So I’m making up for the abundance of suck-tastic folk in the world by posting some fic. At least, I hope it’s adding something nice to the world. Really, I just need to do something for someone today that doesn’t feel like I’m ramming my head into a brick wall and trying to be nice to people who really haven’t earned it. So, for my awesome fandom that’s so much better than these clowns at work – have some angry Miranda. Also the reunion you’ve been waiting for.
To the Upper Air: Chapter Three: Thirteen O’Clock
She woke to the feeling of clean, white sheets and the warmth of another person in the bed with her.
At first, she lay still. The last thing she recalled was pain – a burst of it, white hot and blinding. She had been hit in the head, but by what? Whom? She did not recall, but the sensation had been singular, unforgettable. Now, though –
It was strange, she thought – the way that one person’s habits could become so familiar. Their tread. The way they laughed – coughed, the familiar off-key tune of their whistling. Their breathing.
Thomas shifted, and Miranda felt her heart skip a beat, her breath suddenly coming short. She did not open her eyes – she did not need to, not to recognize him. She had dreamt of this so often in Nassau – waking up to find Thomas returned to her by some magic, his familiar presence in her bed, his feet –
His freezing feet that she had never, ever dreamt about before. She flinched away from the sensation, and heard her husband snicker, the the sound taking her breath away once more.
“There’s no use in pretending to be asleep,” he said, voice laced with amusement. “Or are you determined to punish me with silence for my poor cold toes?”
“I could never bear to punish you,” she croaked, feeling a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. Her mind had devised a new way to torture her now – by recreating the exact feeling of Thomas’ presence, the weight of him and the stroke of his skin against hers. Was there no end to the capacity of her memories to bring her pain?
“Miranda?” Thomas’ voice sounded worried, and oh, that was the final straw. She could not bear to make him anxious, not even in a dream. She took a deep breath. It was time to end this. She opened her eyes –
And then shut them again tightly.
“Miranda,” Thomas’ voice said again. “Are you quite alright?”
She cracked her eyes open a fraction and found Thomas’ concerned face looking back at her. He was sitting up in the bed, his blue eyes crinkling at the edges as he scrutinized her face. He reached out a hand to her face, and she gasped, her eyes opening wider as he moved his thumb up and down against her cheek and smiled.
“Good morning,” he said, and Miranda sat up sharply, dislodging Thomas’ hand. This – this was not her bed in Nassau. She could feel panic flutter in her stomach, and she looked around, her eyes darting first to the fireplace and then to the other furnishings in the room, before coming back to light on –
“Thomas?” she whispered.
“Well I should hope so,” Thomas responded. “Unless you’ve taken a lover besides James that you’ve not told me about!” His tone was teasing, but his blue eyes told a different story, concern at her disorientation mingling with confusion, and in any other circumstance, she would have done her level best to wipe that look off of his face – to do whatever was necessary to ease his mind, but at the moment, all she could do was stare, dumbstruck. She blinked, and then again, as if by doing so she would somehow wake from the dream she was quite obviously trapped in, but Thomas remained in front of her, and the room did not change around them. This – whatever it was, lucid dream, hallucination, vision – held her fast, and she felt a bubble of hysterical laughter rise up within her, threatening to escape her lips. She was in London, in the house that she still thought of as her home in so many ways, and Thomas was lying there next to her, and suddenly she did not care whether she dreamt or hallucinated or was simply lost in her own memories, finally gone completely mad. She was there, and Thomas was there, and if she was to be able to dictate her own actions in this particular dream, then she was not going to waste a moment. With that thought, she flung herself forward, clasping her arms around her husband, her hands digging into his bare back, face buried in his shoulder, and she squeezed tightly, ignoring the small sound of surprise that escaped him. His skin was warm against hers, and for just one glorious moment, she allowed herself to believe that he was there – truly there beside her, not a phantom. She could feel him tense – felt the concern and confusion that radiated off of him, and she ignored it, embracing him tighter, unwilling to let go ever again.
“I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “So sorry, Thomas. I failed – failed you -”
Thomas reared back, a frown gracing his features.
