Chapter 7

Anthony didn't like the sound of her parting promise. It seemed entirely too… intimate for his liking. "Who was that?"

She kept her focus ahead of her. "I thought we already established that it was Mr. Terrance Barbour."

"Indeed," he said evenly. "But what I want to know is his connection to you."

"I don't see that it matters, as he is to be married."

"Is to be married isn't married yet," he pointed out. "That could easily change."

She stopped walking and turned to him. "Don't say that you're actually jealous?" She snorted in disbelief. "It's been fifteen years, Anthony. I was a child when I saw you last. Do you think it impossible that I might have gone on with my life as you have yours? Did you imagine that I remained home, pining for you all that time?" She shook her head. "I hate to disappoint you, but Terrance has become a very important part of my life." She glanced away. "Although that will likely change now that he will soon be wed and starting a family."

Anthony tried to recover the proper amount of shame that he should be feeling for his behavior, but just as she was upset to learn he hadn't immediately returned to London after the war, he wasn't pleased to find out she had been a social butterfly about town. According to the letters of her youth that he'd pored over countless times, he was under the impression that there was no one else for her, that she would wait for him until her dying day, if that's what it took.

It was uncharitable of him to have actually expected her to do so, but at the same time, he wanted to be selfish and believe it, because other than a handful of liaisons during his darkest hours, he had reserved his heart solely for her.

However, he didn't need to upset her and send her scurrying away from him now, so he shoved aside his pride and swallowed down the regrets of the past and forced himself to be sincere in his apology. "I'm sorry, Miranda. It isn't fair for me to ask so much from you."

Some of the tension left her shoulders. "It's all right." She offered a chagrined smile as they continued walking. "I seem to get upset easily around you, although I can't say why. You just have a habit of saying the right thing to cause me to overreact, I suppose."

He shoved a hand through his hair. "You're not to blame for any of this. I am the one who took too long to come back for you."

They were silent for a time, and then she admitted, "I never stopping thinking of you." He glanced at her, but she kept her attention fixed forward. "When Jacob returned home, I expected you to walk through the door with him as you had countless times before. When you didn't, I knew something was terribly wrong. After he told me you'd been injured, and he found it exceptionally difficult to speak about his time on the battlefields, a part of me feared you were lost forever. But even then, I couldn't seem to accept it. Every time a carriage stopped in front of the house, or the butler walked into the parlor with a silver salver, I imagined it was you."

"I wanted to come back," he said quietly. "But I wasn't sure how to face you with… this." He gestured to his face, not even knowing if she was looking. "Once I had recovered my senses, I felt like a monster, certainly one who was unworthy of you."

He paused when she laid a gentle hand on his arm. Her enchanting, green eyes stared deeply into his soul. "You forget that it isn't your appearance I always adored about you. It was your kindness, your ability to make me laugh, but most importantly, your loyalty. No matter how irritated you got with Jacob, you were always a good friend to him." She smiled in fondness. "And you were rather good at helping to keep me from getting too upset with Elaine."

He snorted. "You were both quite precocious as children."

She winked. "We still are."

With another laugh that sounded a bit less rusty than before, he offered Miranda his arm and led her to his curricle.

Although the air was a bit chilly, and the threat of snow hung in the heavy, gray clouds in the distance, Miranda didn't complain all the way to Braithwaite. She had been curious to see where Anthony had been hiding all this time, because really, that was what he'd been doing. He'd called it healing, but it was a way to withdraw from society and retreat into his own suffering. Granted, she didn't deny that he'd had a difficult time after Trafalgar, but had it truly taken fifteen long years for him to finally gain the courage to return to the life he'd left behind?

To her?

So many unanswered questions flitted through her mind, but she didn't dare voice anything further aloud. She had this Christmas with him, and if this was her final farewell, she could at last return to London and grieve for him. She'd been denying herself the necessary part of her own healing process, but now she could shut the door on that part of her life and lock up her heart. Her parents' townhouse wasn't entailed to any sort of heir, so perhaps she might decide to strike out on her own. She had always yearned to travel to Italy, but she hadn't gone for fear that would be when Anthony finally appeared on her doorstep. But no longer. She wouldn't deny herself anything she wanted. While she might never have children, at least she would ensure that her life became her own. After seeing Terrance today, she wondered if she hadn't made a terrible mistake by turning down his proposal, but neither could she agree to marry him when she hadn't known where Anthony stood—or even where he was. She had hinged her entire life on him since before she was fifteen years old. She had vowed to wait for him for eternity, but she was finding that eternity was much longer than she'd anticipated. Life was quickly passing her by, and if she wasn't careful, she would miss all the special moments she might experience. She had waited years for her first kiss to come from Anthony. Maybe that was as far as it would ever go.

