Chapter Thirteen
The dowager’s method of touring seemed to consist of walking briskly through room after room while reciting capsule histories of the room’s flaws. The Elizabethan Parlor, a quite charmingly sunny room, was too warm in the summer. The formal drawing room, in which hung a beautiful tapestry in scarlets and bright greens and golds, possibly done by one of Simon’s ancestors, had a persistent leak on days with heavy rain.
As the dowager led her quickly through the various and sundry parlors and drawing rooms, Miranda abandoned all attempts to commit the lay of Simon’s home to her memory. There were rooms that would not be found again by any method other than an excellent memory.
Off the White Duchess’s parlor — so named for a three-generations-removed silver-haired virago — was a tiny, exquisitely designed reading room with a comfortable chaise lounge, a large sunlit window, and several shelves of books meant expressly for feminine tastes.
Miranda would have lingered, but the dowager had no such intention. The room’s flaw seemed to be that it encouraged an unhealthy degree of solitude.
She found herself able to concentrate on the whirlwind of information with only half her mind. The other half she was unable to pry from the study where Simon was undoubtedly cross-examining Katherine. She believed she could trust the healer not to spill the true reason she had been hired. Simon would be furious if he found out. Worse yet, he might refuse the remedies.
Hopefully, Katherine had said nothing to Betsy. The child had not yet learned to be discreet, as they all had well to remember. She smiled, remembering how easily Simon had swung her into his arms. It was heartening to see that he held true affection for the child, despite the way he had spoken of “urchins” in the loft. He would make a good father, if he were given the chance.
Miranda hastened her steps, in danger of losing her companion. Curious, she followed the dowager into a gallery with a high ceiling that arched overhead. Imposing portraits of men in heavy and ornate gold frames lined the left wall, while somewhat less imposing portraits of women hung opposite.
Although they had been painted hundreds of years apart, by different artists, the eyes in the portraits were all of such a compelling nature that Miranda felt as if she were being observed by every one of Simon’s ancestors. Their expressions were all so uniformly solemn she had no doubt that she had been found distinctly lacking.
For a moment, the two of them stood without speaking, as if the dowager recognized that the overwhelming watchfulness of the room was unnerving and was allowing her a moment to recover. And then her acerbic words made Miranda doubt that she could possibly have had such a kind motivation. “Impressive lot, aren’t they? I wonder if they cowed the portrait painters as effectively as they do anyone who enters this room.”
Miranda stopped at a portrait that held a strong resemblance to Simon, but seemed somehow wrong. “Is this one of Simon?”
“No, that is Peter, his older brother.” Oddly, Miranda noticed, the dowager deliberately did not look at the portrait before she answered.
“I never knew that he had an older brother.” The man in the portrait was young, but not a child. “They are very alike.”
As if drawn against her will, the duchess slowly turned her head to look full at the portrait. She moved closer. Her hand hovered near, but without touching the bottom of the gilded frame. Miranda noticed that the slender fingers shook ever so slightly. “Yes. They were indeed alike.”
The older woman gave herself a slight shake, as if it took great effort for her to remove her attention from the portrait and turn her gaze to Miranda. “At least in looks. They never had the opportunity to meet each other, since Peter died not long after Simon was born.”
Miranda’s breath caught in her throat. Somehow the long ago death of the brother seemed to make Simon’s own impending death a reality. Her sympathy was entirely genuine when she said, “How awful for you.”
But the dowager seemed to have recovered from any passing weakness that came from strong emotions. She waved her hand in dismissal. “He was not my son. Sinclair’s first wife was his mother. He was older than I by several years.”
Miranda had no answer for such a cold statement. “Then I’m sure it was difficult for the late duke.”
The dowager gave a tiny, graceful shrug. “I’m sure he grieved — in his own fashion. But he had Simon as an heir to replace him.”
Miranda thought of Valentine and the girls. They were irreplaceable. Were she to lose one, it would be a permanent and irredeemable loss. As would Simon’s death, if she could not prevent it.
If she and Katherine could not cure Simon, she would soon be without him. The sense of loss took her breath away. How had she come to care for him so much in such a short time?
Certainly he was a brave and honorable man, his loss would be a grave one to society. But it was not a general sense of loss that she felt. Her feelings of loss came from the thought that she would not be able to receive one of his quick smiles, and from the realization that she might soon hear only in her memory the rich voice that set her nerves a-tingle.
She pressed a hand below her heart to ease the ache. Not being kissed by him ever again. Not touching him, smiling at him across the table. No, her feeling of loss was personal indeed, for a husband she had not really wanted and who was, for the most part, maddening in the extreme.
She looked at the portrait again. The man in it had the slim build of a young man still approaching his majority. And he had died before he’d had the chance to know love and have a family of his own. She would do her best to see that the same was not true for Simon.
