Page 10 of Refining the Debutante
“Jane,” Miranda whispered, pulling her close. “I have much to tell of my own, and I really must make haste.”
Jane leaned toward her. “Of course, dear friend, you must tell me!” She looped her arm with Miranda’s and pulled her into her family’s opulent sitting room. Gold-colored curtains were pulled closed for the evening, and candlelight illuminated the many paintings of Venice and Rome.
“This is for your ears only. Promise me.” Miranda and Jane took a seat close to one another.
Jane crossed her heart with her hand. “I am the soul of discretion. You know that.”
While Jane gossiped with her about other families, Miranda knew she could be trusted with her secret. “It is my father. He has fled London. We have lost everything.”
Jane gasped. “You are ruined?”
“Through and through.”
“No, it is not fair!” Jane cried, sitting up straight in her seat.
“Trust me, I feel it keenly.”
“But where shall you go?”
Miranda stared hard at her. “Here, I hope. You must take me in.”
Jane’s face paled. She said nothing for a good, long minute. Then she stood and backed away from Miranda. “You know I cannot. My parents are leaving for Bath. I am to travel to our Sussex estate to be with Ethan and my sister, Hannah.”
Miranda dropped her gaze. The last thing she could do was ask Ethan to rescue her. “Perhaps if you and I were to go to Bath. Couldn’t you ask your parents?”
“You ask too much. You cannot expect me to speak with you after this. We cannot even be friends.”
Miranda’s eyes darted upward again. “Cannot be friends? What nonsense.”
The anguish in Jane’s face disappeared and was replaced with a hardened expression. “I can’t let anything hold me back.”
Jane’s words slapped Miranda in the face and took away her breath. She had flippantly said the same thing to Jane at the ball. “Jane, you are misapplying my words.” She searched for a trace of compassion but saw only insecurity and fear in Jane’s eyes. Or perhaps it was a reflection of Miranda’s own desperate feelings.
“Surely you would do the same,” Jane said quickly. “Please do not come back.”
Would Miranda abandon Jane if the situation were reversed? Shame erupted like an ugly pox on her soul, and deep down she knew the answer. Being poor was worse than having a disease. Miranda’s blood pulsed in her veins, and she stood abruptly. Her only hope lay with her uncle at Gray House. Time would not allow her to tarry another moment.
Jane turned her back on Miranda, cutting off any need for a goodbye. Miranda swallowed back the pain of another rejection and hurried from the room. She hid under the hood of her cloak, knowing anonymity was safest, and departed the house. Sarah was waiting for her in the carriage, looking curious and worried. Once shut inside, Miranda turned away from her maid and laid her head on the velvet upholstery. Silent tears coursed down her cheeks. She had not a single person to turn to.
No real friends.
Chapter 5
Gray House, Kent
A house had never lookedmore unwelcoming. The cool gray stone of the building matched the glimpses of the billowing ocean she’d seen from her carriage window. Alone the house might have been passably pretty, but it was cast in a shadow from the storm clouds threatening to unleash a torrent of rain. Everything in Miranda’s sight seemed to quiver in the wind. Even the overgrown juniper shrubs seemed to reach out as if to snatch her. When the door opened, she stepped into the unfamiliar place with great trepidation.
“Miss Bartley to see Lord Aldington,” she said in a shaky voice she hardly recognized as her own. “I’m his niece.”
The butler’s look was cold and curious, but he motioned her inside. He directed her to the drawing room, and Sarah followed her inside. The furniture was dated, the room absent of accents of color, and the hearth cold. This was where she was to live?
She sat on the edge of a sofa, and Sarah took a seat near her. Something about this room struck her as odd. Whether it was a feeling or an observation, she could not be sure, but it seemed as if no one had used this room in ages. Miranda pulled at her elegant sleeves trimmed with lace. At least she had been able to pack a few decent dresses in her haste to leave London. Her uncle would see a real lady as his guest and would not dare turn her away. Miranda lifted her chin. Money was not the only making of a lady.
Miranda turned when the door opened to present her uncle.
The man before her looked to be the same age as her father, with the same salt-and-pepper hair. In contrast, her uncle was taller and had long whiskers that stretched to his mouth. From his rumpled clothes to his facial features, everything about him drooped.
“Why have you come?” he asked without so much as a greeting.
