Hey everybody! So, after several days of staring at this thing, alternately convinced that the plot line sucked and that it just needed a little tweaking, I’ve finally managed to pull things together and figure out where this is heading in a way that I’m happy about. I’ve also split up Chapters 8 and 9, so that I’m rather further ahead in this than I thought I was. In celebration – here’s Chapter 7! I left it on a cliffhanger, so you might want to go back and read Chapter 6 again just as a reminder. Here’s the whole thing so far on Ao3.
Half an hour earlier:
The wealth on display in this room could have fed, clothed, and defended Nassau for centuries.
She had not wanted to be here tonight. She had known what she was getting herself into from the moment that she stepped into their carriage, with her shawl tucked into the crooks of her arms and her gloves – unfamiliar after so many years and so incredibly irritating – pulled on. On the way there, she had tried valiantly not to calculate in her head exactly what the mantua she wore tonight would fetch and for how many months such a sum could have kept her, James, and all her livestock in food and comfort. She did her level best to ignore such considerations – to simply relax and enjoy her return to society, however brief – and yet she had found that all she could think of was the utter, untenable, unbearable waste on display. She had not anticipated this aspect of her return to London and with it the life of a noblewoman that she had once enjoyed so very much. She had forgotten, or perhaps never realized, exactly how very far she had fallen from this exalted company, and it was a shock to realize that she was no longer like them – no longer Lady Hamilton, socialite, turned instead into something so far removed from this group of avaricious, backstabbing, heartless fools that she felt herself grow ill at the thought of joining them. She needed to get away from them – all of them, and she found herself seriously considering her chances of slipping away unnoticed before the nausea she felt at this display of unchecked, overprivileged decadence overwhelmed her entirely.
“Miranda? Are you alright?”
The voice came from Miranda’s left, and she turned to find her husband standing there, his tall form at her side the one pleasant aspect about this gathering save for James’ presence, which she only now noticed was missing.
“James has gone to the garden with the Admiral,” Thomas said, reading her mind the way he often did, and she felt some of her irritation dissipate, overtaken by a sort of fond warmth that welled up in her at his words.
She had missed him. The statement was accurate, but inadequate as a description for the aching loneliness that had overwhelmed her so many times in her exile – the longing to hear his voice, to have him present to anticipate her thoughts and make her laugh again the way he used to at dull affairs such as this one. She had missed his wit, and his intelligence, and his willingness to follow her lead when he did not know how to handle something himself almost as much as she had missed his presence in her bed and his effortless ability to charm those around him with his genuine conviction and desire to do good. For a moment, she allowed herself to simply look at him, drinking in his presence. She had worried, when she had first woken to find herself a decade in the past, that this would have changed – that she would find that she no longer fit, that her husband’s sense of humor would no longer amuse her, or vice versa, or that they would simply no longer understand one another. It was a blessed relief to find that for all their new-found differences, he still understood the pattern of her thoughts, the direction her mind turned – that she had not become a stranger to him seemingly overnight, leaving him to cast about for the traces of the woman he had married.
“I could become quite spoiled, having you look at me that way,” he murmured, and she smiled.
“I could become spoiled looking at you.” It had been over a month, and still she could not help staring at her husband this way, a positively silly grin on her face. He had not, bless him, teased either her or James about it, although he could not possibly have understood the sheer relief that still washed over both of them every time he entered the room or otherwise made his presence known. They would, perhaps, begin to behave more normally around him given time to readjust, but for now, he tolerated it with good grace and a trace of fond amusement from time to time.
“Did the Admiral seem to be in a good mood?” she asked, and Thomas nodded.
“Good enough,” he answered, “as well he should be. The man can scarcely complain about his protegé being promoted!”
“The Admiral’s reaction is not the one that concerns me,” she murmured, and Thomas frowned.
