Page 23 of Refining the Debutante
There was a glint of her old self in there, but Ethan reeled with what was missing. It was more than her sunken features; it was like seeing a completely different person underneath. Was poverty always so soul-crushing?
“Where are you living?” Ethan asked.
Miranda glanced around her before answering. “With Lord Aldington at Gray House.”
“Gray House? Your uncle has subjected you to this squalor?” He blurted the words with little tact.
“You know him?” Miranda asked, giving him a furtive glance.
“My mother mentioned you had gone to live with your relation, but I could not recall his name.” Ethan stared at her in disbelief. Her eyes were telling him one thing, but his mind reasoned against it. “Surely your own uncle—”
“No.” Miranda stopped him. “He has no use for me. Please, I do not care to talk about it. You have seen me as I am, and we must leave you now.”
Miranda stood, and Ethan motioned for her to return to her seat. “Please, you must eat first. I did not ask you to come simply to gawk at you. I am merely startled to find you have been so mistreated.”
“Tell the Society papers, will you? I would hate to surprise anyone else.” Her sharp voice was more in line with the spirited Miranda he knew, but the harshness was not so familiar.
He thought she would bolt from the room, but a maid with a tray of steaming bowls blocked her path. Miranda begrudgingly retook her seat. Her companion nudged her in the shoulder.
“I apologize,” Miranda said with emotional reticence. “Thank you for the meal.”
“You are welcome.” No matter how he tried, he could not reconcile the skittish woman in front of him with the overconfident debutante from London. “Please, eat as much as you’d like. I can order more.”
“We are not pigs, Your Lordship.” Miranda might have been disconsolate and humbled, but she still had a little fight left in her.
“No, of course not,” Ethan said. He didn’t want to argue with her—just help her. “Pigs have more meat on their bones.”
Her companion giggled and then coughed to cover it up.
Miranda did not even attempt a retort. The rest of the meal continued in silence. When the bowls had been emptied and all the rolls devoured, Ethan followed the two women back to the street in front of the inn.
He didn’t know how to say goodbye. He tugged awkwardly at his gloves. Could he leave her like this? What choice did he have? “It was good to see you again.”
She nodded in agreement
“The wind is picking up. Can I call for a carriage for you?”
“No, we will walk, thank you.”
“You must hurry, then, before you catch a cold or worse in those wet things. I’ve never seen such severe weather in late August.” Why was he bringing up the weather? He hedged for a moment. “I will be in town for a few weeks more. Perhaps our paths will cross again.” As he said it, he realized he wasn’t just offering platitudes, and he relaxed his posture. He wanted to see Miranda again—as her friend—to reassure himself of her well-being.
“That would not be wise,” Miranda said simply, tucking her cloak closer. “Good day, sir.”
The two women hurried off, and Ethan resisted the temptation to follow. Not so very long ago, he had thought himself in love with Miranda, so he reasoned it was natural to want to care for her. Thankfully, he had Miss Withers to think of now. With his feelings in check, he could honestly admit that his run-in with Miranda was no coincidence. She would not be in this current situation if he had not walked away from their relationship. If they had been engaged, he would have been duty bound to marry her no matter her circumstance.
He adjusted the tightness of his cravat, unintentionally yanking it to the side.
He would have to tread lightly. Very lightly. The cold humidity left behind from the rain made him shiver. Or was it his body warning him? An instinct to run as far away from Miranda as possible? She was a hard woman to forget, and that alone made her extremely dangerous.
Chapter 11
Miranda woke with a scratchythroat and a cough, no doubt from her restless night consumed with thoughts of Ethan. Questions nagged at her. Had he heard her family name bandied about at every party? She blushed further at the thought of Ethan seeing her dressed as a vagrant. It had taken hours to wash the mud from her clothes, and her hands were still red from the lye. She tied an apron about her waist, noting how easy it had been to exchange gloves for aprons. What must Ethan think of her? Was he relieved he had not attached himself to a woman connected to a scandal? She would have to imagine the answers, because she would be sure to never run into him again.
She made her way down to the kitchen for breakfast and noticed more than one servant coughing. It seemed her malady was not from emotional strain but a passing illness. She took a seat at the table, away from the others, and grimaced at the watery porridge set in front of her.
“How is it that I eat worse than the servants?” She lifted the gruel into her spoon and let it drain back into her bowl. A few other maids at the other end of the room turned and stared at Miranda oddly. She had begun talking to herself the week before. And why not? Besides Sarah, the other servants took great pains to avoid her. The loneliness was utterly consuming at times.
“The hot liquid will ease the throat pain,” Miranda muttered. “You will see.” She took a bite and nearly choked. They may as well be feeding her glue now! She swallowed before she could gag it back up and gulped the water from her glass. “Insufferable! My tongue just died a thousand deaths.” She didn’t know if it was her throat or if there was something different about today’s fare, but it was not worth a second bite to formulate a proper guess.
