​

It couldn’t be dawn yet. Miranda Harlake turned on her side to read the mantel clock by light of the dying fire. Two-thirty. Still unsure what had awakened her, she curled up and tried to get back to sleep. Almost on the verge of a dream, she heard the noise again. It was coming from her balcony.

Miranda looked over just in time to see a figure, bathed in moonlight, climb over the railing.

“Peter…” she muttered and closed her eyes.

She stayed in bed. He knew the way in.

Sure enough, the French doors opened and closed quietly, followed by footsteps creeping across the floor.

“Miranda,” Peter whispered, shaking her shoulder lightly.

“I’m awake,” she said, turning onto her stomach and pulling the blankets over her head.

“Miranda. Get up.”

She pointed vaguely toward the balcony. “Come back tomorrow.”

Peter walked over to the hearth and stirred the embers until the fire glowed, then went around the room lighting candles. “We need to talk.”

Blearily brushing the hair out of her eyes, Miranda sat up just enough to lean back against the pillows.

Peter perched himself on the edge of her bed. “We have to get engaged. Tonight.” He pulled a ring out of his waistcoat pocket.

Miranda was tempted to pinch herself to be sure she was awake, but since this wasn’t the first time her best friend had come to her bedroom in the middle of the night, she didn’t bother. Still, it had been some weeks since Peter had done it and he’d never proposed before.

“What are you talking about?” she asked through a dainty yawn.

Peter took her hand and gazed steadily into her eyes. “Your parents are betrothing you to Ebenezer Rockford tomorrow.”

“Ebenezer Rockford! He’s almost old enough to be my father!” Truly awake now, Miranda shot out of bed.

“He is old enough to be your father.”

After a few moments Miranda stopped pacing and looked at Peter, trying to determine if he could be sleepwalking. Not that he ever had before, but it would make much more sense than what he was telling her. “I think you were dreaming, Peter. Where else would you get such a ludicrous notion?”

“It wasn’t a dream. I overheard your parents talking earlier. Accidentally, of course.” Peter flushed slightly and ran a hand through his hair. “Mr. Rockford’s seeking a bride and your parents want her to be you.”

“You must have misunderstood. Perhaps you should start at the beginning.” Miranda cast a longing look at her bed. “Or come back in the morning?”

Peter rose and joined her beside the hearth. “The morning will be too late. Your father’s going to speak with Mr. Rockford first thing tomorrow.” He glanced at his pocket watch. “Well, later today.”

“But he hasn’t even proposed. Are my parents going to…to offer me to him?” Miranda asked, letting her arms fall to her sides.

“From what I heard, yes.”

“Then why are you proposing, if indeed you truly are, when you know my parents want me to marry Mr. Rockford?”

“Because if you’re betrothed to me you can’t marry him.” Peter tried to slip the ring onto Miranda’s finger, but she balled her hand into a fist.

“This is absurd!” Miranda hadn’t said more than two words to Mr. Rockford since that night he’d come to dinner three years ago. As she’d been barely seventeen and still in school at the time, she couldn’t have made much of an impression on him.

“Absurd or not, your parents apparently can’t resist trying to make a match. He’s wealthy, lives close by, and comes from a good family.”

“We don’t need his money. We aren’t paupers.” Miranda walked over to the sofa and sat down. “My parents can’t have been serious,” she said, looking up at Peter.

“Your father’s lawyer was with them. They were going over your marriage settlement.”

Miranda was almost speechless. “An arranged marriage? It’s so old-fashioned! This isn’t the eighteen hundreds.”

“It was the eighteen hundreds ten years ago,” he said with a slight grin.

“Oh, what can I do?” Miranda had never been the type to run away, but the idea had its merits at the moment.

Peter sat beside her and took her hand. “If you accept Mr. Rockford tomorrow, you’ll be married by harvest, but if you’re betrothed to me it will buy you time. You’ll be able to think what to do.” His eyes shone as he held up the ring again. Miranda recognized it at once as his grandmother’s.

“You’re sweet to offer, Peter, but who would believe it?”

He looked affronted. “Your parents won’t see me as a proper suitor since I’m only the housekeeper’s son?”

Miranda tutted. “Don’t be ridiculous. Nobody cares that you’re the housekeeper’s son. But don’t you think people will notice that we’ve never once behaved as though we’re in love?”

“You don’t wear your heart on your sleeve like some girls, Miranda. We’ll tell your parents we kept it secret because we didn’t think they’d approve.”

“But what about you? Don’t you…have someone?” She hated to mention Ann, but she had to.

Peter looked away. “That’s over. Long over. I don’t think I’ll ever marry.”

“You’re too young to decide that. Besides, we both know you aren’t the type of man to live alone your whole life.”

