The Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever

Chapter 12

When Turner returned home the next day, he retreated into his study with a glass of brandy and a muddled mind. Lady Chester's house party wasn't due to conclude for a few more days, but he had made up some story about pressing matters with his solicitors in the city and left early. He was fairly certain that he could behave as if nothing had happened, but of Miranda he was not so sure. She was an innocent- or at least she had been- and unused to such playacting. And for the sake of her reputation, all must appear scrupulously normal.

He did regret that he had been unable to explain to her the reasons for his early departure. He did not think that she would be affronted; he had, after all, told her that he needed time to think. He had also told her that they would marry; surely she would not doubt his intentions for his having taken a few days to ruminate upon his unexpected situation.

The enormity of his actions was not lost on him. He had seduced a young, unmarried lady. One he actually liked and respected. One his family adored.

For a man who had not wished to remarry, he had clearly not been thinking with his head.

Groaning, he sank down into a chair and remembered the rules he and his friends had set down years ago when they'd left Oxford for the pleasures of London and the ton. There were only two. No married ladies, unless it was extremely obvious that her husband did not mind. And above all, no virgins. Never, never, never seduce a virgin.

Never.

He took another swig of his drink. Good Lord. If he'd needed a woman, there were dozens who would have been more suitable. The lovely young widowed countess had been coming along quite nicely. Katherine would have been the perfect mistress, and there would have been no need to marry her.

Marriage.

He'd done it once, with a romantic heart and stars in his eyes, and he'd been crushed. It was laughable, really. The laws of England gave absolute authority in a marriage to the husband, but he had never felt less in control of his life than when he'd been married.

Leticia had ground his heart into dust and left him an angry, soulless man. He was glad that she'd died. Glad. What sort of man did that make him? When the butler had found him in his study, and haltingly informed him that there had been an accident, and his wife was dead, Turner had not even felt relief. Relief would have at least been an innocent emotion. No, Turner's first thought had been-

Thank God.

And no matter how despicable Leticia might have been, no matter how many times he wished he had never married her, should he not have felt something more charitable at her passing? Or at the very least, something that was not entirely uncharitable?

And now…and now…Well, the truth was, he did not wish to marry. It was what he had decided when they'd brought Leticia's broken body into the house, and it was what he'd confirmed when he'd stood over her grave. He'd had a wife. He did not want another one. At least not anytime soon.

But despite Leticia's best attempts, she had apparently not killed everything right and good in him, because here he was, planning his marriage to Miranda.

He knew she was a good woman, and he knew she would never betray him, but dear Lord she could be headstrong. Turner thought of her in the bookshop, assaulting the proprietor with her reticule. Now she would be his wife. It would be up to him to keep her out of trouble.

He swore and took another drink. He did not want that kind of responsibility. It was too much. He just wanted a rest. Was that too much to ask? A rest from having to think about anyone other than himself. A rest from having to care, from having to protect his heart from another beating.

Was it so very selfish? Probably. But after Leticia, he deserved a bit of selfishness. Surely, he must.

But on the other hand, marriage could bring a few welcome benefits. His skin began to tingle just thinking of Miranda. In bed. Underneath him. And then when he started to imagine what the future might bring…

Miranda. Back in bed. And then back in bed. And back in bed. And back-

Who would've thought? Miranda.

Marriage. To Miranda.

And, he reasoned, draining the last of his drink, he did like her better than almost anyone else. She was certainly more interesting and more fun to talk to than any of the other ladies of the ton. If one had to have a wife, it might as well be Miranda. She was a damned sight better than anyone else out there.

It occurred to him that he was not approaching this with a terribly romantic outlook. He was going to need more time to think. Perhaps he should go to bed and hope that his mind was clearer in the morning. With a sigh, he placed his glass back down on the table and stood up, then thought better of it and picked his glass back up. Another brandy might be just thing.

