Not knowing where to go, her emotions got the better of her, and she exploded in the middle of the foyer for all to hear.
"You useless wretch! You liar! You misbegotten, chuckle-headed dolt!"
Thereupon followed a string of Cornish expletives that would have made any sailor blush.
"Mira. Mirabel. Listen to me. It's not as it appears."
Mira stared in disbelief. He dared to counter with a hackneyed argument? That really was the last straw.
"Not as it appears? That's all you have to say? All these years I have searched for you! I spent every penny I had trying to find you, I starved myself half to death to save up enough to hire a detective! Do you have any idea what it means for a single woman to be alone in London without means or money? I ended up in the workhouse, Kit, the bloody workhouse! Had it not been for Lady Cullpepper, who was willing to take me on as a housemaid, I would have ended up walking the streets. And you know what? Even then, I would have kept looking for you! These hands," she waved them in his face, "have scrubbed and worked and cleaned and toiled for the sole purpose of finding you. I was certain that something terrible had happened to you, that you had been taken against your will, when all the time you were here, sitting in this golden palace, on your golden throne, surrounded by all your glorious riches, playing the lofty marquess. And it is not as it appears? I will tell you what it is: it is beyond words, that's what it is. It is beyond anything I could ever have imagined."
Looking around wildly for something to get her hands on, she grabbed the nearest vase and hurled it to the floor. It exploded on the floor with a satisfying crash.
"My God, Mira." His face had gone grey. "The workhouse? I had no idea."
"No, you didn't, did you?" A bitter line formed around her mouth. "You're a despicable lout. You never even bothered to write or send a line."
Crash. The second vase shattered on the marble floor. He attempted to take her arm, but she shook him off. She looked around wildly for another vase.
He picked up a celadon vase from a side table and handed it to her. "You are so right. Everything you said. I am a despicable lout. A cowardly liar. There are no excuses. I should have tried harder. I should never have believed the old devil when he said you were dead. I should have searched for you. I should have told you about all this right away; I should have approached you at the opera. Instead, I hid, and then I could not muster the courage to speak to you under any identity other than the blacksmith you have always known me as."
Mira swung the vase at him, then grabbed hold of it just before she smashed it to the ground. She narrowed her eyes. "You arranged for me to come here. You planned and schemed the whole thing like it was a game."
"Not a game. Aldingbourne insisted we had to verify your identity first. I had no doubts, but after all this time we had to make sure you were indeed Mirabel Taylor."
Mira gave him a bitter, hard stare. Then all the fight went out of her. Still clutching the vase, she went to the main entrance and out into the driveway.
"Where are you going?"
"Home." She marched down the stairs to the driveway, without coat or shawl, and in her satin slippers, which were immediately soaked as she stepped into a puddle.
He followed her.
"I'm going home to Fowey. I am done here," she told him, wiping angry tears from her cheeks. "I'm done with everything. All the empty promises and hopes and lies and searching and waiting, always waiting." She stumbled, then fell and sat down in the middle of the drive, clutching the vase as if her life depended on it. She burst into big, ugly sobs that racked her body.
He dropped to the ground beside her and wrapped his arms around her.
"Forgive me, Mira. Forgive me. I thought you were dead. All these years. They told me you were dead. I am sorry. I am so, so sorry."
He rocked her back and forth as they cried together, holding each other.
"Shocking. Utterly, completely shocking."The ladies were glued to the window of the drawing room, intently observing the drama unfolding outside.
"It is beyond words. Such a vulgar display of emotion! Has the world ever seen such a thing?" Lady Randolph could not move beyond her shock, but had her nose pressed to the window so as not to miss a single act of the drama. "What is he doing now?"
"He's sitting next to her and hugging her." Rose blinked hard. "They're both sitting in a puddle. He is weeping. They are both weeping."
"I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. Atherton, weeping. How can that be?" Lady Randolph pulled out a handkerchief and blew her nose awkwardly. "There. What did I say? That coldness of his was only a façade."
"Atherton has finally, finally found his long-lost love," Evie proclaimed, then wept loudly along without a handkerchief. Rose handed her a serviette and she blew her nose noisily. "I would be so pleased, except they both seem rather upset about it. Shouldn't they be happier?" She looked around, troubled. "It's not exactly the happy ending I envisioned. What shall we do now?"
The only person who remained unfazed was Princess Florentina. She took a pair of scissors and cut the thread. "Happy endings need time. Now the healing can finally begin."
ChapterThirteen
The problemwith country house parties was that, regardless of the tumultuous dramas unfolding within the grand residence, etiquette had to be maintained at all costs. Guests were expected, particularly neighbouring acquaintances from the surrounding area, to arrive in ignorance about the emotional turmoil that had transpired mere minutes before their arrival.
The show of grandeur and festive merriment had to go on, for the sumptuous Christmas supper at Highcourt Abbey was a tradition steeped in both opulence and discretion, where the outside world remained blissfully unaware of the storms that brewed underneath the manor's elegant façade.
