All that is to say that we do not get to sleep until it is nearly dawn. It’s more than the intimate play. It’s as if the last barrier between us has crumbled. He has seen the twenty-first century, and it is an experience we can continue to share. I have admitted how it both terrified and delighted me, and that shadow has been lifted. I will speak more openly about my time there, acknowledging the—yes—trauma of the experience, and August will no longer need to tiptoe around the subject.
The morning light has set the room ablaze by the time Edmund wakes us, nudging me ever so gently until my eyes open.
“There is someone at the door,” he whispers. “I was waiting in bed, and I heard a coach out front, and now someone is there.”
August lifts his head, blinking. We do expect the Thornes later, but they won’t arrive by coach, and they won’t come before Christmas luncheon.
A crisp rap sounds at the front door.
August groans. “It is Christmas morn.”
“It must be an emergency,” I say. “Someone expecting William to be at home. Wait in the hall, please, Edmund. We shall dress and see who it is and then check whether Santa brought you any presents.”
“But first, coffee,” August says, rising, the coverlet around his waist. “Ring the maid and ask . . . Oh, that’s right. There is no maid here. I’m sorry, Edmund, but you must wait until Papa has had his morning coffee. It may take a while.”
“Ignore your father,” I say. “He’s teasing you. You’ll have your presents as soon as we get rid of this caller.”
I wave Edmund out. I’m still pulling on my morning dress when he raps urgently at the door. I tell him to come in, and he pokes his head through.
“There is someone downstairs, Papa! An intruder!”
I sigh. “Let me guess. William still has not fixed that back door. Apparently, our visitor tired of waiting.”
I adjust my dress as August walks into the hall.
“Hello, dear brother,” a voice trills from the stairwell. “Merry Christmas!”
“Miranda?” I say.
I don’t even get the word out before my son is vaulting down the corridor. I peek out to see him leaping into her arms.
“Whatever are you doing here?” I ask.
“Well, isn’t that a fine hello. Merry Christmas to you, too.”
I walk over to give her a hug. “You know what I mean. We expected you and Portia up for Boxing Day. You are welcome, of course. It is simply unexpected.”
“Portia will be delayed, and since I was only waiting to travel with her, I decided to come last night. There are such interesting people on the train Christmas Eve.”
“You arrived last night?”
She pulls off her gloves. “I stayed in York.”
I open my mouth to protest and then close it. In this world, a young woman does not ride the train alone from London to York and then find herself lodgings. Or she does not unless she is my sister, who would find the modern world so much more to her liking.
I hug her again, using the embrace to stifle my concerns before I give them voice. There is a limit to how much I may fuss over Miranda these days. She is a grown woman and, if we are correct, a successful authoress.
Author, I correct myself.
Yet she is still my little sister. And far too reckless in regards to her own safety.
I take a look at her as I pull back. She may be twenty-six, but she still looks like the girl I remember. No taller than I, but with a figure some might—and do—call plump. Unfortunately, that only makes it easier for her to get away with whatever schemes her imagination concocts. She is a pretty, plump blond girl, certainly innocent and mild.
I snort at the thought, which has her brows rising.
“Let us go downstairs and—” I begin.
“—brew coffee,” August says.
“Open presents,” I finish.
“What about the Thornes?” Miranda asks. “Are they still abed?”
I hesitate.
“They are not at home,” August says. “The baby arrived early, and they had to go to York. They should be here this afternoon.”
“I saw the pirate!” Edmund says, and perhaps he was simply bursting to tell her, but I get the feeling he’s helping his father distract Miranda from asking about the Thornes.
“You three go on,” I say. “I still need to put on my boots.”
They leave, Edmund chattering about the pirate, which he is pretending to have seen in this world. I’m still lacing up my indoor boots when Miranda returns.
“They are starting the water for coffee,” she says. “I was going to put my bag away, but the room seems to be locked.”
“The one right across from ours?”
“The next one down. Which was also locked the last time I was here. That seems odd, does it not?”
“As it is not our house, Miranda, I believe we shouldn’t question locked doors.” I meet her gaze. “Nor attempt to prize them open.”
She only grins. “Has Edmund been practicing his new skills? Wait until you see what I got him for Christmas. Did I mention I have been taking sword lessons?”
“You mean fencing lessons.” I finish tying the boot laces. “Yes, you did mention that.”
“Mmm, no. Fencing was dull. I am now taking sword fighting.”
“Of course you are.” I pause as I rise. “Tell me this has nothing to do with Edmund’s gift.”
She picks up something from the floor. When she lifts it, I see the cashmere sweater I borrowed from Bronwyn. “What is this?”
“My shirt,” I say, taking it.
“I’ve never seen a shirt like that. Nor made of that material.”
“It is a Yorkshire style. From special sheep.”
I tuck the sweater into a drawer and turn to find her lifting the cord tied to the bedpost.
“Out,” I say, pointing.
Her lips twitch. “Is that a special Yorkshire custom as well?”
“Miranda . . .”
“A cord tied to a bedpost. Whatever might that be used for? Please tell me it is on August’s side of the bed, dear sister. That would make this story even better.”
“There is no story,” I say. “Yes, it is August’s side of the bed. The poor man sleepwalks dreadfully. Terribly dangerous in a house that is not his own.”
She sputters a laugh. “You are not even going to bother making up a plausible excuse, are you?”
“I do not believe I need to. Just be warned, Miranda, if you so much as mention that cord to August, you will need all the sword-fighting lessons you can get.”
She laughs again and pulls me into a hug. “I missed you, Rosie.”
“And I missed you. I would miss you even more if I had to murder you for interfering with my enjoyment of my darling husband.”
“I never would. Though I am curious—”
“Use your imagination. I know you have an excellent one.”
I steer her into the hallway and shut the door behind us.
“About that locked room . . .” she says.
“It belongs to the Thornes. It is their office, which means it is none of our business. Now, let us get downstairs before Edmund explodes from waiting for his presents.”