That Kind of Woman (7 page)

Miranda laughed again. “It really is dreadful.”

Reggie walked over to join her at the window, turning her away from the dreary scene and putting his arm around her. “But such fun.”

“What if I could get Lettie to say yes? At least to Emma? Would the loss of a little privacy be such a sacrifice?”

Reggie looked over his shoulder at the winter landscape. “Would that make you happy?”

“I think so.”

“Then you should speak to George about it.”

“Do you think so?”

“Of course. The girl needs a maternal touch.”

“She has Lettie.”

“For all the good it seems to be doing.”

With a sigh, Miranda admitted, “I would so love to keep her here.” But in her heart she knew more was missing from her life than a child. She had friends; real, true friends, unlike any she had known before. George and Reggie showered her with a sort of fraternal affection, and Henry was at his most charming whenever he was in her company. She was the center of attention at Danford as she had never been growing up, but there was an empty place inside that the attention couldn’t fill.

It seemed every time her thoughts strayed in this direction, she thought of Major Carrington’s letters—the bold script scrawled by a hand she remembered so vividly. At the slightest provocation, she could still feel it holding her own at the wedding or touching her intimately in her dream.

She didn’t know why she seemed forever inclined to think of him whenever she felt lonely. Perhaps it was because those letters were so candid, so fraught with concern for his men and his family. Perhaps it was because they rang with a loneliness akin to her own.

She told Reggie she would see him at tea and went to seek her husband. She was certain Reggie was right. George would deny her nothing. Lettie would be another matter.

*

Emma Carrington lingered in the hall, just outside the library doors, shamelessly eavesdropping. She clasped her hands tightly under her chin, as if in supplication to the adults who conversed out of sight.

“Out of the question,” Grandmama was saying.

“Lettie,” Uncle George replied, “surely you’ve earned the right to relax and enjoy the social events of the Season without a young girl in tow. And if Emma were to stay, she could learn so much from Miranda. If she marries into a title, she’ll need some understanding of how to run a large estate.”

“I’m sure that’s not all Miranda Henley could teach her! She’s not even thirteen, George.”

Emma frowned. It had seemed Grandmama had almost begun to like Aunt Randa of late. Emma had never understood why her grandmother objected to Randa to begin with.

“Lettie, I am not about to stand by and allow you to insult my wife! She didn’t ask for the circumstances of her family.”

Lettie’s voice softened. “Be that as it may, there’s no sense dragging poor Emma into it. When it is time for her coming out, you know what people will think if they know that she’s been raised by one of the Henley women.”

“Miranda is a Carrington.”

“Not really, George.”

Whatever her grandmother said next, Emma didn’t hear, because Miranda’s voice interrupted.

“Emma! Are you eavesdropping?”

Emma might have tried to come up with some excuse, but she was too distraught. “Grandmama isn’t going to let me stay!” She hurled herself into Miranda’s arms.

Miranda held the girl close, and Emma snuggled in. Whenever Grandmama embraced her, she held her at arm’s length and pressed her cheek briefly to Emma’s. It wasn’t nearly as comforting as Aunt Randa’s arms holding her tightly. Randa gently stroked her hair, and Emma felt a hole inside her grow wider and wider.

“I don’t want to leave,” she whispered.

Miranda sighed. “I don’t want you to leave either, Emma, but your father left you in Lettie’s care. She loves you and wants what’s best for you.”

Emma squeezed tighter. It was an odd thing. Grandmama wasn’t nearly as strict as Aunt Randa about manners or piano practice or almost anything else, but Emma would far rather stay at Danford.

“Won’t you talk to her?” Emma asked.

“Nothing I say will make any difference.”

Emma pulled back and looked into Miranda’s face. “Why? Why does it matter that you were a Henley before you married Uncle George?”

The look on her aunt’s face was so sad that Emma would have done anything to take back what she had just said, even though she couldn’t imagine why such an obvious statement of fact would bother Randa.

At that moment, the library door opened, and Lettie said, “What have we here?”

