Miracle (53 page)

She dragged a chair to the dressing table mirror, then took the candles and placed them before the looking glass which she had earlier polished to a high shine. She climbed onto the chair, and repeated the chant, and waited, watching the white glow of the flames reflect from the glass as she whispered:

"Does he love me?
Truly?
Do I love him?
Truly?
If so, why have I continued to experience this confusion? Why, in my heart of hearts, do I feel as if the one I love is so different from what or who he appears to be?"

She waited. According to Ceridwen, soon she would perceive a form taking shape within the candlelit mirror. If the figure that appeared was that of a fair angel, exquisite in shades and swirls of purest white, gentle silver, and pearly moonlight, like unto a vision of peace, it is the Angel Gabriel, the angel of the moon, and the answer to her question would be that which she most craved to hear.

But if a dark lady should appear, lovely and terrible and full of shadowy enchantment, hung with a dim veil as if it were made of raindrops falling at the darkest midnight, then that was
Morgana
, the Dark Angel; she would come to warn Miracle that what she desired most must not be pursued.

Swirl and swirl, the candlelight flickered and dimmed. Her heart racing, Miracle bent toward the mirror, her eyes focusing on the vague shape coming into focus upon the looking glass—the face sharpening to one of—

"Blazes," Miracle whispered, squeezing closed her eyes then opening them again to fix on the wrinkled, fire-eyed wretch glaring back at her. "
Morgana
. You ugly old—"

"Ugly!" the voice barked behind her, and Miracle leapt in
startlement
, nearly upsetting the chair. "Come down from that ridiculous perch this minute," came the strident demand. "What the devil are you doing up there, anyway? Conjuring up leprechauns or some such nonsense? Stop staring at me as if I were an archfiend, girl, and present yourself accordingly."

"Present myself?" Miracle said, growing angry now that her momentary fright had subsided. Glaring down into the old woman's steely eyes, she declared, "Just who do you think you are to come barreling into my room unannounced? Furthermore, should I decide to conjure up Old Scratch himself, I'll do just that."

"Not in my house, you won't. Now get down from there before you break your neck."

"Your house? Madam, this domicile belongs to my
fiancé,
the duke of Salterdon. Should you have some business with him, then leave your card and come again later, preferably after I've gone."

Ellie and Gertrude popped their heads around the door- jamb, their eyes wide. They shook their heads frenziedly. Then Ethel barreled into the room, pointed chin quivering, feet tripping, as she attempted to clumsily curtsy.

"Milady Cavendish. Her—Her Grace, the duchess of Salterdon." Then she endeavored another curtsy, and fled the room, along with Ellie and Gertrude.

Miracle snapped her mouth closed.

Her hair was as white and soft as goose down, and her slender body was draped in a simple, dark frock that accentuated the pallor of her delicate skin. The duchess Salterdon pursed her lips and looked Miracle up and down. "You might try to appear the tiniest bit mortified, young lady. It's the least you can do after inferring that I'm ugly."

"Oh, you're not in the least ugly," Miracle assured her. "Stern, perhaps. And severe."

"I'm the duchess of Salterdon. I'm expected to be stern and severe. And dominating. And cantankerous. You, however, are expected to be—"

"Meek and awed by your rubric."

One gray eyebrow raised a fraction. "Do you intend to remain up there the entirety of the evening?" the duchess demanded.

"Should I choose to do so," Miracle returned.

"
Hmph
. You're not at all what I expected."

"And what, exactly, did you expect?"

"I heard you were a timid little mouse who apparently doted on my grandson to nauseating extremes. That you trailed along behind him like a pup on a leash."

"Then you heard wrong, Your Grace."

"Apparently." The duchess glanced toward the stuffed valise, but made no comment. Instead, she moved to the window, leaning her weight slightly on the crook of an ivory and walnut cane. "Are you always so volatile?" she asked.

"When I've cause to be."

"And you have cause?"

"Yes." She nodded, and shuffled around on the chair seat to face the duchess's back. How erect the dowager stood, her slender shoulders back, her spine ramrod straight, a portrait of contumacy that was as unflappable as Miracle's own.

"They didn't exaggerate your honesty, I see," the duchess said, staring out at the dark street.

"They?"

"Never mind."

Finally, she faced Miracle again. "Tell me, youngster. Do you love him?"

"Who?"

"My grandson, of course. Don't go daft on me now."

"I .
 
. don't know."

Both eyebrows went up. "What makes you think you would make a suitable duchess?"

