That Kind of Woman (9 page)

She sent Henry off with a maid to find his room, and Andrew turned to her with a grim expression. “Quite a comfort, isn’t he?”

“He’s very young,” she replied.

“He’s not much younger than you, and yet you seem to be holding up quite admirably.”

She stared at him a moment. Admiration? Then why the look of aversion earlier? She wished she had some idea what he really thought of her.

“Well,” she said, “you are the one he wants most to see, and he’s having a good day. Come, I’ll take you to him.”

They ascended the stairs, but just outside the bedroom door, she stopped and placed her hand on Andrew’s sleeve. “He doesn’t look at all as you remember him.”

He stiffened and pulled away at her touch, and Miranda dropped her hand, disappointed that the warmth between them had not lasted.

“So your letter said,” he replied.

“But you mustn’t pity him, or at least, you mustn’t let it show.”

He drew a deep breath and held it. “I know. I won’t.”

She stepped around him and opened the door. “George,” she called quietly, “there’s someone here to see you.”

It had been easy to promise Miranda that he wouldn’t react—much harder to keep that promise. It wasn’t the fact that his brother had changed that shocked him. It was the fact that he was so obviously dying.

Andrew thought of the retreat to Corunna in 1809. They had lost over five thousand soldiers, along with the wives and mistresses who had followed them. Through those fifteen days of hell, he hadn’t let his emotions cloud his judgment or show on his face. A morose officer was hell on morale.

Drawing on that experience, he forced a smile and moved with easy grace across the room. “George! God, it’s good to see you. Good to be home.”

George’s gaunt face lit up, and a lump formed in Andrew’s throat.

“Andy, you made it! I thought the snow would surely slow you down.”

“A little snow never stopped a Carrington. How are you feeling?”

“Today is a good day, thank God. It means we can talk.”

“Of course. I’d like that.”

Bowing her head graciously, Miranda excused herself, leaving the two brothers to their reunion. It seemed to Andrew that the room felt emptier all of a sudden. A chill he hadn’t noticed before settled around him.

“What have the doctors said?” Andrew asked.

George gave him a sad smile. “Let’s not waste time on what the doctors say. There’s nothing to be done. That’s all they have had to say of any consequence. I’m sorry to leave you with all this. I know you never wanted it.”

“Jesus, man. This isn’t your doing. I’ll take care of things. Everything. Even your damned roses.” He felt his throat close and his eyes burn.

George laughed quietly. “Well, that’s good to know. Especially about the roses.”

“What can I do?”

“There are records in the library. I have them all in order—”

“Let’s not talk about that.”

George placed a frail yellowed hand on top of Andrew’s robust brown one. “I don’t know how much time I have, and you need to know all of this.”

Andrew nodded. They had responsibilities, both of them. All the grief in the world didn’t erase that fact. For the next half-hour they spoke of accounts and crops and estate business.

“I should let you rest,” Andrew said at last, rising from the chair at the side of his brother’s bed. “Besides, I need to see how Emma and the others are settling in.”

“Wait!” George cried softly. “Don’t go. I haven’t said what I really need to say to you.”

There was a frantic quality in George’s voice, and something wound up tightly inside of Andrew. It was that same brief, contemptible impulse to flee that would grip him in the minutes before a battle, just before he gave orders to advance. He had never succumbed, but he hated the fact that he felt it at all.

“There’s plenty of time, George. I’m not going anywhere. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

George shook his head. “You don’t know how hard it is to hang on. I’m tired, Andy.”

“I know. Rest. I’ll come back in the morning.”

George reached out and grabbed at him weakly. “No, I am more tired than that. More tired than the kind of sleep you wake from will ease.”

“George—”

“And I hurt. Sometimes I feel like I’m turning inside out.”

Against his will, moisture gathered in Andrew’s eyes, and he sat again. “I’m sorry, George. I wish I knew what to do for you.”

“Promise me that you’ll take care of Randa.”

Andrew sucked in his breath. “Of course I will. She’ll never want for anything.”

“Not just money,” George continued. “She needs a family.”

“She has a family,” Andrew replied, a bit too sharply. He quickly softened his tone. “We’ll all keep in touch with her, and surely her parents will look after her, too. She’s young, George. In time, she’ll pick up the pieces.”

