Scandals child, p.23
Scandal's Child, page 23
“I can ride.”
“Good. If we leave immediately and ride instead of taking a vehicle, we can be there in six or seven hours. I don’t want to wait another minute.” Jeremy stopped and looked at his brother, his face grim. “Mother’s behavior has been unpredictable. She would not harm Miranda, would she? Or Phoebe?”
“No. No. At least, I don’t think so. But we need to go. Now.”
“I’ll get my things and meet you in the mews in thirty minutes.”
Jeremy strode ahead and bounded up the stairs to his suite. With his valet’s help, he filled a small bag and changed into his riding clothes. He hoped John was exaggerating the countess’s dislike of Miranda. Mother could be very unpleasant, and he didn’t want Miranda to experience her wrath.
He’d given thought lately to the changes in his mother’s personality. Something was off. He didn’t know what it was, but he was beginning to think it might be serious.
He only hoped she wouldn’t do something foolish.
They needed to hurry.
Chapter 24
Longley Manor, same day
Was this folly? Miranda again questioned her own judgment as the coach halted in front of the massive doors of Longley Manor. It had taken all morning to screw up her courage. By afternoon, the sun peeked through the clouds, and the roads had dried sufficiently for safe coach travel.
Phoebe had nodded off during the drive. Still tired from yesterday’s travels, she slept peacefully on the comfortable seat. Unwilling to disturb her, Miranda alighted from the coach and asked the coachman to wait. She would come back and collect her charge once she informed the countess that not only did Jeremy have a ward, but that she, Miranda Comstock, was the child’s companion.
Whore. The word hung in the air unspoken, but it was never far from her thoughts. The word had hurt at the time, but looking back, she could understand the countess’s use of it. Five years ago, when the dowager met her in the summerhouse, she had been behaving improperly with Jeremy. But it had not been out of lust. She’d loved him with all her heart.
And I love him still.
The realization left her breathless. She’d been so foolish—denying her love, denying her need, denying the reality of her position. Jeremy could never marry her. If she took up with him again, it would be as a mistress, not as a wife. Could she do that? Share him with another woman? Set aside her scruples to be with the man she loved? Perhaps lose Phoebe?
Unanswered questions hammered at her until the door jerked open, and a beefy retainer, bewigged and liveried, ushered her into a drawing room.
“I am here to see the countess. Would you be so good as to tell her that her son, the earl, has sent me here with his ward?”
“Yes, madam. Your name?”
Miranda hesitated. If she gave her rightful name, she might be thrown out once Phoebe was established. But there was no getting around it.
“Mrs. Comstock. I am the child’s governess.”
He closed the door behind her and took her to a drawing room on the first floor. Miranda had never been in this room and strolled around its perimeter. It was quite grand, done in gold and red, with silk draperies and an Egyptian-style sofa she’d heard was all the rage. Large paintings with nymphs and angels in gilded frames decorated two walls. A third held the portrait of the late earl, seated in a high-backed chair with two King Charles Spaniels at his feet. A Chinese vase containing dead flowers sat on a table in the corner.
“You!”
The door had opened silently. Miranda turned slowly, knowing who it was by the tone and timbre of the voice. Straightening her shoulders, she stared into the haughty face she had dreaded seeing for years.
The countess looked thinner, her face pinched and drawn, and her nose sharply defined on porcelain skin. Her lips were curled into a snarl, and her dark eyes narrowed to slits. She was in a nightgown and wrapper, not appropriate attire for receiving a guest. Miranda wondered if she’d been abed. Her hair, brown with gray streaks, was awry—as though she hadn’t used a comb in a week.
“How dare you enter this house with some fabricated story about being a governess to Jeremy’s ward? Jeremy has no ward. It’s an excuse to climb into his bed once again, isn’t it?”
“May I sit down?” Miranda asked, taking every ounce of control she possessed to keep her voice low and modulated. She forced a pleasant expression while her heart thudded, setting a cadence for her feet that told them to run, run, as fast as they could—straight out the door.
“No, you may not.” Lifting her bony finger, the countess pointed to the door. “Go. And never set foot in this house again.”
“I cannot leave until I state my business.”
The countess took two steps forward and stumbled, grabbing at the back of the Egyptian couch. Her face was mottled, and her breathing came in gasps. Miranda thought she might be having some type of attack, but she didn’t move forward to help, afraid any gesture on her part would set the countess off even more.
“How dare you defy me? This is my house. I make the decisions here. And I want you gone.”
Miranda recalled Will’s advice on how to deal with people who displayed irrational thoughts or speech. Pretend everything is normal. Speak in a low, calm voice. Relax your shoulders. Don’t smile, but appear confident and at ease. Take charge.
“May I send for your maid? I shall depart once I know you are all right. I promise.”
The countess glared at her but seemed to be calmer. She came around and perched on the edge of the sofa, her hand idly stroking the velvet fabric. “You may be seated.”