The next morning, Turner's head was throbbing, and his mind certainly was not any more disposed to deal with the matter at hand than it had been the night before. Of course, he still planned to marry Miranda- a gentleman did not compromise a wellborn lady without paying the consequences.

But he hated this feeling of being rushed. It didn't matter that this mess was entirely of his own making; he needed to feel that he had sorted everything out to his own satisfaction.

This was why, when he went down for breakfast, the letter from his friend Lord Harry Winthrop was such a welcome diversion. Harry was contemplating buying some property in Kent. Would Turner like to come down and take a look at it and offer his opinion?

Turner was out the door in under an hour. It was only for a few days. He would take care of Miranda when he got back.

Miranda didn't mind terribly that Turner had left the house party early. She would have done the same had she been able. Besides, she could think more clearly with him gone, and although there wasn't really much to debate- she had behaved in a manner contrary to every tenet of her up-bringing, and if she did not marry Turner, she would be forever disgraced- it was a bit of a relief to feel at least slightly in control of her emotions.

When they returned to London a few days later, Miranda fully expected Turner to show his face immediately. She didn't particularly want to trap him into marriage, but a gentleman was a gentleman and a lady was a lady, and when the two of them were put together, a wedding usually followed. He knew that. He'd said he would marry her.

And surely he would want to do it. She had been so deeply moved by their intimacy- he must have felt something, too. It could not have been one-sided, at least not completely.

She managed a casual tone when she asked Lady Rudland where he was, but his mother replied that she hadn't the slightest idea except that he had left town. Miranda's chest grew tight, and she murmured, "Oh," or "I see," or something like that before dashing up the stairs to her room, where she wept as quietly as she could.

But soon her optimistic side broke through, and she decided that perhaps he had been called away from town on emergency estate business. It was a long way up to Northumberland. He would certainly be gone at least a week.

A week came and went, and frustration built up next to the despair in Miranda's heart. She could not inquire as to his whereabouts- no one in the Bevelstoke family realized that the two were close- Miranda had always been considered Olivia's friend, not Turner's- and if she asked repeatedly where he was, it would look suspicious. And it went without saying that Miranda could have no logical reason to go to Turner's lodgings and inquire herself. That would ruin her reputation completely. At least now her disgrace was still a private matter.

When another week passed, however, she decided that she couldn't bear to remain in London any longer. She fabricated an illness for her father and told the Bevelstokes that she had to return to Cumberland immediately to care for him. They were all terribly concerned, and Miranda felt somewhat guilty when Lady Rudland insisted that she travel back in their coach with two outriders and a maid.

But it had to be done. She could not remain in London any longer. It hurt too much.

A few days later, she was home. Her father was perplexed. He didn't know very much about young women, but he'd been assured that they all wanted seasons in London. But he didn't mind; Miranda was certainly never a bother. Half the time he didn't even realize she was there. So he patted her on the hand and returned to his precious manuscripts.

As for Miranda, she almost convinced herself that she was happy to be back at home. She'd missed the green fields and clean air of the Lakes, the sedate pace of the village, the early-to-bed and early-to-rise attitude. Well, perhaps not that- with no commitments and nothing to do, she slept in until noon and stayed up late every night, scribbling furiously in her journal.

A letter arrived from Olivia only two days after Miranda did. Miranda smiled as she opened it- trust Olivia to be so impatient that she would send up a missive right away. Miranda's eyes flew over the letter for Turner's name before reading it, but there was no mention of him. Not quite sure if she was disappointed or relieved, she turned back to the beginning and began to read. London was dull without her, Olivia wrote. She hadn't realized how much she had enjoyed Miranda's wry observations of society until they were gone. When was she coming home? Was her father improved? If not, was he at least improving? (Thrice underlined, in typical Olivia fashion.) Miranda read those sentences with a pang in her conscience. Her father was downstairs in his study poring over his manuscripts without even the teeniest of sniffles.