“Miranda – what on Earth are you talking about?”
She shook her head. She could not speak – could not articulate her betrayal, even now.
“I failed you,” she repeated. “Thomas – I -”
He shook his head.
“Miranda,” he repeated, and took her by the shoulders. “Darling – it’s alright. Whatever you think you’ve done -”
He did not know, she realized, looking at his blue eyes. There was concern there – concern, and love, and confusion, and why would her mind have conjured up Thomas if it was not also going to allow her the simple comfort of closure, whether it came through forgiveness or the recrimination she so deserved for her actions?
“I – I left you,” she confessed in a hoarse voice. “I should have stayed. I shouldn’t have listened – shouldn’t have convinced James.” She pulled away, tears still wetting her cheeks, and Thomas looked at her with no more comprehension than he had a moment before.
“I’m right here,” he said, a half-smile forming on his lips. “My love, I don’t know what you dreamt, but I promise you – I’m right here.” He kissed the top of her head, and she felt a shudder travel down her spine. This was wrong. This was all so terribly wrong. Thomas was long dead – buried or burned, depending on whether the Earl had seen fit to give his son a decent burial or allowed him to be handled as yet another suicide from Bedlam. He should not be here, holding her, smiling as if she had never abandoned him to that fate – as if nothing had changed. He should, at the very least, know why she was apologizing, and furthermore, why did he seem to believe that she had dreamt the entire decade of misery she had experienced? The sense of wrongness grew, and she closed her eyes, trying to retain some clawing hold on sanity. What was happening to her?
The knock that sounded on the door was almost a relief. Thomas released her, sitting up straighter.
“Yes?” he called.
“My lord – your messenger has returned.”
He frowned.
“Is there another part to that statement?”
“My lord – it seems that Lieutenant McGraw is not well. The messenger seems a bit… ruffled, if you’ll pardon my saying so.”
“Ruffled?”
“He – ah – he claims the Lieutenant has gone mad, sir.”
Thomas sighed, and turned to Miranda, his eyes still worried.
“Darling – it sounds as though my attention is needed elsewhere. I don’t wish to leave you, but -”
“James needs you,” she finished, the familiar refrain tripping over her lips. “Go to him. I’ll – I’ll see you when you return.” Something in her twisted at the words. She wanted to hold fast to Thomas – never to let him out of her sight ever again, to rail and scream and refuse to let him go, to tell him that James was a grown adult and a stubborn, foolish one at that, but she could not find it in her even now to do so. James needed Thomas. It was a fact of life, and one that had never been quite so obvious as it was to her now in the wake of her conversation with James prior to dinner. She could not bear to keep them from each other, not even in dreams.
“You’re certain?” Thomas asked, his hands not yet removed from her shoulders, and she nodded. He stood, and she took the time to drink in the sight of him. He had always had a pleasantly firm rear end, she recalled, and no one had ever accused Thomas Hamilton of having anything but the finest of musculature, particularly in regards to his back. She watched him dress in silence, enjoying the view, and saw him toss an anxious look over his shoulder.
“I’ll be back as soon as possible,” he promised. “I’m sorry to leave like this. I can’t imagine what’s gotten into James – he’s normally quite steady.” The worry in his voice brought a smile to her lips, slight, but there nonetheless. Her men had always been so very protective of one another. Really, it should not have come as any surprise that James fell apart when he failed in what he saw as his duty to safeguard Thomas. Idly, she wondered what might have happened had Thomas been put in James position and shelved it after only a moment. It did not bear contemplation. Her husband turned back toward her and wrapped one hand around the back of her neck, leaning down to kiss her, and she reveled in the sensation – in the warmth of his hand, in the taste and smell of him, and when he pulled away she could almost have sobbed at the loss.
“I’ll be back soon,” he said, and she watched him go. He would not be back soon. He never was, and she always woke to find herself alone once again but oh – these moments when she found him in dreams were worth the heartbreak. She rolled over in the bed. If she closed her eyes, perhaps she could waken once again in a happier dream.
She woke in the same room.