“Like you did, when you lost Caroline?”

Andrew’s face hardened. “That’s different. I’ve been at war. She’ll return to London, I imagine. The Duke of Montheath and his … well, Miranda’s mother … they’ll be glad to have her home with them.”

George seemed to find some reserve of energy inside of him, and it gave his voice strength. “Randa hates London! If it’s awkward for you to speak of it, imagine how it is for her to live with it among those sanctimonious prigs. Let her stay here, Andy.”

Raking his hands through his hair and mussing its fastidious grooming, Andrew protested. “Truly George, I want what’s best for her, but I’m a widower and she’ll be a—a—”

“You can say it, Andy. I am well aware that I am dying. She will be a widow.”

Through clenched teeth, Andrew repeated, “And she will be a widow. The gossips will tear us to shreds.”

“As if that would matter out here in the country. Lettie can stay on as chaperone. She’s no good for Henry in London, bailing him out of every scrape, paying off his wagers.”

“I’ll grant you that, but Lettie will never let him off the leading strings. And what of Miranda? Surely she would be happier with a family of her own someday. She’ll never find another husband all the way out here.”

“You’ve been writing each other.” George’s voice was barely audible, but it was heavy with the weight of certain knowledge.

“She is like a sister! She wrote as a sister would, and I as a brother.”

“You’re fond of her.”

Andrew bolted from the chair again and began to pace. “Of course I am. Certainly I am. She’s your wife.”

“I saw the way you looked at her at the wedding. I saw you glance after her when she left the room today.”

“Good God, George!”

“It isn’t a crime.”

“Yes, it is! As a matter-of-fact, it is. If I had looked at her that way, which I can assure you, I have not!”

“She’s a beautiful woman.”

“This has gone far enough! You’re very tired, and you’re not thinking clearly. Miranda will be fine. We’ll all look after her.”

George only smiled at him. “I just want you to know, I wouldn’t mind.”

“Go to sleep, George. We’ll talk again in the morning, when you’re feeling better.”

George sighed and closed his eyes, and with shaking hands, Andrew pulled the bedclothes neatly about him.

The entire conversation was ridiculous! Miranda would be horrified to know that George had said such things. For a moment, he pondered telling her, simply to keep George from catching her off-guard. Of course, he may have already shared these bizarre rantings with her. Andrew had no way of knowing how often his brother was lucid.

Since it was impossible to settle anything with his sleeping brother, he sought out his daughter. Perhaps, now that they were all together at Danford, he could begin to restore some kind of order between himself and Emma.

*

In the drawing room, Miranda sipped the last of her lukewarm tea flavored with sugar and milk. The taste was sweet and light, perfect to wash down the crumpets she and Reggie had shared. The others were taking tea in their rooms.

“There you go, dear,” Reggie said, “fortified for the next few hours with George’s kin until dinner.”

“It will be a comfort to George to have them here.”

For a moment, Reggie’s cheery guard dropped, and his words were bitter. “Will it?”

Miranda reached across the tea table and put her hand on top of his. “Oh, Reggie, I am so sorry about all of this. I know that having them here makes things more complicated, but he needs them.”

He waved his hand, dismissing his outburst. “Pay no attention to me, Randa. I’m just succumbing to a bit of melancholy and self-absorption.”

“You’re entitled. After all, you’re the one who—” She turned her head sharply at the sound of footsteps coming to the drawing room door.

“Pardon me, my lady,” the maid squeaked, bobbing a quick curtsey in her starched gray uniform.

“Yes, Mary,” Miranda replied. Just over a year ago, she had thought she would never be able to address every servant by name. Now she knew them all.

“There seems to be a bit of a problem upstairs, in the young lady’s room.”

“Emma?”

“Yes, my lady. She’s quite upset, though we’re doing our best to please her. I thought I’d better tell you.”

“Thank you. I’ll be right there.” With a sigh, Miranda rose to follow Mary.

“Indeed, they are a comfort,” quipped Reggie.

She gave him a wry smile and said, “Have another crumpet, dear. Your mouth seems to have need of something to do.”

