Forever My Love(82)

Very slowly and carefully Rosalie had introduced Mira to the members of the family. After several afternoons of tea, needlework, music, and gossip, af­ter long discussions during which Mira would politely evade a slew of sly, digging questions, she was tenta-lively accepted into the flock. As Rosalie had instructed her, Mira never said anything about Lord Sackville, save that she had been a guest of his during the hunt. "How, exactly, are we explaining that away?" Mira had asked Rosalie in private, and Rosalie had momen­tarily worn an uncomfortable expression.

"Don't bother with that, Mireille—I've taken care of it."

"But how? And why do you look so guilty whenever I mention his name?"

"I look guilty?… I don't know why I should—I haven't done anything so very wrong… but a few sacrifices had to be made in order for your reputation to be saved."

"Sacrifices?" Mira had repeated, so suspiciously that a light blush had swept across Rosalie's cheekbones and the bridge of her nose. "Whatever story you made up—it hasn't done anything to hurt Sackville's reputa­tion, has it?"

"Now, don't be upset. I may have stretched the truth here and there about him, but only for your sake."

Horrified, Mira had stared at her with round eyes. "It's not like you to tell an untruth about anyone or anything."

"But I will," Rosalie had said quietly, "if it's neces­sary to protect someone I care about."

"But Sackville's good name is so important to him! If it has been damaged in any way, I would feel responsible—"

"He took terrible advantage of you," Rosalie had said flatly, all signs of apology disappearing from her face. "Rand told me that Sackville did some boasting about you to his close friends… I don't want to upset you, but it was the kind of boasting that no gentleman would do, even about his… You under­stand what I'm saying. He used you to enhance hisown self-importance, and in my opinion there's noth­ing wrong about my tearing it down to help you."

"In what way did you tear down his reputation?" Mira asked, but Rosalie did not answer. No matter how Mira persisted, she would not say another word about Sackville. The "tearing down" Rosalie had done, however, had been clever and incredibly subtle, for it was impossible to find out what she had said about Sackville, and it had resulted in ostracism. No one ever mentioned Sackville's name; he was seldom seen and seldom heard from. Mira felt guilty whenever she thought of him; indirectly or not, she had been the cause of his misfortune… and she felt even worse about Rosalie, who had, on Mira's account, found it necessary to compromise her own integrity.

As a light winter snow fell gently on the thick white blanket that already surrounded Berkeley Hall, the fireplace roared with a bright, warm blaze. Mira held one of the morocco leather books in her lap and leafed through it. The room was full of Berkeleys and their languid conversation, the younger ones gossiping while the older ones reposed, made drowsy by the heat of the fire. Rosalie sat nearby, holding Christian on her lap and nuzzling his hair occasionally while he drew pictures on a frost-coated window with his finger.

"Perhaps we can find out who sent the books by looking at the titles and the authors," Wilhelmina Berkeley said as she cast a blue-eyed glance at Mira. "Would it be some kind of code?"

"I don't think so," Mira replied, sighing inwardly as she realized that once more the conversation had turned toward the identity of her "admirer." It was a subject that wearied and exasperated her, since she knew al­ready who had sent the collection of novels. They were all works of Jane Austen, and she remembered once having talked with Alec about that particular author. But why would he have sent her the gift, andwhy would he have signed it "From an admirer"? He had never professed any sort of admiration for her before. Despite the questions and the uncertainties, she could not help but find pleasure in the books, for they were beautiful and smelled delightfully new.

"Are you absolutely certain," Wilhelmina pressed, "that you have not met any young man who might have sent the books to you?"

"Absolutely," Mira said firmly. As she felt some­one's eyes on her, she looked up and met Rosalie's gaze. From the way Rosalie looked, acutely perturbed, it was clear that she had little idea of who had sent the novels. So far she had not asked Mira a single ques­tion about them.

"Lady Berkeley," a maid's carefully modulated voice interceded respectfully, and Rosalie was presented with a silver tray littered with calling cards and notes. There was little to do in the winter except to attend parties and pay calls to one's neighbors, and so the arrival of this tray was regarded with a high degree of interest.