Chapter 30
Although Miranda hadn’t been allowed to visit the doctor with Grandfather, she had insisted on meeting Father immediately after the appointment. She wouldn’t rest until she learned what the doctor prescribed.
Now that the LeBlancs had cleared their name, the Wimplegates were inundated with discreet inquiries that more often than not led to Miranda and Father waiting in the bountiful kitchens of the upperclass. So far their activity had not brought them in contact with Wyatt. Miranda both longed for and dreaded it. Evidently all of Boston believed what Miranda found incredible—that Wyatt was the heir to the LeBlanc fortune. If it was true—and how long could she deny it when the family accepted him?—then she owed him an apology. But not yet. Only when the longing for his company became too great, because after that she had nothing. One last interaction and she’d have no excuse to contact him again. Their acquaintance would come to an end. So no matter how guilty she felt, she wasn’t ready to correct the situation. Not yet.
From behind her, Miranda heard the enormous oven creaking open at the hands of one of the Stuyvesant’s cooks. Her concern over Grandfather had prevented her from eating lunch, but now the hearty aroma of roast and onions made her stomach grumble.
Father lifted an eyebrow. “None of that in front of Lady Stuyvesant.”
A kitchen maid hurried by, but not without pausing to toss Miranda a cold muffin. Barely making the catch, Miranda smiled her thanks and consumed the muffin before she could be caught refreshing herself without her hostess’s permission.
The butler entered, head aloft, arms held bent at his side as if he carried an invisible tray. “Mrs. Stuyvesant will be with you shortly.”
Father acknowledged the news, and soon the lady of the house entered.
The pearls on Mrs. Stuyvesant’s morning gown warmed to a pink glow beneath the outstretched candelabra. She had the arms of a longshoreman or she wouldn’t have been able to heft the silver monstrosity as she led the way to the butler’s pantry. Father kept the conversation at a perfect balance, respectful enough to show he was aware of the gulf between their stations, and yet casual enough to show himself worthy of her trust for this most delicate transaction.
“Our shelves are so crowded, you see.” Mrs. Stuyvesant set the candlestick on the worktable and motioned grandly around the pantry designed for the storage of valuables. “I’ll probably want a new silver service soon, so we might as well make room.”
She directed them to a punch bowl that was as big as a hip bath and adorned with dryads and nymphs. For the silver alone it’d bring a fortune, but the craftsmanship was divine.
“It’s a lovely set,” Father said. He lifted one of the cups, delicate despite its weight.
“I wouldn’t want anyone to know where it came from.” Mrs. Stuyvesant brushed her fingers to her temple. “You can act with discretion, can’t you? Maintain the seller’s anonymity but still ensure that we get the funds? Delphia must have her season, and with what the dressmakers are charging”—her hands fluttered skyward—“well, you know.”
“Yes, ma’am.” But Miranda only knew what her clever seamstress charged to imitate the fashions.
“Do you want us to crate this up and take it now?” Father asked.
The woman’s eyes lingered on the kneeling nymph trailing a flower into the basin. “Just as well. There are crates in the corner, and the groom brought some fresh straw to pack with. Take the punch bowl set, the clock, and the silver beakers. If I think of anything else, I’ll return.”
Father lifted the mantle clock and set it on the worktable. With a flick of his finger, he set the pendulum to swaying and filled the room with the mellow tick-tock as Mrs. Stuyvesant made her departure. Finally Miranda could sate her curiosity.
“What did the doctor say about Grandfather?”
Father turned from the clock, but his finger continued to mete out the rhythm against the tabletop. “He examined your grandfather, and I gave him an account of his recent behavior—the forgetfulness, the poor judgment, the belligerence. The doctor has concluded that his decline is permanent.” His hand closed around a beaker. “There’s nothing that can be done to slow the progression.”
Miranda shook her head. Why hadn’t they let her go to the appointment? She knew more about his condition. “It wasn’t until we arrived in Pine Gap that he really declined. He invented elaborate schemes that could never be profitable. He trusted people who were taking advantage of him while calling into question the loyalty of the only man there who had his best interest at heart.”
Her throat tightened. Hadn’t she done the same thing? Through every setback, every trial, Wyatt had stayed by her side.