He met her eyes, looking torn between amused and irritated at her assessment of him. “This isn’t about me. It’s about you. We won’t actually wed, so you can rest easy knowing you aren’t coming between me and the woman of my dreams.”

“But how will it work?” she asked, shrugging. “We simply go downstairs tomorrow morning and tell my parents we’re engaged?”

“Considering that I haven’t been allowed in your bedroom since we were ten years old, coming downstairs together probably isn’t the best way to announce our betrothal. It’s more likely to get me banished from the house. I’ll arrive at the front door and ask to see your father, and you will look ecstatic when I later emerge from the drawing room with his consent.”

Miranda rose and walked to the window, still barely able to believe her parents would arrange this match—any match—without consulting her.

“There must be another option,” she said. A pretend engagement seemed not only drastic but complicated.

“There is. Tomorrow morning you promise to become Mrs. Ebenezer Rockford.”

Miranda stared at the dark, starless sky. She’d always known she’d marry one day but had assumed she’d love—or at least like—her bridegroom. She definitely wouldn’t have chosen someone twice her age that she barely knew and had never had a meaningful conversation with. As ridiculous as Peter’s idea was, it might be the only way. Unless…

“What if I simply refuse to go along with my parents’ plans?” she asked, turning to face him.

With a sympathetic yet exasperated look, Peter crossed the room to take her hand. “When have you ever been able to refuse them anything?”

Since Miranda couldn’t argue with that, she tried another tack. “Perhaps Mr. Rockford won’t want to marry me. He could have his pick of any young lady in town. He doesn’t even know me.”

“First of all, yes, he does. He’s been to your house before. Secondly, who wouldn’t want to marry you? You’re pretty, amusing, and intelligent. And Mr. Rockford greatly regards your father.”

“I don’t think his admiration of my father’s work is enough to make him want to marry me.”

“I’ll be frank, then, shall I?”

Miranda raised a brow. “When aren’t you?”

“You’d make him an excellent wife and he knows that. Just trust me, Miranda. Mr. Rockford will say yes. So you’ve got to say no, and unless you feel the time has come to finally stand up to your parents…” He showed her the ring again.

“But if we say we’re betrothed, my parents will expect us to actually get married. Soon.”

“We’ll say we want a long engagement, but simply cannot bear another day of not being promised to one another.”

Though Miranda had misgivings, Peter’s plan appeared to be the best, and the only, one they could devise before morning. “A very long engagement,” she said. “Otherwise my father will start planning the wedding this afternoon.”

He broke into a wide smile. “Is that a yes?”

Miranda was about to speak, but Peter held up a hand. “No! Wait.” He went to his knees and took both her hands in his, staring up into her blue eyes. “Dearest, most beloved Miranda, wilt though doest me the honor—”

She covered her face with her hands, overcome with laughter. “Oh, do get up.”

Peter rose and, taking Miranda’s left hand, slid the ring onto her finger. They stood in silence, watching the diamond sparkle in the candlelight. After a moment they met each other’s eyes.

“What now?” Miranda asked, taking her hand back.

“Now I go home,” Peter said and let out a huge yawn. “You go back to bed, and I’ll call on your father in the morning. Try to act desperately in love when you see me.”

“Then we’ll decide what’s next. Such as how to extricate ourselves from each other when the time comes.”

“That won’t be a problem. I’ll do something scandalous that gives you second thoughts, or you’ll be caught in a compromising position.”

Miranda’s cheeks turned pink. “I absolutely will not.”

“I’m only joking,” Peter said, laughing. “We’ll think of some reason to call off our engagement, but we’ll wait until Mr. Rockford marries someone else. Then you’ll be free to fall in love with a lad you meet at a picnic or a dance.”

Miranda put a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you for this, Peter. If my parents had told me tomorrow morning that I’m to marry Mr. Rockford, I would have been so shocked I’d have said yes.”

He started toward the balcony. “You need to learn to stand up for yourself. But that’s for later.”

“Wouldn’t you like to take the stairs?”

“Oh, no. This is much more romantic. Goodnight,” Peter said as he climbed over the railing. When he reached the ground, he blew her a kiss and ran into the darkness.

Though only an hour had passed since Miranda woke up, it felt like a lifetime. Her mind raced with questions and doubts as she extinguished the candles and climbed back into bed, the ring on her finger heavy as a stone.

****

The next morning Miranda childishly hoped she’d dreamed Peter’s visit. But no. There was the ring upon her finger. Sighing, she got out of bed and walked out to her balcony.

