Philip, Baron Highdene, sat at the breakfast table scowling over a letter that had just arrived. His thick black brows darkened his handsome face like a thundercloud, and the set of his mouth was daunting. “I suppose I shall have to do something about Alan,” he muttered.
His wife Rosalind looked up from the boiled egg she had been unenthusiastically consuming. Its yellow residue was already making her queasy. “What is the matter now?”
“He is gambling again. High stakes. And drinking. He was nearly called out last week for insulting young Beresford. Darby writes that he only just managed to quash it.”
“Oh, dear.” Rosalind sighed and pushed her eggcup away. “Is Alan’s wound better?”
“Only a little. That is the problem, of course. He can’t box or hunt, and he is restless and bored. The war didn’t do him any good, either.”
“Five years,” agreed Rosalind, “and two serious wounds. Poor man.” The sympathy in her lovely oval face made it even more appealing. “It seems so unfair he was hurt at Waterloo after we all thought the war was over.” She paused, the disagreeable sensations in her midsection discouraging conversation.
“I believe we shall have to invite him here.” Philip eyed the letter with distaste, as if it was somehow to blame for this necessity. “I am his only living relative.”
“Of course.” Rosalind smiled a little at her husband’s sour expression. “Write him at once.”
“We shall have a regular house party,” he complained.
“My sister and your cousin hardly make up a house party. Actually, it is a very good notion. Alan and Miranda will be company for one another.”
“I doubt it. Alan is a man of four-and-twenty who has seen a good bit of the world. He can have very little in common with a chit of seventeen.”
“Miranda is extremely intelligent. She is always reading.”
“No, she is not! She is always lurking about the place and staring at me as if I were some sort of wild beast about to spring at her. And we have nothing to say to each other. I still think she might have gone to your sister instead of…”
“Philip, do be quiet. Miranda may come in at any moment.”
“No, she won’t. I saw her walking toward the shrubberies not ten minutes ago. Why she wants to go outside before breakfast, and in this mist, I do not pretend to understand.”
“She is bored,” replied Rosalind crisply. “We have been over this a dozen times, Philip, and I thought we were agreed. She could not go to Portia with Gerald’s mother so ill and needing to be nursed day and night. Besides, I was happy to have her. It is a good opportunity for us to become better acquainted. And she is company for me, since we are so far from any neighbors.”
Philip turned away and began to re-read his letter, the grimness of his face almost frightening. Rosalind watched him with anxious eyes. The friction between them on this subject was both painful and unsettling. She knew that, for him, Clairvon and the surrounding countryside were engrossing and sufficient. With his estate duties, his books, his various sporting ventures, and her companionship, he was wholly content. But up until a few months ago, he had seemed to understand her wish for more society. They had made visits, invited guests. Lately, however, he had changed, grown silent and reclusive. Rosalind was convinced he was deeply worried, but he always denied it when she asked.
Rosalind sighed. She sometimes wondered, recently, whether she would have married Philip if she had known him better. In London he had seemed the fulfillment of her dreams—handsome, witty, kind—the sort of man she had always hoped to marry. But she had not counted on Northumberland. They were miles from their neighbors, and a trip to town was a significant undertaking. She often longed for the parties and outings of which she had had so brief a taste after her father’s unexpected windfall.
She looked up, meeting Philip’s intense dark eyes, and knew that she would have married him whatever the circumstances. But that did not mean she could not wish for others to talk to occasionally. Her stomach protested, and she involuntarily put a hand over her bodice.
“Are you ill?” said Philip, pushing back his chair and half rising. “Shall I call Jane? Would you like a glass of water?”
The anxiety in his voice made Rosalind force a smile and sit back. “No, no, it’s nothing. A touch of dyspepsia only.”
“Again? You don’t think the doctor…?”
“Philip, it is perfectly natural, in my condition. Please don’t worry. Mama assures me it will pass in a few weeks.”
“A fine time they chose to go abroad,” burst out Philip savagely. “And for perhaps a year! I think your mother might have waited until the baby came, to be with you.”
“She would have, if I had asked her. But I shall have either of my aunts, and Portia, if I like, and Mama and Papa have always longed to travel. Now that they have the money, and Europe is safe once more, we could not deny them, Philip.”
“I have no wish to deny them. I only think they might have waited six months.”
Footsteps in the corridor ended this dispute, to Rosalind’s relief. “Good morning, Miranda,” she said as her sister entered the breakfast room. “Did you have a walk?”
“Yes. I went to the cliffs to watch the sea. The spray is crashing up out of the mist like fireworks at Vauxhall, Rosalind. You must come and see.”
“It is far too damp and chilly for Rosalind to go out,” declared Philip.
“Nonsense,” said his wife. “We shall walk a little later. But now you should eat something, Miranda.”
