Page 19 of The Etiquette of Love (The Academy of Love #7)

The Following Wednesday

The Outskirts of London

T he brief walk from the staging inn to Mr. and Mrs. Morrison’s cottage was normally one Freddie enjoyed. But today she was filled with unease about Miranda and what mood the girl would be in. Although normally a happy child, once Miranda was thrown off-balance, she might stay that way for days or even weeks.

The Morrison’s occupied a cheerful red brick house that was large enough to comfortably accommodate both themselves and their three charges. Mrs. Morrison was a loving woman who spent more time on people than she did on housework and her husband had the same attitude toward gardening.

As a result, the yard had gone wild with flowers and numerous windows still sported crooked paper snowflakes from last Christmas.

Freddie heard female voices raised in play before she saw Miranda and her two housemates—Cynthia and Laura—both of whom were many years older than Miranda’s own thirteen years.

Freddie paused to watch through a gap in the untidy hedge. They were playing on the slate Scotch Hopper board Mr. Morrison had made several years earlier.

Miranda’s childish voice floated on the muggy summer air as she sang the Magpie Rhyme:

“ One for sorrow,

Two for joy,

Three for a girl,

Four for a boy,

Five for silver,

Six for gold,

Seven for a secret never to be told .”

Laughter and a friendly squabble ensued before Laura, a woman in her early thirties, took her turn.

Freddie opened the sagging gate, whose hinges screeched and drew three sets of eyes.

“ Mama! ” Miranda shrieked, running directly toward Freddie and not bothering to go around the slate board, all but running poor Laura down in the process.

Freddie opened her arms to receive the female projectile hurtling toward her, putting her weight on her back foot to keep from being thrown to the ground.

“Where were you?” Miranda wailed. “I worried! I was so worried! Mama Morrison said you were busy with something important. But too busy for me, Mama? I’m not important!” Her slim body shook as she collapsed into tears.

Freddie stroked her narrow shoulders with calm, firm caresses. “ Shhh , Miranda. Nothing is more important than you, my love. But you see, my brother was ill and—”

Miranda’s head whipped up, her face tear-stained and her pale blue eyes already red-rimmed. “My brother?” she repeated, the fascinating notion driving away her sorrow for the moment.

“Well, he would be your uncle to you as I am your Mama,” Freddie pointed out.

Miranda loosened her vise-like grip just enough to look behind Freddie. “Is my brother here to see me?”

Freddie smiled as she smoothed back the girl’s wispy light brown hair. Now that Miranda had heard the word brother and had it in her mind, it would take weeks, or even months, before Freddie could get her to remember that Wareham was her uncle , and not her brother.

Not that her brother knew of the girl’s existence or ever would, of course.

“—and Gilly gave me the broken biscuits and I saved them in a sock until a little mouse found them and Mama Morrison scolded me for—”

Freddie listened to a frenetic monologue of Miranda’s daily life, which tumbled out of her without pause. She saw that Mrs. Morrison had come out to greet her and smiled at the older woman.

“Now, Miranda,” Mrs. Morrison chided gently, just loudly enough to be heard over Miranda’s increasingly hurried speech. “You must allow Mrs. Torrance to come inside like a proper guest. She has traveled a long way and will want tea.”

When that didn’t stop Miranda, who was rapidly working herself into an excited lather, talking louder and faster to be heard over the older woman, Freddie lifted the satchel she’d brought with her and said, “Do you not want to see your gifts, Miranda?”

The words worked like a charm.

“Gifts for me?” Miranda asked, bouncing up and down and lightly petting the strap on Freddie’s satchel.

Freddie glanced at the other women—it was simply too hard for her to call two women in their thirties girls —both of whom had shuffled closer like shy but curious hens. “I have gifts for you and for Laura and Cynthia, too.”

Miranda frowned, clearly unsure if she liked the idea of everyone getting gifts. But Mrs. Morrison worked fast. “Let us go inside, girls. The sooner you wash up and tidy yourselves the sooner you can have tea and biscuits.”

“And gifts?” Cynthia asked hopefully, her childish voice oddly poignant when paired with her lined face.

“And gifts,” Mrs. Morrison agreed, shooing her three charges into the house where a maid waited to help keep them on task.

Once they had clattered up the stairs Mrs. Morrison turned to her. “Let me take your coat and hat, ma’am. So excited poor Miranda was to get your message that you’d come today,” she said, nattering as nonstop as Miranda, not pausing to take a breath until she had settled Freddie into what was known as the Guest Chair in the tiny parlor.

