Page 26 of The Major's Mistake
There was a sudden stinging in her eyes. She turned her face towards the river and pressed her lids very tightly closed.
“Mama, I’m finished—may I have a piece of shortbread?”
She forced herself to smile. “Just one.”
He made a face but accepted his limit with nought but a small sigh. “What’s that?” he asked between bites, pointing to a long, thin package still wrapped in oilskin that lay behind the hampers.
Julian slanted an apologetic glance at Miranda. “Ah, I haven’t had a chance to ask your mother if you might take a look.”
Her brows came together in question.
“It’s a boat,” he explained in whisper. “There is a small stream nearby, and I thought … However I do not wish to overstep?—”
“A boat is quite acceptable, sir.” In a louder voice she said, “Justin, His Lordship has brought you a present. Come bring it here and unwrap it, love.”
The little boy carried it over and eagerly stripped the covering from a sleek wooden hull. His eyes lit up with awe at the sight of the brass fittings, varnished planking and brightly painted keel.
“Oh, thank you ever so much, Major. It’s smashing!” He turned to Miranda. “Mama. isn’t it the grandest boat in the world?”
“Indeed it is.”
“There is a mast and sails as well, waiting at home,” added Julian, nearly as pleased as Justin himself that the gift been received so well.
“May I take it down to the stream?” Before Miranda could answer, he added, “I shall be very careful not to muddy my shoes or tear my jacket, I promise.”
“I am more concerned that you do not end up in the water, my love, so mind where you step. And yes, of course you may see how she takes to the water, but don’t stray too far.”
Justin tucked it under his arm with the greatest of care and hurried off towards where a shallow stream twisted its way along the edge of the fields.
The marquess watched the boy’s retreating form until his small head was barely visible above the tall grass and clumps of gorse. Save for an occasional cricket or the chirp of a robin, there was silence.
Miranda’s hands tightened in her lap—she hadn’t considered that the two of them would be forced to spend any time alone. She stole a glance at Julian, whose attention was still riveted on Justin. He had removed his coat and his immaculate white linen shirt only emphasized the breadth of his muscled shoulders and taut planes of his chest. The fitted buckskins and polished Hessians were also of the finest quality and showed his form to perfection.
She looked quickly away. If anything, he was even more handsome than when she had first met him. The changes the years had wrought were, to her eyes, only for the better. The fine lines etched around his eyes softened the blind arrogance ofyouth and the set of his lips somehow bespoke of a firmer, wiser man.
Her breath caught in her throat. She had no illusions of how she must appear—thinner, plainer, poorer. No doubt he must be congratulating himself of being well rid of her.
To make matters worse, she once again felt the prick of tears. She couldn’t restrain a silent oath. Damnation, she knew it had been a mistake to come. A confused anger welled up inside her. Anger at herself for allowing self pity to rear its head, anger at Julian for reappearing in her life. After all, it was much easier to hate a phantom of her own imagination.
With a jerk of her skirts, she made to get up.
“You have been a wonderful mother, Miranda.”
His words, spoken softly, caught her totally off guard. She turned towards him in astonishment.
“What?”
He shifted uncomfortably on the blanket, but his eyes never wavered from hers.
“I said, you have raised him well.”
There was a sharp intake of breath. “I … I never expected to hear you say anything good about me.”
His brows came together for an instant. He looked as if to say something, then turned his gaze off towards the stream, where Justin was dancing along the shore, pushing at the bobbing hull with a long stick to free it from the rocky eddies. Finally, he gave a long sigh. “I wish I had known that I had a son all those years I was in the Peninsula. It would have made … a difference.”
His tone was not accusatory, merely one of regret.
Miranda twisted a bit of fabric in a hard knot. “It was not out of malice, sir,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Can you truly say you would have believed me if I had written of it?”
