Miranda
What had happened between them surprised her in all kinds of ways, especially how much they’d talked into the night.
It wasn’t until midnight that he’d walked her home, the two of them meandering through the empty streets to Camden.
The more she shared about her life, about Jack, the lighter she felt.
It hadn’t entered her mind that she might find someone who’d understand her like Sinclair did.
She hadn’t mentioned her job in New York, of course, but she’d face that hurdle later.
It was too complicated with the coronation so close – there were still a lot of details she needed for O’Hara.
What’s more, she couldn’t find her notebook, which wasn’t helpful.
As soon as she entered the café, she spotted him sitting in the corner, reading over some papers. She was struck by how good-looking he was – not in a conventional way, but there was something about his form that made her want to reach out and touch him.
An irrepressible smile came to her face as she sat down. ‘It’s good to see you.’
She reached her hand over to his, but he moved it out of the way.
Then, without looking at her, he pulled something out of his bag. ‘I have something for you.’
And just like that, he slid her notebook across the table.
She swallowed, trying to take it in, her insides folding in on themselves.
‘You’re J. Marshall, the infiltrator,’ he said, his eyes still on the notebook. ‘The only reason you’re here is to write articles for a New York paper.’
‘I can explain,’ she said, thinking fast on her feet. ‘It’s just a game I was playing, pretending . . .’ Her excuses petered out as he looked straight at her, his eyes tired and hurt.
‘You betrayed my trust, Miranda. And what’s more, you involved me in your devious little games, risked my job, my career. How could you?’
She felt her stomach crunching inside her, bile rising up through her throat.
But he just glowered at her. ‘Who are you, Miranda?’
Unwanted tears sprung to her eyes. ‘I’m me, Sinclair! I’m still Miranda. I’m still the same person you know, your friend, your . . . well, whatever we are.’
‘Whatever we are? Was I just part of the plan, a pawn in your game?’ He tilted his head. ‘Or maybe I was just a muse to while away your time in this’ – he flipped through her notebook to quote her – ‘“this interminably backward workplace”?’
She blanched, not sure what to say. ‘Well, it is rather sexist. You’ve admitted that yourself. And the minister’s an idiot.’
‘Have some respect, Miranda. While you’re taking advantage of the organization, maybe it’s best not to completely obliterate them.
Or is that another little goal of yours?
To make the British monarchy and all its employees look feeble, outdated, or just plain evil?
What about your friends, like Betty and Caroline, the others who love their jobs?
What about the dresser, Miss MacDonald, who has given her life to remain by the queen’s side?
What will you say about her? Because the way this article is going to read, it’ll be like you’re slapping her face, belittling her for not being as foolishly independent as you. ’
‘Foolishly independent? Did I move into a canal boat because a woman left me and I wasn’t being sent to Rome?’
‘Don’t mock me, Miranda. I might not have lost my spouse, but if you plan to spend your life demonstrating that your grievances are worse than everyone else’s, you’re going to live a very sad existence.’
‘Unlike you,’ she snapped ironically.
His voice was slow, measured. ‘I laid my heart open to you, Miranda, and I thought you were being open with me, too.’
‘I was open! Do you have any idea how much it took to talk about Jack?’
He scrunched his face in confusion. ‘But you left out a whole part of who you are, of what you’re doing here. You’re a journalist, here to dissect us for the world to see.’
There was a desperation in her voice as she pleaded, ‘Yes, I came here to write about the coronation, but that was all, just a series of simple articles, nothing underhand.’
‘In here it’s described as an undercover exposé behind the scenes in the palace.
’ He snapped the book shut. ‘Are you so busy being a dispassionate journalist that you’ve become detached about your whole life?
Do you have feelings for anything other than your work?
’ He tapped the notebook. ‘It’s all written down, Miranda.
You took notes about the palace, about your friends, and about me, too. ’
She shivered at the thought of what he’d read. The last thing she wanted was for him, Sinclair, to repeat it back to her, especially the things she’d written when she’d just arrived, fresh off the plane. Never had she felt so misunderstood.
But Miranda was made of stern stuff, and she couldn’t bear it when someone challenged her.
‘After all we’ve been through, Sinclair, you should know better than to make me feel bad about exposing the truth. I’m a survivor, a warrior.’
He shook his head. ‘More like a coward and a traitor to your friends. I thought so much more of you.’
