Her uncle had responded with the back of his hand, an action that had so shocked Mirabelle she had been rendered mute and unable to move. For a moment her head had felt curiously detached from her body and she numbly wondered if she would be forced to spend the remainder of her life on the floor of her uncle’s study. But he had quickly dispelled that notion by coming around the desk, grabbing her arm and dragging her forcibly out the study’s door. Only when it appeared as if he might follow her, did Mirabelle regain her senses and bolt—down the hall, out the front door, and into the woods on the eastern side of the estate’s property.
She had run until she could no longer feel her legs. Until she thought her lungs and heart might burst inside her chest. Until she had turned a corner, lost her footing and tumbled straight down a hill, and into the arms of lovely lady in a crisp white dress that smelled of starch and mint.
The woman had held Mirabelle until the tears stopped. She had checked her over for any serious injuries and admonished her gently for running about the countryside and rolling down hills like a wild animal. Now she would have a bruised eye to show for it, silly child.
Then she had introduced herself as Mrs. Brinkly, governess to young Lady Kate—a small, blonde-haired sprite of a girl who had stepped forward and shyly offered Mirabelle the remains of a sticky bun—more sticky than bun at this point—encased in her little fingers. Mirabelle had accepted the treat gratefully and the silent invitation for friendship that came with it.
Such was her introduction to the Cole family. A kind twist of fate that had made all the difference.
Their estate of Haldon sat not two miles from her uncle’s home. Upon hearing that their neighbor had been made guardian to an orphaned child, Lady Thurston had groaned in disgust at the absurdity of the inebriated baron raising a young girl. She immediately saw to it that Mirabelle received an open invitation to Haldon Hall. While visiting, Mirabelle was properly fed, clothed, and educated. The countess had even insisted that Mirabelle accompany the family to London for a come out, and subsequent Seasons.
She’d spent the majority of her childhood in the company of the Coles, and to Mirabelle, Haldon and its inhabitants were straight out of a fairy tale.
But if Haldon had been a shining castle filled with knights and fair maidens, her uncle’s home had been a dungeon complete with ogre.
It still was, she thought with a grimace as the stone building came into view around a curve in the road. And it was every bit as glum and unwelcoming as Haldon was bright and gracious. With its pillared front entrance, two rows of windows and multiple chimneys, the old stone building may have carried the hallmarks of respectable—if limited—affluence from a distance, but one needed only to draw a little closer to discover the truth. It was dark, dank, and in disrepair. The pillars were buckling, the windows were cracked, and the chimneys were crumbling.
There were no gardens to speak of, just the moldering ruins of an old half wall and gardener’s cottage out back. Nary so much as an herb patch was to be found on the grounds. Her uncle didn’t care for vegetables, and she suspected he had lost his sense of taste to spirits some time ago. It would explain why he complained routinely to the kitchen of the lack of food, but never of the food’s near inedible nature. Quantity surpassed quality in importance as far as he was concerned.
With her valise in hand, she hopped down from the carriage. She’d brought only two gowns with her from Haldon, and those only because Whit was coming. She’d have made do with the very old dresses she kept at her uncle’s home otherwise.
“Shall I carry that for you, miss?”
She smiled and shook her head at the waiting footman. She’d never let any of the staff enter her uncle’s home. “Thank you, but no. You should return. I’m certain Lady Thurston could use your help with all the guests packing and leaving today.”
“Very good, miss.”
She watched the footmen swing lightly back onto the carriage before it rolled away. Then, straightening her shoulders she turned and headed toward the house.
An enormous dog—the sort that looked as if it might fit a person’s entire arm in its mouth—was chained at the side of the front steps. A massive beast of questionable lineage, it was fond of snapping at women’s skirts and men’s ankles as they hurried past, (though whether its purpose was to discourage unwelcome guests or all guests was something Mirabelle had never been able to work out.) It had always put her to mind of Cerberus guarding the gates to hell.
Christian, the stable hand and her only friend at the house, had always found this immensely funny. He got along famously with the beast and often took it on long walks in the fields.
Mirabelle had attempted to befriend it as well, bringing it scraps and choice bones from the kitchen. But nothing seemed to work.
As she climbed the steps, the dog lunged and snapped, missing her by a good two feet, but making her jump all the same.
“Ungrateful wretch,” she muttered as she pushed open the front doors and made a mental note to have Christian put the animal elsewhere while she was in residence.