Freddie unpacked her satchel while Mrs. Morrison talked. The visits followed the same pattern each time as regularity was important not only Miranda, but the other two women the Morrison’s cared for. Freddie would distribute the gifts and share tea, chat privately with Miranda afterward, and then make her way back to the coaching inn, all within three hours.

“—and she has learned how to tat and is working on a gift for you for this Christmas,” the older woman went on, her gaze flickering over the three equally sized wrapped parcels Freddie set on the table. She clucked her tongue. “You are so thoughtful to bring something for everyone,” Mrs. Morrison said, as she did every time. “Nobody ever comes for poor Cynthia anymore.” Her mouth puckered into a frown. “Indeed, we haven’t received her quarterly payment in half a year. Mr. Morrison and I have had her so long she is like our daughter, so we would never send her away. But with no money for her upkeep coming in, poor Cynthia is forced to do without the little niceties.”

Freddie had never asked to whom Cynthia belonged, but she knew the woman’s relations must be wealthy because her clothing had always been the very best, although she had noticed there had been nothing new for quite some time. Her heart ached at the thought of Cynthia’s family abandoning her.

Thinking about Cynthia naturally led her thoughts to Miranda, and what would happen to her if Freddie could no longer support her. Freddie had a will, of course, but she had very little to bequeath. Increasingly, she wondered if she should just swallow her pride and accept Wareham’s pension and all the strings that came attached to it. If she did, then Miranda would never have to worry about her creature comforts.

But if Freddie did that, she could never see her again, either.

There was no easy answer. Her dream had once been to bring Miranda to live with her, but she simply could not provide the level of care the Morrison’s provided. More importantly, after living with the Morrisons and the other two women for most of her life it would be cruel to take Miranda away.

“—isn’t really getting any better, so Mr. Morrison and I wanted to ask if we should continue with the private tuition?”

Freddie shook herself. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Morrison, but I am afraid I did not catch the first part of what you said.”

“Not, to worry, ma’am. Here I am, rabbiting on when I can see you have heavy matters on your mind. I was just asking if you wanted to keep paying for Miranda’s reading lessons?”

Freddie’s heart sank. “I take it there has been no improvement?”

“I am afraid not, Mrs. Torrance. Poor Miranda returns home from the lessons so unhappy and frustrated.”

Freddie paid the local schoolteacher a small amount to tutor Miranda three times a week, hoping to teach her to read and write. The lessons were a strain on Freddie’s limited resources, but she couldn’t help thinking of all the joy Miranda would miss out on if she never learned to read—at least to the level where she could enjoy the children’s books Freddie had read to her hundreds of times and which Miranda could probably recite from memory.

She hated to give up on the lessons, but… “I suppose three years is long enough to admit that she will never learn.”

“You have done your best, ma’am. The tutoring makes Miranda feel as if she is not as clever as the other children. Little boys and girls who started learning years after she did are now reading and—”

“I understand,” Freddie said.

Mrs. Morrison brightened. “But her watercolors are another matter entirely, Mrs. Torrance. Those are quite something. And getting better with each week that passes.” She lowered her voice, even though it was just the two of them. “She painted a special one for you—Mr. Morrison made a frame for it—and she wants to give it to you for your birthday.”

Freddie smiled. “That will be my second birthday this year. I am aging quite alarmingly fast.”

Mrs. Morrison chuckled.

What sounded like a herd of horses approached the parlor door and Miranda and the two women burst into the room.

They knew which gift belonged to whom without her having to tell them. The pink tissue wrapped package was always for Miranda, the blue for Cynthia, and the green for Laura.

“What do you say, girls?” Mrs. Morrison asked, having to raise her voice to be heard over the sound of tearing paper and excited chatter.

Three pairs of eyes lifted to Freddie. “Thank you, Mrs. Torrance,” Cynthia and Laura called out in unison. “Thank you, Mama ,” Miranda said with a slightly smug smile, pleased that Freddie was all hers.

“You are all very welcome,” she said, although it was doubtful they heard her as they were each cooing over their spoils.

It always made Freddie weepy at how little it took to please all three. Just a few hair ribbons, small packets of boiled sweets, and a picture book for Cynthia and Miranda, neither of whom could read, and a book with a very simple story for Laura, who read at the age level of a six-or-seven-year-old child.

