Unraveled (Turner, #3)

“I’m starving,” she said apologetically. “There’s roast pheasant. I’ve been smelling it the entire afternoon. Did you know I’ve never had pheasant?”


“Good. We’ll eat, then.”

Her cheeks pinked. “I asked them to lay the covers in the bedchamber. It’s not the usual arrangement, but—”

“Usual arrangement.” He met her eyes. “I don’t have usual arrangements, Miranda. I just have you.”

If she heard what he’d betrayed there, she let no sign of it show. Instead, she took his arm and they walked slowly up the stairs.

A small table before the window had been set for an intimate meal. From this high, they had an extraordinary view of the city. Evening was coming, and Bristol was doused in the hard reds and dusky pinks of sunset. Streetlamps sprang to life like glowing jewels. At the base of the hill, the graceful arches of the Bristol Cathedral were scarcely visible. Beyond it, a forest of masts from the Floating Harbour disappeared into the oncoming gloom.

He seated Miranda, and then sank into the chair across from hers. Cucumber soup came first. She chattered away about her day, asked him questions about his. She knew what spoon to reach for.

After they’d exchanged a few sentences and the soup had been cleared, he set his hand atop hers. “You didn’t grow up in the bad part of Bristol,” he remarked.

She slanted a glance at him.

“In fact,” he continued, “I’m not sure you were raised in the bad part of anywhere. The finishing-school accent is quite convincing. I would say you have a hint of Oxford in your tone. And your manners are flawless.”

“I should be convincing,” she said. “I’ve been practicing since I was a child.” She put a bite of pheasant into her mouth and closed her eyes.

“Good?”

She chewed thoughtfully and then swallowed. “It tastes like chicken. I feel disappointed.”

He tried again. “So you were raised in a family that spoke the King’s English and used proper etiquette. Just like me. How did you end up alone in Bristol?”

As he spoke, he took a small plate from the table and filled it with scraps of pheasant. She made no comment when he set this on the floor for Ghost.

“My parents were always terribly busy. During the day, they handed off care of me to the rest of the troupe. Everyone had a hand in my upbringing, but I was mostly raised by Jasper and Jonas. Jasper was from Yorkshire, and he was our lead actor. He was very handsome, very debonair and very good with accents. The ladies were constantly showering him with flowers. He taught me to read so that I could help him practice his lines.”

“I can’t believe a Yorkshire man taught you your accent.”

“No. That was Jonas. Jonas was… He wasn’t an actor, actually. He helped us put together our scenery, moved heavy boxes, that sort of thing.” She frowned, and chewed more pheasant. “He also argued with Papa about what the plays really meant.”

“Your porter taught you your accent?”

“Jonas wasn’t a porter.” Miranda had a dreamy little smile on her face. She looked up and away, as if recalling that happy time. “It happened before I was born, but Jonas used to be a fellow at Oxford before he ran off with my father’s troupe. I gather it was quite the scandal. His family disowned him. He used to study classics. In any event, he taught me how to speak this way.”

“You had an Oxford fellow moving your scenery?” Smite asked in disbelief. “Wait—you cannot mean Jonas Standish?”

Her eyes widened. “You know him?”

“By reputation only. He was well before my time. Jonas Standish,” he repeated, feeling slightly dazed. “But he’s brilliant. I saw some of his work when I was there. No wonder you’ve heard of Antigone. I can’t believe he walked away from everything to join a traveling troupe. Your father must have been quite persuasive.”

“Not my father,” Miranda replied. “They quarreled over everything. My father only tolerated him because Jasper would have walked off, had he sent Jonas on his way. I followed Jasper and Jonas everywhere from the moment I could walk. They taught me half the accents I know how to do.”

“Did Jonas also teach you proper deportment?”

Miranda shook her head. “That was Mama. She said if anything ever happened to her, I’d need to take her place. She and my father had this act they would put on whenever there was a disagreement with anyone outside the troupe. He would bluster and shout about aesthetics; she would timidly explain that my father was a temperamental man of art, and couldn’t be made to see reason. So perhaps the theater owner would just consider a small, tiny alteration…?”

“Putting on an act—that worked well, did it?”

She must not have heard the hint of disapproval in his voice, because she grinned. “Like a charm. They would laugh and toast each other with cheap wine every time they succeeded.”