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…
Chapter 8
“Inever finished it.”
Anthony had known that Miranda’s curiosity wouldn’t go unchecked for long. He remembered that much about her. That was why she’d been on the staircase the last time he’d seen her, hoping to catch a peek of the festivities during her parents’ Christmas party when she should have been in bed. As she jumped guiltily and spun around with a gasp, he knew the same held true now.
The question that remained was—which letter had she decided to read?
However, any shame that she might have been feeling faded with the paper in her grasp. “Does this mean what I think it does?” she demanded.
He regarded her steadily. Even though he only had one good eye left to him, he could see the horror on her face clearly enough. “What do you think?” he asked softly. “I told you I was in a dark place for a long time.”
“But this letter is datedbeforeyou went to war!” She tossed the unfinished letter on the desk. “I might have understood your sorrow, your reluctance to come home after the horror you witnessed, what you were subjected to, but not this. By your own hand, you weren’t planning to come back to me. You don’t get the right to choose if you want to live or not!” She was fighting a new wave of hot tears. “In the intervening years since you were gone, I buried both of my parents. Not only that, but I had to see the distraught faces of the women who received the news that their loved one wasn’t coming home from battle. Each day I lived with the fear that my brother would be one of those men. You weren’t the only one who suffered, but I wanted to mourn with you when you showed me those scars on your wrists. Now I feel like it was all a lie.”
There was silence for a time, and then Anthony said, “You’re right. But it still took me a long time to push aside my own agony and see it all around me. I still struggle with it, but I’ve found a new reason for living.”You. Although he left that part unsaid.
Some of the tension receded from her shoulders. “I’m glad to hear it. Perhaps I won’t feel so guilty about returning to London after the holidays.”
She turned and continued her inspection of the cottage, which was why she didn’t see the frown on Anthony’s face. He didn’t know why he thought she might have fallen in love with Cumbria as he had, but of course, she had lived in the city most of her life. Her publisher was there as well, so it made sense that she couldn’t leave whenever she liked. Unlike him, she had responsibilities, while he was a ne’er-do-well. Or at least, that was how he saw himself these days. Perhaps he was the one who needed to make a change. It was time to stop running, stop hiding; time for him to dare to walk out into the light again, to feel the warmth of the sun upon his scarred face.
As he moved into the living space, he watched as she removed a new, blank paper from her bag, along with several paints. “Surely you don’t mean to paint in here?”
She paused and glanced up. “Why not? It’s entirely too cold to be outside today, and that window makes a lovely winter scene.”
He glanced out the one she indicated, and with a bit of frost collecting on the pane, combined with the barren landscape beyond, it did portray a rather haunting imagery.
Once she had gathered her things and sat in a nearby chair, which afforded her a good view, she looked at him. “Should you like to read while I paint, as before?”
Since Anthony had hardly comprehended a word that he’d read, he asked, “I should like to watch you work, if it doesn’t bother you for someone to peer over your shoulder.”