With a sigh, Miranda shoved her conscience over to the side and folded Olivia's letter, placing it in her desk drawer. A lie wasn't always a sin, she decided. Surely she was justified in whatever she had to do to get away from London, where all she could do was sit and wait and hope that Turner would stop by.

Of course, all she did in the country was sit and think about him. One evening she forced herself to count how many times his name appeared in her journal entry, and to her supreme disgust, the total was thirty-seven.

Clearly, this trip to the country was not clearing her mind.

Then, after a week and a half, Olivia arrived on a surprise visit.

"Livvy, what are you doing here?" Miranda asked as she rushed into the parlor where her friend was waiting. "Is someone hurt? Is something wrong?"

"Not at all," Olivia returned breezily. "I've just come up to retrieve you. You are desperately needed in London."

Miranda's heart began to thump erratically. "By whom?"

"By me!" Olivia linked arms with her and led her into the sitting room. "Good heavens, I am an utter disaster without you."

"Your mother let you leave town in the middle of the season? I don't believe it."

"She practically shoved me out the door. I've been beastly since you left."

Miranda laughed despite herself. "Surely it hasn't been that bad."

"I do not jest. Mama always told me that you were a good influence, but I don't think she realized just how much until you left." Olivia flashed a guilty smile. "I can't seem to curb my tongue."

"You never could." Miranda smiled and led the way to a sofa. "Would you like some tea?"

Olivia nodded. "I don't understand why I get into so much trouble. Most of what I say isn't half as bad as what you say. You've the wickedest tongue in London."

Miranda pulled the bell cord for a maid. "I do not."

"Oh, yes, you do. You are the worst. And I know you know it. And you never get into trouble for any of it. It's terribly unfair."

"Yes, well, perhaps I don't say things quite as loudly as you do," Miranda replied, biting back a smile.

"You're right," Olivia sighed. "I know you're right, but it's still vastly annoying. You really do have a wicked sense of humor."

"Oh, come now, I'm not that bad."

Olivia let out a short laugh. "Oh, yes you are. Turner always says so, too, so I know it's not just me."

Miranda gulped down the quickly forming lump in her throat at the mention of his name. "Is he back in town, then?" she asked, oh-so-casually.

"No. I haven't seen him in ages. He's off in Kent somewhere with his friends."

Kent? One couldn't travel much farther from Cumberland and still remain in Britain, Miranda thought gloomily. "He's been gone quite some time."

"Yes, he has, hasn't he? But then again, he's off with Lord Harry Winthrop, and Harry has always been more than a little wild, if you know what I mean."

Miranda feared that she did.

"I'm sure they've just got carried away with wine, women, and the sort," Olivia continued. "There won't be any proper ladies in attendance, I'm sure."

The lump in Miranda's throat quickly reappeared. The thought of Turner with another woman was violently painful, especially now that she knew just how close a man and woman could be. She had made up all sorts of reasons for his absence- her days were filled with rationalizations and excuses on his behalf. It was, she thought bitterly, her only pastime.

But she had never thought that he was off with another woman. He knew how painful it was to be betrayed. How could he do the same to her?

He didn't want her. The truth stung and it slapped and it dug its nasty little nails right into her heart.

He didn't want her, and she still wanted him so badly, and it hurt. It was physical. She could feel it, squeezing and pinching, and thank heavens Olivia was examining her father's prized Grecian vase, because she did not think she could keep her agony off her face.

With some sort of grunted comment that wasn't meant to be understood, Miranda stood and quickly crossed to the window, pretending to look out over the horizon. "Well, he must be having a good time," she managed to get out.

"Turner?" she heard from behind her. "He must, or he wouldn't be staying so long. Mama is in a despair, or she would be, if she weren't so busy despairing over me. Now, do you mind if I stay here with you? Haverbreaks is so big and drafty when no one is home."