For several moments, she was disoriented again, looking about the room wildly, but this time there was no Thomas, nor was there anything wildly out of place as there should have been if this had been one of the many dreams she had had where she wandered the house in search of him, never quite managing to find her way to the stairs. She found her way there now, shift brushing against her ankles as she descended the stairs, her fingers barely touching the smooth wooden banister. This should not be happening. She had woken from dreaming – woken from the pleasant fiction of Thomas’ presence, and yet she had not, for this house was undeniably the house she and Thomas had inhabited, right down to the last details. She knew the scent of the air, the feeling of the floors under her bare feet –
The ticking of the clock in the front hall. The noise caught her attention, and her breath caught in her chest. The wretched clock, returned to its place, exactly where she and Thomas had left it. She felt anger well up within her, and she choked on it. The clock had returned and she –
What was she doing here? Had she been transported here somehow, brought back to London without waking for the entire six week trip? Or was her mind still playing tricks on her, still taunting her with the shadows of the life that had been so violently ripped away from her for good by the sight of that very clock? The thought only increased her rage, and she moved the rest of the way down the stairs almost without conscious volition. If she could not escape this waking dream, then she would not share it with that clock – with the reminder of all of her failures. She laid hands on the wretched thing, pulling with all her might.
“My lady? Lady Hamilton!” The servants’ voices barely registered in the back of her mind as she watched the clock begin to tip, and she stepped back, allowing it to fall forward even as the servants gasped and attempted to dart forward to save it. It was no use – they were all too far away, and the timepiece fell forward with an almighty crash, the bells within sounding a confused, deafening clangor as they hit the front of the clock. Glass smashed, flying up, and Miranda raised a hand, shielding her face from the shards. It was illogical – she never bled in dreams, and so it was doubly startling when she felt one of the shards hit her palm, slicing it open. She lowered her hand, letting out a gasp at the pain, and stared, shocked, at the red of her own blood beginning to well out of the wound. She did not bleed in dreams – she knew, because she had dreamt of such injuries before. Never had one of them hurt, and the obvious conclusion that followed caused her heart to flutter in her chest, a strange lump rising in her throat. If she was not dreaming –
The servants were still staring in shocked silence at Miranda and the shattered clock.
“My lady,” one of them whispered, and she came back to herself with a jolt. “You’re bleeding,” the girl pointed out, and Miranda nodded. The pain and the blood confirmed what Thomas’ presence never could have, and she felt suddenly ill. She was not dreaming – not imagining any of this. The hall clock still lay, a ruined mess at her feet, and she –
She was standing in her own front hall, looking the part of the mad witch that James’ crew had accused her of being.
“I – I don’t know what came over me,” she murmured. “I -” She choked back a hysterical laugh. If she was truly here – truly returned to Albemarle Street – she looked down to the clock at her feet, feeling the bitter irony of it all hit her once again. Her actions would be taken as madness – it would be all too easy, and they would be right back to the same horrifying situation they had been in before, only this time she would be the one locked away in Bedlam, and while she perhaps deserved it for her crimes, her men did not. Thomas should never be forced to take on her role, and she would not, could not, force James to go through another such ordeal. No. There had to be a way to mitigate this – to make this –
She was being led upstairs, she realized. In her dazed state, she had not even felt the maid wrap her hand in a handkerchief.
“My lady -” the girl started, and Miranda turned to her, seeing her properly for the first time. It was not her faithful Mathilde, but Mary, one of the younger maids in the household. She was looking at Miranda now with undisguised concern, her hand holding Miranda’s up such that the blood from her injury did not touch her linen shift, keeping pressure on the wound. The bleeding had mostly ceased by this time, continuing only sluggishly, and Miranda spared a moment for the realization that the hand she had injured had none of the calluses she had developed in Nassau that would have better protected her from such an eventuality. She marvelled for a second at her own skin – the softness of it, as if she had never done a day’s work in her life, which indeed, if what she suspected were true, she had not.
“My lady,” Mary urged. “My lady – please. The doctor is on his way.”
“The doctor?” Miranda asked sharply, a spike of panic shooting through her.
“For your hand, my lady,” the girl answered, and Miranda shook her head.