“It’s been eleven years,” he murmured. “Surely by now -?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t think he ever quite got over it,” she answered. “Being called a monster – being humiliated in such a fashion -” She shook her head. “It hurt him so very badly, Thomas – the injustice of it. And trying to argue with him about it – to convince him that the entire world was wrong when it called him such awful things -” She shook her head again, and Thomas’ frown deepened. He looked toward the garden as if considering whether to go out after James, his brow furrowing.
“If Hennessey says anything of the kind to James tonight -” he began, and she shook her head.
“I don’t believe he will,” she admitted. “I only hope that James can contain himself.”
“They haven’t shouted the house down yet,” he put forward hopefully, and she could not quite help the small smile that worked its way onto her face.
“No,” she agreed. She looked around the room and could not help grimacing. Thomas, seeing the expression, gave her a concerned look.
“Is everything alright, dear?” he asked, and she shook her head.
“Look at them, Thomas,” she invited. He turned, surprise flashing across his face. “What do you see?”
“I see that Lady Montagu and Lord Spencer have finally stopped pretending that they’re not having an affair,” he answered. “I see that the Earl of Berkshire has somehow managed to attend despite being approximately as ancient as the building itself. His son must have done something embarrassing again. I see -”
Miranda shook her head.
“No,” she said. “Look at them, truly.”
Thomas looked again, and then looked back at her, clearly baffled.
“A clue, my love?” he asked, and Miranda sighed.
“Their clothing, Thomas. They’re each wearing the contents of a very small treasury room and they think nothing of it. When I think of how people live in Nassau – how people live here, in London – of how their lives could be bettered immeasurably and see – this -” She trailed off, gesturing frustratedly to the room, and Thomas looked again, his eyes darting from person to person in sudden comprehension.
“Ah,” he said. He looked suddenly thoughtful, and his gaze darted around the room again, taking in what Miranda was seeing. It was a talent of his – that ability to lay aside his preconceptions and view things from another perspective, and it was yet another thing that Miranda treasured about him. “It is rather much, isn’t it?” he admitted, and she snorted.
“To put it mildly,” she said. “The Duchess of Marlborough’s mantua alone could fetch a thousand pounds. Men have killed for far less.”
“You’ve developed quite an eye for such things,” Thomas said admiringly, and Miranda shrugged.
“I’ve had to,” she answered. “One never truly realizes how much it can cost to live until one finds oneself attempting to fix one’s shoes for the third time because doing so allows one to eat that week.” She said it lightly, but Thomas still stood, giving her a look of purest horror, and she waved a hand. “It’s not important,” she murmured, and he shook his head.
“No,” he argued. “It is. My God, Miranda -”
“Don’t,” she cut him off. “Please. It wasn’t your fault.”
“Wasn’t it?” Thomas asked, and she shook her head.
“No,” she answered. “Please, Thomas, I -” She stopped and took a deep breath. The anger that welled in her was old – well-worn and familiar, and after the past few weeks it was almost a relief – almost, in that it was not the wild, burning hatred she felt for Peter, for Alfred, for the civilized world, and yet it was still anger, and she was not reckless or heedless enough to believe it anything other than a temptation to that other, worse emotion.
“Please,” she repeated, and Thomas seemed to recognize what she could not say. He nodded, backing down, a troubled look on his face.
“I shall need your aid, you realize,” he said quietly, at last. “When we reach Nassau, that is. I want you to be in charge of our finances.”
The sentence served its intended purpose. Miranda felt her attention drawn, surprise mixed with a small thrill of pleasure running through her at her husband’s words. To be needed – to play an active part in their futures –
Well. It would at least provide her with something to do with her days that was not farming, and the thought was a welcome one.
“A female chancellor of the exchequer?” she asked, one eyebrow arched and a smile playing around her lips. “The scandal!” The words brought a smile to his face, one that he quickly attempted to cover with one hand.
“I’m serious,” he said. “Scandal or not. I want this to work, Miranda. I want Nassau to be a place where men and women can be truly free to live their lives as they choose, not some miniature England. I want -” He looked at her again and smiled. “Well. You’ve heard me say it a hundred times, no doubt.”
