Page 15 of Refining the Debutante
Scripture? What an odd child. “I’m sure you were quite adept.”
“I’m jesting, Mr. Roderick.” Miss Withers snapped her fan shut. “I would have likely been here making rafts with you, but my mother insisted I keep my dresses clean. I did like to mix water with berries and spices to make watercolors for painting rocks. It’s not as quaint as embroidery, but it passed the time.”
Ethan relaxed. “How inventive. If we had known each other in our youth, you could have painted our rafts for us.”
“You would have loved the hearts and swirls I perfected.”
Ethan chuckled. Maybe Miss Withers had some personality after all. He enjoyed the diverse natures people possessed, but it was the selfishness he could not stomach. Miss Withers was proving to be a happy combination of both sweet and amusing.
She dropped her fan in her lap—a sure sign she wished to be only friends—or to begin as friends. “Shall we join your sisters in skipping rocks? I have always enjoyed the simple sport.”
“If it pleases you.” He stood and brushed off his backside. They just needed more time to get to know each other. He could not let his impatience to get over Miranda—or a silly fan—ruin a perfectly good opportunity.
Chapter 8
During her month at GrayHouse, Miranda had stumbled upon her uncle only on a few occasions, but each time he carried a glass swirling with wine or brandy. As a child, she’d adopted a hatred of her uncle from her father, but now she feared him. The constant drinking turned him into an unreal person—one with glassy eyes and a heavy countenance.
Lord Aldington lacked presence of mind during his drunken stupors, leaving the control of the house to Mrs. Guttridge, who domineered even the butler. Miranda found Mrs. Guttridge to be the lesser evil during times such as these, as she and the housekeeper had come to an impasse. Miranda was no longer treated as a maid but as an outcast. Mrs. Guttridge kept her away from all the staff, but she would not have Miranda idle. So Miranda spent the majority of her time on the monotonous task of sweeping and mopping the many corridors in the manor, staying out of the others’ way. Unlike the days slowly passing, the repressive feeling at Gray House never faded. Miranda was tired, always hungry, and fiercely lonely.
After another long day of chores, fatigue pulled at Miranda’s eyes. She finished her supper at a table by herself in the kitchen, then climbed the stairs to her small corner bedroom that was isolated from the rest of the house. She pulled open the door to her room to discover two footmen, Alan and Kurt, neither of whom she knew well, tossing her expensive gowns into her trunk.
“What is happening? I demand you release my things.”
The two looked at her and returned to packing.
Panic ripped through her. “Stop! Stop this instant! Why are you doing this?”
Alan, who had more freckles than his fair share, cast her a disinterested gaze. “Mrs. Guttridge ordered your dresses sold.”
Shock nearly knocked Miranda’s feet out from under her. A wave of emotion came with such a rush that it expelled from her mouth in a sound of unfettered rage. She ran forward and attacked the men with her fists. “Get out of here, you scoundrels! Get your filthy fingers off my things. I hate you! I hate you horrible, ruthless people.”
The men laughed at her but retreated, leaving her trunk spilling over with her things and slamming the door in their wake. In a feverish fervor, Miranda rushed to her trunk. She threw the gowns aside and located her writing box. Her tired fingers, flustered from emotion, fumbled for the penknife. She took it to the corner of the room and used the knife to pull up a floor panel. The tip broke, but she cared not for the damage. Down in the small hole went her jewelry—buried where no one could steal it. She had a few fine pieces, including a lovely garnet ring, and not a one would find its way into Mrs. Guttridge’s hands.
When her precious things were safe, Miranda leaned her head against her bedpost. A candle flickered from somewhere in the room, likely left from the footmen, but she did not register where. All she saw and felt was darkness pressing into her. A wail slipped from her lips, followed by sobs. She cried for the loss of her father, for her comforts, for the life she once had. She cried for the destruction of her hopes and dreams. And she cried because no one in the world cared at all. It seemed that even God had abandoned her.
Hugging herself, she wondered, if she disappeared right now, whether anyone would even notice. With her eyes pressed closed, her heart conjured an image of Ethan wrapping his arms around her. She recreated his smell in her mind and imagined his soothing words calming her frightening thoughts. As unworthy as she was, thinking of his goodness—his gentle smile—eased the torment inside of her. She focused on the memory of his smile and curled up on the floor.
Hours later, she moved to her bed. Fully clothed, with only a nub of candle still burning, she awoke to the sound of Sarah’s voice. When Miranda opened her eyes, only Sarah’s head and one shoulder were visible behind the barely open door to the room.
“Forgive me for waking you, but are you all right, miss?”
“I am not myself.” Miranda blinked slowly, her heavy lids swollen from a river of tears.
She expected Sarah to leave her alone again, but she didn’t. “I heard about your clothes. Everyone is saying Mrs. Guttridge wished to sell them and pocket the money.” Sarah motioned to the disarray on the floor. “Would you like me to help you put the room to rights?”
Perhaps someone would have noticed after all if Miranda disappeared. Sarah would have noticed. Relief gave Miranda the strength to pull herself into a sitting position. “Why would you even offer? You do not have to help me anymore. I am not the one paying you. You should leave this forsaken place while you can.”
Sarah looked over her shoulder as if searching for eavesdroppers. Then she entered the room and closed the door behind her. “Miss—”
“Miranda. Call me Miranda. I am no different from you now. I do not deserve any respect in your reference to me.”
“Perhaps you don’t deserve it,” Sarah said. “You’ve never been kind to me.”
The truth pierced Miranda. She cringed as she remembered all the rude, flippant words she had thrown at Sarah over the years. Never had she said thank you or inquired after Sarah’s well-being. For the first time, she felt embarrassed for her behavior. Though, she would take back her past life in an instant.
Sarah shrugged. “You cannot help the life you were born into.”
Miranda stared at the threadbare quilt on her bed. “It is true experience is a great teacher. Still, a person always has a choice.” She thought of Ethan and squeezed her eyes shut. “I wish I would have thought twice before making mine.”
