The Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever

body to the ground, he could not escape the fact that he had wished for this. He had wanted to be rid of her.

And he would not- he did not mourn her.

'Such a pity,' someone behind him whispered.

Turner's jaw twitched. This was not a pity. It was a farce. And now he would spend the next year wearing black for a woman who had come to him carrying another man's child. She had bewitched him, teased him until he could think of nothing but the possession of her. She had said she loved him, and she had smiled with sweet innocence and delight when he had avowed his devotion and pledged his soul.

She had been his dream.

And then she had been his nightmare.

She'd lost that baby, the one that had prompted their marriage. The father had been some Italian count, or at least that's what she'd said. He was married, or unsuitable, or maybe both. Turner had been prepared to forgive her; everyone made mistakes, and hadn't he, too, wanted to seduce her before their wedding night?

But Leticia had not wanted his love. He didn't know what the hell she had wanted- power, perhaps, the heady rush of satisfaction when yet another man fell under her spell.

Turner wondered if she'd felt that when he'd succumbed. Or maybe it had just been relief. She'd been three months along by the time they married. She hadn't much time to spare.

And now here she was. Or rather, there she was. Turner wasn't precisely sure which locational pronoun was more accurate for a lifeless body in the ground.

Whichever. He was only sorry that she would spend her eternity in his ground, resting among the Bevelstokes of days gone by. Her stone would bear his name, and in a hundred years, someone would gaze upon the etchings in the granite and think she must have been a fine lady, and what a tragedy that she'd been taken so young.

Turner looked up at the priest. He was a youngish fellow, new to the parish and by all accounts, still convinced that he could make the world a better place.

'Ashes to ashes,' the priest said, and he looked up at the man who was meant to be the bereaved widower.

Ah yes, Turner thought acerbically, that would be me.

'Dust to dust.'

Behind him, someone actually sniffled.

And the priest, his blue eyes bright with that appallingly misplaced glimmer of sympathy, kept on talking-

'In the sure and certain hope of the Resurrection- '

Good God.

'- to eternal life.'

The priest looked at Turner and actually flinched. Turner wondered what, exactly, he'd seen in his face. Nothing good, that much was clear.

There was a chorus of amens, and then the service was over. Everyone looked at the priest, and then everyone looked at Turner, and then everyone looked at the priest clasping Turner's hands in his own as he said, 'She will be missed.'

'Not,' Turner bit off, 'by me.'

I can't believe he said that.

Miranda looked down at the words she'd just written. She was currently on page forty-two of her thirteenth journal, but this was the first time- the first time since that fateful day nine years earlier- that she had not a clue what to write. Even when her days were dull (and they frequently were), she managed to cobble together an entry.

In May of her fourteenth year-

Woke.

Dressed.

Ate breakfast: toast, eggs, bacon.

Read

Sense and Sensibility, authored by unknown lady.

Hid

Sense and Sensibility from Father.

Ate dinner: chicken, bread, cheese.

Conjugated French verbs.

Composed letter to Grandmother.

Ate supper: beefsteak, soup, pudding.

Read more

Sense and Sensibility, author's identity still unknown.

Retired.

Slept.

Dreamed of him.

This was not to be confused with her entry of 12 November of the same year-

Woke.

Ate breakfast: Eggs, toast, ham.

Made great show of reading Greek tragedy. To no avail.

Spent much of the time staring out the window.

Ate lunch: fish, bread, peas.

Conjugated Latin verbs.

Composed letter to Grandmother.

Ate supper: roast, potatoes, pudding.

Brought tragedy to the table (book, not event).

Father did not notice.

Retired.

Slept.

Dreamed of him.

But now- now when something huge and momentous had actually occurred (which it never did) she had nothing to say except-

I can't believe he said that.

'Well, Miranda,' she murmured, watching the ink dry on the tip of her quill, 'you'll not achieve fame as a diarist.'

'What did you say?'

Miranda snapped her diary shut. She had not realized that Olivia had entered the room.

'Nothing,' she said quickly.

Olivia moved across the carpet and flopped on the bed. 'What a horrible day,'

Miranda nodded, twisting in her seat so that she was facing her friend.

'I am glad you were here,' Olivia said with a sigh. 'Thank you for remaining for the night.'

'Of course,' Miranda replied. There had been no question, not when Olivia had said she'd needed her.

'What are you writing?'

Miranda looked down at the diary, only just then realizing that her hands were resting protectively across its cover. 'Nothing,' she said.

Olivia had been staring at the ceiling, but at that she quirked her head in Miranda's direction. 'That can't be true.'

'Sadly, it is.'

'Why is it sad?'

Miranda blinked. Trust Olivia to ask the most obvious questions- and the ones with the least obvious answers.

'Well,' Miranda said, not precisely stalling for time- really, it was more that she was figuring it all out as she went. She moved her hands and looked down at the journal as if the answer might have magically inscribed itself onto the cover. 'This all I have. It is what I am.'