As the evening progressed, Aunt Lawrence evidently grew tired of cards and songs and organized for an impromptu poetry reading in which everyone was to either write their own little piece to share, or recite a great piece universally known. Miranda, being well practiced in writing poems and ballads, thoroughly enjoyed the allotted quarter-hour of furiously pouring forth her thoughts in eccentric and passionate verbiage.
Aunt called time and they all settled near the hearth to read, or recite.
Miss Cotton and Mrs Charity Bertram collaborated in a poetic debate – Miss Cotton praising serene winter, and Cousin Charity advocating for lively spring.
Aunt Lawrence then read her pretty piece that flattered flowers in bloom.
Mrs Cotton's little composition was a quite magical telling of a pianist bewitching her audience with soulful grace, claiming it was dedicated to her daughter. Miss Cotton thanked her mother shyly as the others commented on how lovely Mrs Cotton wrote. Miranda then took her turn, reading:
How despicable a thing is lingering youth;
Though endearing and tolerable in it's rightful age, in truth,
Naivete exposes inexperienced minds, and ignorance, that justifiable sin,
Bares childish sentiment;
And these, conspiring with stubborn denial,
Build fear upon regret.
Take care, for ravenous wolves with honeyed voices tempt.
Beware thine own reluctance to give in to wisdom and sense.
She received a complimentary applause, much to the satisfaction of her ego. Matthew Westbrook's gaze lingered on her with indiscernible emotion; and, as her eyes met his, he gave her a small, brief smile before looking away. Miranda noticed then that he held a small paper in his hand and deduced that he would not, to her amazement, be reciting some well-known verse, but reading a composition of his own!
That Matthew Westbrook might be the type to write poetry was something she had never considered; in fact, poetry was a pastime she would never have expected him to ever entertain, even if she had considered it!
She was astounded, so overwhelmed with curiosity that she was hardly able to focus on anyone else until her anticipation was contented.
Her poem was followed by a recitation of William Woodsworth's Perfect Woman by Mr Mastin; he smiled subtly at her as the others commended him on his execution and memory; she tried to return his smile sincerely, knowing he meant the piece for her, but it had never been one of her favorites – too little character in Woodsworth's idea of a perfect woman, too easily applied to any.
Her father recited a piece about daughters and she, as she was seated next him, leaned in to place a kiss on his cheek - he chuckled, well-pleased, and announced it was Westbrook's turn. Matthew Westbrook obliged with an operose clearing of the throat..
Oh sun;
Ah no, Oh storm,
For in clear skies does no such passion dwell.
Oh wind,
Oh waves,
How fierce your tempest swells
I fought the winds, oh foolish man, to capture or to tame,
Ah mem'ry,
Oh fleeting joy;
She rent my heart and tore my very soul,
what infant folly, to think sweet tempest be so readily gained.
Miranda stared, her rapture and wonder increasing with every line, watching his lips move as he read and every word causing her heart to swell until, the verse then over, it ached. The ladies gushed and men ribbed good-naturedly, while Miranda could only stare.
She had judged him insensitive, unromantic; now behold how very wrong and how very insensitive she herself had been!
Following Matthew's reading, Miranda could not force herself to listen with enough attention to even recall a word of those her Uncle and cousin Edwin recited.
Once the reading was over, and the general conversation following such an activity was spent, she took herself to the great library to find a novel that would suffice in distracting her from her mind's machinations. This was the library closest to the parlor the others occupied and she could hear their faint conversation as she ascended the iron spiral staircase up to the second tier of bookshelves. She was scanning through the third volume in her search for satisfactory reading material, when steps were heard on the iron stairs she had just taken.
Miranda did not feel unsafe seeing Mr Mastin approach, offering her a friendly smile, but her heart thumped uncomfortably and mind pricked with unease nonetheless. "Have you found something to your liking?" asked he, innocent of her discomfort.
Miranda comforted herself that Mr Mastin was no Mr Miles and she need not be afraid. Her unease fading, she returned his smile with her own genuine one. "I have, sir, I have decided on Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream." She held it out for his observation.
"I have had occasion to read it. It is good fun that one."
"I have also read it before, but I should like to read it again. It manages to be both playful and solemn, both passionate and humorous; a difficult thing to achieve."
"No doubt." He drew nearer, leaning his head next to hers as he flipped it open to read "So we grew together, like to a double cherry, seeming parted, but yet an union in partition, two lovely berries molded on one stem."
She glanced up at him with a polite smile; a smile that faltered a little at seeing his eyes so near her own. He was very close. "It.." she swallowed. "It is a lovely passage..."
His eyes flicked to her mouth and she was reminded of the kiss in the garden. Her breath caught uncomfortably; was it about to happen again??
"May I kiss you Miss Riley." He asked softly.
Miranda wondered why she felt the urge to run. She had kissed him before and very much enjoyed it. She tried to muster up the same feelings now as she'd felt then; the ease and cozy comfort she had felt in his arms, the joy and contentment that had bubbled and shivered up within her, even his intoxicating, yet happily familiar, scent. But no, to her dismay, it was Matthew Westbrook's face that shimmered in her subconscious at the memory. Alas, Matthew would never love her more than a sister, she need set her sights on a more realistic goal. Mr Mastin deserved more of a chance than she'd given him these past two weeks, and she had kissed him already after-all, regardless of whether she still felt the same now as she did then.
She opened her mouth to give her consent but it would not come. The silence stretched on. He straightened a little. "I am sorry, Miss Riley, it was too forward of me."
"No I..I am sorry. I must be confusing you exceedingly after...after having allowed it in London."
His brows scrunched together. "Allowed what in London."
"Why.." Now Miranda's brows scrunched together. "Why in the hedge maze, when you came after me and you..and we.."
He was shaking his head a little, an expression of pure mystification on his face. "I do not follow. I never found you; I saw you leave, but I never saw you in the hedge maze, I returned to the terrace."
Miranda Riley's complexion faded to a ghostly pallor. "You did not kiss me that night...?"
He straightened fully, understanding in his eyes. "You mean to say, you kissed someone in the hedge maze in London and know not who it was?"
Miranda felt ill, faint. If it wasn't Mr Mastin, then who had she bloody well kissed!? Some arbitrary john off the street?! Her first kiss stolen by goodness knows who and she alone was to blame! How could she have been so foolish as to allow it, to put herself in the position for such a thing to happen! If anyone were to know she would be branded as licentious, a tenacious flirt, and oh how the hungry gossips would feast!
"I shan't tell anyone Miss Riley, but I think it would be best if we rejoined the others downstairs."
"Yes." She agreed shakily, thankfully. She knew by a glance that Mr Mastin thought less of her now, he would let the courtship die.
She did not feel a loss.
YOU ARE READING
Twins of Tenby Hall
Historical Fiction"The Riley twins were born in the spring of 1797 during a ferocious storm that battered the Salisbury Plain for three days together. Isabel entered the world with a flash of lightning, her shrieking drowned out by a grand clap of thunder. Thirteen...