“But it was the trip that exhausted him,” Miranda continued. “Once he gets rested he’ll respond better. Give him time—”
“Miranda,” her father turned to her. “Time is not his friend. After you left for Missouri, I had a chance to look over our books. They were a mess. I had no idea Father had been loaning people money. This has been going on for longer than either of us cares to admit.”
The ticking of the clock took on a more sinister tone. Miranda spun away and paced the room, feeling how dark and stuffy it was.
“It just isn’t right. The Bible talks about wisdom as something you gain, something that can’t be taken away from you. Self-control, perseverance, the fruits of the spirit—they are supposed to accumulate.” She gripped the walnut cabinetry, the shining cylinders and bowls blurring before her eyes. “It was awful to see Grandfather humiliated. He was in jail—a mean, shabby jail. And why? Because he was cruel to a little girl. How does that happen? How does God allow a wise man to become so foolish?”
The beaker clinked against the worktable. “I don’t guess it’s any different from any other disease.”
Miranda spun to face him. “But you don’t get thrown in jail for having the whooping cough. It doesn’t turn one into a laughingstock. It just doesn’t seem fair that Grandfather could live his whole life serving God and then humiliate himself in the end and do things he’d never do if he could think straight.” She clutched her stomach. “I don’t mean to be cruel, but it seems that if God is leaving him here just to make a fool of himself and be ridiculed, then he’d . . . he’d be better off . . .”
“Don’t, Miranda.” Her father leaned against the shelving and took her hand. “We still have your grandfather. He still loves us, he still enjoys life, and he’s still part of this world. And even if he loses that, even if he no longer recognizes any of us or is unaware, he still has a purpose. We’ve learned many lessons from your grandfather over the years, lessons that he enjoyed passing down. Caring for him will be the last lesson he has to teach us. It’s up to us to learn it well.”
Hadn’t Wyatt said the same? Grandfather had changed, and she was sorry for that, but she couldn’t be sorry for the changes she’d made—changes that would embolden her to get the care Grandfather needed.
I have a choice, she reminded herself. She couldn’t choose her circumstances, but she could choose her response.
Hard heels thudded dully on the brick floor of the kitchen. Mrs. Stuyvesant appeared. Miranda hurried to the crate of hay and bent over it, giving herself time to compose herself.
“I have a few pieces of jewelry that haven’t been used for several seasons,” Mrs. Stuyvesant said. “Does your establishment handle jewels?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Father said. “We have a strong market for jewels. At an auction, we cannot guarantee what they will bring, but I’d be honored to appraise them for you.”
Grandfather should be there with them. When would his absence feel normal? Still shaky, Miranda straightened as the butler entered.
“Mrs. Stuyvesant, you have guests. Mr. Wyatt LeBlanc and Miss LeBlanc have asked if you are accepting callers.”
Wyatt? She was just thinking of him. Then again, Miranda was always thinking of him.
“Wyatt LeBlanc is here?” Mrs. Stuyvesant’s eyes widened. “And Delphia isn’t even awake yet. Go, go. See them to the parlor. I’ll send Mabel to prepare her. No, I need to greet them. You see to Mabel and Delphia. Oh, I don’t know.”
Miranda’s throat ached. He was here. In this house. Her mind was racing. Wyatt hadn’t called on her. She’d hoped he wasn’t angry, hoped he was so busy with the ongoing hearings and other adjustments that he couldn’t get free for a visit, but evidently he had time to call on Delphia Stuyvesant.
“Don’t worry about us.” But Father’s gaze was fixed on Miranda. “We’ll finish up here and see ourselves out.”
“No, no. You must come back another time.” Mrs. Stuyvesant crushed Miranda’s leg of mutton sleeve in desperate hands and pulled her toward the door of the pantry. “Mr. LeBlanc cannot find out that we were considering selling off . . . well, you know . . .” She pried her hands free, gave a little shiver of anticipation as she tidied her hair, and then with regal posture intoned, “Balford, see the Wimplegates to the back door. I’ll find Mabel and greet our guests.”
They parted ways at the kitchen. As Balford and Father made arrangements for the transport of the silver service, Miranda dallied. She had to see him. If there was anyone who would comfort her over the doctor’s news, it was Wyatt. One glimpse. She’d be content with that. One glimpse of the man she’d rejected. One glimpse before Delphia Stuyvesant or another debutante got her neatly manicured claws into him.
