The Fairy Tale Bride

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty-Two

Miranda noted that the dowager jumped as perceptibly as she herself did at the sound of his voice. He had come as if called — by angel or devil she could not say.

The dowager craned her neck to look up at the towering figure of her son. Each determined gaze met and clashed together — and neither gave quarter as she answered him. “I have decided to answer the question you have been demanding answered since the day your father died.”

So she had meant what she said. Miranda grew numb, knowing what was coming and yet not knowing at the same time. Would the dowager’s confidences heal the rift, or split them apart forever?

“Your tongue could not shape the truth, Mother.” Simon lashed out at her as he reached a hand toward Miranda. “Come, Miranda, we have guests to see to.”

She did not move.

Simon’s jaw flexed in anger. “Miranda?” He had not raised his voice, but that did not mean he was not angry. He was. Very angry. She did not move.

The dowager picked up her sewing and resumed stitching, the needle flashing in the sunlight “Are you so foolishly spiteful that you would walk away from me now, when you are only moments away from the truth you hold so dear?”

Simon glared at her, but did not move toward the house. Miranda could see his desire to have the truth from his mother etched upon his face. There was fear etched there, too. She could not help but wonder what awful secret lay between them to be exposed.

A dreadful thought made her catch her breath.

Was his mother somehow the cause of his fatal illness? She pressed her hand together. Oh, please, let that not be the case.

Simon’s mother sighed and indicated the bench next to her. “Sit please, Simon. I have a tale to tell you, and I do not like to crook my neck to look up at you.”

He did not move. “It cannot take you long to say one name.”

One name. Miranda tried to puzzle out his statement. Whose name? How could one name cause such a rift between mother and son? What infamy could one name hold?

The dowager’s needle paused for a moment and then resumed. “I will tell the story in my own way, and you shall be patient. After all, you will have your answer — not, I expect, that it will make you any happier.”

Her glance caught Miranda, held her, pulling her into the whirlpool of emotions. “But your wife seems to feel that I shall never overcome this rift between us if I am not honest with you.”

His breath caught and his voice was harsh as he asked, “Have you told her? You have no right — ”

“I have told her nothing.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Although she has guessed some things, she does not know what ails you, of that I am certain. Should we send her away before we have this conversation?”

Miranda could see that he was considering it, and she was torn between wanting to know what had hurt them so very much and running away from the painful purging she sensed would soon take place.

“No.” His voice was crisp, decisive. “She might as well know.”

“You trust her, do you?”

“With my life.” His answer made Miranda’s heart ache with a tightly controlled joy. She wondered if he would still feel the same way once his mother had spit out her awful truth.

He sat on the ground, heedless of the grass stains that might mar his clothing and, after a brief glance at Miranda, stared in challenge at his mother. “Tell me your story, Mother. But do not expect me to be swayed by touching pleas or sad tales.”