Miranda
It would be risky getting in and out without being seen, but she could do it, couldn’t she?
During her last conversation with O’Hara, he’d insinuated that she was losing her edge, and she couldn’t have that!
The trouble was, she’d let herself get sidetracked by Betty, Caroline and the others. They took up her time, made her forget why she was there.
But for how long?
When would it simply be enough for her to be herself?
She knew the answer, of course: when she’d become a successful journalist.
And today’s task was just another step in that direction.
Today there was to be a big meeting in the minister’s boardroom, and Miranda knew that the detailed coronation plans would be required. The closet where they were kept, along with the other confidential documents, would be unlocked ahead of time.
If she could slip into the room beforehand, have a quick look, and then out again, no one would ever know. It was all down to timing.
As she poked her head inside, relief flooded through her: the large office was empty.
Hastily, she tiptoed over and tried the closet door. As she’d hoped, it was open.
Sliding inside, she pulled the door closed before switching on the single bare lightbulb.
It was a small space, barely wide enough to turn around in.
On three sides, shelves towered up to the ceiling, each of them jammed with folders.
At the bottom, the shelves were slightly wider, allowing for the larger maps and plans, and she quickly pulled them out, clearing a space on the surface and opening one of them up.
She’d heard that the minister had created almost a hundred plans, but nothing prepared her for what she beheld.
The detail was incredible, plotting the exact positions of everyone involved from moment to moment.
The ones of the abbey were the most thorough, drilling down to minute-by-minute actions, such as one of the maids of honour touching up the queen’s makeup while the minister’s wife powdered his bald head so that it didn’t shine in the glaring lights.
Suddenly, her ears pricked up.
There was a noise, someone entering the office.
When she craned her neck she could see a slither of the room through the crack in the door.
The someone – who appeared to be alone – walked up to the meeting table, the sound of files or books being placed onto it before the man strode across the room, and to Miranda’s horror, straight towards the closet.
Miranda froze then quickly turned off the light, wincing as the click echoed around the tiny space.
And suddenly, the door was pulled open, and there, looking at her in astonishment, was Sinclair.
Their eyes met.
What must he think? she wondered, panicking about what she’d say.
But then, voices came from the door, the moustaches arriving for the meeting. She’d be caught red-handed, packed off back to New York – or sent to jail for treason, knowing this medieval monarchy nonsense.
As he opened his mouth to say something, she knew she had to act fast, so she grabbed his arm and dragged him, full force, into the closet, pulling the door shut.
She could explain later.
Through the dim light from the crack between the doors, she watched his face.
It was impossible to read. She put her finger to her lips, but he just looked evenly at her, making her wonder if she’d imagined the friendship between them.
He was so adroit with the to-and-fro of conversation, it had been easy to warm to him.
But, she now acknowledged, there was a chance he didn’t even like her.
Was she the fool after all?
She pulled away from him, but the shelves jutted into her back. If there was anything she couldn’t bear, it was being the fool.
Then he half whispered, half mouthed, ‘What are you doing here?’
She smiled, trying to make light of it. ‘Extra research.’ He watched her mouth as it moved, lipreading, and she felt the blood rush to her face.
Meanwhile, the men took their seats as one of them rambled on about Queen Mary’s illness, whether she’d live to see the coronation.
Then one of them said, ‘Where’s Sinclair with those plans? I knew it was a mistake to have a meeting after lunch. Too much claret and brandy.’
Miranda glanced at Sinclair, and he raised an eyebrow. In the half-light, it was hard to see his expression.
‘Well, let’s start without him. We can’t wait all day. Chambers, what progress do we have with the archbishop?’
A nasal, monotone voice began, ‘I met with him yesterday, and he assures me that . . .’
As the man droned on, Miranda’s racing heart began to slow. Provided they kept quiet, no one needed to know a thing.
