Miracles (Westmoreland Saga 4)

“Yes, I do!”

It was their first harsh argument, and Julianna hated it.

Her grandmother regarded her in serene silence before asking, “Do you know what I shall miss when I leave this earth?”

“Nothing, evidently.”

“I shall miss one thing and one thing alone.” When Julianna didn’t ask for an explanation, her grandmother provided it: “I shall miss you.”

The answer was in such opposition to her unemotional voice and bland features that Julianna stared dubiously at her.

“I shall miss your humor and your confidences and your amazing gift for seeing the logic behind both sides of any issue. I shall particularly miss reading what you’ve written each day. You have been the only bright spot in my existence.”

As she finished, she walked forward and laid her cool hand on Julianna’s cheek, brushing away the tears trickling from the corner of her eye. “We are kindred spirits, you and I. If you had been born much sooner, we would have been bosom friends.”

“We are friends,” Julianna whispered fiercely as she placed her own hand over her grandmother’s and rubbed her cheek against it. “We will be friends forever and always! When you are . . . gone, I shall still confide in you and write for you—shall write letters to you as if you had merely moved away!”

“What a diverting idea,” her grandmother teased. “And will you also post them to me?”

“Of course not, but you’ll know what I have written nonetheless.”

“What makes you think that?” she asked, genuinely puzzled.

“Because I heard you tell the vicar very bluntly that it is illogical to assume that the Almighty intends to let us lie around dozing until Judgment Day. You said that, having repeatedly warned us that we shall reap what we sow, God is more likely to insist we observe what we have sown from a much wider viewpoint.”

“I do not think it wise, my dear, for you to put more credence in my theological notions than in those of the good vicar. I shouldn’t like for you to waste your talent writing to me after I’m gone, instead of writing something for the living to read.”

“I shan’t be wasting my time,” Julianna said with a confident smile, one of their familiar debates over nonsense lifting her spirits. “If I write you letters, I have every faith you will contrive a way to read them wherever you may be.”

“Because you credit me with mystical powers?”

“No,” Julianna teased, “because you cannot resist correcting my spelling!”

“Impertinent baggage,” her grandmother huffed, but she smiled widely and her fingers spread, linking with Julianna’s for a tight, affectionate squeeze.

The following year, on the eve of Christmas, her grandmother died, holding Julianna’s hand one last time. “I’ll write to you, Grandmama.” Julianna wept as her grandmother’s eyes closed forever. “Don’t forget to watch for my letters. Don’t forget.”

4

IN THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED, Julianna wrote her dozens of letters, but as one lonely month drifted into another, the empty monotony of her life provided little worth writing about. The sleepy little village of Blintonfield remained the boundary of her world, and so she filled her time with reading and secret dreams of going off to London when she received her inheritance at eighteen. There she would meet interesting people and visit museums while she worked diligently on her writing. When she sold some of her work, she would bring her two little brothers to London often, so they could broaden their knowledge and share the wonders of the world beyond their little village.

After a few attempts to share this dream with her mama, Julianna realized it was wiser to say nothing because her mother was horrified and annoyed by the whole idea. “It’s beyond considering, dear. Respectable, unmarried young ladies do not live alone, particularly in London. Your reputation would be ruined, completely ruined!” She was no more enthusiastic about any mention of books or writing. Lady Skeffington’s interest in reading material was limited exclusively to the Society pages of the daily papers, where she religiously followed the doings of the Ton. She considered Julianna’s fascination with history and philosophy and her desire to become an author almost as appalling as Julianna’s wish to live on her own in London. “Gentlemen do not like a female who is too clever, dear,” she warned repeatedly. “You’re entirely too bookish. If you don’t learn to keep all this fustian about philosophy to yourself, your chances of receiving a marriage offer from any truly eligible gentlemen will be ruined!”

Until a few months before the masquerade ball, the subject of a London Season for Julianna had never been discussed as a possibility.

Although Julianna’s father was a baronet, his ancestors had long before squandered whatever modest fortune and lands that went with the title. His only legacy from his forebears was a thoroughly amiable and placid disposition that enabled him to ignore all of life’s difficulties and a great fondness for wine and spirits. He had no desire to leave his favorite chair, let alone the secluded little village that was his birthplace. He was, however, not proof against his wife’s determination, nor her ambitions for their little family.

In the end, neither was Julianna.

Three weeks after Julianna received her inheritance, as she was writing more letters of inquiry to the London papers about lodgings, her mother excitedly summoned the entire family to the salon for an unprecedented family council. “Julianna,” she exclaimed, “your father and I have something thrilling to tell you!” She

paused to beam at Julianna’s father, who was still reading the newspaper. “Don’t we, John?”

“Yes, my dove,” he murmured without looking up.

After an admonishing look at Julianna’s two young brothers, who were arguing over the last biscuit, she clasped her hands in delight and transferred her gaze to Julianna. “It is all arranged!” she exclaimed. “I have just received a letter from the owner of a little house in London in a respectable neighborhood. He has agreed to let us have it for the rest of the Season for the paltry amount I was able to offer! Everything else has been arranged and deposits paid in advance. I have hired a Miss Sheridan Bromleigh, who will be your lady’s maid and occasional chaperone, and who will help look after the boys. She is an American, but then one must make do when one cannot afford to pay decent wages.

“Dear heaven, your gowns were expensive, but the vicar’s wife assures me the modiste I hired is quite competent, though not capable of the sort of intricate designs you will see worn by the young ladies of the Ton. On the other hand, I daresay few of them have your beauty, so it all works out quite evenly. Someday soon you will have gowns to go with your looks, and you will be the envy of all! You’ll have jewels and furs, coaches, servants at your beck and call. . . .”

Julianna had felt a momentary burst of elation at the mention of inexpensive lodgings in London, but new gowns and a lady’s maid had never been in the family budget, nor were they in her budget. “I don’t understand, Mama. What has happened?” she asked, wondering if some unknown relative had died and left them a fortune.

“What has happened is that I have managed to put your small inheritance to grand use—and in a manner that will pay excellent returns, I am sure.”

Julianna’s mouth opened in a silent cry of furious protest, but she was incapable of speech for the moment—which Lady Skeffington evidently mistook for shared ecstasy.

“Yes, it is all true! You are going to London for the Season, where we will contrive a way for you to mingle with all the right people! While we are there, I have every confidence you will captivate some eligible gentleman who will make you a splendid offer. Perhaps even the Earl of Langford, whose estates are said to be beyond compare. Or Nicholas DuVille, who is one of the richest men in England and France and is about to inherit a Scottish title from a relative of his mama. I have it from several unimpeachable sources that the Earl of Langford and the Earl of Glenmore—which is what DuVille will be called—are considered to be the two most desirable bachelors in Europe! Just imagine how envious the Ton will be when little Julianna Skeffington captures one of those men for a husband.”