Page 16 of The Lost Lord
“Well, I suppose I shan’t lose it then.” Miriam scooped up her belongings and swept out of the room with her back stiff. The damned man had better execute her purchase. If he didn’t, the fictional Mr. Walsh had every intention of lodging a complaint with his superiors. Perhaps she could get Richard to play the part. She could just imagine the English nobleman looking down his nose as he informed Mr. Featherstone’s superiors of his useless advice. The mere idea made her chuckle as she took the steps down at twice her usual pace, never mind the hint of a wheeze that crept into her breath with the exertion.
Mrs. Kent helped her settle into the carriage. Today had been a rare departure from Miriam’s side as she ran a personal errand. Miriam savored her short-lived freedom to manage her monetary affairs free of interference from the people she loved best. Upon their arrival at home, Miriam discovered a pale envelope on the center hall table with her name scrawled across the front in slanting masculine script.
It read,Miss Walsh. Curious, she handed off her redingote to Mrs. Kent and went to her father’s study in search of a letter opener. Her heart beat in her throat as she tried to tamp down her eagerness. A shock of excitement zapped through her at the sight of the name at the bottom.
Richard Northcote.
Dear Miss Walsh,he had written.I request the pleasure of your company tomorrow afternoon at two. Please respond if this time meets your approval.
That was all. Miriam smiled and traced the edge of the elegant paper with one finger.
“I see you found your letter,” her father observed from behind her. Miriam startled. She hadn’t noticed him sitting in his favorite leather chair reading the newspaper.
“Papa, I’ve met someone.” She clasped her hands in her skirts trying to quell her nerves. Livingston Walsh emerged from behind his newspaper inch by inch. First, his shock of black curls, cropped short and combed with oil to make it stick close to his scalp. Her unruly curls marked her as Livingston Walsh’s progeny. Next, his high, pale forehead. Here, too, Miriam bore her father’s stamp. Fortunately, her eyebrows weren’t as thick as the forest that formed an almost-solid line across her father’s brow.
“A friend?” he asked in a voice that sounded as if he gargled gravel. Livingston’s affection for tobacco had roughened his baritone into a tiger’s purr.
“A man,” Miriam clarified. The newspaper descended further to reveal an aquiline nose above an extravagant mustache. To her great relief she hadn’t inherited the facial hair, either. The bump in the center of her nose that matched his was enough to make her feel self-conscious. Then again, Miriam generally felt self-conscious about her appearance. As if her asthma wasn’t enough, her height, excessive mass of dark curls and bumpy nose usually left Miriam feeling more self-conscious than attractive—until she’d met Richard.
“A man?” The paper fell to the table. The last time Miriam had seen her father’s eyebrows knit together in such a glower they’d lost half their wealth in a crash. Miriam swallowed.
“Yes, Papa, a man. He wishes to call upon me.”
Her father tilted his chair back on its legs. Miriam fought the urge to press her toe against the bottom and send him sprawling backward. Recently, she’d begun to think of her father as aged, and as someone in need of coddling despite his robust health and wiry, strong physique. As a youth, she had been emboldened by her father’s indulgence of her abilities. It had led her to be insufficiently respectful of him. Yet her he continued to protect her as if she were the tiny child left in his care after her mother had died.
Miriam was no longer a child. She ached with the need for her father to understand that
“I suppose it’s time,” Livingston responded mildly.
“Time?” Miriam asked, arching one brow.
“You’re of age.” Wood squeaked and thumped downward. Livingston’s chair had settled back to earth. He laid his newspaper on the table, unfolded, in a heap of printed words. “Twenty-three is past time for a young lady to be interested in a suitor. Not that I will give my daughter to the first blighter who happens to come along.”
As if Miriam needed reminding. She retrieved the newspaper and folded it back, neatly running a one finger down the edge to make a crease. Rows of numbers faced upward, begging her to read them and discern their hidden meanings. For now, Miriam resisted the siren call of the daily report on activity at The New York Stock and Exchange. Today, there were more pressing matters that needed her attention.
“Although I am old enough to make my own decisions, I prefer to have your approval,” she said softly.
“Good girl.” Her father’s chin dipped. “If you believe this particular man is worthy of your time and affections, I wish to make his acquaintance. You, my dear, are a treasure not lightly bestowed.”
Miriam’s heart strained her bodice. She wasn’t foolish enough to believe Richard’s suit would be welcomed with open arms, considering his Englishness and affiliation with Lizzie, but her father had agreed to consider him. Given her father’s protectiveness, it was as optimistic an opening as she could hope for. A grin stretched her lips wide. “Thank you, papa.”
“Any man wise enough to win your heart is worth a few minutes of my time, Miri.”
Miriam thought of Richard’s warning on the beach.I am a very bad man,he’d said. Indeed, if he’d done half the things he claimed, Miriam wouldn’t trust him either. She didn’t believe his presentation of the facts, however. Not entirely. Anyone could see the grief and despair in the man’s eyes, if they bothered to look. She believed there was more to the story. No man killed his father and experienced the kind of remorse that Richard did without it being an accident.
He wasn’t a bad man, only lost.
More than anything, Miriam wanted to help him find his way home. Richard was a good man in a bad place, just like Lizzie was a good woman doing bad things because she was unhappy. No wonder the two had been attracted to one another. It was over now, yet Miriam didn’t feel entirely sanguine about taking up with her friend’s former lover.
She supposed she ought to feel a greater degree of condemnation toward Richard and Lizzie for commencing an extramarital affair, yet her father’s affairs had taught Miriam to be skeptical of marriage vows not honestly entered into. People married for any number of reasons. The only one that seemed to work over the long term was love. Even that was a roll of the dice.
“How are Marshall Walsh’s investments faring lately?” Livingston Walsh stretched as he stood up from the table, cracking his neck with a loud pop. Miriam’s gaze returned to the stock figures in the daily as if drawn by a magnet. She skimmed the top line. Her smile widened further.
“It should be a good report this month. Wheat has rebounded. The futures I bought in April are paying off.”
“You’ve accomplished great things with the small stake I lent you. You’ve an eye for wise investments, lass. Consider how you’d like to use your fortune.” Her father followed her into the breakfast room, where Mrs. Kent had laid out a simple luncheon. The dining room often went unused for weeks at a time, for they rarely entertained guests here in New York. They had another residence, Cliffside, for that.
“I will. Perhaps on an extravagant wedding gown,” Miriam teased. Her father cut his eyes at her. She’d managed to shock him.