“Two hundred, if you count both lives,” Miranda said lightly. “And speaking of the Duchess of Marlborough -”
“Were we?”
“Yes. I’m surprised she’s come. I hadn’t expected anyone quite so exalted to appear.”
“She appears to be having a grand good time talking with Lord Godolphin and – who is that with them?”
Miranda frowned.
“I’m not sure,” she said slowly. The woman Thomas referred to was of average height, with nondescript features, and Miranda had never seen her before, or at least if she had she had forgotten her. She did not look like the sort to be associating with some of the foremost peers of the realm, and yet there she stood, a polite smile affixed to her face, apparently listening detachedly to whatever the Duchess was saying. There was something in her bearing – something that sent an alarm bell ringing and Miranda’s finely-honed danger sense tingling. She turned back to Thomas.
“Thomas,” she said carefully. “I think I will go after James. Will you come with me?”
“Of course,” he returned, somewhat startled. “Miranda, what -?”
“Call it a feeling,” she returned. “I think we may wish to retire home. Quickly.”
*******************************************
“Do you believe he’ll succeed?”
The question came from Lord Godolphin. The lady he addressed turned to regard him with a raised eyebrow, her aristocratic and well-known features arranged into an artful display of nonchalance.
“Well, he certainly seems to be determined to give it a go!” she answered.
“Yes, but do you think he’ll actually manage it?”
“My dear Sidney – he has already toppled one of the most powerful men in the nation. I think that young Lord Hamilton is likely to accomplish most anything he sets out to do, provided someone doesn’t kill him first.”
“That should be a great deal easier for him to avoid after tonight,” Godolphin said idly, and the Duchess’ eyes narrowed.
“It’s done, then?”
The woman standing beside them nodded.
“Yes, your Grace.”
A smile, fleeting but definitely present, flitted across the Duchess’ face, and she nodded her head in the other woman’s direction.
“Excellent.”
“Poor Alfred,” Godolphin lamented, and the Duchess huffed.
“The man was a lecher and an opportunist of the worst kind. Pity his poor brothers, if you must pity anyone, and his unfortunate children. I shan’t miss him.”
“I thought he had only one son?”
The Duchess raised an eyebrow.
“Really, Sidney!” she scolded. “Do you know nothing of the man?”
“Anything more personal than nodding across the Assembly floor is entirely too much for me,” Godolphin answered. “The man was a wretched spider.”
“And you a poor fly inadvertently snared in his web,” the Duchess answered, her voice mocking. “Poor Sidney.”
**********************************************************
He had somehow managed to get lost again.
It was a curse, Thomas thought. He would no doubt have been fine but for getting caught by Lady Lennox, who was of sufficiently high standing that he had not dared refuse to speak with her, given that her father the Duke still held the title of Lord High Admiral of Scotland. Thus, he had quite lost track of Miranda, and now stood, looking about himself, utterly perplexed as to where his wife could have disappeared to.
“She did say the garden,” he murmured. “If I were James and Miranda, where would I -”
The crash that sounded was nearby – so nearby, in fact, that Thomas jumped, looking about for the heavy object that had just fallen to the floor.
“Miranda?”
He turned, voice raised in alarm now, his wife’s words coming back to him. She had been correct, he realized, and tried to quell the fear that welled up in him abruptly, sharp and strong.
“Miranda?” He turned again, and heard someone breathing heavily and fast, as if afraid or –
He rounded the corner and stopped dead in his tracks, eyes riveted on the body lying on the ground.
“Dear God,” he murmured, and raised his eyes to find his wife standing close by, her eyes equally fixed on the still, silent form of Thomas’ father.
Yes. Yes, they definitely should have left.
**************************************************
“You were speaking of his children,” Godolphin said sourly, and the Duchess smiled.
“Yes. Lord Thomas – gracious, it will be Lord Thomas Hamilton, Fifth Earl of Ashbourne soon, won’t it? In any case, he is not an only child. No – Alfred had two bastards, both boys. I’ve never met either but I’m told the older one has taken up a life in the army.”
