Miracle (61 page)

"You've what?" she called when the silence stretched out like an eternity. "Basingstoke? Basingstoke!" Miracle ran down the path, to the place where the shadow had lingered the last minutes. She searched the dark the best she could, disappointment lodging in her breast like a hot stone with the realization that he had vanished again.

Then her gaze dropped to the path. Falling to one knee, Miracle carefully picked up the long-stemmed white rose lying there, and smiled.

Love—what a volume in

a word, an ocean in a tear.

A seventh heaven in a glance,

a whirlwind in a sigh.

The lightning in a touch, a

millennium in a moment.

M. F. TUPPER

Chapter Twenty-four

"Oh,
my dear, you look dreadful," Ellie exclaimed and dropped her crumpet to a saucer. Leaving her chair, she hurried to Miracle and gently took her face in her hands. She tipped it from side to side, frowning. "You haven't slept again. You simply cannot continue this way. You look positively gaunt. And your eyes— Jonathan, dear, talk to her. You simply must convince her to rest more."

Sitting back in his chair, his fingers laced over his rounded belly, John regarded Miracle as she pulled away from Ellie and slid into her chair. She gazed despondently down at her plate piled high with scrambled eggs, ham, and scones swimming in melted butter and honey. She wondered if she were going to be ill.

Taking her place at the breakfast table, Ellie said, "I have some powders. They'll make you sleep."

"I don't want any powders," she said flatly, and shoved her plate away. "For that matter, I don't wish to sleep."

"But why?" Ellie and John asked at once.

"Because I . . ." She bit her lip.

"
Y've
been off
ridin
' that damn horse all night," John scolded.

"I haven't."

"You've been reading all night," Ellie declared.

"I haven't."

"Then why?" they asked in unison.

"I've been waiting for him to return," she admitted.

"Him?"

"Basingstoke."

Ellie's eyes opened wide. John sat up in his chair.

"I've met him," Miracle said, looking from John to Ellie, who gaped at her as if she had grown two heads. "In a manner of speaking," she hurried to add. "Several nights ago. First in the house, and then in the garden. It was dark. I couldn't see him . .."

Ellie sank back in her chair. John cleared his throat.

Miracle fidgeted with her silverware, an intricately carved fork and knife emblazoned with the family crest. "He's ever so kind. And seems very timid. Is he ugly?"

"Ugly?" Ellie laughed before catching herself.

"I envision him as a beast of a man. Why else would he not show himself to me? Perhaps he's disfigured?"

Ellie busily buttered another scone. John poured himself chocolate.

"It wouldn't matter to me if he was," Miracle informed them, and smiled to herself. "The most beautiful things in life cannot be seen or touched. They must be felt with the heart. I feel Basingstoke has a tremendous heart. Look around us, Ellie. Everything is perfection. Beautiful. The home, the grounds, the people—all radiate love."

"Would you care for more sugar?" Ellie asked John.

"Please. Would you like more honey?" John asked Ellie.

"Oh, yes. That would be nice."

Raising her voice slightly, Miracle said, "We spoke at some length three nights ago, near the statue. Every night since, I've gone there and waited for hours, but he hasn't come again."

"Miracle." Ellie smiled understandingly. "Stop chasing fantasies. Besides, you'll need all the rest you can get these next days." She glanced at John, and took a deep breath. "I've received word from Her Grace. She and her retinue will be arriving shortly."

"Retinue?"

"I suppose it's time that you knew. The wedding date has been set. The invitations posted. My dear, you'll be marrying the duke one week from today."

Miracle's jaw dropped. She clasped the table edge with her fingertips. "A week—"

"I know what
yer
thinkin
'," John started.

"No. No, you couldn't possibly. Have I no say in this whatsoever? I haven't even decided if I want to marry the ninny-headed—"

"Miracle!" Folding her hands in her lap, Ellie waited until Miracle relaxed, jaw set, shoulders tense, back into her chair. "People like the duchess don't have the time to dally with wishy-washy young girls who don't know their minds. Therefore, occasionally, their minds must be made up for them." Her countenance softening, Ellie reached over the table and squeezed Miracle's hand. "I understand how you feel. We both do. But what you're experiencing now is nothing more than
prewedding
jitters. We all get them. '
Tis
only natural to question your feelings—your future."