Miracle jumped from the chair and blew out the vaporizing candles. "I don't think any such thing, Your Grace. In truth, I would make a terrible duchess. I'm neither cold nor cruel nor intolerant enough toward others. I enjoy the company of servants more than I care to spend time with narrow-minded peers. I find more pleasure in mucking out stables than penning guest lists for social teas and inconsequential gatherings that accomplish nothing more than wounded feelings. I care nothing for people who care more for a title than they do for the person himself. Nay, I would not make a suitable duchess, Your Grace, so spare yourself any unnecessary disquietude. I shan't marry your grandson. So if that's why you've come here—"

"It's not, so stop putting words in my mouth, impertinent pup." She moved toward Miracle, her cane thumping the floor. "Do you imagine I would allow you to leave now that word has spread that he intends to marry you? Can you imagine what the lot of imbecilic high-stockings would say if you walked out? The embarrassment and humiliation you would cause him? Especially since it's so apparent his feelings for you run
so . . .
deeply."

"I beg to differ," Miracle stated softly, diverting her gaze.

The duchess roughly caught her chin, forcing Miracle to meet her eyes. "What? Do I see a chink in her thorny armor? Does that tear in her eye glisten of uncertainty where my grandson's affections are concerned? Her chin quivers. She longs to cry, but won't, of course, because she thinks it would give 'the old crone' too much pleasure. Look at me, child. So. You're a romantic. You wish to believe in fairy tales. Of happily ever
afters
. Is that what you were doing when I found you? Beseeching the moon spirits to reveal your future with my grandson? Dear, naive girl, not even your angel of the mirror can do that."

"But there are others. Women. Mistresses—"

"Ah." Dropping her hand back to her cane, the duchess studied Miracle intently, her thin mouth curled in something short of amusement. "What difference does it make if you have his name, his wealth, and his children, not to mention his title?"

"None of that matters," Miracle argued, beginning to tremble. "It's what's here." She pressed one hand to her heart. "If it's not here . . . I won't be left alone. I won't spend my life loving a man who would rather be with someone else—"

"Like your mother."

She blinked. Shock and abashment stabbed her as sharply and coldly as an icicle, and she shivered.

"I know all about her," the duchess explained in her most efficient voice. "The instant word reached me of this . . . betrothal, I had your past looked in to. It wasn't difficult. While Cavendish is hardly my equivalent, I was certainly familiar with his family. I spoke with him, of course. Privately."

Miracle moved to the bed and seized the valise.

"Don't be stupid," said the duchess.

Eyes flashing, her face going from cold to burning, Miracle turned on the old woman, her voice shaking. "Then you are well aware of who my father is, Your Grace, and therefore have no doubt come to the irrefutable conclusion that I'm hardly duchess material."

"Cease putting words in my mouth."

"Then you simply came here to humiliate me."

"I came here expecting to find the kind of woman who would sacrifice her entire existence in order to keep her children safe and happy. Who would raise her children to be dignified and proud, despite prejudice. Who would be a partner to my grandson, be it hosting a dinner in honor of His Majesty, or turning field dirt with her bare hands. A woman who would fight for what she wants, and once attaining it, fight to keep it. Perhaps I came here expecting too much."

"Perhaps you did," Miracle declared in a dry voice as she stared at the door.

The duchess moved around her, her step slow but steady. She paused at the threshold and looked back. For an instant, she appeared as if she would say more, but she shook her head and quit the room.

Dropping the valise, Miracle hurried after her, stopping at the top of the stairs as the duchess descended. "Did he send you here to reason with me?" Miracle called after her.

"Who?"

"Your grandson, of course."

"Certainly not. Why should he?"

Ethel hurried from the parlor, a hat and pelisse in her arms. Pausing on the bottom step, the duchess took both from the tittering servant before making her way to the front door. "I taught my son and my grandsons to honor their family above all else. I taught them how to fight for what they want, and how to fight to keep it. Occasionally, I must confess that I question the results of my persistent endeavors. They can often be damnably mule-headed. But then, my dear, so can I."

A smile flickered over her stern lips, then she floated from the house, and Ethel gently closed the door behind her.

There are three principal postures of love. It gives

with joy, receives
ivith
appreciation, and rebukes

with humility and hope.

ALBERT M. WELLS, JR.

Chapter Twenty-one

There was trouble brewing. Clayton could sense it. The fact that he had spent the last two days and nights buried up to his chin in hazard tables and markers didn't help. He smelled like a bleeding brewery, and smoke, and forty- eight hours' worth of sweat. He wanted a bath and to sleep. He wanted to forget the last weeks had ever taken place, that Miracle Cavendish had ever existed.