Miracle (50 page)

"You should have seen the looks on their faces," she said to the intense groom, and lifted a handful of hay to Pretender; she laughed as the horse snatched it from her hand and flung it from side to side. "I might just as well have leapt to my feet and proceeded to pull off my clothes. Imagine a woman reading! And riding! God forbid! After all, it's a lady's duty to continually pursue the luxury of idleness."

"Right," he said, and scratched the horse's withers. "But if
ya
don't mind me
sayin
' so, milady,
ya
best get accustomed to it. His Grace
ain't
known for his patience,
ya
know."

"It seems that, as the days go by, His Grace and
I
have less and less to say to one another, unless it's something cross."

Thaddeus stepped back from the horse and shook his head. "Cross
ain't
gonna
come close to
describin
' His Grace once he's discovered what
yer
up to. I'll say it again, milady, I wish you'd reconsider
drivin
' this contraption on Sunday. It
ain't
safe."

"Of course it is. The trick is to know the course, and having driven it every night for the last week, I know it like the back of my hand."

"It
ain't
safe," he repeated, his features screwing into a look of concern as he double-checked the buckles.

"Open the doors," she ordered him, then climbed onto the precarious little perch and grabbed hold of the lines. "Now get some sleep," she said to the groom. "I'll see you in an hour."

Miracle drove the horse down the cobblestone drive, out onto the rain-slick street, and through the fog. Closing her eyes, she could easily imagine herself with Napitov again, her hands easily manipulating the reins and checking his collection with a twitch of her fingers to the bit. Oh, how she missed him! Those glorious midnight or dawn rides in the mist—the freedom of the wind in her loose hair. Johnny had always cursed her, begged her not to go, but had always greeted her return with a hug, a shawl warmed by the fire, and a pot of tea or chocolate. Then he would entice from her all the highlights of the experience.

At least
he
understood the freedom of flying.

Of all the coffee and chocolate houses that Miracle had visited while in London, the Cocoa Tree Chocolate House was by far her favorite. Small and intimate, with paneled walls of glowing rosewood and a scattering of Chippendale tables and chairs, the establishment offered its customers an atmosphere of relaxation amid the harried comings and goings of London's busy streets.

Not only that, but tucked into the back of the shop was a cozy library with a corner fireplace, an Oriental rug, and several shelves of books, all newly released. While women waited for their pot of chocolate to be delivered to their table, men could browse through the literary works printed by the three hundred or so publishers throughout England, not to mention the stacks of the most popular newspapers: the
Northampton Mercury,
the
Gloucester Journal,
the
Norwich Mercury,
and the
Newcastle
Courant,
not to mention the excessively successful
Times
and the struggling
Morning Post,
both of which shoveled out the city gossip as expansively as a town crier.

Twice since arriving in London, Miracle had come across her name printed there; referring to her as "Lady C-----, who aspires to eventually fill the dowager duchess of
S-----
          
's
shoes by marrying His Grace,
H-----
, the duke of
S-----
." And: "What duke has recently been seen acquiring fashionable threads for himself and his future duchess? Could it be that Lady C---- comes with a large enough dowry to satisfy the duke's beleaguered creditors?"

Casting a look toward Ellie, who appeared mesmerized by the selection of sweetmeats on a silver tray the waiter had placed on their table, Miracle stepped around the corner, into the
firelit
den, pleased to find it unoccupied. As swiftly as possible, she shuffled through the scattering of papers, her mind preparing for the inevitable. No doubt some publisher would be railing about Lady C----- shocking her guests at a dinner in her honor by announcing she not only studied the philosophies of Homer and Plato, but—God forbid—rode horses with such enthusiasm they would not be surprised to see the future duchess of
S-----
don field boots and breeches and gallop down Piccadilly Road crying "Tallyho" at the top of her voice.

Miracle grinned. Ah, what a delicious thought!

Her eyes scanned page after page, flew across columns that were intensely and intelligently political, then to the paying advertisements of books, concerts, theaters, dresses, and various kinds of people in want of domestic employment. There were sections occupied by poetry, and serious and comic articles, not to mention letters to the paper signed with the correspondent's name, then the long official reports of foreign affairs. Then the gossip: theatrical, publishing (the editor dissuaded any and all submissions of the feminine intellect), then social snippets.

Her eye caught. She looked away. Then back.

"Have you heard," came the animated voice from the other side of the book wall. "The countess
Fanshawe
gave a dinner party in honor of Salterdon's
fiancée
two evenings ago. Seems the future duchess made a spectacle of herself."