Turning her eyes to John, Miracle said, "And you? Do you wish this marriage for me, sir?"

"
Yer
askin
' me?"

"Yes. You're
my . . .
father, after all."

John swallowed. His face flushed with soft color. "Aye, that I am." Toying with his napkin, he collected his thoughts. His first decision as her father. It would have to be just and stem from a father's love, devotion, and concern, not as a companion's or friend's. At last meeting her gaze, he said, "I'd rather die than see
ya
waste away alone on that isle. Like
yer
dear mother."

"I . . .
see. Well,
then . . .
I suppose, as any devoted daughter would, I shall bow to my father's wishes."

The retinue arrived that afternoon: seventy servants, landscapers, ladies' maids, valets, interior decorators, eight cooks (each of whom declared the kitchens his), coiffure experts (each of whom declared Miracle's hair hers), and three coach loads of seamstresses.

Virtually dragged from Napitov's back, Miracle was ushered into Basingstoke Hall, stripped, measured, pinned, pricked, poked, while all around her the covey of excited women argued, debated, mused, conferred over what her wedding gown would look like. The issue wasn't settled until the door flew open and a thread-thin man dressed in a cream colored silk suit swept into the room, flung open a massive leather-bound book of sketch paper, on which an outrageously extravagant wedding gown had been drawn, and announced,
"Voilà\"

The seamstresses
oohed
and
ahhed
. They clapped their hands and tittered among themselves, while the designer peered down his narrow nose and smirked. When the women had sufficiently fawned, he pinned Miracle with his beady eyes and declared, "Well? Does the mademoiselle approve?"

"Does the mademoiselle have a choice?" she mimicked him, causing his thin eyebrows to shoot up to his hairline. Then, with a huff, he stormed from the room.

"Well?" Miracle demanded of the gaping seamstresses. "Does she?"

Then came the fittings for her trousseau. Enough dresses, Miracle surmised, to clothe her several times a day for the next year. There were morning dresses, tea dresses, luncheon dresses, afternoon dresses, evening dresses. Then there were nightclothes. Shockingly frail little things that made her cheeks grow hot, made the memories of hers and Salterdon's times together rouse to remind her that she wasn't exactly marrying a stranger, and that she had felt very passionately for
him . . .
once.

He came again to the statue that midnight. Having waited for what felt like an eternity in the dark, Miracle had given up hope and turned to leave.

Moving silently up behind her, he gently took her shoulders in his hands.

"Do you mind," he asked softly in her ear, "if we stand like this for just a moment?"

A smile lifting her lips, Miracle sighed in relief and shook her head.

He moved against her, his big body hard and warm against her back, making her feel oddly safe and secure. He rested his chin on the top of her head and said, "I've missed you."

What could she say? Could she admit, even to herself, that the confession thrilled her? She certainly didn't care to let him know that she thought of him constantly throughout the day, that the hours were filled with the anticipation of meeting him again.

"The wedding date has been set," she told him, drowsily aware of his strong heart beating against her back, of his warm breath brushing the side of her face, of his thumbs gently massaging her shoulders where he held her. "A week from today I'm to become Salterdon's wife. Your . . . sister in marriage. Does that please you? Will you attend the wedding? Shall we finally meet face to face?"

"No," he replied flatly. "I won't attend the wedding."

"But—"

"I've urgent business to attend to . . . out of the
coun
- try."

She shivered in disappointment.

He held her tighter. "You're cold."

"Nay, I'm not. I was just thinking . . . about my future."

"As the duchess?"

"As your brother's wife."

She leaned more against him, comforted by his strength and gentleness. These were arms that would offer a woman sanctuary and love. They would brace her when she felt weak and give her freedom should she desire to fly.