Read Online Tori Phillips by Midsummer's Knight - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Midsummer's Knight
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lady?”
Standing, Miranda brushed down her lavender skirts. “Aye, methinks ’twould be a good idea. Thank you, Violet. Tell my cousin that we are coming.”
The girl curtsied again, winked at Miranda, then ran off into the shadows giggling like a magpie.
Sir Brandon’s lips twitched. “Sweet Katherine, is there some malady that effects your servants?”
Miranda slipped her arm within his. “How so, my lord?” Together they strolled slowly down the path in Violet’s scampering wake.
Sir Brandon rubbed his chin before answering. “Ever since our arrival at your home, all your maids have taken to winking, giggling and giving each other sly looks and elbow prods. Tell me, are my face and form worthy of their mirth?”
Night’s welcome darkness hid Miranda’s grin. “Nay, my lord. I suspect ’tis because we have so few men around here. When you and my Lord Stafford arrived, accompanied by such a handsome army of retainers, our maids did not know what to do. Please forgive their behavior. They are simple country girls at heart.”
Sir Brandon unlatched the wicket gate in the yew hedge and held it open for Miranda to pass through. “That brings me to another question, sweet lady. I have noticed that all your maidservants have the names of flowers. Daisy, Pansy, Rosemary, and now, this one is Violet. Pray how is this so? Were all their mothers gardeners?”
Miranda couldn’t control her sudden burst of laughter. “I am sure you must find it puzzling, my lord. Nay, originally they were called Mary, Anne or Margaret. ’Tis understandable when you know that the three parishes hereabouts are Saint Mary, Saint Anne and Saint Margaret.”
“I see,” Sir Brandon said, but in such a manner that Miranda realized he was as confused as before.
“When Fitzhugh died, my cousin dismissed all his retainers. Instead, she took in as servants many daughters of the poor farmers in the area.”
Pausing midstep, Sir Brandon looked down at her. “You say your cousin did this? Not you?”
“I...” Miranda could have bitten her tongue in two. “My cousin has acted as my housekeeper for many years, Sir Brandon. She knows much better than I how to run the estate, so I am pleased to let her do it ’Twas her idea to rename the girls for all the flowers of the garden, instead of calling them Mary One or Mary Two. Much less confusing.”
Sir Brandon resumed their stroll. Miranda breathed a small prayer of thanksgiving. How could she keep her wits about her, when every time the handsome lord looked at her, she wanted to melt into a puddle at his feet?
He coughed, then cleared his throat. “I do not mean to distress you, especially on such a sweet evening as this, my love, but since you mentioned it, how did your late husband expire? I am told ’twas sudden.”
Miranda gritted her teeth at the loathsome memory of Fitzhugh the Furious and his last moments on earth. “The doctor said ’twas a stroke in his brain that caused it, my lord. He died in the midst of beating my cousin.”
Sir Brandon stopped so suddenly that Miranda bumped into him. He caught her around the waist, then drew her closer. “He struck your gentle cousin?” His voice rose with a fury she had not heard before.
Squaring her shoulders, Miranda looked him straight in the eye. Kat hated to recall Fitzhugh, and with good reason, but Sir Brandon should know what a hell her life had been during her second marriage. Perhaps he would treat Kat with the loving kindness she deserved.
“Aye, ’twas his custom. Sometimes he used a belt, sometimes a small whip of leather thongs, sometimes merely his hand. It pleased him in some devilish perverse way to hear her cry, and to see her bleed.”
“God have mercy,” Sir Brandon whispered. “Why didn’t you stop him? You were his wife!”
Miranda hung her head. The memory of her hiding in the stable loft or under beds was a shameful one. She answered in a barely audible voice. “Fitzhugh treated his wife as
Standing, Miranda brushed down her lavender skirts. “Aye, methinks ’twould be a good idea. Thank you, Violet. Tell my cousin that we are coming.”
The girl curtsied again, winked at Miranda, then ran off into the shadows giggling like a magpie.
Sir Brandon’s lips twitched. “Sweet Katherine, is there some malady that effects your servants?”
Miranda slipped her arm within his. “How so, my lord?” Together they strolled slowly down the path in Violet’s scampering wake.
Sir Brandon rubbed his chin before answering. “Ever since our arrival at your home, all your maids have taken to winking, giggling and giving each other sly looks and elbow prods. Tell me, are my face and form worthy of their mirth?”
Night’s welcome darkness hid Miranda’s grin. “Nay, my lord. I suspect ’tis because we have so few men around here. When you and my Lord Stafford arrived, accompanied by such a handsome army of retainers, our maids did not know what to do. Please forgive their behavior. They are simple country girls at heart.”
Sir Brandon unlatched the wicket gate in the yew hedge and held it open for Miranda to pass through. “That brings me to another question, sweet lady. I have noticed that all your maidservants have the names of flowers. Daisy, Pansy, Rosemary, and now, this one is Violet. Pray how is this so? Were all their mothers gardeners?”
Miranda couldn’t control her sudden burst of laughter. “I am sure you must find it puzzling, my lord. Nay, originally they were called Mary, Anne or Margaret. ’Tis understandable when you know that the three parishes hereabouts are Saint Mary, Saint Anne and Saint Margaret.”
“I see,” Sir Brandon said, but in such a manner that Miranda realized he was as confused as before.
“When Fitzhugh died, my cousin dismissed all his retainers. Instead, she took in as servants many daughters of the poor farmers in the area.”
Pausing midstep, Sir Brandon looked down at her. “You say your cousin did this? Not you?”
“I...” Miranda could have bitten her tongue in two. “My cousin has acted as my housekeeper for many years, Sir Brandon. She knows much better than I how to run the estate, so I am pleased to let her do it ’Twas her idea to rename the girls for all the flowers of the garden, instead of calling them Mary One or Mary Two. Much less confusing.”
Sir Brandon resumed their stroll. Miranda breathed a small prayer of thanksgiving. How could she keep her wits about her, when every time the handsome lord looked at her, she wanted to melt into a puddle at his feet?
He coughed, then cleared his throat. “I do not mean to distress you, especially on such a sweet evening as this, my love, but since you mentioned it, how did your late husband expire? I am told ’twas sudden.”
Miranda gritted her teeth at the loathsome memory of Fitzhugh the Furious and his last moments on earth. “The doctor said ’twas a stroke in his brain that caused it, my lord. He died in the midst of beating my cousin.”
Sir Brandon stopped so suddenly that Miranda bumped into him. He caught her around the waist, then drew her closer. “He struck your gentle cousin?” His voice rose with a fury she had not heard before.
Squaring her shoulders, Miranda looked him straight in the eye. Kat hated to recall Fitzhugh, and with good reason, but Sir Brandon should know what a hell her life had been during her second marriage. Perhaps he would treat Kat with the loving kindness she deserved.
“Aye, ’twas his custom. Sometimes he used a belt, sometimes a small whip of leather thongs, sometimes merely his hand. It pleased him in some devilish perverse way to hear her cry, and to see her bleed.”
“God have mercy,” Sir Brandon whispered. “Why didn’t you stop him? You were his wife!”
Miranda hung her head. The memory of her hiding in the stable loft or under beds was a shameful one. She answered in a barely audible voice. “Fitzhugh treated his wife as
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