"I heard she reads," another feminine voice joined in. "She planted herself smack in the middle of a grouping of men and proceeded to recite a shocking collection of
Platoisms
—"

"He'll never marry her, you know," still a third voice interrupted. "He's not serious. His Grace has never been truly serious about anyone. Besides, who is Lady Cavendish? Some country lord's daughter? Do you think Her Grace, the duchess dowager, would ever approve of such a match?"

"Of course not."

"No! Certainly not! I shudder to think."

" '
Tis
rumored that the only times His Grace has ever presented his grandmother with a possible match, the duchess publicly disapproved, settled money on the
unfortuante
young woman, and sent her on her way."

"No one could
ever
meet
her
expectations."

"Indeed!"

"Besides . . . I understand that he hasn't even bothered to present this particular upstart to his grandmother—or his brother either, for that matter. Now tell me, ladies, if

His Grace were serious about marrying her, if he truly loved her, would it not stand to reason that he would introduce her to his only family?"

"There's only one logical explanation, of course. He simply plans on making her his mistress."

"What on earth would he do with another one? It's all he can do to keep up with the ones he has already."

"Miracle," came the whisper behind her.

Miracle forced her eyes up from the newspaper.

Her hands clutching her reticule, her face slightly gray, Ellie stood rooted to the floor near the end of the book wall. "Don't listen to them," Ellie said softly, urgently, firmly. "They don't know what they're talking about."

"Of course they don't," she replied woodenly, then folded the paper in half, then into fourths, then crumpled it between her hands. "Could we go now?" she asked. "I fear I've lost my thirst for chocolate."

"Certainly. Come along, my dear."

Chin set, paper gripped in her fingers, Miracle walked out from behind the book wall, causing the threesome of young women to look up, startled. Her step slowing. Miracle met each of the women's wide eyes as they clumsily left their chairs and attempted to smile.

"Lady Cavendish," they said in unison. "What a delightful surprise. Imagine meeting you here. We were just discussing what a delightful match you and His Grace make."

Fixing a stony look on her face, Miracle shifted her gaze beyond them, and without acknowledging them, strode past them for the door, Ellie hurrying to follow.

Clayton bought flowers from a humpback woman pulling a cart. There were daffodils and daisies. Then he dropped by Jack
Thelwall's
Fine Bakery and Culinary Divinities for the Most Particular Inclinations and purchased a dozen sweetmeats.

Then, of course, there was the canary: a plump, sassy
little singer
balancing on
a
perch
in
the gilded cage Trey's strained credit had purchased for Miracle.

Though rainy, the afternoon felt unbearably warm. Coal smoke from the thousands of chimneys and the towering stacks of London's commerce covered the city in a thick fog that smarted the eyes and made breathing labored. Up and down the streets, women dabbed at their watering eyes and coughed in their hankies. Horses stood with their heads down; stray dogs lay sprawled and panting on the pavement.

Clayton had chosen one of Miracle's shirts to wear that morning. Humidity and sweat caused it to cling uncomfortably to his body. Oh, for Basingstoke, where the skies were crystal clear and blue, and a gentle constant breeze cooled the brow and smelled faintly of meadow grass. Throughout the night he had dreamt of nothing but Miracle wandering Basingstoke's vast acres, dancing in flowers, frolicking with her horses, and making passionate love to him amid waving wheat and rustling corn.

At last, the chaise arrived at Park House.

He climbed from the chaise just as Ellie flung open the front door and hurried down the steps, her stride lengthening down the rose-cluttered path toward the street. She carried a newspaper in her hand. Her features were lined in worry.

"Thank God you're here," she said. "Miracle's gone."

"Gone?" His heart skipped. "Where?"

"I can't be certain, of course. She said nothing to me before leaving. She hasn't been herself. But yesterday—I sent word to you—"

"I haven't been home," he said, and watched a flash of irritation cross her face. "I went home. To Basingstoke. There were certain arrangements to be made—"

"It began with a conversation she overheard at the Cocoa Tree. A lot of silly girls talking about how His Grace couldn't possibly love her, that he would never marry her, that the duchess would never countenance the match, that

Miracle would simply end up another one of his long string of mistresses—"

Clayton flung the flowers and box of sweetmeats back into the chaise, then he took Ellie by her shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. "Calm down," he said.

Ellie shook her head, then thrust the paper against his chest. "I came across this in her room."

He pried the paper from her hand. He searched the wrinkled columns, frowning. "Speak to me,
dammit
. What the blazes am I looking for?"

With a trembling finger, she pointed at the lower left- hand corner of the
Post
—at the snippets of less consequential gossip of less than consequential patricians: viscounts and barons and mere sirs.

"The Baron, Lord D. Cavendish, his wife, the Baroness Molly, and their sons, the
Honourables
Felix and Nigel, have recently occupied their home in Islington for the season . . ."