Glimmer of Hope (10 page)

Neither spoke as they made their way across the grounds toward the sounds of breaking waves. Miranda appreciated the coat; the weather was colder than she’d anticipated. She found herself fingering the scarf, wondering what had brought on Carter’s sudden thoughtfulness.

“Liliana missed you in the nursery this morning,” Carter said after they’d walked for five minutes in silence.

“I wanted to visit,” Miranda answered, “but your mother had several things she needed to discuss.”

They continued walking for a while. Miranda wondered if she’d said something wrong. She’d been careful in her choice of words. Carter certainly didn’t need to hear her speak unkindly of his mother, even if the dowager’s lectures were growing more difficult to bear.

“Has she been unkind to you, Miranda?” Carter asked, his eyes focused ahead of them.

How did she answer that? “No. Not really.” She hadn’t been
un
kind.

“What was it she needed to discuss for so long that you couldn’t visit the children?”

“The linens.”

“Linens?” he sounded surprised.

She knew he wouldn’t have been expecting that, which was one reason she’d mentioned it first. “Among other things,” she added. “Last night’s wine, she felt, was lacking. She said I ought to have supplied a second table of casino last night instead of just the one, despite the fact that not everyone wished to play. She disapproves of Hannah. There apparently ought to be more flowers in the conservatory.”

“Was that all?” he asked dryly.

“Those were her more adamant points.” Heavens, it felt good to talk to someone about this. Not just someone—Carter. She used to tell him all the things that worried her.
Almost
all, at least.

“Did she mention that the beef last night was perfectly cooked?” Carter sounded almost upset. “Or that Lady Percival told her she’d seldom enjoyed a night of cards as much as she had last night? Or that Hartley has already suggested we make this house party an annual tradition?”

“No, she didn’t.” Miranda hadn’t heard any of those things.

“She ought to have,” Carter muttered.

“She is only trying to help.” Miranda didn’t want him to think she was ungrateful. “She knows a lot more about these things than I do.”

“And this is her way of teaching you? Pointing out anything she can possibly complain about?” He sounded so frustrated, so tense.

“Carter.”

“She shouldn’t—”

“Carter.” Miranda stopped him with a hand on his arm. He turned and looked at her, and Miranda recognized the tension in his jaw. He was upset. And he’d been defending her, something he’d quit doing a long time ago. It was the first real sign she’d seen since he’d come that Carter still cared for her, even the tiniest bit. “She has allowed me to plan dinner and the evening’s entertainment tomorrow night.”

He looked suitably confused, and Miranda couldn’t help smiling. She motioned for them to resume their walk, though she slowed the pace. She was growing tired already. The tiniest hint of a cough sat deep in her lungs. The symptoms were a bit worrisome.

“You aren’t offended that she is ‘permitting’ you to plan a dinner when you are, in all actuality, the hostess?” Carter asked.

“I have chosen to see it as a sign of confidence,” Miranda said.

“That is very good of you.” Carter’s expression lightened marginally.

“Perhaps you would be willing to select the wine for the evening,” Miranda suggested, his look taking her back to much happier days. “That way if your mother disapproves, I can blame you.”

Carter chuckled.

Miranda couldn’t help but join in. “If only I could think of a way to blame you for the state of the linens.”

“I will swear to whatever story you contrive, my dear.” His deep laugh echoed across the deserted grounds.

My dear.
She hadn’t heard that endearment in years. In that moment, she felt the slightest glimmer of hope. There might be something left to wish for, something to salvage from the dreams she’d once embraced.

Carter assumed he would be
the first person in the drawing room. The dinner bell had sounded a scant thirty minutes earlier. But he had instructed his valet to begin preparations early, wanting to show his support for Miranda’s dinner. Even with his head start, Carter arrived in the drawing room second.

Miranda was straightening a floral arrangement on an end table across the room and didn’t seem to hear him come in. She stood back from the vase and tipped her head to the side as if analyzing her handiwork. Miranda shook her head and let out a frustrated sigh before setting to work again.

