Miracle (16 page)

"I sell the shirts," she told him cautiously, "to a merchant in Niton. Mr. Turner is his name. His patrons come from all over, but mostly from London. John . . . wouldn't like the idea of my laboring for money. He vowed to my mother that he would see that I was well taken care of during her absence; that I would want for nothing. And I haven't."

She admired the garden surrounding the dilapidated castle, and smiled with pleasure. "A person's heaven is where they make it, Your Grace. I have everything I want right here. Besides," Lowering her voice slightly, she added more gently, "like any good and noble man, Jonathan has his pride, sir, and does the best that he can. But I suppose you wouldn't know about that, would you, Your Grace? To work your fingers to the bone for something you truly desire."

The duke said nothing for a long moment, just regarded her home with a distant look, as if his mind were contemplating . . . or remembering. She thought it a very strange look—unfamiliar. On his previous stay, the duke of Salterdon hadn't appeared to give a moment's reflection about his future, much less his past. Finally, he asked, "And with this money you get from sewing, you purchase meat once a week?"

"And tallow for candles and lye for soap and cotton for sewing, and . . ."

"And?"

"I manage to save a few pence occasionally."

"To purchase . . .?"

Suddenly feeling very foolish, Miracle turned away. "I fear you would laugh."

"I doubt it," he said in a softer voice.

She shook her head and moved away, down the twisting pathway that meandered through a wild-growing patch of peonies. Her hands had begun to tremble. If she wasn't careful, she would surely drop her eggs, and—

Gently, the duke caught her arm, and when she clutched at her apron full of eggs, he swiftly took several in his hands in an attempt to help. She would not look up at him, but made a concerted effort to keep her attention centered on anything aside from the unnerving notions going on in her head.

How very odd that she would want to confide in this man. To reveal her hopes, her dreams, her fantasies. After all, aside from Johnny, her long days and nights were spent only in the company of her animals, her garden, and Ceridwen's ridiculous bible of love spells. She wasn't even certain she knew how to converse with a stranger . . . or why he would even desire to. Could she have been so wrong about him before?

"Please," she said softly, casting him a sideways glance, "my eggs."

"When you've confessed," he replied, and teasingly drew away, balancing the fragile shells in his open palms.

"You'll laugh," she told him, finding herself slightly amused by his almost childish way of behaving. He looked, she thought, like a mischievous boy, his eyes twinkling and his mouth smiling.

"You're odd, sir," she said, and made a grab for the eggs. One flew from his hand and smashed upon the path.

"Oops," he said, and raised one eyebrow. "Would you like to try again?"

Raising her chin, she did just that.

Another egg splattered on the ground.

He laughed smugly. "Keep this up and I wager you'll have no eggs for your bread. Imagine that."

"Oh very well. If you must know, I intend to renovate Cavisbrooke," she announced with a degree of angry justification. "Are you happy now? Does that amuse you, Your Grace? Imagine my wanting to rebuild this dreary old place.
Give me my eggs!
Imagine my accomplishing such a scheme, even if I tried. I'm well aware that the entire isle is rolling in humor with the very idea. Go ahead. Tell me how impossible it would be. That I would do better to tear it all down to the ground and begin again. Remind me that I'm merely a woman with little more than a pot of pennies and a head full of illusionary rainbows. '
Tis
nothing I haven't heard before, Your Grace. And while you're at it, tell me again that even if I had the financial means, there isn't a carpenter or stone layer on this island who would work for me. I'm crazy, after all, just like my mother!"

She spun on her heels, causing her skirt to fly, and dashed toward the house. Dear God, she was going to cry. Hadn't she just made a big enough fool of herself?

Suddenly, Salterdon stepped around her. She plowed into him, stumbling back before catching herself. Raising her chin and setting her shoulders, she glared up into his calm visage.

"You see," she heard herself declaring in a tight voice, "if the house were brighter, and newer, and . . . grander, then perhaps my mother would come home. Perhaps she would choose to live with us again . . . to be a family . . . again."

"I see," came his soft reply. Carefully, he returned her eggs, gently placing them into the pouch of her apron. "And perhaps with this money you're saving, you'll attempt to find her."

"Yes," she said determinedly. "I shall go to Paris and find her. Perhaps while I'm there, I'll discover what it is that would draw her away from us . . . from . . . me. Perhaps while I'm there, I, too, shall become
a . . .
sophisticate. That's what my mother most desired, sir. To belong to your world."

"Paris. You don't strike me as the sort of young woman who would pine for the opportunity to rub elbows with Parisian
patriciates
or haunt the
Palais
Royale
or the Rue Saint
Honore.
The back roads of Canterbury perhaps, or the byways of
Exmouth
. But not Paris, love."

