Scandal's Child Page 2

  What would she do now? Where would she go? What use was she to anyone?

  The freshly turned earth in the Comstock plot drew her gaze. Her husband, Will, had been placed next to his first wife, his beloved Mary. It was right he should be there. Mary had been the wife of his youth and passion. Theirs had been a love match until she died of a fever even Will, a skilled surgeon, couldn’t cure.

  Poor Will. He had carried that guilt to his grave.

  Afternoon light cast long shadows. The waning sunshine mixed with gathering clouds portended a rainy night. It was long past time for her to return, but still she sat, reluctant to leave the man who had been her best friend and who’d saved her reputation.

  Mrs. Emory, her housekeeper, would be waiting for her to return. Tonight, she would feed her a proper dinner, plump her pillows, and tuck her into bed. Tomorrow she would help Miranda pack her belongings and arrange for a driver and cart to take her to the vicarage. She prayed her estranged father would take her in until she found gainful employment.

  Her clasped fingers tightened as a wave of humiliation washed over her. If only there was another alternative. There wasn’t. A terse note arrived this morning from the countess—on the day of Will’s funeral—informing her she could no longer live in the doctor’s cottage, a structure owned by the Longley Estate.

  A painful memory curled into her brain like a wisp of acrid smoke above an open fire. “Whore.” The word shouted by the Countess of Longley in the summerhouse where Miranda had waited for Jeremy. Had it been five years ago? It’d been the night she’d given her the news Jeremy had tired of her and was off to the Indies to see to the family’s new estate in faraway Jamaica.

  Miranda shook her head and focused instead on the rows of gray tombstones, some taller than others, but all reflecting what lay beneath. Death . . . darkness . . . decay.

  The place was somber, brightened only by the bright daffodils rebelliously pushing through the dirt every spring and the sporadic bouquets placed on fresh graves. In the center stood the Longley mausoleum. Made of stone, it had a pitched roof and a heavy wooden door flanked by Grecian columns. She’d always thought it quite ostentatious in such a small graveyard.

  Father thought it regal.

  As if mere thinking could conjure up his person, Father appeared in front of her, his mouth turned down in a frown which seemed permanently etched into his face, his arms crossed.

  “Still here?”

  “I am waiting until the last mourners take their leave.”

  “As is proper.” He nodded. “Perhaps you’ve learned to be a lady after all.”

  She glared defiantly.

  Facing her father again had not been comfortable, but she’d had no choice. There was no one else to conduct the funeral. Longley had only one vicar.

  She and her father had never reconciled after her marriage. He had performed the service today, as was his duty. Will Comstock had been much loved, and her father had no quarrel with him. Indeed, he owed him a debt of gratitude. It was Will who had given his “sinful daughter” respectability at the time of her greatest shame, a time when she surely would have been ostracized had people known of her delicate condition.

  She’d never revealed the name of her unborn child’s father, not to Will, and not to her father. Will had never asked.

  Marriage had protected her reputation. And appearances were very important to her father. Surely, he wouldn’t refuse her temporary shelter. How would it look to his parishioners, who believed him a saint?

  She opened her mouth to ask, but her father’s expression stopped her.

  “The dear countess has informed me she is searching for another doctor to occupy the cottage. I trust you are planning to go into service in a respectable household. You have been well-educated and should have no trouble finding suitable employment.”

  “I have not yet found a position. I was hoping you . . .”

  “Do not ask me for any favors, Miranda.” His lips thinned and his eyes hardened. “I came to say goodbye. I do not wish you ill. I just wish you gone.” He turned and strode off, not looking back.

  Miranda bit back a cry. Her shoulders slumped, and her breath hitched. Father had treated her like a stranger throughout the preparations for the service. But this anger and finality was so unexpected and so wrong.

  A sound gurgled from her throat. Was it laughter or a sob? It wouldn’t do to be caught in a moment of levity today amid the somber tombstones of the village churchyard.

  Apparently, Papa had ceased caring for his own flesh and blood. A pox on him, then.

  Two women approached. They were not fashionably dressed, but they wore the comfortable garb of farmers’ wives. One clutched a crumpled handkerchief and the other a basket containing a single daisy with a broken stem. Miranda recognized them as wives of former patients.

  “It is so sorry I am, missus.” Jane Linden stopped in front of the bench and covered Miranda’s hand with her own, her rheumy eyes sad. “Yer husband was a good man. He saved my Sammy when he fell from the roof and broke his leg. And you, wiping his brow and talking to him the whole time the bone was set. Is there naught I can do fer you?”

  The kind offer threatened to break down the calm demeanor Miranda struggled all day to maintain. The villagers had so little, and they were always willing to share. She wanted to smile, but she turned away. Her trembling lip betrayed her.

  Sniffing, she turned back and squeezed the hand that held hers. “You are very kind to ask, Mrs. Linden. Please don’t worry. I shall be fine.” She hoped her voice conveyed conviction and her thumping heart wouldn’t reveal her sick, overwhelming dread at the thought of her future.