Carter smiled to himself. She was nervous. The unreadable, unreachable Miranda he’d first encountered at Clifton Manor was melting away.

“The flowers are lovely, Miranda.”

She jumped, obviously startled. For the briefest of moments, she looked at him before returning her gaze to the arrangement.

“Your mother has very particular opinions on flowers,” Miranda said as if she expected his mother to disapprove.

“
I
think they are perfect just as they are.”

“So if they don’t meet with approval, I can say it is your fault?” Her eyes never left the flowers in front of her.

“So I am taking the blame for the wine, the linens, and now the flowers?”

“And anything else I can reasonably lay at your feet,” Miranda quipped, the first hint of lightness he’d heard in her voice all day. He wasn’t sure why this dinner was important to her, but it so obviously was.

“I can reasonably be expected to be held responsible for the after-dinner port as well.” Carter spoke in jest, but his words weren’t taken that way.

In a single fluid movement, she spun to face the drawing room doors. “I never checked the port!”

“Miranda!” Carter reached out and caught her hand. “I meant that as a jest. I checked on the port when I selected the wine.”

She smiled apologetically. “I suppose my nerves are a little on edge.”

Carter smiled back, still holding her hand. She didn’t pull away, something he found surprisingly satisfying. He was warming to her, he could sense it, yet he held his breath, waiting for something to pull them apart again. Their relationship had taken on the qualities of a seesaw.

“You look beautiful this evening,” he said. She didn’t look as though she believed him. “That’s a new dress, I think.”

“I haven’t worn it since you arrived.” Color rose a little in her overly pale cheeks.

“You should wear that color more often. Lavender, I believe.”

She nodded. “It is left over from half mourning after your father died. Though Hannah replaced the black lace with blond. I didn’t think it looked too somber.” A note of uncertainty entered her tone.

She had observed half mourning for his father? That thoroughly surprised him. Clifton Manor was too isolated for her to have undertaken mourning for the sake of appearances. She hadn’t known Father well or long, certainly not enough to have developed a particular fondness for him.

He almost asked if she’d observed mourning for his sake, out of deference to the pain she must have realized he felt at the loss. But he couldn’t force the words out. They had found some common ground, had learned to be friendly with each other again. He couldn’t risk that by introducing such sensitive topics. Not yet.

Footsteps echoed from the hall. Miranda pulled away from him.

“Everything will be fine, Miranda,” he whispered as they turned toward the door. “Just fine.” He hoped the words convinced her, because he wasn’t entirely sure.

* * *

Miranda had debated doing away with the formal seating arrangements at the table that night. She meant the evening to be informal, more of a family dinner than a dinner party. But they had all grown very accustomed to taking up the same seats night after night. Changing that would make her dinner
less
comfortable, not more.

So, in the end, she still sat with the Duke of Hartley on one side and Lord Percival on the other. Carter still sat with the two ladies on his sides. Carter’s mother sat beside the duke. Somehow, even though Carter sat at the head of the table and Miranda at the foot, the dowager reigned over every meal.

Miranda had chosen a simple menu for the evening. She was rather looking forward to it. The menus had been filled with rich, heavy foods, the kind that no doubt graced all the best tables in London. Miranda was more accustomed to simpler fare. She’d missed it since the dowager’s arrival.

What the guests would think of the comparatively plain meal she had chosen, she didn’t know. But she would soon find out. The footmen set out the first course. Miranda watched the faces around her.

Please let them approve.

“Pea soup?” Her mother-in-law managed a tone that was somehow equal parts sweetness and disdain. “I can honestly say I haven’t been served this in a very long time.”

“We have had oxtail and mock-turtle soup these past few nights,” Miranda explained. “I thought this would be a nice change.”

“A change. Yes.” The dowager dripped soup off her spoon back into the bowl. Though she clearly didn’t like the offering, she still sent smiles across the table at each of the guests in turn.

Miranda looked across the table at Carter. He didn’t seem to have any objections. Indeed, he and the duchess and Lady Percival were tucking enthusiastically into the cod. Salmon and halibut had been the fish of choice thus far during the house party.