Stepping to the side, Miranda fell behind a maid carrying a tray of tiny circular sandwiches. Hurry, she begged. Hurry before Father realizes I’m gone. The maid turned the same direction Mrs. Stuyvesant had gone. When she came to the swinging door, she spun to push it open with her back. Seeing Miranda, she paused.
“Can I help you, miss?”
“I just got turned around. Is the servants’ exit the other way?”
“Yes, ma’am. Back through the kitchen.”
Miranda nodded but didn’t move. With a saucy shrug, the maid continued on her way.
The door swung wide as the maid passed through . . . and there stood Wyatt. Hands behind his back, he was leaning forward slightly as Mrs. Stuyvesant flapped on about something. Miranda feasted on the sight of him. His powerful body was finally clad in a perfectly tailored suit. His hair . . . land sake’s alive! Where was his beard? Instead, she saw a well-defined jaw and slightly rough cheeks. She expected him to look different, but mercy. Her heart sped, but the door was closing, narrower, narrower . . .
He looked up, saw the servant with the food. The gap was narrowing. His eyes lifted, met hers, and then the door closed.
Miranda waited as the door rocked to a halt, then settled closed against her. Had he really seen her? From behind she could hear her father calling for her, but no one else said her name.
She spun and made her way through the bustling kitchen and through the servants’ entrance, picking up speed until she fairly ran. Her knees felt weak, drained by yet another disappointment. Doors were flying open for Wyatt, the same doors that had always been shut in her face.
Miranda. Wyatt couldn’t care less what the gossipy woman was saying. He’d seen Miranda. Time to put an end to this visiting nonsense of Corinne’s.
“What’s behind that door?” He pointed at the door that the maid had just passed through.
Mrs. Stuyvesant stopped midsentence and had to think, as if her house was so big she couldn’t remember—and maybe it was.
“That leads to the kitchen. Are the sandwiches not to your liking?”
“Are the Wimplegates here?”
Aunt Corinne made a funny noise. Mrs. Stuyvesant’s mouth got small and bunched up.
“The Wimplegates? Absolutely not. While I don’t condemn those who’ve been forced by circumstances to employ those sort of people, Mr. Stuyvesant and I would never need their services.”
Aunt Corinne’s eyes widened. “Like my brother did?” Whew, her voice could freeze salt water in August.
Mrs. Stuyvesant sputtered. “As I said, there are times . . .”
But Wyatt was done. He’d been done from the time he introduced himself to the butler and shook his hand. Evidently, that was taboo in these parts, as if you’re supposed to ignore the only other man in the room.
Mrs. Stuyvesant might be high society, but she was as sorry a liar as Leland Moore. Aunt Corinne should be proud that he remembered to say “Excuse me” before racing through the kitchen door, but it wasn’t the kitchen. It was another hallway full of uniformed help that stood around with their mouths hanging open and eyes bugging out.
“May I help you, sir?” an aproned girl asked.
“Where’d that lady go? The one who was just standing here?”
The girl looked over her shoulder for permission from that Balford fellow, but they were wasting precious time.
“I’m not sure of whom you speak,” the butler said, “but I do believe someone exited the building recently.”
“Follow me,” Balford wisely amended.
After a quick pass through an enormous kitchen—did his own house have one this big?—he burst through a door and found himself in an alley. He looked both ways. No one.
Wyatt scratched his head, only then realizing he’d left his hat inside. No matter. He wasn’t going back. He had to find out what Miranda was doing in the kitchen. Were the Wimplegates in money trouble?
Wyatt started out for the main road. Although still waiting for the judge’s ruling, he had been able to send some discreet help to the Wimplegates. At his insistence, Frederic had Monty buy the sale barn in Pine Gap from them. If it hadn’t been for Monty’s threats, they would’ve never bought it in the first place. He’d paid the Wimplegates twice what they’d paid Pritchard, but were they still running short?
He turned toward the sun, hoping he remembered his way through the maze. He’d wanted to have everything ready when he went to Miranda again. He wanted to know for sure what he could offer. He wanted to have his city manners down and be a man she could be proud of here, but now, after seeing her, that didn’t matter as much. Being with her was all he wanted. He was who he was—and he missed her.