Philip made a disgusted sound and said, “I must see Cramer about the tenants’ new roofs.” He strode out of the room. Both of the women watched him go, Rosalind with concern and Miranda with fierce suspicion. Rosalind sighed, and her sister pounced. “Are you ill, Rosalind? You look so pale. I think it would do you heaps of good to get out. Do you not ride at all anymore?”
Looking at her, Rosalind almost smiled at the militant set of her head and her aggressive pose, hands on her hips. Miranda had always been such a vehement little thing, even when she was tiny. And full of the most astonishing ideas. Rosalind honestly welcomed this opportunity to know her better. The nine years between them seemed to lessen with age. However, she did not feel quite ready to communicate her interesting state of health. Miranda seemed so far removed from babies and mundane domesticity. She was, Rosalind realized with amazement, a bit wary of her response. “I am just a little tired,” she said. “Come and have tea. There are sausages on the sideboard.”
As she expected, this diverted Miranda, and Rosalind smiled as her sister filled a plate. Sausages had always been one of her passions. Indeed, Miranda had a prodigious appetite for one so slender. It had always amazed the family that Portia was plump, when she seemed to eat next to nothing, and Miranda remained thin despite enormous helpings. “I have a piece of news,” said Rosalind.
“What?” Miranda sat down and picked up her fork.
“We will be having a visitor.”
Miranda stopped cutting sausages. “Truly? Who?”
“A cousin of Philip’s. His name is Alan Creighton, and he is just out of the army. He is something of a hero, actually. He fought in the Peninsula, and right up through France. He was wounded at Waterloo, but he is nearly recovered.”
“Oh.” Miranda’s enthusiasm had died. “I suppose he is quite old, then. Is he much like Philip?”
Rosalind stifled a smile. “He is four-and-twenty not so very old. As to what he is like, I cannot say. I have never met him. He was abroad with the army until last summer, and this year we have been…”
“Stuck here in the north,” put in Miranda.
“Keeping close to home,” corrected Rosalind. “And Alan has been in London. But now he is to come for a visit.”
Miranda ate a sausage.
“We will organize some expeditions to show you both around the county. The weather is sure to clear soon. We do have some lovely days here in summer.”
“It has rained every day since I came!”
“I know. It is abominable, isn’t it? But that is only five days, and I promise you it will get better. And then we shall see the sights.”
“The sheep on the moors, I suppose?” said Miranda.
“No indeed. There are a number of historical places you will adore.”
“What?”
“I don’t know that I shall tell you, if you continue to look so sour.”
Miranda frowned, then looked down at her nearly empty plate. After a moment, she looked up again, contrite. “I beg your pardon. It’s just that…” She paused, bit her lower lip, and added, “I do so hate constant rain.”
“I know. Last summer we had weeks of fine weather. Really.”
Miranda smiled, then speared her last sausage. “Tell me about the sights,” she demanded in her usual cheerful tones.
Rosalind smiled back with a great sense of relief. There was no one more lively and amusing than Miranda when she was in good spirits, and no one more gloomy when she was not. “Well, there is Hadrian’s Wall. Although it is about three hours’ journey by carriage from here.”
“Hadrian? The Roman emperor?” Miranda and Rosalind exchanged grins. Their father was one of the few men outside a university who could recite the names of all the Roman emperors, from first to last. And he did it in a nursery singsong that showed he had learned it early. Indeed, his father had taught him while he was still toddling. The recitation had made them scream with laughter when they were small.
Rosalind laughed. “Philip jokes with his mother’s family about the great wall all the way across England to keep out the terrible heathen Scots. And it is still there. At least, partly.”
“Oh, Philip.”
Ignoring her hostile tone, Rosalind continued. “And there is Lindisfarne Island just up the coast. It is crammed with ancient ruins. And Seahouses. That is a seaside resort about ten or fifteen miles to the south. I was there last summer. It is very pleasant.”
“Oh, were you allowed out then?” Miranda frowned at her, but Rosalind looked away.
“And of course, we can picnic on the moor any day. It is beautiful later on when the heather blooms and the sun is out.”
Miranda started to speak, then changed her mind. She drank some tea. “It sounds like great fun,” she replied.
Rosalind nodded. “Alan will enjoy being in the country again, I daresay.” As she spoke, it suddenly occurred to her that a man who had been fighting Napoleon for five years, and then raking about London for another, might not be the best companion for her naive little sister. But there was nothing to be done about that now. Surely any cousin of Philip’s would be safe? Then the troubles Philip had mentioned came back to her—gambling, drinking, fighting duels—and Rosalind sighed. Her stomach protested again.
“Are you all right?” asked Miranda.
“Yes. Of course.”
“You look…rather green.”
“No. It is just… I think my breakfast may have disagreed with me. I will go upstairs for a few minutes, if you will excuse me, Miranda.” Rosalind stood abruptly, swallowed, and hurried out of the room. Miranda stared after her, her deep green eyes full of concern and steely determination.