“I believe you have read my wife’s thoughts, Lady Devereaux,” the duke said between bites. “Pea soup is the first dish she ever had upon arriving in England. It is a particular favorite and one she always eats with great pleasure.”

Miranda very nearly allowed relief to fill her expression. But she remembered the admonition that a lady, a true hostess, remained tranquil and composed at all times. Unnecessary shows of emotion, even positive emotion, were a mark of commonness and a lack of upbringing. In the first months of her marriage, Miranda had heard that particular instruction again and again.

Conversation around the table was easy and unrushed. Miranda saw that as a good sign. The first course was going well.

“Is this . . .
hare
?” The dowager eyed the dish sitting at the far end of the table, her nose scrunched as if she smelled something foul.

No unnecessary shows of emotion.
“Lord Devereaux is very fond of hare.”

Miranda’s mother-in-law pasted a frozen smile on her face and nodded, though she didn’t request a footman bring her the hare. But, Miranda reassured herself, the dish was not going untouched. The other guests seemed to enjoy the offering.

No one looks disgusted or horrified. The dishes are being eaten and, it would seem, enjoyed.
Miranda decided to see that as a success.

She folded her hands in her lap as the second course was set, closely watching the changing of dishes. The staff managed the task with near-perfect fluidity. Miranda caught the eye of Timms and offered the blessedly competent butler a small smile of gratitude.

Roast beef. Ham in a raisin sauce. Boiled potatoes in cream. Brussels sprouts and chestnuts.
All simple dishes but traditional favorites. That, Miranda had decided, would be the theme for her meal. The food, though enjoyable and filling and satisfying, would not draw undue attention to itself. Dinner would be about the company and the conversation.

With satisfaction, Miranda listened as the guests joined in lively discussions and shared entertaining anecdotes. The menu might not be long remembered, but that night would solidify friendships and provide an evening’s enjoyment. Even the dowager took part in the discussions. Perhaps the need to keep up her end of the conversations would distract the woman from her evaluation of the menu.

Lord Percival turned his attention to Miranda. “These potatoes are delicious. I have always appreciated a good boiled potato.”

“As have I,” Miranda answered. The compliment was more appreciated than he likely realized. “And this cream sauce is a particular specialty of the cook’s.”

“It is excellent.” Lord Percival punctuated his declaration by returning his attention to savoring the potatoes.

The dowager took the tiniest sip of her wine. “This is an unusual choice.”

“You don’t care for it?” Miranda asked, fighting the sinking feeling in her stomach.

“Oh, it isn’t a matter of not caring for the selection. I simply wasn’t expecting . . .
this
.” Her mother-in-law’s look of reassurance held just a touch too much condescension.

“The wine was chosen specifically to pair with the menu,” Carter said.

Miranda hadn’t realized that the dowager’s comments had been noted by those on the far end of the table. The group was small, certainly, but she thought Carter and the two ladies were deep enough in their own conversation to not have taken note of the criticisms. Her abilities as hostess were being called into question in front of two ladies she very much wanted to impress, and she disliked looking incompetent in front of the gentlemen as well.

But you
are
at least a little incompetent. You’ve never been the hostess of a gathering like this.

The dowager set her glass back on the table with a genteel finality that said more clearly than any words might have that she didn’t intend to take the glass up again.

Miranda picked a bit at her plate of food.
The duchess enjoyed the pea soup
, she reminded herself, trying to cling to the little successes of the dinner.
Lord Percival vocally approved of the potatoes. Carter likely appreciated the hare.

When the dessert was laid out and everyone, even the dowager, enjoyed the pear compote without a single word of complaint, Miranda felt some of her worry slip from her shoulders. The meal was ending on a good note.

She rose to signal to the ladies that they could make their way to the drawing room and leave the men to their port. She caught Carter’s eye as she walked toward the door. His quick, encouraging smile soothed some of her anxiety. He didn’t seem disappointed, and that meant more than the approval of anyone else in attendance.