Idly, trying to stifle the grief that lingered at the edges of her consciousness, she said, “If only Peter had lived long enough to marry and have a son, Simon would not have to scour the hillside for suitable heirs.”
The dowager’s reaction was remarkable. Her eyes closed and her voice hushed to a whisper. “Sometimes I imagine that he did. He was far away in France then, and we did not hear from him. He could have married and been happy for at least a short while before his death. Sometimes I pray it was so.”
There was a tremor of sadness that could not be dismissed. For the first time, Miranda realized that the dowager duchess of Kerstone was still a fairly young woman. No more than forty-five at most.
The thought that Simon might have an unknown niece or nephew set fire to her imagination. “Did he investigate the possibility?”
“No. I don’t suppose he ever thought of it.” With an almost invisible struggle, the dowager regained the cold demeanor that Miranda suspected now was only a facade to hide a lonely and sad woman. “Certainly I didn’t mention the possibility to him. It was merely a foolish fancy of mine.”
Unbearable sadness swept over Miranda. “I don’t suppose it is very likely. Even if he were to have been married, how often does a short marriage produce a child?”
She was not thinking of his brother, though, but of herself. In this gallery of Watterlys, generation after generation, the ache for Simon’s child was sharp.
She fancied, as she glanced from portrait to portrait, the eyes that judged her — women as well as men — seemed to have made up their minds as to her failure. And she was fearful that there was nothing she could do to avert that failure. She could not get close enough to Simon to do her wifely duty without causing him to become overwrought.
The dowager seemed to sense the conflict that percolated through her. “Even a long union is no guarantee of children. Simon was my only child in twenty-five years of marriage.”
Once again struck by the dowager’s youth, Miranda had no time to puzzle the meaning of her statement, for at that moment the sound of childish sobbing, along with the rapid patter of feet along parquet, echoed in the hallway. Both women turned to see Betsy running toward them, tears flowing freely down her cheeks.
“Betsy!” Miranda bent to catch the child and raise her into her arms. Betsy’s arms clung tight and warm around her neck as the sobs continued.
“What on earth is the matter, my sweet?” Miranda murmured soothingly.
Between sobs the distraught child managed eventually to gasp out, “His Grace is going to turn me and me mam out. He don’t like Mam at all.” Her wails took on a piercing quality as she finished.
Miranda forced herself to smile. “Nonsense. I have hired your mother, and you will both stay here.”
Betsy did not seem convinced, although her wails lessened in volume. Children were often fearful when adults argued, Miranda had found. The best reassurance would be for her to swiftly relegate such fears into the rubbish bin.
However, in order to convince the child, she needed to suppress her own annoyance with Simon. She forced herself to continue smiling as she hugged the child to her. “I’m afraid some of this might be my fault, sweet. You see, I had neglected to inform him that you and your mother would be joining our establishment, so His Grace was merely surprised.”
The child shook her head against the shoulder of Miranda’s gown, which was becoming increasingly damp. “He said he would not have her in his home.”
“Did he indeed?” The dowager’s question was tart. “I wonder why?”
Miranda ignored the pointed dig. “I promise, Betsy, you and your mother are staying here with me. I will explain everything to His Grace, and soon he will tell you so himself.”
Betsy lifted her head from Miranda’s shoulder. “For truth?”
“Of course.” Miranda wondered how difficult it would be to convince Simon. She could not understand his reaction. He had affection for Betsy, that had been obvious when he had caught the child in his arms in the study. Even if Katherine was not experienced, she was intelligent and capable of learning quickly. But she hid her chagrin from the obviously frightened child.
The dowager’s eyes were focused on Betsy’s tearstained cheeks and bright eyes. Her mouth was a thin line broken only when she asked, “Whose child is she?”
“My lady’s maid, Katherine’s.” Miranda explained shortly, still stung by the dowager’s assumption, in the study, that Betsy was Simon’s own child.
The dowager nodded. “So you are certain the child is not his, then.”
“I am quite certain.” Miranda wondered if the dowager was aware that she asked the most outrageous questions as if she were inquiring over the weather. She suspected the older woman actually cultivated the practice, so she dealt with her accusations plainly.
She stopped in the hallway, forcing the dowager to turn and face her instead of walking imperiously forward. “And I must tell you that I would not think less of Simon if he did choose to take a child of his into his home to raise — legitimate or not. That he might do so would only raise him in my esteem.”
“Well, I am glad to see that you have a sensible attitude about such things. So many young women don’t.” There was a wistful look in her eye for a moment and to Miranda’s amazement, the slim and elegant arm extended to allow the dowager to pat Betsy on the head. The child’s last lingering sobs stifled at once and she began to hiccup. “It must have been the blonde hair that made me think ... never mind. Come, I will show you both the line from which Simon has sprung.” She looked pointedly at Miranda. “Perhaps you will understand him better, then.”