“No,” she said. “It’s scarcely more than a scratch. Nothing to be worried about, certainly.” She looked back at the broken glass that littered the hall floor. “You may tell Lord Hamilton when he returns that if he wants to tell the time, then he will have to go out and buy a new clock. Some time away from the house will be good for his health.” She turned and stalked back up the stairs, leaving the servants to stare. She controlled the shaking of her hands until she reached her bedroom, the very picture of an angry noblewoman until the moment the door closed and the latch clicked. She sank down onto the chair in front of her vanity table, closing her eyes tightly.
She had to hope it would be enough. There were only two possible interpretations for her actions, and if she wished to avoid anyone coming to the conclusion that she had taken leave of her senses, she had to be seen to be blindingly angry. No one would question a noblewoman destroying property on a whim – no one, that was, except her husband, who would presumably be both hurt and confused when he returned to the house. It could not be helped, though, and she allowed herself a tiny, nearly inaudible sob at the thought. She was back. She was here, against all laws of time and physics, possibly against the natural order laid down by God, truly here, and why, oh why had she not realized it sooner, before her foolishness led to this? She would have to ignore him for days – refuse to see him, and it would be torture, because he was here, alive, and she wanted nothing more than to embrace him and never, ever let go again. Anger welled up in her again, and she allowed it to wash over her in full force, bringing tears to her eyes with the force of it. She was back in London – now, after she had finally realized the full scope of the betrayal that had been perpetrated against them. Now, after she had finally thrown aside civilization and everything that went with it, now that she had given up on the dream of taking up the life that had been stolen from her alongside James.
James. He would be here too, but not her James. Not the man that she had known for better than ten years, who had suffered the same privations, the same indignities. Not the man she had grieved alongside and loved despite his flaws, who had loved her when he had given up on all else. The thought was a fresh stab to the chest. There had been much about James Flint she had hated – his stubborn insistence on clinging to his rage, his intractability, his conviction that the world was out to destroy him, and just as she began to understand it – understand him – more fully than she ever had before, just as they had finally started to tear down the walls between them and truly work in tandem – he was gone.
“Miranda?”
Or perhaps not, at least not in the most literal sense. She turned, startled, at the sound of the voice at her door, at once familiar and welcome and heart-rending.
“Go away!” The words were out of her mouth before she could recall them, childish and petty but utterly heartfelt. The irony of the situation was not lost on her even as she spoke the words, her voice only just barely held steady. She had spent ten years longing for a glimpse of Lieutenant McGraw within the hard shell of Flint, and now that he stood just a few feet away, she could not face him. She could not stand to see James’ face and find no sympathy, no empathy or understanding of her feelings right now – she simply could not. Scarce hours before she had had her world ripped away from her, and the shock –
“Miranda – I -” James started again, and Miranda felt a wave of anger wash over her. The shock was rapidly being replaced by burning, blinding hatred. She felt it travel through her, hot and terrifying in its strength, and she clenched her injured hand, feeling the burn of the cut on it, welcoming the sensation. She had felt anger before – had felt hatred, before, too, but this was different – wilder, somehow, less controlled or calculated than anything she had ever felt before. This – dear God, was this what James had felt when he had killed Alfred? When he had gotten into fight after needless fight? Was this what he had been carrying all this time?
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but I am not in any mood for company” she started. She needed a moment to get this under control – to find a way to breathe through it, to put it away where it could not spill out and hurt someone. She needed to –
“Miranda – it’s me. Open the door.”
She froze. She could not have said what it was about James’ voice that had changed, but something in it had. It lacked something – something she could not quite put a finger on. The sharp edge of impatience or the teasing tone that might have colored his voice in the too-brief days they had spent in this house as young lovers was missing, somehow, replaced by –
She inhaled sharply, the anger that had flooded her veins only a moment before ebbing, still there but overtaken by sharp-edged longing.
“James?” she allowed the name to fall from her lips, a barely audible whisper.
“I owe you an apology, if you’ll hear it,” he said, and she felt her heart skip a beat. She rose from the vanity, and opened the door to find him standing outside.