"Of course I don't mind." Miranda remained at the window for a few moments longer, until she thought that she could look at Olivia without bursting into tears. She had been so emotional lately. "It will be quite a treat for me. It's a bit lonely with only Father to keep me company."

"Oh, yes. How is he? Improving, I hope."

"Father?" Miranda was grateful for the interruption provided by the maid who answered her earlier summons. She ordered some tea before turning back to Olivia. "Ehm, he is much improved."

"I shall have to stop in and wish him well. Mama asked me to send her regards as well."

"Oh, no, you shouldn't do that," Miranda said quickly. "He doesn't like to be reminded of his illness. He's very proud, you know."

Olivia, who had never been one to mince words, said, "How very odd."

"Yes, well, it's a masculine complaint," Miranda improvised. She had heard so much about feminine complaints; surely the men had to have some sort of ailment that was exclusively theirs. And if they didn't, she could not imagine that Olivia would know otherwise.

But Miranda hadn't counted on her friend's insatiable curiosity. "Oh, really?" she breathed, leaning forward. "What exactly is a masculine complaint?"

"I shouldn't talk about it," Miranda said hastily, offering her father a silent apology. "It would embarrass him greatly."

"But- "

"And your mother would be most upset with me. It's really not fit for tender ears."

"Tender ears?" Olivia snorted. "As if your ears were any less tender than mine."

Her ears might not be, but the rest of her certainly was, Miranda thought wryly. "No more on the subject," she said firmly. "I shall leave it up to your magnificent imagination."

Olivia grumbled a bit at that but finally sighed and asked, "When are you coming home?"

"I am home," Miranda reminded her.

"Yes, yes, of course. This is your official home, I know, but I assure you, the entire Bevelstoke family misses you very much, so when are you returning to London?"

Miranda caught her lower lip between her teeth. The entire Bevelstoke family obviously did not miss her, or a certain member would not have remained so long in Kent. But still, returning to London was the only way she could fight for her happiness, and sitting up here in Cumberland, crying into her journal and gazing morosely out the window, made her feel like a spineless twit.

"If I'm a twit," she muttered to herself, "at least I shall be a vertebrate twit."

"What did you say?"

"I said I will go back to London," Miranda said with great determination. "Father is well enough to get along without me."

"Splendid. When shall we leave?"

"Oh, in two or three days' time, I think." Miranda was not so brave that she didn't want to put off the inevitable by a few days. "I need to pack my things, and you are surely tired from traveling across the country."

"I am a bit. Perhaps we ought to stay a week. Assuming you are not weary of the country life already. I would not mind a short break from the congestion of London."

"Oh, no, that's just fine," Miranda assured her. Turner could wait. He certainly wasn't going to marry someone else in the meantime, and she could use the time to bolster her courage.

"Perfect. Then shall we go riding this afternoon? I'm dying for a good gallop."

"That sounds lovely." The tea arrived, and Miranda busied herself with pouring the steaming liquid. "I think a week is just perfect."

A week later, Miranda was convinced beyond anything that she could not return to London. Ever. Her monthly, which was so regular that it truly was monthly, had not arrived. She should have bled a few days before Olivia came. She had managed to stave off her worry for the first few days by telling herself that it was only because she was overset. Then, in the excitement of Olivia's arrival, she had forgotten about it. But now she was well over a week late. And emptying her stomach every single morning. Miranda had led a sheltered life, but she was a country girl, and she knew what that meant.

Dear God, a baby. What was she to do? She had to tell Turner; there was no getting around that. As much as she did not wish to use an innocent life to force a marriage that was obviously not fated to occur, how could she deny her child his birthright? But the thought of traveling to London was pure agony. And she was sick of chasing him and waiting for him and hoping and praying that maybe one day he'd come to love her. For once, he could bloody well come to her.

And he would, wouldn't he? He was a gentleman. He might not love her, but surely she had not misjudged him so completely. He would not shirk his duty.

