Miracle (47 page)

She left the chair. Ethel scrambled after her, doing her best to unravel Miracle's hair as she paced the room. "Is love to be such an absolute sacrifice?" Miracle asked aloud, expecting no reply and getting none. "Is love not blind? Tolerant? Is it not to take or sustain difference without protest or repining? Would I not be just as capable to raise his children—to represent our marriage—without all of this?" She swept her hand toward the half dozen dresses that had arrived from the clothier only that morning.

Moving to the window, she looked down on the moon- drenched garden and the street, where the duke's coach still remained, where His Grace stood, his hands in his pockets as he conversed with Ellie.

What were they discussing?

Her, of course. What else? Perhaps her next lesson in etiquette. Elocution? The future duchess must certainly master the art of speaking to her public in the most eloquent and effective manner. Poise, perhaps. One should command the skill and grace of dealing with others. After all, there was a great deal of finesse to 'cutting' someone publicly.

Little by little, her quandary faded as she watched Salterdon, there in the moonlight. "Ungrateful miss," she said again, to herself, as Ethel began to brush out her long hair and hum to herself. "I have everything my dear mother dreamt of having for herself, and yet all I can do is whimper. But can I be faulted for missing my home? For missing John? For dreaming of the mornings I rode Napitov through the waves below Saint Catherine's Hill? Is a woman to be faulted for missing the only life and love and friends she has ever known until now? I was happy then, Ethel. Very happy. And when I'm with His Grace I'm
happy . . .
most of the time. When we're alone. When I'm not reminded who and what he is, and what I must become to be with him.

"Ungrateful
miss . . .
Whatever shall I do?"

Rain fell constantly for the next two days. Miracle divided her time between staring out the window, discussing with
Samantha
(what she had named her crippled canary, assuming it was female, Sam should it turn out to be male) the changes she would make to London were someone to suddenly die and make her queen, rereading books she had read when first arriving at Park House, and spending long hours in the stable with Thaddeus, mucking out the stalls and grooming the horses.

It was during her rummaging through the musty back room of the stable that she came across an odd four- wheeled
carriagelike
contraption blanketed by layers of dust.

"Racer," Thaddeus explained in his usual lazy drawl as he lounged back on a stack of hay bales and stared at the ceiling that was leaking rain into buckets on the floor. "His Grace tried his hand at the horses a time or two and lost
his . . .
cost him a thousand guineas, it did. He threatened to send
ol
' Pretender there"—he pointed to the tall, long-backed chestnut with his nose in a grain bucket—"to the butcher, but his brother bought the horse to keep him from it. His brother eventually intends to move him down to—"

"Can he run?" Miracle asked, eying the racing contraption.

"Aye. He can run all right. When he bloody well wants to. It's why His Grace bought him in the first place. Paid a right fortune for him, he did."

"Who was the groom?"

"Me."

Surprised, Miracle regarded the lanky lad where he lay on his back, chewing on a thread of hay.

"Broke me damn leg last time I rode him," Thaddeus explained and scratched his belly. "It'll be a cold day in hell 'fore I climb on him again. If ever there was a crazy horse, Pretender is it."

"Will you rig him up for me?"

"Milady?"

"Pretender. To the racer."

Shrugging, Thaddeus slowly climbed to his feet and proceeded to drag out the equipage. There were trunks of leather
strappings
, some covered in silk, others in velvet. For the next hour Miracle stood back, anxiously waited until the lad had at last completed the somewhat complicated task, then she stared upon it in amazement, excitement thumping in her chest.

The pole was small, but lapped with fine wire; the perch had a plate underneath, two cords went on each side, from the back carriage to the fore carriage, fastened to springs. The harness was of thin leather, covered with silk; the seat for the driver to sit on was of leather straps, and covered with velvet; the boxes of wheels were brass, and had tins of oil to drop slowly for an hour; the breechings for the horse were of whale bone; the bars were small wood, strengthened with steel springs, as were most parts of the carriage; but all was so light of weight that Thaddeus could carry the whole, even with the harness.

Spying one last trunk, Miracle dug through it, producing the groom's clothes: a white satin jacket, black velvet cap, and red silk stockings. "Tell me," she said to a disinterested Thaddeus. "Are there frequent carriage races?"

"
Naw
," he replied, and flopped back on the hay. Miracle felt her enthusiasm crumble. Then he added, bringing her gaze back to his, "Naught but once a month. First Sunday each month, milady. Right across the way in the park." His eyes widening, he shook his head. "I won't be
climbin
' in that contraption again. A lad was killed two month ago, dragged from here to perdition when the damned carriage flipped on a stone and overturned. There weren't enough left of him to bury by the time they got the horse stopped."

Biting her lip, Miracle ran her hands over the silks, then regarded the chestnut that was swishing flies with his tail. "I wasn't thinking of you driving," she told him thoughtfully, beginning to smile.

