to give to her. But he was nothing if not patient, and was willing to win her trust slowly.

* * * *

Nora was not as indifferent to the viscount’s presence as he thought, although she was certainly not in love with him. She had noticed how well he looked on a horse. In fact, she had been surprised that someone that tall had such a good seat on a horse. She had noticed the viscount’s observations in their political and literary conversations. Simon was slow and detailed in his arguments, while Sam tended to sit quietly and then dazzle them with a comment that synthesized the whole discussion. Somehow that surprised her, and after she thought about it, she realized she associated wit and brilliance with physical attributes. She had taken Breen to be more intelligent than he was because of his good looks and charm. The viscount was not really handsome.

Yet she often found herself focusing on his long fingers and the battered signet ring he wore on his right hand. Once, when she had taken Sophy for a morning, saying it made her feel like a mother again, he had offered to carry the little girl upstairs for her nap. She had looked up to refuse him, and then quickly down again, at Sophy, half-asleep in her arms, for his offer to help had caused a melting sensation she refused to acknowledge.

She had met a few attractive men since Breen, but the feelings she had had for him were dead and buried long ago, or so she believed, until Sam had begun to sing. The old ballad made her remember the bittersweetness of that reckless passion, and opened the door to a room she had bolted long ago. Sam’s voice, sweet and strong, took her by surprise, but she refused to attribute any of her feelings to the present. With Miranda’s situation, it was natural she should start remembering. But that was all it was, memory. She had not found anything trustworthy in Breen, and she could not trust herself not to be deceived again by her own feelings. And so, whenever she found herself more conscious of the viscount’s presence, or his humor or intelligence, she would immediately shift her attention to something else, thankful that after this visit she would never see him again.

The Dillons were to return to Hampstead in the viscount’s coach, this time with only a groom to escort them. Nora would not hear of either Sam or Jeremy leaving just for them. Their thanks were given and their farewells made the night before, for they would leave early in the morning. Jeremy, of course, was up to see them off, as was the viscount. While the two young people stood murmuring on the steps, Sam lifted Nora into the coach.

“I am afraid our plan did not succeed,” he observed, looking back at Jeremy and Miranda.

“Thanks to you, I believe,” Nora replied tartly. “Why ever did you invite such a lovely and unassuming couple as the duke and duchess? We all had such a comfortable time together that Miranda and Jeremy are more than ever convinced their love will easily surmount their differences.”

“And are you not convinced?” Sam asked. “I am, and when I talk to her, I am sure Lavinia will agree to the betrothal.”

Nora paused. “Yes, I do think their love for one another is more mature than I first thought. But I have had my own reasons all along, and I will still forbid the marriage, my lord.”

Sam’s eyebrows lifted questioningly, but luckily for Nora, Miranda was almost to the coach and there was a flurry of goodbyes with no time for further conversation. The coach pulled off and both women looked back at the two men waving them off. Nora turned away first, although she was conscious of an unreasonable feeling of sadness. Of course I will miss Jeremy, was her reasoning, but she knew the feelings had as much to do with the fact that it was the last time she would see the viscount again.

Nora awoke the next day with a leaden feeling in the pit of her stomach. She could put if off no longer: this morning she must talk to Miranda, the sooner the better. This morning Miranda slept later than usual, so Nora was dressed and in her study by the time her daughter was up. She called out a greeting and asked Miranda to join her whenever she finished eating.

She was trembling by the time Miranda came in, looking charming in a dusty-pink wrapper, her eyes still sleepy and her face open and relaxed. How can I do this to her? Nora thought. But she had to.

“You wanted to speak with me, Mother?”

“Yes, Miranda, sit down.” Nora was silent for a moment, unsure of how or where to begin. Finally she leaned forward and looked into her daughter’s face intently.

“You know I love you more than anything else in the world, and I would do nothing willingly to hurt you?”

Miranda was taken aback by her mother’s intensity. “Why, yes, of course, I know that,” she replied slowly.

“You
are
going to be hurt by what I have to tell you
—and you are perhaps going to hate me for it.” Miranda’s eyes widened, and her mother continued quietly.

“Miranda, you cannot marry Jeremy. Your father was not Harry Dillon, a lieutenant in the navy. There was no Lieutenant Dillon.”

“I don’t understand,” whispered Miranda.

“When I was sixteen, my mother died. My father, the Marquess of Doverdale, brought home a new wife little more than a year after my mother’s death. I was very lonely, Miranda, and my father seemed to have forgotten both my mother and me. The summer after he remarried, a young man called Dillon Breen came to Northumberland. He was visiting distant cousins, our neighbors, and I fell in love with him almost immediately. My father forbade the marriage and so we ran away together. To Scotland.”