He looked like James McGraw or rather, he looked like a version of James McGraw that had been subjected to Thomas’ wandering hands on the way here and had not bothered to tidy himself after. His hair was slightly rumpled and only tied back hastily with a black ribbon. He was not wearing a neckcloth, and his uniform coat looked as if it had been thrown on at the last minute, hanging oddly where the lines had not been adjusted properly. His stubble-covered jaw completed the unkempt look, but his eyes were the true clue. He looked at her as if he had not seen her in an age, and she could not stop herself from inhaling sharply, her hand reaching out of its own volition to touch his face.
“James?” she questioned again, and the corner of his mouth turned upward.
“Hello,” he answered, and she stood, looking at him with something akin to wonder.
“Hello,” she repeated, and then, without ceremony, she flung herself forward, catching him between her outstretched arms and wrapping him in a fierce hug. She felt his arms wrap around her in return, and the force of his embrace nearly knocked the wind out of her even as she heard him give a huff of breath at the strength of hers.
“Miranda,” he breathed. “Thank God. I – ” He stopped. “I’ve missed you,” he said roughly and she tightened her grip on his back.
“I’m sorry, James,” she choked. She could feel tears running down her cheeks, and was almost surprised to find that the same was true of him. “So sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he answered. “If I’d listened earlier -”
“I had no right to ask,” she choked. “No right. I should have realized -”
“You had every right,” he interrupted. “Christ, Miranda, I -” He raked a hand through his hair, and then over his face, grimacing when he remembered that he no longer had a beard to stroke. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, and she nodded, understanding. He had apologized once before, in the front pages of a book that she had never gotten to read, but it was good to hear it from him out loud.
“It’s behind us,” she answered, feeling it settle in for the first time, and she looked around her at the house – at the room she stood in, and finally, at James himself.
“If you need a moment -” James started to offer, and she shook her head.
“No,” she answered, and could not quite help the small grin that started at the corners of her mouth. “No,” she repeated, and then snorted. “My God, James,” she murmured, “what wild creature savaged you on your way here?” He snorted.
“Thomas said the same,” he answered, and Miranda started. Of course. Thomas had gone to see to James, which meant he could not help but be close behind, and she was meant to be furious at him.
“Thomas,” she breathed. “I had forgotten! James – he can’t -”
“Tell me,” said the voice of the man in question. “Is there a reason that I’m climbing onto my own balcony, or have you both decided to play an elaborate joke?”
Miranda turned, and found Thomas standing not far away. The look on his face was distinctly disgruntled, and there was a streak of what appeared to be white paint on the corner of his waistcoat. He had shucked off his coat, presumably leaving it in whichever room he had come from, and his blond hair was wind-tousled, giving further evidence that he had come from outside the room, having climbed out a window and made his way along the ledge to reach Miranda’s balcony.
“Thomas. You said you would wait,” James said reprovingly, and Thomas made a face.
“No – I said that I would give you time to talk to Miranda and be along shortly. It was more of a challenge than I expected,” he said ruefully, holding up paint-smudged, somewhat scraped hands. “I thought that as you seemed determined to put the servants off by acting as if we were arguing it might be best to play along until – why are you both looking at me like that?”
“I’d forgotten how clever you were,” James said wryly, and Miranda could not help but agree. Thomas frowned, visibly affronted.
“I’ve hardly uttered the wisdom of Solomon,” he protested. “And I’ll thank you to stop speaking of me in the past tense. What on Earth is going on?”
Miranda turned back to James, who had the good grace to look slightly ashamed of himself.
“You haven’t told him, then,” she said, and James winced.
“I didn’t know where to start,” he confessed, and she sighed. Without another word, she walked over to Thomas.
“Thomas,” she said, and stopped, eyes scanning her husband’s face, mouth suddenly gone dry. She shook her head and, reaching up, gently placed both hands on Thomas’ chest. She pressed her lips together, firmly forbidding them from engaging in other activities no matter how badly she wanted to kiss her husband and never, ever cease doing so ever again. “We have a great deal to explain and I think you had best be sitting down when you hear it.”
Meg's Mumbles 