Scorpion's Dance

‘And I’m afraid that’s all you’re likely to get,’ he remarked brusquely. ‘I do not anticipate my aunt ever repeating such an allegation.’

Miranda looked away from the almost hypnotic brilliance of those dark eyes. ‘So! I can’t think what we have to say to one another.’

‘No?’ Dark brows quirked. ‘You have made arrangements for your future?’

Miranda’s eyes widened. ‘What has that to do with you?’

‘Come into the library, and I’ll tell you.’

Miranda sighed. ‘I have to—circulate. Besides, I want to speak to Lady Sanders.’

‘Oh? Why?’

She gasped. ‘Mind your own business!’

‘Perhaps it is my business.’

She was amazed at his audacity. ‘It couldn’t possibly be,’ she declared shortly. ‘Now, please—you must excuse me.’

‘One thing more …’ he added.

‘What is it?’

‘Whatever happens, will you promise to let me know what your plans are?’

Miranda made an exasperated sound. ‘I can’t see why it matters.’ She pressed her lips together. ‘I should have thought you’d be cheering that everything’s gone so sour on me.’

His lashes shaded his eyes. ‘Did you think I wasn’t?’ he parried mockingly, and her cheeks flamed with colour.

‘You—you beast!’

‘Your vocabulary’s sadly lacking,’ he remarked dryly. ‘There are far more suitable epithets than that.’

‘And you know them all, I suppose?’

‘A fair number,’ he agreed, and with a tightening of her facial muscles she left him.

Canon Bridgenorth attempted a sympathetic smile when Miranda appeared. She wondered if she was being uncharitable in supposing that of all of them there, he had had the most experience at hiding his feelings, and perhaps that was why he could look at her without either satisfaction or envy.

‘Dear Miss Gresham,’ he said, patting her sleeve with his plump white hand. ‘So sad, so sad! I’ve just been telling Lady Sanders you must both summon all your strength for the week ahead. The week which should have been such a happy one for both of you.’

Miranda’s gaze flickered over the older woman’s lined face. ‘I expect we’ll find plenty to do,’ she said quietly.

‘Ah, yes.’ Canon Bridgenorth shook his head. ‘All the presents to return.’ He sighed. ‘I’ll do whatever I can, of course.’

He moved away to speak to his wife, and for a moment Miranda was alone with the woman who was to have been her mother-in-law. It was the moment she had been waiting for, and she could not let it pass.

‘I saw the specialist at the hospital yesterday, Lady Sanders,’ she said, and pale eyes were turned in her direction.

‘Indeed? And what did he say?’

There was a chilling lack of feeling behind the question, and Miranda guessed that it was a perfunctory inquiry and no more. A tragic state of affairs considering her mother had worked at the Hall for over twelve years. But she had to go on, for her mother’s sake.

‘He said—it’s doubtful that she will ever walk again.’

Lady Sanders’ lips twitched. ‘I see.’

Miranda licked her own lips that were suddenly dry. ‘You understand what I’m trying to say?’

‘Perfectly.’ Lady Sanders was in complete control of herself. ‘Your mother will not be able to continue here as housekeeper.’

‘No.’ Miranda inclined her head. ‘Of course, she wasn’t going to anyway, after—after—’

‘After the wedding, you mean?’ Lady Sanders said it without emotion. ‘No. But now there is to be no wedding.’

Miranda wished she would make it easier for her. ‘As a matter of fact,’ she murmured, ‘that was what I wanted to talk to you about.’

Lady Sanders frowned. ‘Indeed? Why, pray?’

‘The cottage …’ Miranda hated having to beg. ‘The cottage at Blind Lane: I wondered whether we might—rent it from you.’

‘From me?’ Lady Sanders’ mouth tightened. ‘From me!’ She gave a mirthless little laugh. ‘My dear girl, you’re wasting your time speaking to me. I don’t own the cottage at Blind Lane. The estate is entailed, didn’t you know? To the eldest male heir.’

Miranda stared at her aghast. ‘No! No, I didn’t know.’

Lady Sanders sniffed, taking out her handkerchief and blowing her nose. ‘Why should you? I never thought—no one ever expected—’ She broke off as emotion threatened once more. ‘The home farm is mine, except that it’s tenanted, of course. But this house—and its contents—the estate, the land, everything, belongs to my husband’s family.’

‘But what will you do?’ For a moment, Miranda forgot about her own troubles.

Lady Sanders shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I expect I’ll be given time—to decide.’

The appearance of Elias Bell, the Sanders’ solicitor, curtailed their conversation, and Miranda moved politely away, aware that in estate matters and death duties she had no part.

So, she thought bleakly, she and her mother were not the only ones to lose their home. The old order changeth, with a vengeance.

She wandered out into the hall, looking up the carved staircase to the balustered gallery that curved round the well of the hall. To think she had been within an inch of being mistress here! She might have occupied the master suite, and descended those stairs every evening for dinner. She might have had servants to fetch and carry for her, and been invited to all the county functions. Countess Sanders—the housekeeper’s daughter. Of course, she would have had to accept other responsibilities, too, not least the commitment to let Mark into her bedroom every night. That was not so easy to contemplate, and she determinedly thrust away the memory of the last time she had seen him …

‘Reflecting on what might have been?’ a lazy voice drawled behind her, and she spun round resentfully to face her tormentor.

‘Would it do any good to deny it?’ she demanded.

‘It might. But I’d find it very hard to believe. The old place has a lot to commend it.’

Miranda folded her hands round her handbag. ‘I’m surprised you think so. It must be much different from what you’re used to.’

His smile was mocking. ‘Now how am I supposed to take that? Am I to assume you think we live in squalor back home? Or have I simply not the taste to appreciate it?’

Miranda expelled her breath on a sigh. ‘I was merely stating that rural England must be vastly different from—where is it you live? South America? Brazil?’