The main problem was Sinclair. Although she was happy to stay there all afternoon, for him, well, why should he miss this important meeting that he was supposed to attend?
She wondered if he was annoyed. He was leaning against the shelves on the opposite side, not a foot away from her, listening.
And that’s when she became aware of the closeness of him, just inches away, the warmth of his body so near to hers.
Between the buttons of his crisp white shirt, she could just about see his chest, again that fading suntan from postings abroad. For a brief moment, she imagined him in Italy, wearing an open shirt as he stood by a field of vines, a hand above his eyes to shield them from the sun.
She looked up to his face to find him watching her, his face so close she could feel his breath. She shuffled uncomfortably. Had he read her mind?
But through the dim light, she found her eyes travelling back to his, and she smiled as she met his questioning gaze.
‘Sorry,’ she mouthed, and again his eyes lingered on her lips, and before she knew it, she was wondering what it would be like to kiss him.
Obviously, it was the wrong thing to think, as she now couldn’t get the idea out of her mind. It was intoxicating being so close, the temptation to reach forward tantalizing.
After a few minutes, she moved her face toward his, pausing as her mouth lingered close to his, unsure whether to stop herself, to pull back, to be careful.
A feeling welled up inside her, a sensation she hadn’t felt for years reawakening, reminding her of Jack, that buzz she’d felt inside. How could she have pushed that so far back inside her mind? How could she have ignored it for all these years?
How had Sinclair, of all people, been the one to remind her?
As his face drew closer to hers, her lips parted with a despicable longing. She knew she shouldn’t kiss him. It would be complicated, difficult, messy. It would cause chaos with her investigations.
And yet it seemed unavoidable.
Her heart pulsated, and she felt her control slip away. She couldn’t hold herself back.
Slowly, she reached her face up to kiss him.
But then came a commotion from the meeting room.
‘I don’t know where Sinclair’s got to, but someone has to fetch those security plans,’ a man was saying. ‘I’m sure they’re not hard to find.’
Sinclair jumped back, glaring at her as footsteps came towards the closet.
Abruptly, one of the doors swung open, bright lights putting Sinclair into the spotlight as he stepped in front of Miranda and into the opening, forcing the other man back.
‘Thank goodness you came, Mr Chambers. The door jammed, and I’ve been trapped inside.’ Sinclair laughed it off as he closed the door and guided the man back to the table. ‘I hope I wasn’t needed – I couldn’t hear a thing in there.’
The men around the table looked at Sinclair in confusion, then one of them said, ‘Do you have the security plans?’
Sinclair hastily turned back and opened the closet, his eyes meeting Miranda’s for the briefest of moments as she passed him the plans. ‘I had them out ready,’ he said, retreating to the table. ‘It took a while to unearth them.’
With skill, he steered the discussion to the security issues, taking his seat at the table as if he’d been there all along. Whether it was because Sinclair was a diplomat or because he was deemed dependable, they just accepted it, and before long, the meeting was continuing as usual.
It wasn’t until the end, after the room had cleared, that Miranda stepped out, incredulous that she’d escaped unscathed. Quietly, she crept to the door, peering out before making a dash for her office, all ideas of the security plans forgotten.
It was only there, as she sat at her desk, that relief flooded through her.
Thank heavens Sinclair stepped in front of her, put himself in the doorway to prevent her from getting into trouble.
If she’d have been caught, they would have kicked her out immediately.
Gone would be her job, gone would be her new friends, and gone would be her chance of writing the articles.
And, she thought with a frown, gone would be Sinclair.
That moment, when they’d almost kissed, made her shiver with something new and vibrant, but as soon as she relived it, she forced it down. How could she even feel such a thing?
Determinedly, she organized the folders on her desk, reminding herself that nothing actually did happen. Nor could it. She had Jack, after all, and what about her job?
She scoffed at the thought.
And yet, deep inside, she felt unsettled, as if a tornado had just swept through her and then left her with a great deal to tidy up.