  “And I am also happy to help if you need anything.” The other woman took the broken daisy from her basket and held it out. “I found it a comfort to know a man as competent as Will Comstock resided in this community.”

  Miranda accepted the offering and finally found her smile. “Thank you.”

  Mrs. Linden touched Miranda’s cheek before the two women strolled toward the entrance to the churchyard. She was the last to leave.

  Miranda couldn’t take her eyes off them, although their images blurred until they disappeared from view. She’d lingered too long, and it was time to stop feeling sorry for herself. It was a long walk home, and she needed to get there before nightfall.

  A breeze cooled her cheeks and dried her tears as she rose from the bench, shook out her skirts, and gathered her cloak around her. She forced her feet to move in the direction of the gate. A man lingered there, half-hidden by his many-caped greatcoat and beaver hat, but she knew who he was. She had seen him earlier, sitting correctly in the front pew reserved for the earl’s family, their only representative at the funeral.

  She swallowed and forced her face into the semblance of a smile.

  “Mr. Montague, what are you doing here so late?”

  “I thought you might appreciate a ride home after such a long and difficult day.”

  “It’s kind of you to offer.”

  “And to you my name is John. No need to be formal.”

  He helped her into the curricle, climbed in, took the reins, and started off. The afternoon had turned cold, but Miranda appreciated the air on her face. It revived her after the stiffness and formality of the day. The man next to her was quiet, leaving her to her thoughts.

  “It was good of you to come to the service,” she murmured.

  “I think we can dispense with polite conversation, Miranda. You’ve known me and my brother since we were children skipping rocks and playing tag, and I expect you’re rather tired.”

  “Yes. I am.” She sighed and gazed at the scene before her. Tall yew trees lined the road, nearly hiding the oaks dotting the hillsides. When they passed the church with the clock embedded in the face of the steeple, a pa
ng of sadness struck her. Instead, she looked up at nature’s colorful display as the sun dipped behind clouds.

  The sky was slowly painted with hues of orange and red as the horses trotted sedately along the road to the doctor’s cottage. Miranda thought it a breathtaking finale to an interesting chapter in her life, and she was disappointed when the colors dulled to pink, even though each remaining cloud was outlined with a golden halo before fading out.

  “What will you do now?” he asked. The question brought her out of her reflection.

  “I’m not sure. I thought to ask my father if I could stay with him in the vicarage, but it is not going to be possible. Beyond that, I haven’t given it much thought. I hope to apply for a position as a companion or a nursemaid. Will had no money. Often, his patients could not pay. Even the cottage belongs to your family. Someone else will be coming to live there.”

  Panic clawed at her throat, but she swallowed it. She had a few coins, enough to stay at an inn for a few nights. No longer.

  “But not right away.”

  She looked at his face. “I was told I had to vacate tomorrow.”

  His jaw clenched, and his hands tightened on the reins. “You can stay a little longer. I will see to it.”

  Relief flooded her, the tension easing in her shoulders. “Thank you.”

  Perhaps I won’t be cast into the streets after all.

  They rode in silence, the only sound the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves on the lane. She could feel John’s gaze on her, even though she was once again studying her hands.

  “I might know of a post, if you’re interested,” he said. “In fact, it was one of the reasons I came today.”

  Miranda looked up quickly.

  “What kind of post?”

  “Companion to a child. A blind child. Her mother died in a fire.”

  “How awful.”

  “It was a terrible tragedy. I know her . . . guardian . . . rather well. He lives abroad, but will return soon. The child has been cared for by her maternal grandmother, but the grandmother must return to her own home before the guardian arrives. The child will remain.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “In London.”

  London.

  Miranda sighed and clutched the edge of her black cloak, twisting the fabric with her index finger. She’d always wanted to visit London. She had sometimes overheard conversations about London’s grand balls and glittering fetes from the ladies who had attended the house parties at Longley Manor, as well as Sunday services in the village.

  London was a different world, a world remote from the life of a village surgeon’s wife. It had always held a fascination for her. It pulled her now.

  “I have always wanted to visit London. When is the companion needed?” she asked.

  “As soon as possible. If you can manage it.”

  “I would like that. It would certainly be a challenge.” And it would solve my immediate problem.

  As they continued down the lane, John seemed poised to say more, but he kept his attention trained on the horses. Miranda studied his narrow nose and strong jaw. Hair, almost black, framed his face and curled over his forehead and starched collar. She was surprised to realize he was an attractive man.

  Why had she not been drawn to him instead of his brother, Jeremy? John had been a lively, impish little boy who loved pranks and could never stop laughing. But it was Jeremy who had taught her to swim and fish and ride astride. It hadn’t mattered he was the Longley heir, and she was the daughter of the vicar. They were children growing up together. He was her hero.

  Until he seduced me with a promise of marriage and then left me to face the consequences.

  But what had happened in the past was no longer relevant. She would not think about it. Stretching her fingers, she smoothed the wrinkles of her skirt and folded her hands in her lap once again.