She had another gift for Miranda in her bag—a trio of new paint brushes and a tin of fresh cakes of paint—but she would give that to her when they were alone.

Tea was a raucous affair, made louder when Mr. Morrison joined them and all three of his charges crowded around him to show off their new gifts.

Once he’d praised the books, admired the ribbons, and kindly rejected offers of sweets, he turned to Miranda and asked, “Where is that surprise you made for Mrs. Torrance?”

Miranda looked blank for a second, but then squeaked, jumped up, and scampered from the room.

“No running inside,” Mrs. Morrison called after her to no avail.

“She worked on this painting for almost a week,” Mr. Morrison said, looking as proud as if Miranda was his own daughter.

“I don’t believe she has stayed with any project for so long before,” his wife added.

Freddie knew the woman was right; Miranda had an attention span that usually didn’t stretch beyond any given moment. For her to work on something for days, showed growth. She was tempted to change her mind about the tutoring and keep sending the girl, but she simply did not have the heart to make her do something she disliked, even if it might be good for her.

When Miranda returned clutching a clumsily wrapped parcel Mr. and Mrs. Morrison considerately led Cynthia and Laura off on some pretext or other to give Freddie time alone with Miranda.

The girl plopped onto the settee beside her and pushed the package into her hands. “Happy birthday, Mama.”

“Thank you, Miranda. This is very considerate of you and—”

“Open it,” Miranda ordered, poking at the brown-paper wrapping with a finger sticky with pink icing.

Freddie couldn’t help chuckling at her enthusiasm. But the gasp of amazement she gave when she unwrapped the gift was entirely spontaneous.

“Oh, my goodness,” she said in a hushed, reverential voice as she stared down at the magnificent painting.

“It’s the sky, Mama,” Miranda said when Freddie could only stare. “It’s a consta—a consta—” she growled, frustrated by her inability to recall the word.

“They are constellations,” Freddie said.

“Papa Morrison said it was cy—n—cygnus,” she smiled triumphantly at having produced the word, pointing to the stars that comprised the swan. “And—and a stinging thing.” She grimaced and made pinchers with her hands.

“Scorpius,” Freddie supplied, astounded by the realism of the painting and the way the tiny daubs of paint looked just like twinkling starlight against a velvet blue-black sky. “Did you see this in a picture, Miranda?”

“No. It’s from the sky.”

Freddie laughed. “Yes… but, after you saw it, how did you remember where all the stars were?”

Miranda shrugged, already bored with the subject and the painting, her eyes sliding to Freddie’s bag.

“I adore it, Miranda,” Freddie said, taking the girl’s hand and squeezing lightly to draw her attention back from the gifts awaiting her. “Thank you.”

Miranda nodded, her pupils moving rapidly, never settling on any one thing for more than a few seconds. The doctor had called it nystagmus and said it would probably worsen as she grew older. He’d recommended spectacles, but Miranda had cried when they had tried to make her wear them, so the dainty glasses had been put in a drawer for the day when they would be needed. Judging by the amazing painting Miranda had just produced, her vision was still acute enough for the spectacles to be unnecessary.

“I am sorry I missed my last visit,” she said, releasing Miranda’s hand when she began to fidget. Although the little girl embraced Freddie upon arrival, she was not a cuddler unless she was the one initiating it.

“You had im- por -dent things.”

“I did. Your uncle was ill,” she said, hoping to set the girl straight on Wareham’s relationship to her.

“My brother was ill,” Miranda corrected, making Freddie smile ruefully. Sometimes, it was better to just let her hold on to something.

“Mama Morrison says you do not like your lessons with Miss Franks.”

Miranda’s face puckered, as if she had just sucked on a lemon. “I don’t like it.”

“Are you sure you would not like—”

“I don’t like it,” she repeated, but louder this time.

“ Shh, darling. No shouting. I just wanted to make sure. You won’t have to go anymore.”

The furrows on Miranda’s brow instantly smoothed and her jittery gaze bounced back to the satchel.

Freddie once again took her hand and squeezed. “Would you rather have a painting tutor, Miranda? Somebody who could—”

“No. I don’t like it.”

“Very well,” Freddie said after a moment. Broaching a different sort of tutor right then—so soon after discussing Miss Franks—had likely just confused the girl. “Would you like to see what I have in my bag?”

Miranda bounced up and down on the ancient settee, making the springs creak.

Freddie laughed. “I will take that as a yes. ”