“Two? Good God. You’re telling me that more than one poor woman agreed to bed that?”
“There’s no accounting for taste,” the Duchess answered archly.
“And has either of them -”
The crash, when it came, was quite startling – enough so that it ended all chatter, rendering the ballroom temporarily silent. It did not last long, though; there was a growing commotion coming from the doorway to the garden, and they turned toward it, the Duchess’s brows furrowing.
“What on Earth -?” she started.
“The Earl! The Earl of Ashbourne! He’s dead!” The shout came from outside, and she turned back to the woman at her right, who had gone quite pale.
“Madeleine,” she murmured. “You are quite certain you used enough?”
The other woman’s eyes widened.
“Yes, your Grace,” she answered. “It should have been enough to kill a horse, let alone -”
“Oh my dear,” the Duchess sighed. “You should have known. The damned whoreson was always more of the feline persuasion.”
“Your Grace?”
“Nine lives and stubborn as they come,” she sighed. “Come along. It would seem your work is done, regardless, and I have no desire to be trapped here all night.”
****************************************************
It was odd, Miranda thought, how quickly things could change.
She stood, staring down at her father-in-law’s body, a sort of detached, numb feeling spreading through her, and wondered idly whether there were any version of reality in which Alfred Hamilton survived. Whether, in some alternate universe, they had the sort of loving family relationship that some women seemed to have with their husbands’ parents. Looking at his contorted face and the shattered statue that lay nearby, pulled to the ground in Alfred’s last, dying attempt to hold himself up, somehow, she rather doubted it.
“Miranda? Are you alright? Miranda?” Thomas’ voice sounded behind her, frantic with worry. “What happened?” She could not speak – could not answer him, and he lowered his voice, his tone more gentle when he spoke next.
“Miranda?”
She turned to him, and she could see the moment that he understood what had happened – the moment he saw the knife in Alfred’s hand and the slight wrent in the sleeve of her gown that were the only proof that his father had attempted to murder her just moments before.
“I’m fine,” she said through numb lips. “Thomas -”
He reached forward, gathering her into his arms.
“It’s alright,” he murmured, staring down at the inert form of Alfred Hamilton. “It’s alright.”
***********************************
It was two in the morning before they returned home.
Thomas still bore a look of shock on his pale, drawn face, and James looked little better, seemingly stunned at the night’s events. They stumbled in through the door ahead of Miranda without the slightest pretence, Thomas retaining just enough wits to tell the shocked Davies that the servants were to wear mourning attire when they rose from their beds. They trooped up the stairs in utter silence, and closed the door to their bedroom behind them with a final, decisive thump. They looked at each other with a sort of numbed horror.
“Miranda – are you alright?” Thomas was the first to speak, his voice quiet and hoarse with fatigue and grief. She nodded silently, staring at the floor rather than him, and he placed one hand against her cheek, silently asking for confirmation with his eyes.
“I’m fine,” she answered finally. She was – physically, at least, although her mantua would likely have disagreed had it been able to speak, not that she particularly cared. “And you?” Thomas shook his head.
“I don’t know,” he answered. He went slowly, wearily to the table in the corner, plucking his wig off his head and letting it drop onto its stand, and then ran a hand over his hair with rather less energy than usual, the motions mechanical, his hand stopping at the back of his neck. He did not turn around, staring instead at the mirror above the table. “Do you – do you think he suffered?” The words were barely more than a whisper, but they sounded rather like a thunderclap to Miranda’s ears. She looked to James only to find the same look of resignation and guilt and bone-deep weariness that she felt in his eyes as well.
“Thomas -” James started, and then sighed. “He came all the way to Whitehall with the apparent intent of murdering you. Do you -”
“You don’t know that!” Thomas cut him off vehemently, turning to face him fully. “You can’t possibly -”
“He had a knife in his hand, and the only reason he didn’t bury it in one of us is that his heart finally did the decent thing and gave out before he could do so!” James snapped. “I do know it, all too well!”