Suddenly, rage took over, and she stood up, grabbing the notebook off the table. ‘How dare you think you know me at all!’
And fighting back more tears, she stormed out of the café, not even looking back as she banged the door closed behind her.
His accusations had stabbed her like glass. How could she get him to see that women had to fight, widows more than anyone. She’d wanted to explain, but he’d never given her the chance.
But as she strode down the street, she couldn’t bear to think of him, that look of hurt on his face, and she banished it from her mind. How could she have let any of this happen?
Knowing rumours of her treachery would spread fast, she decided not to go back to the palace, striding to the Underground instead, desperate to put it all behind her.
It was too much to bear, the disgrace, the judgements, and somewhere deep inside, the shame that she’d taken all these people for a ride.
Why should she sit around waiting for such a humiliating end?
As for O’Hara, he’d have to make do with the details she already had. She might miss the coronation itself, but didn’t she have enough dirt to fulfil her obligation?
‘I just want to get back to New York,’ she murmured under her breath. A last-minute change to her return ticket might cost her a few bucks, but it would be worth every penny.
Once she reached Camden, she called the airline, who told her that there were seats available on a flight that afternoon. She was to go to the airport and arrange it there.
At home, she ran upstairs to her room and began throwing her things into her suitcase.
Then a voice came from the passage. ‘Miranda, is that you?’
With a groan, Miranda remembered that Betty had swapped shifts.
‘I forgot something!’ she called back, hoping that her probing aunt wouldn’t come in.
However, it wasn’t long before Betty opened the door, and when she saw the look on Miranda’s face, she hurried over to her. ‘Is everything all right, dear?’
But before Miranda could answer, Betty’s eyes locked onto something on the bed behind Miranda. The suitcase was there, open with clothes thrown inside.
‘Are you leaving?’ Betty looked into her niece’s eyes. ‘Whatever happened, it can’t be that bad!’
‘You wouldn’t understand.’ This was the last thing Miranda needed.
Lowering herself onto the bed, Betty patted the space beside her. ‘You never know, maybe I can help.’
But Miranda turned back to the suitcase. ‘I have to go back to New York. The airline said I can get a flight this afternoon.’
‘But I thought you liked it here – that this was your new home, dear.’ Betty reached a hand out to Miranda’s. ‘Why don’t you tell me what happened?’
‘You wouldn’t want me here if you knew.’
‘You’re my niece, Miranda. I want to help you, no matter what you’ve done.’
Miranda threw off her aunt’s hand. ‘Leave me alone! I have to go.’
Silently, Betty headed to her own bedroom, returning as Miranda was pulling the suitcase to the door. In Betty’s hand was a battered old envelope, and she handed it to Miranda.
Without looking inside, Miranda knew what it contained. She could feel the bundle of notes in the thin paper.
Shoving it back to Betty, she muttered, ‘I couldn’t possibly take this from you. You don’t know what I’ve done!’ She felt a sob in her throat.
‘I just want you to be safe, dear. If this is what you need to get back, you take it.’
‘But . . .’ Tears overwhelmed her. ‘But I’m leaving because I betrayed all of you.
I’m’ – she couldn’t help just coming out with it – ‘I’m J.
Marshall, the infiltrator, a journalist collecting material for a palace exposé.
Sinclair found my notes, and now he’ll tell the minister.
I’ll be fired and probably thrown in jail for treason, knowing this crazy country. ’
‘Sit down, dear. I’m sure it’s not all that bad.’ Betty was eerily calm, as if the information wasn’t entirely a surprise. ‘You wouldn’t be sent to jail, but you would find yourself out of a job – although if you’re a journalist, you probably have other plans, don’t you?’
Miranda nodded, unsure why her aunt was being so reasonable. ‘I needed something new to keep my job, and when Dad told me about your offer, I grabbed it like a lifeline.’ She heaved a sigh. ‘I shouldn’t have stayed so late at Sinclair’s – then no one would have found out.’
‘The truth always comes out eventually.’ Betty gave her a handkerchief. ‘I take it you still have enough to write your articles, so why are you so unhappy about it, if you’re as ruthless as you say you are?’
As she blew her nose, Miranda felt herself wither. ‘Maybe I’m not all that ruthless,’ she muttered. ‘It’s not easy being a widow. You get put down and overlooked unless you can show them you’re twice as tough as any man.’