Miranda sat there, unsure of how to respond. She hadn’t been expecting an apology, but she was grateful for the gesture. Thus, she replied truthfully. “I hold no regrets for seeing Anthony again, and I certainly don’t hold you responsible. It was nice to see him, and I can return to London with the relief that he shall continue to heal.”
Her brother inclined his head. “Very well said. I just hope that you will be able to enjoy the festivities with us this evening.”
She smiled broadly. “I’m looking forward to it. And with all the free time I’ve had lately, you will be happy to know that I have nearly all the sketches I need for my next story. I believe only one remains, and I shall finish that tomorrow. What better way to celebrate the holiday than by capturing the innocence of a Christmas morning?”
“I think that’s a lovely idea,” Elaine chimed in, and gave Miranda an encouraging grin. “Someday, you shall be famous, dear sister. When you walk down the street, it shall be impossible to escape from all your adoring admirers!”
Miranda laughed. “I’m not so sure about that, but it is a way for me to do something I enjoy and live by my own means.”
“And we are all very proud of you for it,” Jacob said, and there was a murmured assent around the table.
It warmed Miranda’s heart, and that was all she needed to remember in her darkest moments: she still had the people who cared most of all around her.
After dinner, Miranda started to return to her rooms to continue working on her watercolors, but she was stopped by Mr. Barbour in the hallway. “Terrance,” she greeted him fondly. “I trust you and your fiancée are having a nice time in Cumbria?”
“Indeed,” he replied somewhat distractedly. “I must speak with you on a most urgent matter.” He glanced around and then took her hand and led her to a slight alcove, presumably out of the distance of prying eyes.
Warning bells sounded in Miranda’s head, but she heeded them too late. Terrance had her trapped against the wall, his hands upon her face before she quite knew what he was about. “Terrance…”
“Shh. Don’t speak. Just let me say what I have to.” He placed his forehead on hers and kissed the side of her temple. “I have been in misery ever since I came to this place and saw you. I convinced myself I was going to be happy with Delia, but now I know it can never be. I have been fooling everyone, but I know the truth.” He pulled back far enough to look deeply into her eyes. “My heart will always be yours. Is there any way at all that you might reconsider a life together with me? Dear Miranda, put me out of my misery and consent to be my wife.”
Miranda blinked. She didn’t know what to say. She had noticed the lingering glances he sent her way for a long time now, but just as she’d set aside her deeper emotions toward Anthony, she assumed that Terrance could do the same. She wished with all of her heart that she could grant his desires, but then she would be the one fooling everyone. She regarded him with empathy, hoping that he could read the regret in her gaze. “I’m sorry, Terrance, but my answer will always remain the same, because you see, like you, I shall always bear the cross of unrequited love. I don’t want to hurt you by entering into a union that would eventually make us both miserable. Me, because you wouldn’t be him, and you, because I could never fully allow my heart to engage with another the way I long for him.”
He was still for a moment, and then he allowed his hands to slip away. A hard glint entered his gaze. “Is it the man you’ve been spending time with here? Mr. Gravehill?”
Miranda neither confirmed nor denied his claim, but the damning evidence in her silence was just as bad.
He stepped back. “I see.” He lifted a brow. “I assume he’s made you an offer then?”
Again, Miranda said nothing, because although Anthony had proposed, it wasn’t the declaration of love she’d always yearned for.
His mouth kicked up at the corner, a look of reluctant acceptance filling his gaze. “I guess neither of us shall ever be truly happy in this life then.” He bowed in a formal manner. “Goodbye, Miranda. I wish you nothing but the best life has to offer. I’m sure you will understand if I cease calling from this point on. It will be wise for both of us, I think.”
With that, he turned on his heel and strode back down the hall.
Miranda exhaled a shaky breath when he departed. With trembling hands, she retrieved the key to her rooms. She shut the door and leaned against it, as she tried to draw a full breath. Tears filled her line of vision, causing everything to waver. She slowly slid down the length of the hard wood. By the time she’d slumped to the floor, the tears were falling in earnest. Heaving sobs, the feeling of a wasted future filled her. Had she just made a dreadful mistake by turning down Mr. Barbour’s proposal for the last time? She had long admired him, and with his companionship, she had made it through the last few years of loss with his steady presence at her side. But now, she’d lost even that—all for a man who was tormented by his own demons, who might never be whole again.
Miranda buried her face in her hands and sat alone, while the storm washed over her. Sorrow poured through her soul until it felt as though it was being ripped from her body. Tomorrow, she would put on a brave face and partake of a joyous celebration of the season for her siblings and their families. She was determined not to ruin this holiday for them, even if she might wish for nothing more than this miserable season to end.
Once it was over, she could finally go back to London and hopefully, find a way to convince herself that this nightmare had never occurred.
Chapter 10
Anthony was a coward. For a war hero, he wasn’t very smart when it came to matters of the heart. He knew this, and yet, he continued to stay away from Miranda, sequestered as he was in his small cottage in Braithwaite as Christmas Day came to a bitter close. He was feeling the sting of rejection, but he knew it wasn’t because of his appearance. Miranda loved him. He’d known it ever since she was fifteen years old and looked at him with stars of hope in her innocent eyes. And yet, he had asked her to save him when he couldn’t manage to do it himself.
He sat with his head in his hands, the fireplace glow as his only light source, and called himself every derogatory name he could recall. He hadn’t wanted things to end this way, truly he didn’t, but he didn’t know how to come back from the brink of despair. He was terrified that he would falter and find himself going down the same dark path he’d been on after he’d been released from service. Like a dead leaf falling off the tree in the autumn, he was adrift on the breeze without any clear indication of what to do. People went out of their way to give him a wide berth on the street and because of his hideousness, he knew he couldn’t return to his family. To Miranda. He would be doing them a disservice.
He had considered ending it all so many times.
But then, he would remember the letters. Like a drowning man on the sea searching for some way to lift himself out of the mire, he would tear the worn ribbon off of the stack and read each one over and over again. They had started out in the handwriting of a child, but as the years passed, he could see the differences in the style. He would long imagine how she had matured, and looked forward to the day they were reunited once more. All of that was before his battle wounds, of course, but even afterward, he would be comforted by the warm homecoming he might have received. He pictured dancing the waltz with her at her come out ball, and coming by to pay an afternoon call, perhaps taking her riding in the park.
His chest ached, because he knew it would never happen. The pain would rip him apart as acute as the day that bayonet had removed the sight from his eye.
He looked at the letters sitting on the floor between his feet. They were still tied with that worn ribbon, each page barely held together, the folds carefully preserved in permanent creases. There were faded splatters of mud, blood, and his own tears that coated the outside. They were a reminder of everything that he’d yearned for, prayed for, but could never have.
He glanced at the fireplace and could feel the familiar well of emotion rising up within him. If he destroyed these letters, he knew it would all be over. There would be no other beacon of hope to guide his way to Miranda. But what was the point now that she was gone? He no longer had anything to live for.
And yet, as he stared at that pile of papers, he couldn’t find the strength to do even that. He was consumed with Miranda, with the love that he felt for her but was unable to express for fear his sleeping demons would resurface with a vengeance.