"Do you make light of me, sir?" Miracle demanded angrily.

"Certainly not."

"Then what makes you such an authority on me?"

He said nothing, just gazed down into her face until she felt the indignation drain from her, leaving her feeling abashed by her fit of temper—red-cheeked, inexplicably vulnerable, like a favorite child caught in a lie by a parent and wishing to make amends.

"My mother is there," she rushed to explain. "In Paris. If I could only travel there, I'm certain I could convince her to come home. She
would
come home if Cavisbrooke were . . . different."

"And why has she traveled to Paris?"

"The lights, of course! The people! The throng of activity! She had often heard that Paris was the most beautiful city in the world. What woman wouldn't love to go there? She longed to stroll the corridors of the vast museums, and she craved to study with the great virtuosos of music and art. She did so love music and would spend hours playing her pianoforte." Growing uncomfortable with the topic, as she always did when she discussed her mother, Miracle walked away to a copse of wild strawberry plants that were spangled with tiny white flowers and beads of dew. "You know," she said thoughtfully, "I find it very odd that you seem so curious about my family when before . . ."

"Before what?"

"You cared for little more than your own comforts. If this interest or curiosity is simply some ploy to win my trust and affections, then I fear you will be sorely disappointed."

They stood without speaking for a long moment, both watching the dance of gulls, dipping, diving, and swirling out over the channel. At last she looked up and found him regarding her intently, though not fiercely. His dark eyes looked soft and sleepy. She said, "Will you vow an oath not to tell Jonathan of my plans? For whatever reason, he grows despondent, almost angry, when I talk of her. Please don't tell him about the shirts, I mean."

"Yes," he replied after a moment. "I swear."

She gave him a look. "I want to believe you, but I don't think that I do. Not after last time . . ."

He frowned. "Last time?"

"When you happened upon Joe Cobbett and me walking together near the Undercliff. I asked you not to speak of seeing us to anyone, but you did, to Joe's father, who owns the Hound and Hare. Joe was never allowed to see me after that." Her voice trailed off before she added, more to herself than to him, "Perhaps that's just as well. He's married now and happy . . ."

"This Joe . . . Did you love him?"

"I . . ." She looked away, off over the misty countryside to where a dozen sheep had huddled together and turned their backsides into the rising wind. "Once, briefly, I thought . . . perhaps .. . but no." She shook her head. "I know now that I did not love him." Quiet filled up the space between them. They stood side by side, Miracle with her clutch of eggs and His Grace with his hands in his trouser pockets, staring out over the undulating gray horizon, his face strangely blank of emotion.

The silence grew too long and heavy to remain comfortable. Miracle said, "I'm sorry about your clothes that were ruined last evening. Benjamin fetched them for me this morning and I did my best to rectify the damage. I've stitched your coat. There was a tear on the sleeve just there." She touched his coat sleeve tentatively with her finger that was slightly smudged with chicken dung and a dusting of flour. "And your shirt . . . I'm not certain the stains will remove—"

"Not to worry. There are plenty more where that one came from."

"No doubt."

At last, she turned back to the house and took several steps along the well-trod path before his voice came to her again. "I still don't believe you. About the pigs, I mean."

She smiled to herself, just a little, as her previous anger and tension seemed to slide from her shoulders. Then she looked in the direction of the swine that were grunting and nosing the ground and each other. "Claude!" she called, and a red, bristly boar raised its head and peered at her with its bright, beady eyes. "Claude!" she called again, and this time the pig came running and squealing, tail sticking up straight in the air.

"Samuel! Chuck! His Grace would like to make your acquaintance!"

The swine stampeded toward them. Tilting her head, peering back at Salterdon who, with his hands in his
trou
- ser pockets, casually regarded the ponderous animals as they scurried over and splashed through their mud pits in their attempts to join them, Miracle said, "Have a grand day, Your Grace, and enjoy your company."

Then she ambled back into the castle, pausing only long enough to glance back. Partially hidden behind the door frame, she watched as the duke of Salterdon, surrounded by the prancing, dancing, shrilling hogs, stared gravely out over the distant, thrumming ocean.

Loneliness is the first thing in God's eye named not good.

JOHN MILTON

Chapter Six

Niton was a rustic little village consisting of three muddy streets of stone cottages—most of them thatched— a handful of shops, a church, and a single-room school- house. The church was a building of considerable antiquity and stood by a farmyard in a lane just west of the village. The lane, a wagon-rutted track that wove its way toward the black cliffs of the Race, offered little for the weary traveler but the White Lion Hostel and the Hound and Hare Tavern, both of which were well lit, warm, and crowded as Clayton sidled up next to the bar, nursed his tankard of warm ale, and contemplated his circumstances.