Scorpion's Dance. Anne Mather

taken it badly, so badly that Miranda could not help but feel sorry for her. After all, she had lost her husband so early in her life, and now her only son. No one could fail to pity her. Strangely, during the past few days, Miranda had felt closer to her than at any other time in her life.

      Miranda rode back to the hall in the black Rolls that had followed the hearse to its final resting place. Lady Sanders was with her as, too, was Jaime, the somberness of his clothes accentuating the darkness of his skin. Miranda had worn black as well, unaware of how becoming the dark colours were to her, or of how the burnished glory of her hair stood out against the stark austerity of the graveyard.

      A cold buffet had been laid in the dining room, and the guests who had accompanied them back to the house helped themselves to canapés and vol-au-vents and slices of homecured ham. Miranda endeavoured to accept everyone’s condolences with composure, but she was well aware that to most of these people present she had become somewhat of an embarrassment. She did not fit in here, and now she never would.

      Sipping a glass of sherry, she tried to assimilate her situation. What was she going to do now? Her mother’s illness had curtailed her working life, and no doubt once she had recovered herself, Lady Sanders would require a new housekeeper. So where did that leave Miranda, or her mother? They had no home, nothing, and the salary she was paid by the council authorities would not stretch to buying a house. She thought of the cottage in the village. Perhaps Lady Sanders would allow them to rent that. It was of no use to her.

      Miranda moved towards the buffet tables. Lady Sanders was there, talking to Canon Bridgenorth. Dared she take this opportunity to speak to her? If she didn’t, when might she get the chance again?

      A solid object stepped into her path, and about to apologise and step aside, she looked up into Jaime’s hard features. They had said little to one another since the night of the accident, but now he put out a hand to detain her when she would have passed by.

      ‘I want to talk to you,’ he said, in a low voice.

      Miranda glanced apprehensively about her. ‘Oh?’

      ‘Yes.’ He tucked his thumbs into the waistcoat pockets of his dark grey suede suit. ‘Now we can do it here, or we can go into the library. As you wish.’

      Miranda’s cool eyes challenged him. ‘I don’t think we should leave the room again, do you?’

      He returned her stare narrowly. ‘I see. Perhaps you consider I was to blame for what happened with Mark.’

      She gasped. ‘I didn’t say that!’

      ‘You didn’t have to.’ He paused. ‘But as a matter of fact, you’re wrong. In one of her—how shall I put it?—more emotional moods, my aunt confessed to—er—encouraging Mark to think the worst, you understand?’

      Miranda took an unsteady breath. ‘I have only your word for that.’

      ‘And I’m afraid that’s all you’re likely to get,’ he remarked brusquely. ‘I do not anticipate my aunt ever repeating such an allegation.’

      Miranda looked away from the almost hypnotic brilliance of those dark eyes. ‘So! I can’t think what we have to say to one another.’

      ‘No?’ Dark brows quirked. ‘You have made arrangements for your future?’

      Miranda’s eyes widened. ‘What has that to do with you?’

      ‘Come into the library, and I’ll tell you.’

      Miranda sighed. ‘I have to—circulate. Besides, I want to speak to Lady Sanders.’

      ‘Oh? Why?’

      She gasped. ‘Mind your own business!’

      ‘Perhaps it is my business.’

      She was amazed at his audacity. ‘It couldn’t possibly be,’ she declared shortly. ‘Now, please—you must excuse me.’

      ‘One thing more …’ he added.

      ‘What is it?’

      ‘Whatever happens, will you promise to let me know what your plans are?’

      Miranda made an exasperated sound. ‘I can’t see why it matters.’ She pressed her lips together. ‘I should have thought you’d be cheering that everything’s gone so sour on me.’

      His lashes shaded his eyes. ‘Did you think I wasn’t?’ he parried mockingly, and her cheeks flamed with colour.

      ‘You—you beast!’

      ‘Your vocabulary’s sadly lacking,’ he remarked dryly. ‘There are far more suitable epithets than that.’

      ‘And you know them all, I suppose?’

      ‘A fair number,’ he agreed, and with a tightening of her facial muscles she left him.

      Canon Bridgenorth attempted a sympathetic smile when Miranda appeared. She wondered if she was being uncharitable in supposing that of all of them there, he had had the most experience at hiding his feelings, and perhaps that was why he could look at her without either satisfaction or envy.

      ‘Dear Miss Gresham,’ he said, patting her sleeve with his plump white hand. ‘So sad, so sad! I’ve just been telling Lady Sanders you must both summon all your strength for the week ahead. The week which should have been such a happy one for both of you.’

      Miranda’s gaze flickered over the older woman’s lined face. ‘I expect we’ll find plenty to do,’ she said quietly.

      ‘Ah, yes.’ Canon Bridgenorth shook his head. ‘All the presents to return.’ He sighed. ‘I’ll do whatever I can, of course.’

      He moved away to speak to his wife, and for a moment Miranda was alone with the woman who was to have been her mother-in-law. It was the moment she had been waiting for, and she could not let it pass.

      ‘I saw the specialist at the hospital yesterday, Lady Sanders,’ she said, and pale eyes were turned in her direction.

      ‘Indeed? And what did he say?’

      There was a chilling lack of feeling behind the question, and Miranda guessed that it was a perfunctory inquiry and no more. A tragic state of affairs considering her mother had worked at the Hall for over twelve years. But she had to go on, for her mother’s sake.

      ‘He said—it’s doubtful that she will ever walk again.’

      Lady Sanders’ lips twitched. ‘I see.’

      Miranda licked her own lips that were suddenly dry. ‘You understand what I’m trying to say?’

      ‘Perfectly.’ Lady Sanders was in complete control of herself. ‘Your mother will not be able to continue here as housekeeper.’

      ‘No.’ Miranda inclined her head. ‘Of course, she wasn’t going to anyway, after—after—’

      ‘After the wedding, you mean?’ Lady Sanders said it without emotion. ‘No. But now there is to be no wedding.’

      Miranda wished she would make it easier for her. ‘As a matter of fact,’ she murmured, ‘that was what I wanted to talk to you about.’

      Lady Sanders frowned. ‘Indeed? Why, pray?’

      ‘The cottage …’ Miranda hated having to beg. ‘The cottage at Blind Lane: I wondered whether we might—rent it from you.’

      ‘From me?’ Lady Sanders’ mouth tightened. ‘From me!’ She gave a mirthless little laugh. ‘My dear girl, you’re wasting your time speaking to me. I don’t own the cottage at Blind Lane. The estate is entailed, didn’t you know? To the eldest male heir.’

      Miranda stared at her aghast. ‘No! No, I didn’t know.’

      Lady Sanders sniffed, taking out her handkerchief and blowing her nose. ‘Why should you? I never thought—no one ever expected—’ She broke