“Thank you.” Taking the chair opposite, Miranda sat but remained alert. Her eyes never left the ravaged face. She had never seen the countess without powder and rouge. Even when she visited as a child, the woman always seemed to be the epitome of a well-groomed society lady. Sharp-tongued, unwelcoming, even unhappy, but still the picture of a fashionable matron.
“Please forgive my appearance, my dear. I . . . I haven’t been well.” She smiled at Miranda, her glassy eyes staring off into space.
Astonished at her complete change in demeanor, Miranda held her hands rigidly in her lap, her nails biting into her palms, waiting to see what might come next.
If only she was not between me and the door.
The countess pulled out a handkerchief from the pocket of her nightdress and dabbed at her eyes. “Nobody cares about me anymore. My sons defy me. I’m left without funds. I cannot even go into town for the season. Jeremy didn’t want help in finding a countess. My own son. I feared he wouldn’t receive me.”
That was untrue. Miranda had often heard Jeremy and John wondering when she would finally arrive.
A sob? Yes, those were tears forming in the Countess’s eyes. Hardly daring to breathe, Miranda sat as still as a woman sitting for a portrait. It was so unlike the Countess of Longley to divulge her private torments, real or imagined, especially to Miranda. She could not think of anything in her experience that prepared her for this.
As if brought back from some faraway place in her mind, the countess focused on Miranda’s face. “You say Jeremy has a ward? I cannot even guess who it might be. He did not have one when he arrived from the Indies. Is it a boy or a girl?”
“A girl, my lady. She is nine years old.”
“A girl. Fancy that. There were no girls in this household. I only had boys. An heir and a spare.” She laughed, a high twitter that sounded unnatural.
“Do you have any children Mrs. . . .?”
“Comstock.”
Did she truly not know her now? She’d known her ten minutes ago. “No, I do not. I don’t want to tire you, my lady. I must be going now.”
Thank God, she’d left Phoebe in the carriage.
She would return to the cottage and remain with Mrs. Emory until she could develop a plan. Clearly staying at Longley was out of the question.
She stood abruptly. The countess rose as well, stepping closer, peering into her face as though seeing her for the first time.
“I know who you are. You are the wife of the doctor, the officious surgeon who almost saved the earl’s life with his poultices and concoctions and fresh air. I had to move him to London, so he could die in peace.”
Miranda bit back her response, shaken to her core. The next moment, talons curled over her wrists. “And I also recall you were Jeremy’s whore. Hah! I thought you were. But then . . . but then . . . I wasn’t sure.”
The countess loosened her hold as she turned her face away to stare at the portrait of the late earl. Miranda tried to squirm out of her grasp, truly afraid now. But the talons clamped on her arms again. How could this frail woman have such strength?
The countess narrowed her eyes once again, and moved closer. Her breath was hot and foul on Miranda’s face. “You were his whore, too, weren’t you? Did he tire of you and pass you on to Jeremy?” She jerked her head toward the portrait. “He had so many. And they were all beautiful, just like you. But they’re all gone now, aren’t they? Caroline and Elizabeth and Mary Anne. Gone. And now you will disappear, too.”
“I barely knew the late earl. I only knew him as Jeremy and John’s father.” Denying the accusation would do no good. But she couldn’t think. If Will had taught her about dealing with such situations, the knowledge had flown from her mind.
“Liar. Whore. The lot of you.”
Terror choked her, but she must remember Phoebe, asleep in the coach. Using every ounce of strength in her body, she wrenched her arms from the countess’s grasp and pushed her back onto the couch. Clutching her reticule, she ran for the door. It wouldn’t open. She struggled with the knob and tugged with both hands as hard as she could. It flew open with a thud. Phoebe stood in front of her, her eyes wide, as if seeing something behind her.
“Phoebe. I thought you were in the carriage.”
“I woke up, and the coachman brought me in.”
“Where is he now?”
“I sent him back. What’s happening? I heard loud voices.”
Now was not the time for explanations. Towing the child alongside her, she ran for the stairs leading down to the front door. Where was the butler? Where were the servants? The hall was deserted.
“I know her, Miranda. I know that voice.”
“Nonsense, just come with me quickly. There will be stairs. We’ll have to be careful.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, yes you can.”
Something stirred behind her. She turned to see the countess holding the Chinese vase. The dead flowers were strewn on the floor, and she cradled the vase like a prized possession.
“Where are you going?” the woman asked “We haven’t had tea. I’ll ring for a maid. Do you like cakes, child? My cook makes wonderful cakes.”
Phoebe froze, turning toward the voice. Her body was trembling.
“It’s all right. She won’t hurt you. We’re going now. Come with me.” Miranda reached out to turn Phoebe toward the landing.
But Phoebe resisted, as if mesmerized by the voice of the countess, mumbling about honey and clotted cream and tarts.
“Phoebe. Move your feet. I’ll guide you.”
“No-o-o,” she cried, the sound of a wounded animal.
Miranda bent down and faced the child, shaking her slightly. “Phoebe, please. What is wrong with you? We have to leave now.”
Miranda glanced over her shoulder. The countess stood behind her, raising the Chinese vase. The last thing she remembered was a sharp pain, the sound of glass breaking, a child screaming, and the floor coming up to meet her.