Miranda mounted the stairs to find Emma in the center of her room, clothes and personal belongings piled around her. She pointed imperiously at a heap of gowns on the floor next to an empty trunk. “All of those will have to be pressed. I can’t imagine what the maid at home was thinking when she packed them. If she were here, I would dismiss her! I ought to dismiss you, too.” She looked up at Miranda and smiled. “Oh, hello, Aunt Randa.”

Miranda gazed around at the disorder. “Are you settling in well?”

Emma glared at the overwhelmed girls assisting her. “You need to hire new servants. They’ll never have everything set to rights before I’m ready to retire.” Kicking the pile of gowns out of her way, she marched over to her dressing table where a tea tray sat. She simultaneously popped a bite of crumpet in her mouth and dropped into the little gilt chair in front of the table. “I haven’t a thing to wear for dinner. Every one of my gowns is a mess!”

Poor Mary looked as though she was about to burst into tears, and Miranda closed her eyes for a moment, gathering her wits. Half a year in London with Lettie and Henry had undone much of the progress Miranda had made with her niece’s behavior. She bent down and pulled a pale pink muslin gown from the pile. The girl was right about one thing. It would have to be pressed. The next gown was velvet, and Miranda found that, with a good shake, most of the wrinkles fell out of it.

“Surely Mary and Betty didn’t toss these on the floor when they unpacked,” she said to Emma.

“Oh, no,” Emma replied with wide, innocent eyes. “The real problem was with the maid back home. She packed everything too tightly. But these two lazy girls said they didn’t need to press all of them, only some.
I
threw them on the floor to settle the matter. Now, I think we can agree that they must all be pressed.” She smiled as though she had accomplished some great feat of diplomacy.

“What in the name of heaven has happened in here?” Andrew thundered, stepping into the chaos from the hallway beyond. Miranda winced.

“Oh, Papa, thank goodness you’re here. I was just telling Aunt Randa what a dreadful mess everything is!”

“I can’t imagine she needed anyone to tell her,” he barked. He took a deep breath and lowered his voice. “Please, Emma, please tell me that you did not make this mess.”

“No, Papa,” his daughter replied, her smile sugary sweet. Mary and Betty, the two maids, gasped simultaneously.

“But, Emma,” Miranda protested, “you just said that
you
threw the gowns on the floor.”

“Yes, but I also said that the maid back home failed to pack everything properly.
She
made the mess, not
I
.”

Miranda could only gape at her in open-mouthed wonder. The little minx! She turned her gaze to the father and awaited his response.

Andrew firmly grasped his daughter’s arm and pulled her from her chair. He looked at Miranda over his shoulder. “You may dismiss your maids.” Turning back to Emma, he said, “Come along, Emma, you have quite a lot to do if you’re to tidy this mess before dinner.”

Emma opened her mouth in indignation. “Surely you don’t expect
me
to straighten this up!”

He glared at the three women who stood in awed silence. His face was red with anger, embarrassment, or both, and Miranda had to step forward and take pity on him.

“Since we must decide what does and does not require pressing, it really would be better if we simply let the maids do it.”

“Emma can bloody well—pardon me—she can very well press them herself.”

Emma burst into tears, and Miranda burst into laughter, causing Andrew’s face to go all the redder. “I’m sorry,” Miranda said when she’d caught her breath. “Even I have no experience pressing a gown properly. By the time Emma is finished, it will cost you a king’s ransom to replace her clothes. You two go on. We’ll take care of this.”

Andrew paused, a look of indecision on his face. Finally, he said, “Emma, stop bawling and come with me.”

Miranda only shook her head behind their retreating figures. What had already been a long day was sure to get even longer.

Andrew leaned against the wide desk in the library, his arms crossed over his chest. He glared down at the child who sniveled on a footstool, where she had dramatically flung herself a moment earlier.

“You corrected me in front of them!” she wailed.

“I’m in no mood for your melodrama,” he said firmly. “The servants have a job to do, and in the future, you will stay out of the way so Miranda can see that they do it! It isn’t your place to interfere.”

She gazed up at him with stricken eyes. “You corrected me in front of the help! I was mortified. I was only telling them what to do with my things.
That’s
their job! And I thought this was
my
home, now.”