  A squirrel ran across the road, and the horses bolted. John pulled the reins hard, trying to keep them under control. The curricle swayed, and Miranda grabbed the side rail, curling her fingers around the smooth wood, until the horses slowed.

  John slanted a laughing glance her way. He was the mischievous little boy again, the one with merry eyes she remembered from their childhood. “Did I scare you?”

  “A little. Will had a pony cart in case he needed to convey a patient back to our cottage. But it was nothing as grand as a curricle.”

  “This vehicle belongs to the estate. It is Jeremy’s now. Did you know, he’s finally on his way home?”

  John sounded happy. Why not? The brothers had always been close. When the earl died six months ago, she’d assumed Jeremy would be coming home eventually to take up his duties.

  One more reason to be gone from here.

  “Did you love him, Mandy?”

  The use of her childhood name jolted her for a second.

  “Who?”

  “Will Comstock. Who did you think I meant?” John observed her carefully, his head cocked as if her answer was important to him.

  “Of course, I loved him. Everybody did. He was a good man and a good husband. How could you even ask such a thing?”

  “He was quite a bit older than you.”

  “Age does not matter. We had a good marriage.”

  She winced at the defensive tone in her voice. It was the most passion she had expressed all day. She had loved Will, but they had not been lovers. A kind man, he had taken pity on her five years ago after he confirmed her condition.

  She remembered her relief when he had asked for her hand. Her father had readily agreed, suspecting Will had been her seducer. They were wed quietly in another village. When they returned, it was to everyone’s shock, especially when she began increasing. But had she loved him, as in carnal knowledge? No. She had made love with only one man, a man who had turned out to be a liar and seducer, a man who had sailed away to the Indies and sent his mother to tell her on the night she’d expected Jeremy to return from London.

  “For a time, I thought you and Jeremy would make a match,” John said. “Even Father thought so. Before Jeremy left, it seemed he had eyes for only you.”

  “Jeremy certainly didn’t give me that impression. May we change the subject? This is hardly an appropriate conversation for a woman who just buried her husband.” She gripped her skirt, her nails digging into her thighs.

  It amazed her that she still felt pain when she recalled the night of her abandonment. She had not received even one letter of explanation. And though Will had made her respectable, she still burned with the memory of how the countess had found her waiting patiently for Jeremy in their trysting place.

  “I apologize, Miranda. It was tactless of me to bring up the past today. I confess I have always wondered if there was something between you.”

  They drew up to her cottage with its white-washed walls, brown trim, and thatched roof. Mullioned windows were bright with candlelight, and the scent of roses wafted on the breeze. John came around to help her down.

  “Will you be here tomorrow?” he asked.

  “I will.”

  “Then I shall send a footman over in the morning with information about the position.”

  “I would like to work with a child. A girl, did you say?”

  “Yes. A girl, nine years old.”

  A little girl. Her baby had been a girl although she’d been stillborn. Miranda felt tears prick her eyes. Sometimes she awakened in the night, thinking her child was alive and in the next room waiting to be fed. Then she would remember and spend the rest of the night weeping until she fell into an exhausted sleep.

  She took John’s offered hand, the formal mask she had perfected over the years firmly in place.

  “Thank you for coming today. It was good to see you again. And I cannot beg
in to tell you how thrilled I am about the position. I promise not to let you down.” She hoped she didn’t sound too eager, but this was the best of news. She wanted to dance her way to the door, but she tamped down her excitement.

  Best to make sure it happens first.

  He raised her gloved hand to his lips and kissed the air above. She watched him as he climbed into the conveyance and waved before disappearing around the bend.

  Mrs. Emory opened the door, and Miranda nearly toppled over. She must have heard the curricle and been listening at the door.

  “Was that Mr. Montague?”

  “It was. He attended the service and kindly gave me a lift home.”

  “Well that’s news. I’ll bet the dragon doesn’t know her son was there.”

  Miranda untied her bonnet and removed her cloak. A fire burned in the grate, and the smell of lamb stew made her stomach growl. She spread her skirts on the sofa, leaned back, and closed her eyes. The dragon. Yes. An apt term. The Countess of Longley scorched everyone with her scathing remarks and her burning eyes. Not one person in the village crossed her. Ever.

  Except Jeremy. But that was long ago.

  And now John. Could he arrange for her to stay here longer? Did he really have a post for her? Since the earl’s passing, the countess had reigned supreme at the manor. Word was she had become moody and unpredictable. Only those who were desperate sought work at the manor now.

  Miranda loosened the knot of hair at the back of her head and let the tendrils tumble around her face and back. Jeremy had called her his golden angel when her hair was down. Jeremy. Why was she still thinking about him? It must have been her conversation with John.

  Shaking out her hair, she let pins tumble onto her shoulders and the sofa. Mrs. Emory was busy in the kitchen getting the tea tray, but as soon as she spotted a stray hairpin, she’d scold Miranda for being so careless. Dear Mrs. Emory. She was more like a mother than a servant. Her eyes clouded for a moment. How different her life would have been if her own mother hadn’t run off, leaving her to be raised by her stern father.