With that disheartening statement, she turned and walked briskly toward the end of the hallway in which hung the oldest portraits. As they moved back toward the more recent portraits, Miranda barely heard her pithy descriptions of each of the ancestors, male and female, so busy was she looking for Simon’s portrait. It was puzzling to her, but apparently he had no portrait in the gallery. Perhaps it graced the mantel of another room? Somehow, though, that did not seem in keeping with what she knew of Simon.
The dowager’s brisk recitation of history ended so abruptly that Miranda, Betsy still in her arms, nearly bumped into her before she, too, managed to stop. The dowager stood looking up at the portrait of one of the sternest of the men, which hung on the wall next to the one of Peter. There was a streak of white at his temples that seemed to emphasize the sharp jut of both his nose and chin.
“Was that his father?”
A flicker of distaste crossed the dowager’s features. “My husband, God rot his soul.” When Betsy’s head once again came up from Miranda’s shoulder, the older woman seemed to realize what she had said. “Forgive me. Children should not hear such talk. This gallery has always put me on edge. I think it best if we depart.” She turned on her heel to leave and then paused to make one more comment, looking directly at the portrait of the old duke.
“Simon was a beautiful baby. I was happy to have him, despite the fact that his father was a wretched demon.” She broke off, her expression indefinably, unbearably sad as she looked up into the stem eyes of the first duke. “It is sometimes hard to imagine any of these illustrious gentlemen as innocent babes in their mother’s arms, is it not?”
*****
Miranda tried in vain to see Simon as a babe in arms as he paced the room, anger setting his chin at such a sharp angle that he resembled his ancestors’ portraits. A vein at his temple visibly throbbed as he repeated, for the third time, “The woman is no lady’s maid. I will not allow it.”
“I hired her. I think I have that right. After all, you will not have to suffer any mistakes she might make in dressing my hair or tightening my laces.” She truly could not fathom the reason for his upset. She had thought it was simple masculine dismay at not being consulted in the decision. But from his words, it was becoming increasingly clear that his objections were with Katherine herself.
He was adamant. “I could not bear it if she were to lay one finger on your hair, or even your clothing.”
“How can you be so harsh. I realize she is not your typical maid, but with proper training ... “ She felt slightly ridiculous, making a case for Katherine as a lady’s maid when it was all a subterfuge to keep Simon from finding out that she would be trying to cure him.
“I would prefer to keep you sheltered. Please don’t press me. Simply give the woman notice and send her home again.”
“I know she made her living in a rather unorthodox manner — ”
“Unorthodox?” He paused and glared at her. “Just exactly what do you know of how she made her living? Surely you did not discuss it with her?”
“Of course I did! She has much to teach me — ”
“What?” He found this preposterous conversation was giving him a headache. “I shall be the one to teach you about such things.”
“Well, I don’t see how. You won’t even consult a doctor about your health. I cannot understand why you are being unreasonable. I should be able to choose my lady’s maid for myself.”
“She is a wholly unacceptable person!”
Miranda rounded on him. “ I had no idea you were so intolerant or I would never have married you. Katherine may have had a hard life, but she is a good person — too good to be a lady’s maid. It is simply the best I could offer her.”
“Too good?” He could not believe his ears.
“She has been living with her father, doing her best to keep her daughter fed and clothed with her healing talents. But her village is poor and they had little to offer. I will have her, and you will not stop me.”
“A healer? What nonsense has she filled your head with, Miranda? The woman has been lying with men for money.”
Miranda blinked. For a moment she did not take in his meaning. And then she did. “How dare you say that about Katherine!”
He shook his head. “You sound as if she were your most trusted friend.”
It was true. She did consider Katherine a trusted friend. Miranda reflected that perhaps such was her nature. After all, she had bonded with Simon more quickly and fully than she had imagined possible in a lifetime of days together. “Perhaps that is because she has become one — because I took the time to get to know her.”
He stilled, the muscle that twitched when he was overwrought pulsed in an alarming fashion. “What do you mean, you took the time to get to know her? Have you spent time with this woman?”
She nodded, understanding his dismay now that she knew the misapprehension under which he labored. “And Betsy — in fact it was Betsy I went to see, but Katherine’s plight tore at my heart.”
“And so you offered her a position here?”
“Yes.”
“It will never work.”
“We will see.” She did not really care if Katherine was the worst lady’s maid ever known. She wanted her husband cured and for that she needed Katherine here to help.
“I want her out of my home. You do not know what you are about in this matter. You must trust my judgment.”
His harsh, unfeeling words echoed in her ears. He trusted her no more than her own father had. Worse, he had taken her for wife and did not treat her as a wife. “No. You must trust mine.”
He looked at her seriously, then sighed. “She must go.”
She felt herself inexplicably blinded by tears as she stood. “Very well. If you cannot be reasonable, then Katherine, Betsy, and I will be out of your home within the hour.”