Miranda smiled weakly to herself. So it had come to this. She was a duty. She would have him- after so many years of dreaming, she would actually be Lady Turner, but she would be nothing but a duty. She placed her hand on her belly. This should be a moment of joy, but instead all she wanted to do was cry.

A knock sounded on her bedroom door. Miranda looked up with a startled expression and didn't say anything.

"Miranda!" Olivia's voice was insistent. "Open the door. I can hear you crying."

Miranda took a deep breath and walked over to the door. It would not be easy to keep this a secret from Olivia, but she had to try. Olivia was intensely loyal, and she would never betray Miranda's trust, but still, Turner was her brother. There was no telling what Olivia would do. Miranda wouldn't put it past her to put a pistol to his back and march him north herself.

Miranda took a quick look in the mirror before heading to the door. Her tears she could wipe away, but she would have to blame her red-rimmed eyes on the summer garden. She took a few deep breaths, and then pasted on the brightest smile she was able and answered the door.

She did not fool Olivia for a minute.

"Good heavens, Miranda," she said, rushing to put her arms around her. "Whatever has happened to you?"

"I'm well," Miranda assured her. "My eyes always itch this time of year."

Olivia stood back, regarded her for a moment, then kicked the door shut. "But you are so pale."

Miranda's stomach began to churn, and she swallowed convulsively. "I think I've caught some sort of…" She waved her hand in the air, hoping that would finish her sentence for her. "Perhaps I should sit down."

"It couldn't have been something you ate," Olivia said, helping her to her bed. "You hardly touched your food yesterday, and in any case, I had everything you did and more." She nudged Miranda forward on the bed while she fluffed the pillows. "And I feel as fine as ever."

"Probably a head cold," Miranda mumbled. "You should probably return to London without me. I wouldn't wish for you to fall sick as well."

"Nonsense. I can't leave you alone like this."

"I'm not alone. My father is here."

Olivia gave her a look. "You know I would never wish to disparage your father, but I hardly think he knows what to do with an invalid. Half the time, I'm not even sure he remembers we are here."

Miranda closed her eyes and sank into the pillows. Olivia was right, of course. She adored her father, but truly, when it came to matters that involved actually interacting with another human being, he was fairly well hopeless.

Olivia perched on the edge of the bed, the mattress sighing with her weight. Miranda tried to ignore her, tried to pretend that she didn't know, even with her eyes closed, that Olivia was staring at her, just waiting for her to acknowledge her presence.

"Please tell me what is wrong, Miranda," Olivia said softly. "Is it your father?"

Miranda shook her head, but just at that moment Olivia shifted her weight. The mattress rocked beneath them, rather like the movement of a boat, and although Miranda had never been seasick a day in her life, her stomach began to churn, and it suddenly became imperative-

Miranda leaped from the bed, knocking Olivia to the floor. She reached the chamber pot just in time.

"Good gracious," Olivia said, keeping a respectful- and self-preservational- distance. "How long have you been like this?"

Miranda declined to answer. But her stomach heaved in reply.

Olivia took a step back. "Er, is there anything I can do?"

Miranda shook her head, thankful her hair was neatly pulled back.

Olivia watched for another few moments, then went over to the basin and wet a cloth. "Here you are," she said, holding it forward, her arm entirely outstretched.

Miranda took it gratefully. "Thank you," she whispered, wiping her face.

"I don't think this is a head cold," Olivia said.

Miranda shook her head.

"I'm quite certain the fish last night was perfectly good, and I can't imagine- "

Miranda did not have to see Olivia's face to interpret her gasp. She knew. She might not yet quite believe it, but she knew.

"Miranda?"

Miranda remained frozen in place, hanging pathetically over the chamber pot.

"Are you- did you-?"

Miranda swallowed convulsively. And she nodded.

"Oh, my. Oh, my. Oh oh oh oh oh…"

It was perhaps the first time in her life that Miranda had heard Olivia at a complete loss for words. Miranda finished wiping her mouth, and then, her stomach finally at a somewhat even keel, moved away from the chamber pot and sat up a little straighter.

