“I apologize for my cruel words, Lady Miranda,” he said quietly.
“No need, Your Grace. You only said to my face what others say behind my back. Now, if I may have your leave?” Miranda replied in a dismissive tone.
But the duke wasn’t to be dismissed so easily. “How long will you be staying?”
“Three or four weeks at least.”
“Then, I’ll be certain to stop by again.”
“Don’t bother on my account,” Miranda jibed.
“Don’t worry, my dear marchioness,” Sussex drawled. “It’s no bother. Now that you’re here and we’re all suitably chaperoned, paying a call on Lady Abernathy is no bother at all.”
Miranda let him have the last word, but she stuck her tongue out at him as he turned his back to leave in a gesture that was completely immature and immensely satisfying.
Chapter Twenty-five
“After giving much thought to the matter, I have decided that letters from loved ones fighting abroad are as much a lifeline for those of us who wait for their safe return as our letters from home are for them. Those of us who wait hope for news with every breath and dread the same for we know not what it may bring. We dwell in the realm of make-believe. Where we make believe that our loved ones are fine, that they suffer no hardships, and that they long for home and the comfort of our arms. We pray it will be so. But we know that for many of us, that will not be the case…
—Alyssa, Lady Abernathy, diary entry, 16 July 1810
Alyssa didn’t see Miranda again until supper that night. She had spent the afternoon reading and rereading Griffin’s letters. And when she finished reading them, she began making lists of the items she would need for a new batch of herbal remedies for him and for his men, especially Eastman and Lieutenant Hughes. She lost track of time and forgot about Lady Miranda’s presence until Durham reminded her that she had a houseguest.
Alyssa hurried into the petite salon where a table had been laid for two. She had decided to use the small salon for dining, as it was an easier trek from the kitchens for the staff than the much larger dining hall. And she liked dining beneath the watchful eyes of the portraits of Lord and Lady Weymouth and that of the eight-year-old Griffin.
Alyssa curtsied as she entered the room. “I apologize for leaving you alone all afternoon, Lady St. Germaine, and for not being here”—she glanced around the salon—“when you appeared for supper.”
“Not at all, Alyssa.” Miranda waved Alyssa to her feet. “And please, no formalities. I know I’m a marchioness and you’re a viscountess, but this is your home now. You shouldn’t have to curtsy to anyone in it. Besides, we’ve become friends. You’re to call me Miranda, and I will call you Alyssa.”
“Thank you,” Alyssa said. “And for bringing my husband’s letters and allowing me a few private hours in which to read them. I’m afraid I’ve been a very poor hostess.”
“Not to worry,” Miranda said. “I made myself at home in the library.” She frowned. “It took me a few moments to discover the shelving system. I remembered it as being alphabetical.”
“I rearranged it,” Alyssa told her. “And I decided that since one can’t always remember the author or the name of the book one is seeking, shelving them according to subject matter made the most sense.” She glanced over at Miranda. “Of course, the subjects are grouped alphabetically. I created a sketch of the shelf arrangements in the library, labeling each subject, and posted copies on the tables beside each chair. I do hope you located the book you wanted.”
Miranda nodded an affirmative. “I used the sketch to locate Shakespeare’s works. I chose a volume of the bard’s comedies.” She smiled at Alyssa as they sat down for the first course. “Tell me, how is Griffin?”
Alyssa took a deep breath, then slowly expelled it. “He remains unharmed.”
“I’m delighted to hear it.”
Alyssa nodded. “I have been so very worried about him.” She turned to Miranda and related the impersonal bits of Griffin’s letters that could be shared. She had been disappointed to note that with the exception of his letter releasing her from all responsibility in her failure to live up to her end of their bargain by conceiving his heir, there was very little that Griffin wrote that couldn’t be shared with others.
Alyssa hoped he would share his feelings with her, but his letters gave only the merest hint of them. It was almost as if their nights together had never happened. He spoke of missing her, but not of loving her. And he rarely mentioned his physical need for her.
She understood.
Logically, she understood that Griffin had distanced himself from her. She had done the same.
He wrote of his life as a soldier.
She wrote of her life as mistress of Abernathy Manor.
Neither spoke of their deepest feelings or fears. And although she knew he had married her to fulfill an obligation, Alyssa never gave up hoping that one day, Griffin would speak of his feelings or at the very least, sign his letters with love.
“What about the Duke of Sussex?” Miranda asked.
“What about him?” Alyssa was puzzled.