“Do excuse me, everyone,” she said sweetly, and swept inside. Arthur followed grimly.
It was a relief to step into the cool darkness of the library, with the chatter and clinking teacups retreating into a muffled sound in the background.
Beatrice took her time composing herself, shaking out her skirts again, pinching her cheeks, tweaking her hair. Arthur knew his mother well enough to guess that she was forestalling the inevitable. He waited impatiently until her fidgeting ceased.
“Why is Miranda Sinclair here, Mother?” he asked at last.
Beatrice pursed her lips. “I don’t know, dearest. You saw the invitations. I did not send her one. She simply turned up.”
“Perhaps so. You forget, Mother, I know Miranda and you well. She has plenty of faults, but she knows the rules of Society well, and she doesnotlike to leave herself open to censure. She would never have arrived here, uninvited, unless she was entirely sure of a welcome. There is something you’re not telling me.”
Beatrice poked at the rug with the toe of her slipper, for all the world like a naughty child caught in a lie.
“Well, if you insist on knowing my personal business,” she said hotly, “I have exchanged a few letters with Miranda over the past few months.”
Arthur could have sworn that his stomach, weighed down what felt like a stone, went plummeting into the depths of his gut and tangled itself there.
“You have been writing to Miranda,” he echoed, bewildered. “Why would you do that, Mother? She broke off her engagement to me, because of… because of…” he trailed off, gesturing wildly at his scarred face. “She couldn’t bear to look at me! I suppose you think that was an understandable thing for her to feel.”
Beatrice flew towards him, cupping his face in her palms. “No, no, my darling boy, of course not! But… but Miranda never said that it was your face. She said you had changed, and warhaschanged you, my darling. She was weak and silly and shallow, but perhaps nowsheis the one who changed. I only wish you could see the letters she wrote. She never said straight out that she wanted you back, but she saidsomany times that she regretted breaking off the engagement. She said that you were the best of men, the finest of them. She has been nothing but complimentary of you, dearest.”
“Of course she has. She’s writing to my mother, after all,” he retorted bitterly, moving back. Beatrice’s hands dropped down to her sides, and she began wringing them together.
“Are you angry, Arthur?”
He sighed. “You can write to who you like, Mother. I wish you hadn’t written to my once-betrothed, but I don’t have the authority to choose who you keep as friends. I don’t want to see Miranda here. I wish she hadn’t come. Why did you encourage it?”
Beatrice hesitated, shifting from foot to foot. She looked nothing short of guilty, he thought. He waited a while longer, knowing full well that there was more to come.
“You recall Miranda got engaged to that gentleman, after you?” she burst out. “That Captain-something or other.”
“Vaguely,” he muttered. The engagement had come only two months after Miranda had ended things with him, and he had still felt raw and bloody inside. It seemed unbelievable that she was engaged already, and it confirmed his suspicions that somebody else had taken his place while he went to war. He was glad that he found the engagement announcement on his own, printed in theGazette, instead of having somebody tell him and therefore be obliged to manage his own reactions.
“Well, it ended,” Beatrice said, with just a hint of triumph. “I asked her about it in our letters, naturally, and she respondedsobeautifully. She said that he reminded her so much of you, but that he was a false man, a mere shadow next to you. It was remarkably poetic.”
“I’m sure it was,” he shot back bitterly. “You must know she curated her letters carefully, Mother. Miranda does nothing without thinking it over again and again. She’s written letters to you in order to win you to her side, and clearly it has worked. She’s played you for a fool.”
Beatrice flinched. “I wish you would not be so unkind and distrustful of everyone, Arthur. I believe that Miranda has changed. I think, if you were to give her a chance, she would do anything to win back your affections.”
Nowthatwas baffling. Arthur wasn’t sure whether he wanted to storm away or burst out laughing.
“If you’re saying that she lost her fiancé and sees that I am now an earl and can make her Lady Lanwood, then yes, I agree fully.”
“Oh, tosh. Not everybody has such mercenary ambitions.”
“Certainly, not everybody does have such mercenary ambitions, butMirandaabsolutely does.”
Beatrice folded her arms tightly. “You loved Miranda, once. Deeply, as I recall.”
Arthur clenched his jaw. “Yes, I did. I don’t deny it. Everybody knows it, Miranda included. I would have died for her, and looked forward every day to making her my wife and creating our own family. Miranda, however, broke things off when she discovered she could no longer bear to look at me. Now that my fortunes are up, she finds that she can manage looking at my scarred face, especially now that I have an earldom behind me.”
“She haschanged, Arthur. I wish you would believe me.”
He raked a hand through his hair. “I wish I could believe you, too.”
Beatrice shuffled forward, laying a hand on his arm.
“You must marry, Arthur. Not just for the sake of our family line, but for your own sake. I believe that a loving wife would make you happy, and I for one would love a daughter-in-law. It would prevent people from suspecting that you intend to marry poor Lucy, too.”
