night for shocks of all kinds—her hand at her throat, she fought to catch her breath. “Aunt—you frightened me.”
“Indeed, miss—and you frighten me.” Gladys glared at her, then gestured with her cane. “Where have you been, heh? Coming inside at such an hour—how many times have you heard me say—”
“I was merely walking in the gardens. Roderick had gone out—you know I can’t sleep until he gets home, so I was wasting time until he did.”
Gladys humphed. “He came in a good half hour ago—he’s probably already snoring.”
“Yes, I know—I got distracted.” By London’s gambling king.
“You need to be more careful, my girl.” Gladys ponderously turned and started to heave her considerable bulk back up the stairs. “Never forget you can’t afford even a whisper of improper behavior.”
Following, Miranda let her aunt’s well-rehearsed admonitions flow over her; she’d heard the litany so many times the words were engraved on her soul.
Gladys halted at the top of the stairs, forcing Miranda to halt lower down. Turning her head, Gladys bent a sharp look down at Miranda and delivered her invariable culminating exhortation. “You don’t want to end like your mother and your sister, do you?”
Stifling a sigh, Miranda dutifully replied, “No, Aunt. I don’t.”
Gladys humphed again, then waddled on to her room. “Roderick’s a wealthy gentleman—society won’t bat an eye over him coming in late. But you, girl—just one false step and your reputation will be shredded. Never forget—respectability is all.”
On that ringing note, Gladys stomped through the open door to her room and shut it.
Suddenly feeling claustrophobic, Miranda dragged in a breath, let it out on a sigh, then continued down the corridor, and into her room at its end.
Closing the door, she paused, all but palpably feeling the restraints of her aunt’s doctrine of inviolate respectability cinching around her.
Weighing her down. Hemming her in.
Trapping her. Smothering her.
While she’d been focused on saving Roderick, through her interaction with Roscoe and the walk back to the house, that feeling of being smothered, of being restricted and restrained—of being, as the Bard had put it, “cabined, cribbed, confined”—had weakened, eased.
Grimacing, she walked to her dressing table and started getting ready for bed. Tonight had been a momentary escape. A fleeting few hours in a different world, one that operated under different license.
But this was her real life, where she had to guard against putting so much as a toe wrong, where if she was ever to have a life of her own she had to, at all times and in all ways, adhere without the slightest deviation to propriety’s dictates.
Courtesy of those few hours of freedom, the returning weight of society’s expectations felt heavier than ever, a millstone around her neck. One that, according to her aunts, she especially could never escape.
Not if she expected to have more of a life than her ill-fated mother and sister.
Gown and chemise doffed, her nightgown donned, she lifted the covers and slid into bed. Turning on her side, she gazed at the window—at the moonlit night outside.
“Sometimes, I wonder.” Her voice was so low she barely heard the words. “They might have died, but at least for a few years they were happy.”
After a moment, she settled her cheek on the pillow, closed her eyes, and sank into slumber within her prescribed world—the one in which respectability ruled.
Chapter Two
M iranda next came face-to-face with her aunt over the breakfast table the following morning.
Iron-gray hair scraped back in a tight bun, her heavy figure concealed beneath multiple layers of fluttering draperies, already engaged with reading her correspondence, Gladys merely hmmed when Miranda greeted her.
Sitting and thanking Hughes, their butler, for the fresh pot of tea he set before her, Miranda busied herself with pouring a cup, then helped herself
“Indeed, miss—and you frighten me.” Gladys glared at her, then gestured with her cane. “Where have you been, heh? Coming inside at such an hour—how many times have you heard me say—”
“I was merely walking in the gardens. Roderick had gone out—you know I can’t sleep until he gets home, so I was wasting time until he did.”
Gladys humphed. “He came in a good half hour ago—he’s probably already snoring.”
“Yes, I know—I got distracted.” By London’s gambling king.
“You need to be more careful, my girl.” Gladys ponderously turned and started to heave her considerable bulk back up the stairs. “Never forget you can’t afford even a whisper of improper behavior.”
Following, Miranda let her aunt’s well-rehearsed admonitions flow over her; she’d heard the litany so many times the words were engraved on her soul.
Gladys halted at the top of the stairs, forcing Miranda to halt lower down. Turning her head, Gladys bent a sharp look down at Miranda and delivered her invariable culminating exhortation. “You don’t want to end like your mother and your sister, do you?”
Stifling a sigh, Miranda dutifully replied, “No, Aunt. I don’t.”
Gladys humphed again, then waddled on to her room. “Roderick’s a wealthy gentleman—society won’t bat an eye over him coming in late. But you, girl—just one false step and your reputation will be shredded. Never forget—respectability is all.”
On that ringing note, Gladys stomped through the open door to her room and shut it.
Suddenly feeling claustrophobic, Miranda dragged in a breath, let it out on a sigh, then continued down the corridor, and into her room at its end.
Closing the door, she paused, all but palpably feeling the restraints of her aunt’s doctrine of inviolate respectability cinching around her.
Weighing her down. Hemming her in.
Trapping her. Smothering her.
While she’d been focused on saving Roderick, through her interaction with Roscoe and the walk back to the house, that feeling of being smothered, of being restricted and restrained—of being, as the Bard had put it, “cabined, cribbed, confined”—had weakened, eased.
Grimacing, she walked to her dressing table and started getting ready for bed. Tonight had been a momentary escape. A fleeting few hours in a different world, one that operated under different license.
But this was her real life, where she had to guard against putting so much as a toe wrong, where if she was ever to have a life of her own she had to, at all times and in all ways, adhere without the slightest deviation to propriety’s dictates.
Courtesy of those few hours of freedom, the returning weight of society’s expectations felt heavier than ever, a millstone around her neck. One that, according to her aunts, she especially could never escape.
Not if she expected to have more of a life than her ill-fated mother and sister.
Gown and chemise doffed, her nightgown donned, she lifted the covers and slid into bed. Turning on her side, she gazed at the window—at the moonlit night outside.
“Sometimes, I wonder.” Her voice was so low she barely heard the words. “They might have died, but at least for a few years they were happy.”
After a moment, she settled her cheek on the pillow, closed her eyes, and sank into slumber within her prescribed world—the one in which respectability ruled.
Chapter Two
M iranda next came face-to-face with her aunt over the breakfast table the following morning.
Iron-gray hair scraped back in a tight bun, her heavy figure concealed beneath multiple layers of fluttering draperies, already engaged with reading her correspondence, Gladys merely hmmed when Miranda greeted her.
Sitting and thanking Hughes, their butler, for the fresh pot of tea he set before her, Miranda busied herself with pouring a cup, then helped herself
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