Page 10 of The Lost Lord
“May I sit?” a man asked in a wonderfully accented, low voice. Miriam could close her eyes and listen to him talk all day. His voice vibrated through her. Miriam had been waiting for so long for something to happen to her, and now she began to wonder if Lord Northcote was it. Lizzie was done with him. She had said as much herself. Surely that made it all right?
“By all means,” Miriam replied as though she wasn’t shivering in sodden, sand-spattered linen. Mrs. Kent cast them both a baleful glare and wrapped a sun-warmed blanket around her shoulders.
He was silent for several minutes. “I would guess that Lizzie has told you that she and I have parted ways.”
“Yes, she has indicated as much.” Perhaps it was simply the harsh light of the beach, but Lord Richard appeared off, his expression pained, his skin slightly ashen. It seemed an odd phrasing: I would guess. Maybe the English had a slightly different way of discussing delicate matters. She had heard that Americans were considered overly forthright. Lizzie more than most.
“Well. It is true,” he continued, shifting his weight back onto his palms. Lord Northcote possessed admirable arms. His were corded with muscle and sprinkled with dark hair. He sounded oddly resigned.
“Did you not want the association to end?” Miriam asked as delicately as she could.
“On the contrary, I am thoroughly pleased by it.” Lord Richard glanced at her. “Lizzie washes into one’s life like one of those waves and recedes just as quickly. I am free to pursue a closer acquaintance with you, Miriam.”
Miriam felt her heart swell and pump erratically in her chest. “Me?” she finally squeaked.
The man’s thick lashes lowered and rose like curtains. Tiny crinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes. “You, Miriam. What do you think our falling out was about?” Lord Northcote reached out one large, warm hand and enfolded her fingers within his. He placed something hard in her hand. “May I call on you this evening, Miss Walsh?”
“Yes,” Miriam replied breathlessly. “Yes, please, do.”
Lord Northcote pushed off the ground and rose in a fluid motion that made Miriam’s heart flip. He bowed and sauntered away, unconcerned by the awkwardness his presence had brought to the stony beachfront. Miriam opened her hand looked down at the object in her palm.
An oyster shell. Oysters were supposed to be an aphrodisiac. Innocent girls were not supposed to know of such things, but she was well-read in the classics and girls at school had liked to pass around scandalous reading material. Had Northcote known she would recognize the significance, or was Miriam reading too much into it?
“Miss Walsh?” Mrs. Kent hovered nearby. “Miss Walsh, it is past time to be headed back to our lodgings.” The older woman wore a pinched, worried expression.
“You don’t like him, do you?”
“I do like him, in fact, what little I know of him. But I do not like Lizzie and never have, as you well know. That he has been…” Mrs. Kent trailed off. “If they were involved, then it does not speak well of him. You deserve someone who is entirely honorable, not someone who flits from girl to girl in the space of an afternoon.”
The thought turned Miriam’s stomach. Lizzie was great fun but careless of the consequences of her actions upon others. Worse, she had a temper and a mean streak. Together the women disassembled the makeshift tent.
“You aren’t having trouble breathing?” asked Mrs. Kent worriedly.
“No. The sea air is beneficial.”
“Mrs. Kent, I would like to see Lord Richard again,” Miriam said as she shook the sand from her still-damp skirts and accepted a small stack of poles. Her nurse labored to hoist the heavy roll of tent canvas.
“This evening is your aunt’s Dance Beneath the Stars,” Mrs. Kent huffed warily. “I expect you may have a dance with the Englishman before retiring. There are always more ladies than there are partners. Mark my words, though, Miriam. Handsome men bring nothing but heartbreak.”
Chapter 6
Miriam had brought few gowns to the shore. She regarded her options critically, thinking of the gilt-threaded, bejeweled creations hanging in her wardrobe at Cliffside, her father’s country residence.
“The gray silk is beautiful on you,” Mrs. Kent opined.
Lord Northcote had not called. Miriam had secreted the oyster shell beside her paste jewels for temporary safe-keeping. She brought it out when she thought her companion wasn’t looking to thumb the smooth interior. A gift whose significance was wholly unsuitable to an unmarried woman. The doctor and her father had advised her against marriage. An asthma attack could harm a baby or prove fatal in childbirth. Miriam chafed at the restriction. A man who had allied himself with Lizzie seemed like the kind of man who could offer a rebellion against the strict limits upon her life.
“I was thinking the rose is prettier on me. It brightens my complexion, don’t you think?” Miriam asked, holding one aloft. The soft evening light filtering in through the window added a radiance she didn’t ordinarily possess.
“Both are lovely.” Mrs. Kent clearly preferred the gray silk. Miriam chose the pink anyway. Mrs. Kent set to arranging Miriam’s hair, threading imitation pearls into her glossy dark curls. Mrs. Kent wore her usual shapeless black dress. At her side hung the leather case that the physician had given her to aid Miriam during an asthma attack. It contained a light bowl, a flask of hot water which Mrs. Kent dutifully refreshed before each excursion, and vials of vile substances. Though Miriam hated the constant reminder of her physical limitations, she loved Mrs. Kent, who had been more mother to her than her own unremembered one.
Music spilled out over the verandah of the party. Each summer, Lizzie’s aunt hosted a gala at the shore. There was dancing, punch, and a pig roasted on a spit. The punch was liberally spiked, and last year even Mrs. Kent had enjoyed a glass or two. Miriam stood with her family at the edge of the party, scanning the crowds for Lord Northcote. For the second time that day, he hadn’t joined the party. Perhaps he didn’t know he was invited. How lonely for him to be left out of the festivities, especially with his parting from Lizzie.
Miriam sipped a glass of punch. Spotting Lizzie with Spence’s arm over her shoulder between dances, she marched over. “Lizzie, I hate to ask but I must. Where is Lord Northcote staying?”
“At the cabin,” replied Lizzie, a gleam in her eye. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, I was thinking. If he came here for you, and now you two have split, perhaps he doesn’t know that everyone is welcome to the Dance Beneath the Stars. Someone ought to tell him, don’t you think?”
