Page 22 of The Major's Mistake
A humorless smile ghosted across Julian’s lips. “Yes, rather shocking, is it not?” His hands came up to rub at his temples. “I would take it as a great favor if you would pardon my harsh reaction of earlier tonight. You see, Mrs. Ransford—” He was speaking very deliberately, taking great care to control the tremor in his voice. “—Mrs. Ransford is my … former wife.”
“Good Lord.” Sykes blinked several times. “You had no notion, then, that she was living here?”
He shook his head. “She went to live with my great aunt, Lady Thornton, in Scotland. It was only recently that Sophia inherited a small property in this area.”
There was a long silence. “I’m sorry, guv,” said Sykes quietly. “It is no wonder you’ve been in a rare taking lately. I mean, what with the stirring of old memories and such.”
The marquess let out a ragged sigh. “That’s not the worst of it. I have just learned I have … a son. He’s six years old and I never knew he existed.”
The ex-batman’s eyes flooded with compassion. He remained silent, sensing that any words would be woefully inadequate. After several moments, he simply walked to the bedside and placed his hand on Julian’s shoulder. “Come on guv, let me help you downstairs. I think both of us could do with a liberal shot of brandy.”
Miranda hefted the large basket.The weight was considerable, but there really was nothing to be done about it. The herder’s widow was still abed with a high fever and by the look of the eldest boy who had come to request her help—a lad not much older than Justin—the brood of children must not have had a decent meal in several days.
She glanced up at the leaden skies and pulled the thin shawl a little more tightly around her shoulders. It was unfortunate that the cart horse was still nursing a strained left hock, but perhaps the rain would hold off until she had returned.
A raw gust rustled through the rosebushes. Lady Thornton came to the door, a look of concern crossing her face as she eyed the heavy load. “I’m sure that Angus or Jem would be happy to take that to Mrs. Smythe for you, my dear. I cannot like the idea of you trying to manage that basket for such a distance.”
Miranda shook her head doggedly. “Both of them are in the middle of replacing a rotted timber in the hayloft and I’ll not make extra work for them. Besides, the poor woman is still very ill and mayhap it would be best that I look in on her again.”
Her aunt knew it was useless to argue when it came to the needs of others. “At least take my cloak. The day promises to become even nastier.”
“I shall be quite fine, Aunt Sophia.” Her fingers curled around the basket’s handle. “You know I don’t mind a bit of a walk.”
An hour later, her spirits had become considerably dampened. A light mizzle had blown through, spitting just enough rain to soak through her thin garments and chill her to the bone. Her arms felt like leaden weights from the strain of basket and her bare fingers were chafed and blistered from the rough willow.
She set down her load for a moment and clasped her hands together, trying to rub some warmth back into them. It wasn’t that much farther, she noted. She set her teeth and forced herself to start moving once again.
It was with great relief that a short time later she spotted the widow’s small stone cottage nestled by a copse of elm not far off the road. But any hope of respite from the elements was dashed by the sight of the smokeless chimney and lack of any light emanating from the tiny windows. Indeed, it was nearly as cold and damp inside the stone structure as outside. With an inward sigh, Miranda put her basket down on the earthen floor and set to work.
After laying out a portion of the food she had brought for the five hungry children, she kindled just enough of a fire to heat some water. The sick woman lay on a narrow pallet by the far wall, her slight form wracked occasionally by fit of coughing. Miranda had brought along a crock of poultice, and on examination of her patient, applied a thick greenish paste to the widow’s sunken chest. From a small burlap bag she chose several packets of herbs and brewed a strong-smelling tisane. With much gentle urging, the woman was coaxed into swallowing a small dose.
Miranda then stepped back from the pallet and joined the children at the rough pine table where they had already finishedthe pot of stew and loaf of freshly baked bread. She showed the eldest boy the herbal potion she had made. “Joseph, you must see that your mother drinks a glass of this once more before nightfall and twice during the night. Can you do that?”
He nodded solemnly.
She reached out and patted his skinny shoulder. “I know you can. And you must keep an eye on your brothers and sisters, for you are the man of the house, and see that they have their supper.” She took out more packages from the basket and placed them in the small cupboard. “I will come again tomorrow.”
“Will my Mama get better?” he asked in a small voice.
Miranda swallowed hard. “I shall do everything in my power to see that she does.”
Outside, the skies had become even greyer, a shade that matched her mood. The woman should recover this time, but the grinding poverty and constant fight to feed six mouths would eventually take their toll.
The thought suddenly made Miranda feel very weary. Very weary and very alone in the face of the overwhelming odds. Her eyes fell closed for a moment and she felt the sting of tears against the lids.
Was it worth the effort to fight against the vagaries of life?
Just as quickly she gave a fierce shake of her head to banish such thoughts. Somehow she had managed to weather worse storms without being dashed to bits on the rocks. She wasn’t about to let herself go adrift now.
With a determined set of her shoulders, she shifted the basket to the other hand and started for home.
As she trudged around yet another bend in the road, the sound of a carriage moving at a fast clip caught her ear. She moved off onto the grassy verge to allow a matched pair of greys to trot by in perfect stride. Justin would no doubt be in raptures over such magnificent animals, she thought as they passed. Theelegant phaeton was no less impressive, though in truth, she was so tired she scarcely noticed. It was only when it pulled to a sudden halt that her eyes came up to meet the marquess’s steely gaze.
His mouth quirked in a slight frown.
Miranda’s own expression tightened as she realized what a sorry picture she must present. Still, he had no right to make his disgust of her so obvious. She quickly turned and began walking again, the pace of her steps fueled by anger and embarrassment.
To her great surprise, the phaeton moved on only until it was abreast of her, then stopped once more.