Chapter 25
Hard riding brought Jeremy and John into Longley by sunset. They went straight to the house, stopping only for comfort breaks and to briefly rest their horses.
Sun glinted off the panes of the upper windows and cast shards of golden light into the treetops, backlighting them like halos. The house looked peaceful, like a place waiting to welcome guests.
It did not look like a place where danger was afoot.
After securing the horses, they burst through the thick oak door at the front of the Manor.
“Where is everyone? Don’t you pay your staff?”
John’s question mirrored his own thoughts. Two or three footmen usually lurked in the hall. The quiet was unsettling. Not even a creak.
“I can’t imagine where the footmen are, unless Mama has given everyone a day off. Is it a festival day? What are we missing?” Jeremy took off his hat and gloves and climbed the stairs to the first floor.
John spotted the remnants of the broken vase first. Stooping to pick up the pieces, he peeked into the drawing room, then stepped back into the hall. “By the looks of the dead flowers on the floor, it seems this was the room which once housed the broken vase, although I don’t recall it. Do you, Jer?”
“I don’t remember the Egyptian couch, either. Mama must be redecorating again.” Jeremy sighed. He’d had to cut back on the allowance he gave his mother to run the household. It did not include enough for new furnishings. And yet it appeared that is exactly what she had been using it for. The room had been a soft gold when he was here a month ago. Where did all this red come from?
Moving down the corridor, Jeremy went into his study, finding dust everywhere. John was behind him.
“It doesn’t look like anyone lives here, does it?”
“Where the devil is Mother?” Jeremy strode out of the study back into the corridor.
“Let’s check her rooms. If we don’t find her there, we’ll go down to the kitchens and see if we can find something to eat.”
“Good God, John. I can’t believe you can eat at a time like this.”
“Like what? We don’t even know if Miranda and Phoebe are here. Maybe they went to the vicarage instead.”
“She could be at her old house,” Jeremy said. “The housekeeper is still there. Mama hasn’t found a doctor to her liking yet, insisting they are all incompetent.”
They climbed another staircase and entered the Countess of Longley’s suite, remembering too late this pink concoction was not their mother’s rooms.
“You think Miranda will like these rooms? She does not strike me as the pink type.”
“She can redecorate with any color she wishes, but not right away. Actually, she can have my suite, as long as I can occupy it with her. It’s big enough.”
John chuckled.
Jeremy wanted to be happy, to celebrate his decision to marry, but he had a very bad feeling he could not shake off. It made him alert to every nuance of sound. Only there weren’t any. Perhaps once they found Miranda and Phoebe he could relax. Until then . . . they had to keep looking until they found someone . . . anyone.
“There’s not one maid to be seen. And where is the butler? Has a plague taken over the village? Bloody hell.” Jeremy’s boot connected with a door. Finally, a sound. But it didn’t make him feel any better.
“I have this feeling in my gut it has something to do with the vase,” John said.
Crossing over into the next wing, Jeremy stopped suddenly and put his arm out to hold his brother back. “Did you hear that?”
“What?” John’s voice was a whisper.
They both stilled. A soft whimper reached Jeremy’s ears.
“Sounds like an animal. Listen.”
Was it a whimper or a sob?
“Start checking the rooms,” Jeremy said. “We have to find out what, or who, is making the sound. I’ll take the south side of the hall. You take the north.”
They opened and closed doors, finding most of the rooms shuttered and empty. Most were unused guest rooms. In his father’s prime, Longley had hosted many house parties, but Jeremy doubted any had taken place since his departure to Jamaica. His father had already been ailing.
“Somebody is crying. It sounds like it’s coming from the room at the end.”
They stood in front of the door. A moan came from within. Jeremy tried the knob, but it was locked.
“Don’t you have keys to every door somewhere?” John asked.
“Maybe, but you’ve been here more than I. Where would they be?”
John was quiet for a moment, his bottom lip caught in his teeth. “Downstairs in the pantry. I’ll get them.” He scurried off.
“Miranda?” Jeremy called. “Are you in there?” he pounded with his fists on the door.
“Papa!”
“Phoebe? Can you open the door, sweetheart? Follow my voice and feel your way.”
“I can’t.”
A thud was followed by another whimper. The following sound made his blood curdle in his veins. Laughter, high and insane, came from the room. It was his mother.
“She can’t help you, Jeremy dear. Papa, is it? Well, I didn’t think you were as bad as he was, but perhaps I was mistaken.”
“Open this door.” Jeremy pounded on the door. Sweat beaded his forehead. He wiped his sore knuckles on his pants and pounded again. “Mother, do you hear me? Open this door!”
John raced toward him, keys jingling in his hand.
“The trick will be to find the key on this mass of metal,” he said, fitting one in the lock. It didn’t move. He tried another. “What’s going on in there? Why are your knuckles bleeding?”
“Mama is in there with Phoebe, and she’s acting crazy. We must open this door. If we can’t find the right key, let’s break it down.”