He rolled his head and stared at her, then bounced to his feet as if on springs. "
Ya
wouldn't, milady.
Ya
couldn't."

"I would. I could. I shall, Thaddeus! And you shan't breathe a word of this to anyone."

"Meri? Meri,
wake up. For God's sake, what the blazes has come over you?"

Miracle forced open her eyes. His Grace gripped her shoulders and stared into her face. Behind him, Ethel and Gertrude fidgeted worriedly. Ellie wrung a kerchief and looked from her to Salterdon.

Taking her chin in his fingers, Salterdon tipped up her head and regarded her features fiercely. "When the devil have you taken to sleeping throughout the day?" he demanded. "Have you forgotten we have seats for the matinee? After which we were to take supper with Earl
Fanshawe
and his wife."

"Matinee? Oh,
I . . .
no, of course not. I haven't forgotten. How could I forget something so . . . important as the matinee?" she muttered under her breath. Spying the tub of water that had long since grown cold, Miracle frowned.

Salterdon sat back, elbows on his knees. "I'll have a word with Miracle alone, please," he announced in his most authoritarian tone.

Ethel and Gertrude gave a quick curtsy and hurried from the room. After a moment's hesitation, Ellie followed.

Leaving the bed, Salterdon paced, hands in his pockets, his exquisite cutaway of forest green wool caught behind his wrists. "I'm waiting," he said, not bothering to look at her.

Wrapped only in the dressing gown she had donned earlier, when she had fuzzily attempted to prepare for her afternoon with her
fiancée
and his friends, before she had sleepily thought to catch a catnap before climbing into the steaming tub, Miracle slid her legs off the bed and sat up.

"Well?" he barked.

"My apologies," she offered, and stifled a yawn behind her hand.

"Your apologies. How do you propose I explain this slight to
Fanshawe
? The countess
Fanshawe
arranged this evening specifically for you so that she might introduce you to a few of our more influential friends."

"You needn't use that tone," she retorted. "I'm not a child, sir."

"No? That's certainly not the impression I've been given the last week. Indeed, you've done nothing but act the brat,
Meri.
You've consistently refused your lessons with Ellie. Twice I've come to join you for dinner and you've remained abed asleep. I would like an explanation."

Returning his look with as much belligerence, she said, "I like to sleep."

"More than you care for my company, I presume."

"More than I care for the company of your peers, Your Grace, or your dreadfully boring plays. In truth," she added, coming off the bed, "I would rather plow an entire section with my own hands than drudge through another evening of listening to Madam Opera shrill at the top of her lungs."

His eyebrows went up. Both of them. She wasn't certain whether she saw amusement or outrage flicker in his gray eyes. It didn't matter, however. Her mood was as sore as his.

Rocking back on his heels slightly, clasping his hands at the small of his back, Salterdon moved to the window and collected his thoughts.

Chewing her lower lip, Miracle stared at his broad back, the dark hair so carelessly curling over his coat collar. The urge to fling herself against him was almost more than she could bear. Even in her anger, his presence could consume her. It dissipated her irritation and frustration into inconsequential vapor.

"Meri,"
he finally said. "Do you think I enjoy forcing these distasteful necessities on you? I only demand it for your own good. So that you might achieve the utmost respect from your peers and underlings."

"I have no underlings," she stated firmly.

"As duchess of Salterdon you will have a great many underlings, sweetheart, and they will demand hierarchy from you. They thrive on it,
Meri.
They all must have their leadership, and royalty and nobility supply it. If you cannot accept that responsibility,
then . . .
perhaps you're simply not cut out for the position. Perhaps you would like to return to that miserably gloomy old haunt you called a home and live out your existence as a dried-up old spinster whom the island looks upon as a lunatic. You can eke out your survival by sewing your fingers to the bone. You can spend your nights breathing life into some crumbling old lighthouse that no one
who
sails the channel gives a bloody hell about. In short, you can die miserable, lonely, and
unfulfilled . . .
just like your mother did. I wonder," he said, turning back to look at her with hard eyes, "had
Lorraina
been gifted with the same opportunity, would she have acted so damnably ungrateful?"

"You're very cruel," Miracle said, her eyes filled with hot tears.

For an instant, his stony facade appeared to soften; his shoulders sagged. Then drawing himself up again, he cleared his throat and motioned toward the wardrobe. "Be dressed in fifteen minutes, not a minute more. If we hurry, we can still make the second half of the play and we won't miss
Fanshawe's
dinner party in your honor."

"Is there anything else, Your Grace?" she said through her teeth.

"Yes. Wear the white gauze and silk gown that was delivered yesterday. Ellie says you look quite smashing in it. And for God's sake, do something with your hair. You look like an urchin."

He moved to the door.