“James!” Miranda hissed. Thomas’ face crumpled, and she saw the flash of realization and of guilt that traveled over James’ face at the look of utter devastation on his lover’s face.
“Thomas -” he started, reaching for Thomas’ neck and then sighed, his arms dropping to his sides again. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I shouldn’t have -” He scrubbed a hand over his face and shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he apologized again. Thomas stood, searching his face, and then finally, slowly, he nodded
“Alright,” he acknowledged. “I – I don’t mean to be – it’s just – he was-” He stopped, swallowing hard, his voice starting to shake, to catch, and Miranda came forward, placing a hand on her husband’s arm.
“He was your father,” she acknowledged softly, and heard a small sound escape Thomas’ mouth – not quite a whimper, but still too akin to the noise a wounded animal might make for comfort. He closed his eyes, tears leaking from their corners, and this time both James and Miranda reached forward, gathering him into a hug while he wept, sobs shaking his tall frame. He clung to them, one hand gripping James’ shirt and the other on Miranda’s back, his head buried against their shoulders, and they remained that way for quite some time, not moving even after Thomas had ceased to cry.
“He was always such a miserable bastard, but I never wanted him dead,” Thomas murmured after a while. “It’s my fault. You said, where you came from, he didn’t -”
“You couldn’t have known,” James told him quietly. “Thomas – you didn’t set out to cause this.”
Thomas laughed hollowly.
“Has that stopped you from berating yourself about your crimes?” he asked, and James flinched.
“No,” he admitted. He pulled away a step, his arms lowering again, and Thomas reached for him again, his eyes’ seeking James’ guilt-ridden ones.
“James – I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry. I had no right to say that to you.”
“You’re tired and grieving,” James started, and Thomas shook his head.
“No. That doesn’t give me the right to say things like that. I’m sorry.” James met his gaze for another moment and then nodded silently, visibly relaxing at the contrition in Thomas’ voice. He came closer, accepting the kiss that Thomas laid on his brow. “Dead and still determined to come between us,” Thomas murmured, and James gave a huff of laughter. Miranda, on the other hand, pulled back slightly, an odd expression flitting over her face.
“Darling? What is it?” Thomas asked, and she stood, mouth open ever so slightly, looking at him with sudden realization.
“He’s dead,” she repeated, and Thomas flinched.
“Yes. I -”
“No,” she interrupted. “I meant – you’re safe. He can’t -” She stopped, searching for the words, “-take you from us again,” she settled for finally. “He can’t come and take you away from me. It’s finally -” She stopped again, tears forming in her eyes, and finally she reached forward and wrapped her hand around the back of her husband’s neck, bringing him to her for a kiss, not a long, slow, loving one but a hard, fierce thing that took him by surprise. “You’re safe,” she repeated, and he gave a slight huff of breath at the realization of what she was trying to say.
“You’ve been afraid it would happen again,” he said, and she nodded wordlessly.
“Yes,” she confirmed. “I didn’t want to think it, but I couldn’t help it. Every morning I would wake up and wonder if today it would happen all over again but now -” She stopped.
“Now it’s over,” Thomas finished softly. “Miranda -” He reached forward to touch her face, one thumb moving to wipe away the tears gathering in her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she breathed. “I’m sorry if I have been distant. I couldn’t face it again. I couldn’t -” Her voice shook, and Thomas pulled her forward into an embrace, wrapping both arms around her and holding on as she wept. After a moment he moved them to the bed, sitting down slowly and allowing Miranda to weep into one shoulder even as he motioned for James, who sat down next to them, wrapping his right arm around Miranda’s back to rub up and down.
“It’s alright,” Thomas soothed. “I’m here. I’m not leaving. It won’t happen – not ever again. We’re safe. It’s over.”
*************************************
Windsor:
“My lord – the Earl of Ashbourne is dead.”
“Yes.”
“Do you intend -?”
“Yes. Ashbourne may have outlived his usefulness, but his meddling son will serve just as well. Speak with Mr. Finley. I would like to have a word with his young lordship.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Meg's Mumbles 