Olivia was still staring at her as if she'd seen an apparition. "How?" she finally asked.

"The usual way," Miranda retorted. "I assure you, there is no cause to alert the Church."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry," Olivia said hurriedly. "I didn't mean to upset you. It's just that…well…you must know…well…this is just such a surprise."

"It surprised me, too," Miranda replied in a somewhat flat voice.

"It couldn't have been that much of a surprise," Olivia said without thinking. "I mean, if you had done…if you had been…" She let her words trail off, realizing that her foot was lodged firmly in her mouth.

"It was still a surprise, Olivia."

Olivia was silent for a few moments as she absorbed this shock. "Miranda, I have to ask…"

"Don't!" Miranda warned her. "Please don't ask me who."

"Was it Winston?"

"No!" she replied forcefully. And then muttered, "Good heavens."

"Then who?"

"I can't tell you," Miranda said, her voice breaking. "It was…it was someone totally unsuitable. I…I don't know what I was thinking, but please don't ask me again. I don't want to talk about it."

"That's fine," Olivia said, clearly realizing that it would be unwise to push her any further. "I won't ask you again, I promise. But what are we going to do?"

Miranda could not help but feel a little warmed by her use of the word we.

"I say, Miranda, are you certain you're expecting?" Olivia asked suddenly, her eyes brightening with hope. "You could just be late. I'm late all the time."

Miranda threw an obvious glance at the chamber pot. And then she shook her head and said, "I'm never late. Never."

"You'll have to go somewhere," Olivia said. "The scandal will be amazing."

Miranda nodded. She planned to post a letter to Turner, but she could not tell that to Olivia.

"The best thing to do would be to get you out of the country. The continent, perhaps. How is your French?"

"Dismal."

Olivia sighed wearily. "You never were very good with languages."

"Nor were you," Miranda said testily.

Olivia declined to dignify that with a response, instead suggesting, "Why don't you go to Scotland?"

"To my grandparents?"

"Yes. Don't tell me they would turn you out because of your condition. You're always talking about how kind they are."

Scotland. Yes, that was the perfect solution. She would notify Turner, and he could join her there. They would be able to marry without posting banns, and then all would be, if not well, at least settled.

"I shall accompany you," Olivia said decisively. "I will stay as long as I can."

"But what will your mother say?"

"Oh, I'll tell her that someone's gone ill. It worked before, didn't it?" Olivia leveled a shrewd look at Miranda, one that clearly said that she knew that she had made up the story about her father.

"That's an awful lot of ill people."

Olivia shrugged. "It's an epidemic. All the more reason for her to remain in London. But what will you tell your father?"

"Oh, anything," Miranda replied dismissively. "He doesn't pay very much attention to what I do."

"Well, for once that is an advantage. We'll leave today."

"Today?" Miranda echoed weakly.

"We're already packed, after all, and there is no time to wait."

Miranda looked down at her still-flat stomach. "No, I don't suppose there is."

13 August 1819

Olivia and I arrived in Edinburgh today. Grandmama and Grandpapa were rather surprised to see me. They were even more surprised when I told them the reason for my visit. They were very silent and very grave, but not for one moment did they let me think that they were disappointed in or ashamed of me. I shall always love them for that.

Livvy sent off a note to her parents saying that she had accompanied me up to Scotland. Every morning she asks me if my monthly has arrived. As I anticipated, it has not. I find myself looking down at my belly constantly. I don't know what I expect to see. Surely one does not bulge out overnight, and certainly not this early.

I must tell Turner. I know I must, but I cannot seem to escape Olivia, and I cannot write the letter in her presence. Much as I adore her, I will have to shoo her away. I certainly cannot have her here when Turner arrives, which he will surely do once he receives my missive, assuming, of course, I am ever able to send it.

Oh, heavens, there she is now.