She tugged her hand away from Pippa. “Do you also believe a man would only be interested in me because of my beauty?” she cried. “Oh, Pippa, I do not want that! I want the gentleman whom I marry to see beyond that and see me! I want this even as I wonder who I am, Pippa. But I am most certain, I want to love the man I marry and also to know beyond doubt that he loves me just as ardently. I want to share my fears and dreams, and failures as they come and know I will always find comfort in his arms. Is it silly of me to hunger for this?”
Pippa smiled gently. "Oh, Miranda, it is an inescapable fact that you are lovely. You enter a room and men stare covetously, ladies glower in envy, many mothers worry you will outshine their daughters. Each season you receive numerous offers which your mother rejects. It is inevitable a man will see your beauty first, but I daresay if he is worth his salt, he will hunger to know the passionate heart that beats within you. And if he is fortunate for you to return his regard, he will then discover how kind and caring you are. How filled with good fun and humor, how passionate you are about art and music and I daresay he will love you.”
She hugged her friend tightly. “Thank you, Pippa, I needed to hear this.”
“I missed you,” Pippa said softly, returning her fierce embrace. “I miss our long walks and talks. Let’s promise nothing should ever come between us again.”
“I promise it,” Miranda said.
Almost an hour later she made her way home, a new purpose growing in unchecked leaps and bounds in her heart. From the age of twelve, she had been relentlessly groomed on how to become a wife, how to organize and run a household, and how to select charitable organizations to sponsor. Most attachments she’d observed throughout the seasons appeared cold and impersonal, with both ladies and their lords seeking other lovers to soothe the heartache of loneliness. She couldn’t endure such a union. The notion of marrying a gentleman for his monetary worth and title, without possessing an ounce of regard for the man no longer sat well with her.
Miranda hungered to find her own place within the world which did not solely follow her mamma’s guidance. She did want a prince of her own, a gentleman who would love her as she would love him, a gentleman with whom she could build a happy life and home. But for the first time since Miranda’s come out four years ago, she secretly pledged to only marry a man she loved and one who possessed similar sentiments.
The Marquess of Blythe was the next man her mother had deemed a perfect match for her daughter. Such was his consequences that he could pick any of the debutantes of the season and they would fall gratefully at his feet. It was generally thought his age of five and fifty could be overlooked for his vast fortune and immeasurable connection. Indeed, her mother expected her to overlook the matter, and completely ignore that she would want to marry for a more tender sentiment.
This time she was determined to be the one to choose the man she wished to walk with, to dance with at balls, and to admire. Don’t worry, Mamma, I will ensure he is a prince…or a duke! And that way she would not disappoint her family’s expectation of her, but she would also be true to her heart.
Chapter 2
Simon Percival Astor lifted the young child atop his head to her delight and started a riveting story of wicked witches, princesses, and princes as they strolled along the eastern sections of his estate. The young girl, Emma who had recently recovered from influenza, chortled and gripped tufts of his hair in her excitement.
“Oh, and what happened to the princess after she bit the apple from the wicked witch?” Emma demanded breathlessly.
Simon winced at another tug at his hair, but carried on, his four wolfhounds yipping with excitement at his heels. It had been a fight to save six year-old Emma’s life, and she had been in his home and under his care for almost three weeks. Her mother, his housekeeper, would be quite relieved at her daughter’s progress. They moved at a very brisk pace, for in the distance the breeze moved the clouds swollen with rain closer to him. The deluge would arrive any minute now, and he needed to get little Emma to shelter before it came. It would not do for her to be soaked only days after leaving the sickbed.
“Hurry, Dr. Astor,” the child yelled, as a fat drop of rain splattered on the ground. “The rain is coming!”
Holding firmly to her knees dangling over each of his shoulders, Simon broke into a light, careful run. The child screamed her glee, before breaking into fits of cough. He listened keenly to hear if that awful rattle lingered on her chest and was pleased it did not. They made it inside safely, and with the swift agility of a monkey she clambered down his back with his assistance.
Her mother, Mrs. Clayton, hurried down the hallway, her hands twisting in her apron. The child barreled toward her and was soon swept up into a hug.
“Doctor,” Mrs. Clayton said, “Jim was calling for you. There was a carriage accident by the river, and he fears people might have been hurt, Sir!”
“Are the carriages on the bridge? Or did they make it safely over?”
The housekeeper’s face creased with concern. “On it, Sir.”
Biting back a curse, he ran to his study, grabbed his medical bag and hurried from the manor. The housekeeper had smartly called for his horse, and the small carriage had been readied and waiting. He vaulted onto his horse and nodded to Jim, the coachman. "Follow at a good speed, my man, I will ride ahead." Then he surged away, uncaring the skies had opened, and rain pounded down furiously.
The bridge abutted his land only three miles to the east and was known to collapse when the rivers were swollen from a deluge. It took several minutes riding at top speed along the muddied lanes before Simon reached the crash site, and a cursory glance did not show any fatalities. He sent a swift prayer for small mercies as he dismounted and hurried over. The carriages seemed to have collided trying to pass each other on the narrow bridge. He had paid for significant repairs to be done on the bridge only a few months past, and the slats and ropes seemed to be holding steady. The waters below churned violently, it was an intimidating sight to behold.
Simon hurried to a carriage where three men were busy unloading traveling bags and roping them together. He assumed the coachman and his tiger, and perhaps a footman. Clearly, this first carriage belonged to a family of wealth.
“I’m a doctor,” he shouted to be heard over the pounding rain. “Where are the injured?”
The door opened, and inside the darkened carriage he made out the form of three ladies and a gentleman. They seemed more frightened than harmed. One of the ladies’ back was to him as she pressed a lace handkerchief to another woman's forehead who appeared to be unconscious. He hopped into the darkened interiors of the carriage, seeing that the oil from the carriage lantern had spilled.
“Who are you?” the man clipped in tight accents, glancing up from the prostrate woman.
“I’m the doctor.”
“I’m Viscount Sutton, and my mother needs immediate attention.”
Simon turned to the lady in the left corner who held her arm as if pained. He deduced from her dress she was a traveling companion, a maid within their household. "Are you hurt?" he asked gently, seeing the glaze of shock in her eyes.
She shook her head and pressed a hand to her trembling lips.
The young lady of quality bent over the prostrate lady glanced up, but he was unable to discern her features.