The words should have eased the nagging sensation in Alec's gut. Why, then, did he feel as if she had just slipped far away from him? Was she the one in need of reassurance, or was he? "Mira…" he said, gritting his teeth and starting across the room toward her.
The door opened. "I hope you've had an enjoyable chat," Rosalie said cheerfully.
Her comment was greeted with a heavy pause.
"Let's just say a typical ©ne," Alec muttered.
Sensing the explosive tension in the room, Rosalie cleared her throat lightly, her eyes darting from Mira's distant expression to Alec's grim one. "Would you like me to come back in another few minutes?"
"No, thank you," Alec said, trying to conceal his frustration as he took his gaze from Mira. "It appears that our conversation is through. Lady Berkeley, you may as well know that I am leaving immediately for London. Before I go, however, I would like to speak with your husband."
Rosalie looked startled. "I… oh… yes, of course. He is in the library. I will take you to him, if you wish."
"I would like to remain here undisturbed for a while," Mira said, her voice steady and even with artificial composure.
"Of course," Rosalie murmured. Uncertainly she preceded Alec out of the room. He paused at the doorway, his gaze locking with Mira's.
"Good-bye," he said. She looked directly at him but did not answer. The word would not leave her throat, even if she had tried to force it. With a smile that vaguely echoed his sarcasm of old, he left and closed the door.
Staring at nothing in particular, Mira leaned back on the settee. She held an embroidered pillow to her chest and rested her chin on it, curling her legs up sothat her body was only a small lump amid the cushions. A circle of words turned through her mind, over and over again.
"… you don't know what it feels like… to have someone that close to you die… without dignity, without warning …"
Indignity. Alec did not know the meaning of it quite as well as Mira did. Dignity was far more elusive for women than it was for men; women were far more easily robbed of it. She still remembered every detail of the brothel in France where her mother had worked. The procuress of the place had been fat and ill-tempered… "Madame" was what she had been called to her face, while behind her back everyone referred to her simply as "the abbess" or "the bawd." Madame had allowed Mireille to sleep in an undisturbed corner at night, so long as she was out of sight. Quiet and still, Mireille had slept near the warm stove in the kitchen, listening to the comings and goings, the creaking of the floorboards overhead, the sultry voices, the curious sounds and odd, muffled groans from upstairs.
She had rarely seen her mother, for during the day Mireille wandered through the village and the sleepy fields, far away from the brothel, and at night she slept while Maman worked. Some years, especially the early ones, she had been sent to the village school, where she had learned to read. As she had grown older, her education had become a patchwork of many different experiences. She had never thought of leaving Maman, the brothel, and the village; she hadn't known that a different world existed.
But one morning her mother was not there, and that was when Madame came to talk to Mireille, her plump throat quivering as she shook her finger angrily. It was wartime, and Maman had been arrested during a surprise attack on an enemy encampment of English soldiers, and she had been executed along with the other whores. According to Madame, it was very bad thatMireille's mother had been so unpatriotic, and worse that now there were fewer women to take care of the customers, and worst of all that Maman had been servicing men on the sly without paying a percentage of her earnings to the brothel.
Soon Madame had told her that she would have to start working upstairs. Mireille rebelled violently, for she had no desire to do what Maman had done. She was afraid of upstairs, the dark honeycomb of rooms filled with strange smells and heavy grunts, and the absorbent blackness of the hallway. And then in the middle of her longest and loudest wail, she saw a lean, brown-eyed, black-haired stranger walk into the room, just as if he owned it. He looked exactly like her. He had scowled at Madame, saying, "Get some other blood for your pushing-school. You won't have any more Germains whoring for you." And then he had turned to Mireille. Although she had never seen him before, his eyes were filled with affection, a fact which caused Mireille to fall silent in wonder and confusion. "Sang de Dieu, you're small for a twelve-year-old, aren't you?" he had asked, catching her under the arms and lifting her into the air. Her feet had dangled as he looked at her critically. Then he had given her a dazzling smile. "Too small for a name like Mireille. I'm going to call you Mira until you're taller. Do you know I'm your half-brother, Mira?"