Forever My Love (Berkeley-Faulkner #2)(79)

“That would be for the best,” Alec agreed with cold politeness, and flicked the reins neatly to join the passing convoy of horses and vehicles. Mira sat as far away from him as possible during the long, cold ride back. They did not exchange another word, not even as Alec helped her out of the sleigh and into the mansion with the other guests. When she was safely inside, he left her and did not even glance at her for the rest of the afternoon.

“I am sorry,” Mira said to Rosalie as soon as they had an opportunity to speak to each other. Her voice rang with a sincerity that dissolved any reprimands that Rosalie might have intended to deliver. “I made a terrible mistake. I shouldn’t have gone with him. You were right.”

“It gives me no pleasure to be right,” Rosalie replied, staring at her with searching blue eyes. “Not when you look so rueful about it.”

The winter did not pass as slowly as Mira had fearedit might. She found more than enough activities to occupy her time, not the least of which was tending the various illnesses that cropped up among the guests and the tenants of the Berkeley estates. The cold air was infused with a damp that seemed to sink through clothes and skin down to the very bones, and even the hottest soup, the strongest spirits, and blazing fires did little to warm the body after being outside for more than a few hours. Luckily the kitchens were well-stocked with dried plants and herbs that Mira used to treat the rounds of colds, coughs, joint aches, sore throats, and earaches.

She made flax poultices and crushed eryngo plants to use their juice in a recipe for eardrops. She used gerardia and germander to make a lotion that eased the pain of arthritis, rheumatism, and gout. For swelling of the ears, throat, and neck, she made hot poultices of boiled barley, fleawort, honey, and oil of lilies. All of her recipes and remedies were in constant demand; the weather was relentless.

However, only one week of that frosty winter was truly unbearable for everyone situated near or on the Berkeley lands, and that was the week in March when Rosalie was ill. It was merely a bad cold and a touch of fever, and yet Rosalie’s illness threw the entire schedule and organization of Berkeley Hall into disarray. The worst problem was Rand; when visiting his sniffling, feverish, red-nosed wife, he was tender and gentle, but when she was napping or out of hearing distance, he was so moody and irritable that no one dared approach him. Mira observed this with well-concealed sympathy and humor, knowing from past experience that Rand could not bear it when anything threatened Rosalie’s health or happiness.

“You must get well very, very soon, Rosalie,” she said late one afternoon, bringing a cup of hot liquid to the Berkeleys’ bedchamber. Rosalie made a face as she stretched out a hand and received the cup.”What is in here? More of your ghastly herbs?”

“Tea and honey.”

“Oh, praise heaven…” Rosalie took a deep swallow of the sweet tea and sighed in pleasure. “Now, tell me why I must be up and about so soon. I’ve rather enjoyed the past day or two of leisure.”

“Your husband is becoming unmanageable.”

“Really? I thought he’d been extraordinarily sweet.”

“To you,” Mira said, and chuckled. “Don’t pretend ignorance—you know how he’s been to everyone else. The walls aren’t that thick.”

“My poor Randall,” Rosalie said softly, giggling and sneezing. “He grumbles a little, but he really’ doesn’t mean to make everyone—”

“Don’t make excuses for him. Just get rid of your cold as soon as possible… He’s terrifying the lot of us.”

“Poor Mira.” Rosalie looked at her speculatively, frowning. “You look a little thinner, and I don’t like that at all. You have spent all of your time taking care of others, and that was not my purpose in bringing you here. You need to rest much more… and have you been eating?”

“The Season is still a month or two away—don’t, worry, I’ll be in presentable condition by then.”

“Don’t joke about it. In another month we will start to pay calls and undergo the social rounds in earnest, and I don’t want you to be tired or overextended. You look as though you’ve been pining for someone.”

“Pining,” Mira scoffed, soothing her hands over her bangs in a nervous gesture. “Over whom? Edgar Onslow?”

“I wish you were. Because that would be a problem easily solved.”

“I’m not pining for anyone,” Mira said gruffly.

“Something is bothering you.”

“The same thing is bothering me—the same thingThat has bothered me for weeks.” Mira sat on the foot the bed and rubbed the side of her face against the dvet hangings absently, letting a gold-fringed tassel trail over the bridge of her nose. “The Season’s going to begin soon, and finally I’ve come to the realization that I’ve run out of parts to play,” she said softly, closing her eyes and sighing. “I’ve never played any one of them especially well… I’ve become more and more of an impostor, until I no longer feel comfortable doing anything. None of it feels right any longer. Where and how am I going to belong anywhere—?”

“But you belong somewhere already,” Rosalie said anxiously. “You belong here.”

“I am welcomed here. But this is your home and your family.”

“You will have a home and family of your own someday,” Rosalie insisted. “Then you won’t have cause to worry about where you belong.”