Standing in the doorway, behind Lettie, George gave Miranda a quizzical look.

Emma pulled even farther away from Randa and stomped her foot. “I’m staying! Aunt Randa and Uncle George want me, and I’m staying!”

Lettie narrowed her eyes at Miranda. “How dare you? How dare you say anything to this child about staying without my permission?”

“I assure you, Lady Danford—” Miranda began, but Emma interrupted.

“I heard everything you and Uncle George said. You can’t make me go! You can’t!”

Lettie’s voice went soft and sweet. “Now, Emma, dear, there are things you do not understand…”

“I—don’t—care!” Emma stomped her foot again.

“Sweeting—” Lettie cajoled.

“I hate you!” Emma shouted.

“Emma Louise!” Aunt Randa’s voice was more harsh and commanding than Emma had ever heard it before. Too much like Papa’s. Emma turned to her and stuck her lower lip out.

“You may get your way from time to time with such behavior,” Randa continued, “but you’ll never get anyone’s respect. In time, you’ll see that respect is far too valuable a commodity to squander on petty, selfish desires.”

Normally, Emma would have talked back to anyone who dared to lecture to her so, but Randa had that terribly sad look again, and Emma felt an unaccustomed wash of shame. “I only want to stay,” she said, more quietly this time.

“We have until spring together. Let’s not spoil what time we have,” Miranda said. Like Emma, her voice had gentled. “Go and wash for tea.”

Emma spared her grandmother one last spiteful glare, but she turned away and headed down the hall to comply with Miranda’s request. Behind her she heard her grandmother’s begrudging, “Thank you, Lady Danford—Miranda.”

Emma smiled. It was progress.

Dear Lady Danford,

It was a delight to receive news of Danford at Christmastide, however belated its arrival. The post is abominably slow here. A breath of celebration was a welcome interlude here in Spain. Words cannot express my gratitude for your kind interest in my daughter. I know that she is not an easy child, but there is much to love in her, and I am indebted to you for having found it. Her letter was filled with more joy than I have observed in her in many years.

It is my dearest wish that I could tell you all fares well here. Of course, England continues to pursue victory, and I have no doubt we will achieve that end. In truth, though, I find my thoughts more bent against the bitter cold than toward our eventual triumph. Yours is the last of seven letters I have written tonight. The others were to families of men who shall never see the war’s end. I wrote to a young widow just before I set my pen to this parchment. I cannot even offer her the comfort of a heroic tale, a husband lost in the glory of battle. The man she loved died of pneumonia last night, on a cold cot, with her name upon his lips. I know my words of sympathy are of little comfort to her now.

I should hardly burden you with my duties, and such letters are, of course, one of my duties. I eagerly await the spring, when I can send you descriptions of newly green fields and the good cheer that comes to camp after a long, cold winter. Will you and George go to Town, at all? No matter. I should love to hear of Danford as the fields warm and crops sprout. I can very nearly smell the flowers of the garden and the earth turned beneath the ploughs of the crofters. George tells me you share his love of horticulture. I am ever pleased to know my dear brother has found someone to share his Yuletides and his springs.

Lamp oil is precious, and the hour grows late. I have admonished Emma to mind you in all things. I sincerely hope she heeds my words and causes you no trouble.

Your servant,

Andrew Carrington

Dear Major Carrington,

Indeed, correspondence is irregular, at best. Your last packet of letters arrived just in time to reach Emma, Lettie, and Henry before they returned to Town. We read them last night, and this morning George and I bid the rest of the family good-bye.

The fine, warm weather you yearn for is embracing Danford even now. As you recall, the earth is rich and smells of promise. George is most eager to plant a new kind of hay for the horses. Of course, he is always cautious. He will try one or two fields of it before making any large changes. Four new rose bushes have arrived, as well. I do not have his gift for making things grow, but I admire him his.

