Chapter Fourteen

Exhausted, freezing, and furious, Miranda staggered from the waves and collapsed in the sand. She glanced behind her, but The Tempest had long since disappeared beyond the horizon.

Gasping for air, she directed angry thoughts at Jack, who had, upon catching sight of Port Royal, promptly informed her she would be swimming the rest of the way.

"That must be over a mile!" she'd exclaimed incredulously. Jack had merely shrugged, and explained that as a pirate, he could not sail any closer without risking capture. Miranda suspected he was just entertaining himself, but knew there'd be no convincing him once his mind had been made up.

Having handed Jack his compass as promised, he had humored her slightly by letting the ship drift a little closer before insisting she depart. The goodbye was brief. Miranda didn't much care for Jack and Jack didn't much like not being cared for. With luck, she would never see the pirate again.

Sun was setting now, as Miranda gazed absently at the sky. The sea breeze chilled her wet skin but the sound of the waves soothed her. Solid ground felt wrong--she'd been at sea so long she'd forgotten how to balance on an unmoving earth.

Part of her was aching to run the short distance now back to her home, but the other part wanted nothing to do with Port Royal. She didn't know what she'd do in such a wholly . . . proper town. Granted, she had tried to maintain etiquette and civility through her trials, but knowing that her manners were not expected had been oddly liberating.

Darkness fell, but still Miranda sat thoughtfully by the tide. She watched the moon rise and counted the stars in the velvety sea overhead. She tried focusing her thoughts but found them too nebulous to organize or even consider for too long before her mind leapt to something else. Much to her later surprise, Miranda fell asleep to the sound of the rushing waves and the distant church bells of town.

She was rudely woken by the waves rippling over her as the night progressed. The tide had risen and froze her skin, already cold from the night-chilled wind. Miranda stammered to her feet, squinting in the dark as she made her way towards town. Soaked and half-asleep was not the way she planned on making her grand entrance, but when she finally reached the familiar doors of her parents' house and realized that with the doors bolted she had no way of entry, she decided to sleep on the doormat and wait for the sun to rise.

/\

"Come now, Joseph," Mrs. Abigail Potter scolded, patting her hip sternly as the thirteen year old boy hastened his pace to keep up with her and her husband. Hired hands just weren't as attentive as they used to be. Too much daydreaming, in Mrs. Potter's opinion. She gripped the lead of the donkey's bit tighter, yanking the beast and the cart it was hauling forward.

Every morning the three took the same path to market. Every morning Joseph lagged behind as they neared the Swann mansion. Mrs. Potter knew he was hoping to catch a glance of the governor's daughter, Lizzie. She was a pretty young thing, but much too good for the likes of a hired hand.

Past the Swann residence was Lord Thistlewicket's decadent, four-storied home. Everyone knew the old man was mad. Mrs. Potter craned her neck to see if she could see him at his window. He liked to stare out and spy on people. Nasty, nosey habit-- Mrs. Potter wouldn't stand for it.

As she neared the Farthing's stately home, she caught sight of something by the door. She shoved the lead in Mr. Potter's hand and hurried curiously forward. It was a girl!

"Mercy, Mr. Potter," she exclaimed, pointing. "The old colonel has a girl asleep on his front door!" Her husband shrugged noncommittally.

"Let me go wake the poor thing and see why she's there," she said, although her request was more of a statement as she marched up the walk to the door and did exactly that.

The girl was huddled in a tight ball, tangled, damp hair covering her face. Her clothes were positively appalling; to say they were rags would be too kind of words. The hem of her dress was ripped to her knee, and Mrs. Potter clucked at the indecency, but also noted the girl's legs were heavily scarred and pink with new skin. What had this child been through?

Mrs. Potter knelt down and prodded the girl with plump finger. The girl stirred and then snapped her eyes open.

"Great heavens!" Mrs. Potter exclaimed as the girl tossed her matted hair behind her back. Her face was familiar--it was the colonel's daughter who disappeared so many weeks ago.

"You're the Farthing girl, aren't you, child?"

Seeing Mrs. Potter's disapproving stare, the girl tugged in vain at the fabric in her skirts to cover her legs, but settled for curing her legs up beneath her. Mrs. Potter stood and brushed her hands off on her hips and lowered a hand to help the girl up.

Mrs. Potter noticed the girl felt unhealthily light as she allowed herself to be pulled onto her feet. Perhaps she'd been caught and sold as a slave. Perhaps she'd run away from home and got lost. Perhaps she'd eloped and been deserted. Perhaps . . .

Shaking her head with amusement, Mrs. Potter knocked heavily on the door. In a few moments one was swung open and a young maid faced the two, surprise clearly etched on her face.

"I found the poor dear and recognized her as the colonel's daughter," Mrs. Potter explained grandly. The maid peered at the girl, and whispered, "Miranda?"

The girl jerked and looked up for the first time, catching sight o the maid. She smiled humorlessly. "Hello, Colette."

/\

It was worse than Miranda could have possibly imagined.

As delighted as she was to see her parents again, their own pleasure to see her was quickly turned to fear that she would disappear again, and thus became an overly-protective love.

For the first week of her return she was not allowed to leave her room. Her parents' insisted that she shouldn't walk until her legs were fully healed, even though the town doctor, Dr. Murtogg, had pronounced her legs nearly healed upon examination the first day she'd returned. The second week she was allowed outside of her room, but could not leave the house. This time was spent in painful boredom as her mother fawned over her and stuffed her with food and over-cautionary maintenance.

It wasn't until the third week that life became truly unbearable however, and when Miranda found herself at the dinner table with both parents in the middle of the day, she knew something awful was about to happen.

Her father never came home midday.

"Miranda, darling," her mother began anxiously, taking a sip of tea and glancing at her husband. "Your father and I have some wonderful news for you."

Miranda set the biscuit on the delicately-painted china plate and looked up warily.

"First we'd like to apologize for how protective we've been," her father began sincerely. "These past few weeks can't have been easy on you, but everything we've done we've done out of love."

"When you disappeared the second time, we thought . . . we thought . . ." Mrs. Farthing hiccuped, and bit her trembling lip.

"We didn't want to lose another child to the sea," Miranda's father finished for her. Miranda nodded wordlessly, still very aware the worst had not been said yet.

"Now that you are twenty," Col. Farthing began, "it's time we move the responsibility of protecting you from your mother and me to your husband."

Fiery ice clutched Miranda's heart at those words, and she looked up in shock.

"Antony Murtogg is a good man," her mother pressed gently. "He came round the other day once he found out you had returned and asked your father for you hand."

"Antony?" The name sounded unfamiliar on Miranda's lips even as the face of her friend floated behind her eyes.

"The wedding is to be in three weeks," her father announced. "I daresay Antony will go through the formalities of proposing this evening when he comes by for dinner."

Miranda said nothing. Antony was her closest friend--would such a marriage be so terrible? He was forgetful and lacked great intelligence, but he was a good man. He was kind and loyal, loving, gentle. Good traits in any man.

She hardly noticed as her parents made to leave the room. Her mother slipped into the kitchen, while her father stopped in the doorway and turned back towards her.

"And Miranda," he started, jerking her from her revery. "When he asks, your answer will be yes."

Antony was a good man, but Miranda could never imagine him pulling her contollingly to his chest as his lips sought hers in fiery passion.