A gust of cold air struck Miranda, and she snuggled deeper into her woolen pelisse. She was quite sure her nose was already red, and she could tell her cheeks were chapped from the cold, even though she wore a bonnet to protect her from the elements. Somehow, they always found a way to whip around and encase her in their icy hold.

"Here, take this."

She glanced over at Anthony to see him holding out his greatcoat to her. She quickly shook her head. "I couldn't possibly—"

"Take it, Miranda. Trust me when I say I've suffered worse when it comes to being outside." He shrugged. "Besides, I've grown quite accustomed to the cold while I've been here in the north."

She hesitated only a moment more, and then she took the offering. Laying it over her lap like a blanket, she was instantly enveloped in his warmth. "Thank you."

He turned to her with a solemn expression. "I know you may not believe this, because I certainly haven't given you much cause to trust in what I say, but I would do anything for you."

Miranda wasn't sure what to say to that, so she just inclined her head and kept silent.

She sat on the side of him that showed his good eye, and if she didn't know better, she might not have realized he was injured. His jawline was strong, his gaze direct. Everything about his profile was quite admirable, and although a few more lines had made an appearance on his weathered face, he still looked exactly as she remembered. It was still hard to believe that he was sitting next to her again after all this time.

The years had seemed to pass endlessly, but now when she looked back, it had been a flash of memory and nothing more, nothing less. It was only her memory that told her everything that had transpired through the years, and a few words written in a journal, but otherwise, there was nothing to account for any part of her life.

It was quite disquieting, to say the least.

While most women her age had already left their mark by having children and filling their nursery, Miranda had a few paintings and some verse on a page. It might not be much, but perhaps her legacy would somehow live on through her books.

Miranda was brought of her woolgathering by the sight of a few cottages lining the path into the village. It was much smaller than Keswick but filled with various people going about their day and minding their own affairs. When Anthony's carriage passed, they might offer a wave or two, but otherwise, they continued about their chores. It was a far different scenario than in London where the sight of the two of them riding together would cause several fans—and tongues—to start wagging with the desire for an impending scandal.

As they moved slowly throughout the dwellings lined with stone, and the tall, landscaped mountains in the distance, she turned to Anthony and said, "It's quaint. I can understand how you found it so appealing."

"Indeed. It's as close to heaven on earth as I've found in England."

She took note of the wistfulness in his tone, and she realized that he would never leave. This was the place he intended to call home for the rest of his days. She wasn't sure whether she ought to be pleased or terrified by that. It would certainly mean that he wouldn't return to London, and that was where she called home.

Deciding to push that aside for later, Miranda concentrated on her surroundings. It would certainly be quite easy to paint a scene about this place.

When Anthony finally set the brake in front of a modest cottage that resembled those around it, she looked at him curiously. But even before he confirmed it, she knew that this was where he lived. "Welcome to Gravehill Manor," he jested lightly.

As he assisted her down, she realized that it was quite surprising to find the son of a viscount living in such unassuming surroundings. Another detail that would delight the gossips of London.

Anthony removed a lantern from a peg hanging by the door and lit it before he led the way inside. If anything, Miranda decided, it was just as chilly indoors as it was outside, but at least they had shelter.

"I'll get a fire going. Feel free to look around."

It was ironic, because Miranda thought he seemed a bit unsure of himself now that she was standing in the middle of his living area. She certainly wouldn't call it a parlor. Or any other room that was there. She could almost look around the entire cottage, just standing in one spot.

Anthony was kneeling in front of the grate, but he must have read her mind, because he said, "I know it's small, but it has been enough for me."

She nodded her understanding and then started to meander about. She took note of the cot where he slept, as well as the copper tub, washstand, and shaving utensils that sat on top of his dresser. It was so… intimate, that she continued on her way. However, as she was about to make a circle around the backside of the chimney which also opened into his bedchamber, she spied something sticking out from his desk drawer.

Intending to shove the paper back inside where it belonged, she opened the drawer. Immediately, something caused the hair to stand up on the back of her neck, a subtle warning that she was poking around where she shouldn't. However, curiosity compelled her to reach out and lift one of the papers out.

With trembling hands, she read the few, hastily scribbled lines.

I don't know where to begin with this letter. All I can say is that I'm truly sorry. I've been haunted for so long that I'm not sure I can differentiate between madness and reality anymore. I'm not sure how much longer I can take this pain, this misery that I hold inside of myself that has nothing to do with my outward injuries. If there was a way I could reverse time and never get on that ship, seeking honor and glory, I would. Instead, I fear it would have been best had I perished alongside so many good men with the same hopes and dreams…