Just One Season in London Read Online Free PDF Page A

He even told her that if she would only give a try to a gentle old cob, one his father kept in his stables solely for the use of ladies who had been frightened by equines, she would soon get over this foolish prejudice of hers.
    Miranda, keeping a careful eye on Sophie for signs of steam rising from her dainty ears, was pleased to see that her daughter resisted the temptation to set him straight.
    Fortunately it was only a few minutes before Lady Brindle bustled in. If Lord Randall had kept it up for another quarter of an hour, Miranda thought, all bets would have been off. Sophie, despite her youth, might have been able to hold on to her temper, for she was clearly taking care to be on her best behavior. Miranda was fairly sure she herself would not have. One more offer of a pastille for her headache and she’d have given the young man an aching head of his own.
    There was no doubt who the authority was in Lady Brindle’s house. Within five minutes of her arrival, Lady Brindle had firmly dispatched Sophie to the guest room that had been set aside for her, in the care of the housekeeper, for a rest—without inquiring whether her young guest felt in need of one.
    It was soon clear why she had done so, however. Without Sophie present to hold her son’s attention, Lady Brindle was easily able to persuade Lord Randall to resume his interrupted ride. And soon thereafter Miranda and her old friend were settled in the drawing room with a glass of ratafia and a tray of cakes for what Lady Brindle called a comfortable coze . Miranda suspected it would be anything but comfortable.
    Within moments of picking up her first cake, Lady Brindle said, “Now, Miranda, you must tell me what this is all about. I’m happy to have you visit of course, at any time, but why in heaven’s name did you write to ask me to make up some ailment that would require you to come and stay for a few days?”
    Miranda sipped her ratafia. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t anticipated the question or given thought to how to answer it. But she’d forgotten how like a bulldog Ann Eliza could be when there was something she wanted to know.
    Perhaps, she thought wryly, she had wanted to forget.
    â€œSince when,” Ann Eliza persisted, “aren’t you free to come and go exactly as you like?”
    â€œWhen one has children, it’s hardly as easy as—”
    â€œOh pish. It’s not as if they’re still in the nursery. And you’ve had years to get used to the situation. That must be one of the best things about being a widow—not having to be accountable to a husband.” She sounded almost wistful, and not for the first time Miranda wondered whether Ann Eliza’s determination to marry Brindle all those years ago had been such a wise thing. She seemed to have let herself run to seed.
    But to an extent, Ann Eliza was right. There was definitely something to be said for the independence that came with being the widowed mother of a son who had achieved his majority and taken on the responsibilities left to him by his father.
    If only, Miranda thought, the freedom she enjoyed had included an independent income , she would truly be a happy woman!
    Ann Eliza hadn’t stopped talking. “From everything you’ve told me, Ryecroft is the best of sons. Why wouldn’t he agree for you to visit a friend just because you wanted to do so?”
    â€œI didn’t wish him to feel I was trying to avoid my responsibilities.”
    Ann Eliza looked at her narrowly. “Do you mean by leaving Sophie at home with him as you said you were going to do? Did Ryecroft object to being left in charge of a young lady? Or did you not ask him? Miranda, you must give me leave to tell you that if you’ve trumped up this visit merely in order to bring your daughter to the attention of my son—”
    â€œI most certainly have not! Ann Eliza, I’m shocked. Why you should think that I would