Miranda’s great-grandfather had settled in this quiet New Hampshire valley and built the house from the ground up. He’d named it Majestic Oaks though it was only a two-storied home. Still, it was large enough. There were more than enough bedrooms, most of them empty despite Miranda’s parents’ best efforts to fill them all. Even after all these years, that one sunny room in the corner of the second floor stood ready to welcome a new arrival.

The house was surrounded by rolling fields and great stands of oaks, one of which afforded Peter his easy access to Miranda’s bedroom. The Tolwoods lived at the edge of Majestic Oaks’ grounds and Miranda and Peter had been friends from the cradle.

As Miranda turned to go inside, the sound of hooves rent the morning air. She looked up to see her father—out much earlier than usual and dressed in his finest—trotting down the drive. He must be on his way to see Mr. Rockford. She gestured frantically for him to come back, but he just waved and spurred his horse on.

Miranda slowly backed into her room and didn’t stop until the back of her knees hit the edge of the bed. She collapsed onto it and covered her face with her hands. It was too late. Peter’s plan had come to naught; her father would soon be offering her up to Mr. Rockford like a prize cow.

If only she’d gone downstairs earlier! She could have easily delayed his departure by taking him into the studio with some question or other about her latest painting. Then Peter would have had time to come and ask for her hand.

She pried herself off the bed and changed into a long, dark green skirt and a white blouse embellished with lace. Sitting at the vanity and brushing her auburn hair, she tried to think of the best way to tell her parents she wouldn’t marry Mr. Rockford. Peter was sweet to offer her a way out, but really, of all times, this was one where she should stand up for herself. Perhaps a confrontation with her parents wouldn’t be necessary. She’d simply tell them she’d heard of their plans and wasn’t interested in Mr. Rockford. They couldn’t argue with that. After all, her parents couldn’t force her to marry him.

Hopefully Miranda’s mother was having one of her good days. If she was suffering from one of her headaches or felt too tired to come downstairs, Miranda wouldn’t even see her today. But if she was feeling well she’d listen to Miranda and perhaps take her side. What mother wanted to send a miserable daughter to the altar?

In the parlor, Miranda found her mother lounging on the yellow chaise in front of the window, leafing through her favorite magazine, New England Artist Monthly.

Miranda perked up at once. One of her mother’s good days. “Good morning, Mother.”

“Good morning,” Mrs. Harlake said, not looking up.

Miranda strolled over to stand beside her. “Any interesting articles?”

“There’s to be an art exhibition in Hollingsford in August.”

“Oh, good. Perhaps we could pick up supplies while we’re in the city.”

“Yes, I need canvas and a new flat brush.”

Now was the time. Miranda glanced at the side table. No coffee cup. It wouldn’t do to try to talk to her mother before she’d had breakfast. “Have you eaten yet?”

“No, I’m waiting for your father,” she said and turned the page.

“Where is he?” Miranda asked.

“He had an errand in town.”

Was it Miranda’s imagination, or was her mother a little more pink in the cheeks than she’d been a moment ago?

“Father isn’t usually out this early,” Miranda said, trying to keep her voice even.

Now her mother did look up. And yes, she was pink. “He had a meeting with someone. I forget who.” She turned back to the magazine, flipping through it without glancing at any pages.

“I’ll wait to eat breakfast with him, too,” Miranda said, settling herself on the sofa.

“There’s no need for that. It could be a long time.”

“I don’t mind waiting.” Miranda tried to recall the resolve she’d had upstairs. It was a simple matter of explaining how she felt. “This gives us time to discuss something that’s been troubling me.”

“I. Well.” Mrs. Harlake put a hand to her forehead, rubbing her temple. “I need to go up to my room,” she said, tossing the magazine aside as she stood up.

“What about your breakfast?”

“I’ll have a tray brought up.”

“But Mother,” Miranda said, rising, “I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

“Talk to your father when he gets home. He’s better at solving your problems than I am.” Mrs. Harlake turned to go.

“I don’t have a problem,” Miranda said, placing a hand on her mother’s arm. “It’s about Ebenezer Rockford.”

“What about him?” Mrs. Harlake asked, pulling out of Miranda’s grasp.

Words failed Miranda for a moment as she looked into her mother’s cool gray eyes. Yes, what about him? How could she admit she knew what her parents were planning without divulging that Peter had overheard their private conversation? Perhaps the best course of action was bringing the conversation around to it gradually.

“I heard he’s getting married,” Miranda said at last.

“If all you wanted to do was gossip, I’m going upstairs,” Mrs. Harlake snapped, not meeting Miranda’s eyes.

Miranda would never have a better chance than this. “As a matter of fact, Mother,” she began, reaching up to brush a hair out of her face. “I—”

“Miranda! What is that?” Her mother grabbed her wrist just as the butler came in to announce a visitor.