She nodded. ‘Yes, we do.’ And in her mind, she saw the same old reel of the outcast life she would have had if Frank hadn’t come to her rescue. She’d be in and out of boardinghouses, unable to get a good job, Annabel jeered at in schools and churches.
But this time, another reel took over, one where she and Annabel were up in the hills, running through the fresh wind to freedom, to happiness, to Angus.
MIRANDA
MIRANDA PEERED DOWN THE CORRIDOR BEFORE CREEPINGinto the minister’s boardroom. Now that she’d backed away from giving O’Hara her sketch of the coronation gown – keeping Caroline out of trouble – she needed the security maps in the minister’s office.
It would be risky getting in and out without being seen, but she could do it, couldn’t she?
During her last conversation with O’Hara, he’d insinuated that she was losing her edge, and she couldn’t have that!
The trouble was, she’d let herself get sidetracked by Betty, Caroline and the others. They took up her time, made her forget why she was there.
In her defence, the women had given her a lot of useful information. Betty and Hilda had access to the endless stream of rumours that flowed around the back stairs. In return, Miranda had slipped into an easy friendship with them. Betty wasn’t bad once you got to know her. There was something a little chaotic about her, which made everything feel normal, even Miranda. It was oddly refreshing to be taken as she was, no questions asked.
Lucy was useful for palace details, and Miranda kept her close, lending her money for the hairdresser and new clothes. Sporadically Lucy would come into money – goodness knew how since she seemed to have given up on auditions – and she’d take out a crisp handful of notes to pay Miranda back. Was it something to do with this Richard fellow? She’d adopted a wavering upper-class accent, using it like a protective shield against the world, a filter throughwhich everything she said was a veiled and contorted version of the truth.
Annoyingly, however, Lucy also made Miranda feel old. One day as they went home from work, she’d seen their reflections in a shop window and was only too struck by Lucy’s youth and beauty. There was a spark about her, a spring in her step. Beside her, Miranda’s pace was flat and mechanical, like a soldier heading into battle. It was as if she’d donned a costume and character after Jack died, and she was still wearing it all these years later.
But for how long?
When would it simply be enough for her to be herself?
She knew the answer, of course: when she’d become a successful journalist.
And today’s task was just another step in that direction.
Today there was to be a big meeting in the minister’s boardroom, and Miranda knew that the detailed coronation plans would be required. The closet where they were kept, along with the other confidential documents, would be unlocked ahead of time.
If she could slip into the room beforehand, have a quick look, and then out again, no one would ever know. It was all down to timing.
As she poked her head inside, relief flooded through her: the large office was empty.
Hastily, she tiptoed over and tried the closet door. As she’d hoped, it was open.
Sliding inside, she pulled the door closed before switching on the single bare lightbulb.
It was a small space, barely wide enough to turn around in. On three sides, shelves towered up to the ceiling, each of them jammed with folders. At the bottom, the shelves were slightly wider, allowing for the larger maps and plans, and she quickly pulled them out, clearing a space on the surface and opening one of them up.
She’d heard that the minister had created almost a hundred plans, but nothing prepared her for what she beheld. The detail was incredible, plotting the exact positions of everyone involved from moment to moment. The ones of the abbey were the most thorough, drilling downto minute-by-minute actions, such as one of the maids of honour touching up the queen’s makeup while the minister’s wife powdered his bald head so that it didn’t shine in the glaring lights.
Suddenly, her ears pricked up.
There was a noise, someone entering the office.
When she craned her neck she could see a slither of the room through the crack in the door. The someone – who appeared to be alone – walked up to the meeting table, the sound of files or books being placed onto it before the man strode across the room, and to Miranda’s horror, straight towards the closet.
Miranda froze then quickly turned off the light, wincing as the click echoed around the tiny space.
And suddenly, the door was pulled open, and there, looking at her in astonishment, was Sinclair.
Their eyes met.
What must he think?she wondered, panicking about what she’d say.
But then, voices came from the door, the moustaches arriving for the meeting. She’d be caught red-handed, packed off back to New York – or sent to jail for treason, knowing this medieval monarchy nonsense.
As he opened his mouth to say something, she knew she had to act fast, so she grabbed his arm and dragged him, full force, into the closet, pulling the door shut.