I wish I knew what words of comfort to offer to a man who must comfort others. Surely your letters do somewhat soothe the loved ones of your dear men. I have no doubt that you paint each lost soldier in his best light, and you leave their families proud of them. It is selfish, I know, but here we pray every day that such a letter never comes from your superior officer. It is painful to be forced to hope always that such letters come for another. May God grant us victory soon!

Fear not for us, though. All is well at your beloved home, though it is empty after only a day with Emma and Henry gone. We miss Lettie, too, of course, but your daughter’s youthful exuberance is most notably absent. George is well, though his stomach has been troubling him some. I suspect it is the richness of the foods served here over the holidays and when the family is all in residence. When we return to simpler country fare, he is sure to improve.

I nearly forgot! We have three new foals in the stables! All are lovely, but I have my eye on one. George and I are in agreement that his form and gait are already superior. The little ones of all sorts are the very finest things of spring! There are lambs, and calves, and wild bunnies, though George despises them their damage to the gardens and crops. Of course, the newest additions to the crofters’ families come in the dark of winter, as well as the spring, but we seldom see them until the weather thaws and George and I go a-visiting again. Four families have lost children since Christmas. One family lost two, and Jacob Dray lost his dear wife in childbirth. The poor man has five other children and his farm to look after. In the bitterest cold, we attended the funerals. It is so hard when the coffins are so tiny. Forgive me. I do not mean to wax melancholy. You have enough of death, I know. I only mean to say that we are all grateful for the spring. May God bring you home to Danford soon.

Respectfully,

Miranda Carrington

Dear Lady Danford,

There is no need to apologize. It is easy to forget that war is not the only place where lives are lost, and that others share the burden of responsibility. I know the people of Danford are deeply grateful for the care you and George feel for them. It is a great comfort to them to have the lord and lady at the graveside when they bury their own. I smiled, though, when you wrote of the babes. Some men’s wives accompany us on our marches. As at home, winter is most cruel, but early summer is a fine time in Spain, and children born now are blessed and a blessing. I look at them and think of the children in England, and I remind myself that this is what we fight for, our trade and our people.

This time, I shall not write of death. I refuse. With the warmer weather, we advance. Our energy and resolve are renewed, and my men seem to feel a revived sense of purpose. I feel some optimism, at last. It seems I may be sent back to England to accompany new troops again. I confess to you, though no other, I would much prefer to bring them home. War is no place for a brash, young man, yet it is these boys we need most. I can hardly stand to look into their callow faces. They know not where I lead them. In any event, my travel is uncertain, and I cannot say even when I hope to be home, but I shall send word as soon as I arrive so you and George might join the rest of us in London.

I trust our George has improved since last you wrote. I do remember the lavishness of the meals at Danford when the family is all at home. I must confess, the thought of such feasts whets my appetite. Alas, I fear the victuals here fall far short of my fond memories of home. I leave my dear brother to your tender care. You will do what is best for him, I know.

Your Servant,

Andrew Carrington

Dear Major Carrington,

Every day we hope to hear word that you wait for us in London. George would so like to see you again. He is not at all himself, I fear. We have had the doctor here several times. Our diet has become carefully regimented, perhaps as sparse as your own, but it seems to have alleviated some of George’s discomfort. I cannot bring myself to eat lavishly in his presence, so Reggie and I dine upon the foods approved for George. Reggie has remained here at Danford and is an indispensable help to me in keeping your brother cheered.

As you say, though, to return home is a mixed blessing for you. You but do your duty, Major, as do the young men you lead. This war is not of your making. I pray for you all every night. I fear I have no adequate words of comfort to offer you. Only know that you are much missed among your family.

If it brings you any comfort, I have word from Lettie and Emma, and Emma yet has the very same governess she brought with her last winter. Lettie promises most solemnly that she has kept our Henry upon a very strict budget. Doubtless they have both written you of all the doings of the Season and have exciting parties and amusements to report. As for Danford, the air smells of fresh-cut hay, and the orchards are filled with ripening fruit. Soon the kitchen will be redolent of sweet preserves. It is our most fervent hope that you will be here to enjoy them with us.