The Other Harlow Girl

by Lynn Messina

  Thinking of his sister-in-law, whom he held in the highest esteem, the duke had to concur, and with Vinnie’s happiness in mind, he sat down with Emma on the settee to concoct a plan that would bring Huntly and she together. They both agreed the application for membership was a great opportunity to throw the pair together, but Emma thought it was merely a solid foundation upon which to build a more elaborate scheme. With a pensive nod, the duke mentioned that his friend was looking for an assistant to help him catalog specimens from his travels, and Emma, immediately grasping the implication, was so impressed by her husband’s devious mind, she felt compelled to kiss him. Trent, whose resistance had been worn down by his earlier refusal, succumbed wholly to his wife’s enthusiastic appreciation, and when Tupper succeeded in removing the door from its hinges ten minutes later, his eyes took in the shocking display of the duke passionately embracing his duchess. Appalled, the footman stammered an apology, turned on his heels and fled down the hallway. The Dowager Duchess of Trent, entering the room only a moment later, was equally shocked to see her son in his wife’s arms, though not because of the activity in which they had so obviously been engaged—for that was only to be expected of a newly married couple in a locked room—but because Trent, unlike her, had managed to gain entry into the supposedly impenetrable citadel. Next time, she would go through the window, damn her dignity.

  Chapter Eight

  Vinnie was in the middle of the fifth draft of her letter to the British Horticultural Society when the dowager duchess burst into the room to insist that she decline the invitation immediately. Although she had been resolute in her intention to apply in her conversation with Huntly the night before, sleep—all two hours of it—had brought counsel, and in the clear light of dawn, she realized she couldn’t possibly go through with it. Her sister could do it. Emma would not only not flinch at the challenge, she would relish it in all its difficulties. But Miss Lavinia Harlow was not the sort to inflict her presence upon a group of gentlemen who did not want it. Recognizing this, she rose from her bed, ordered a pot of tea and sat down to compose a polite thank-you-but-no-thank-you note.

  She had run into trouble almost at once, for she couldn’t figure out why she should thank anyone for making her the object of ridicule. She should instead be taking Huntly…Mr. Berry…the whole society…to task for treating her with such cavalier disdain. One did not issue invitations that one did not sincerely mean. That was a basic tenet of etiquette that even the smallest child in the schoolroom knew.

  Her first draft was a paradigm of moderation and appreciation, full of praise for the society’s good work and respect for its time-honored traditions—which was why she tore it up. She wanted to be moderate and appreciative, yes, but with an undercurrent of immoderation and unappreciation. She wanted her letter to express the correct thoughts and feelings, while at the same time making it clear to its readers that she was expressing the correct thoughts and feelings only out of a sense of social obligation. She begrudged every word, and she wanted them to feel her begrudgement.

  It was a difficult tone to achieve, and by the time the dowager entered her bedroom issuing orders—without even knocking—Vinnie’s temper was considerably frayed from the effort. The two hours’ sleep, squashed between postparty anxiety and predawn worry, did not help the situation.

  Intimidated by the duchess’s stern demeanor, Vinnie listened quietly as her host enumerated all the reasons why she must not apply for membership, reasons that she herself had arrived at only a few hours before. When the dowager pointed out how uncomfortable it would be for her to attend meetings knowing none of the other members wanted her there, she nodded with vigor and even tried to explain that she agreed wholeheartedly. But her grace, who could brook no interruptions when she was in the middle of a reprimand, silenced her with a hand. Suitably chastened, Vinnie bowed her head and waited for her turn.

  And then the duchess made a fatal mistake. While elaborating reason number four—it was not appropriate for a grieving woman to have any interests outside the home—she described the bloom in Vinnie’s cheeks as “unbecomingly healthy.”

  “I would never presume to tell another woman how to mourn the death of a loved one, as such advice is coarse and insensitive, but I must say that for myself and others it’s entirely disagreeable and unsettling to observe such a bright look on a widow’s face,” she explained. “If you won’t think of yourself, think of Sir Windbourne. What would he say to see that rosy glow so soon after his death?”

  At the mention of Sir Windbourne, Vinnie’s entire demeanor underwent a radical transformation. In an instant, her back straightened, her lips tightened, her eyes hardened and her shoulders stiffened. She was heartily sick to death of people using Sir Windbourne’s memory to direct her behavior to suit their own ends. Huntly had employed the same tactic last night. If she were genuinely in mourning, she would in all likelihood find these constant reminders of what she had lost excessively painful. Fortunately for her, she was not in mourning, and as such she found them only excessively irritating. Indeed, the duchess’s attempt to dissuade her from a course from which she had already been dissuaded reignited Vinnie’s contrarian spirit.

  But it was not merely a desire to thwart the will of censorious busybodies that had her resolving yet again to follow through with the application. It was also the unexpected thrill she felt upon hearing the words rosy glow and bright look applied to her, as nobody had ever described her as such. Emma was the unbecomingly healthy twin, her cheeks always abloom, her eyes always aglow, her countenance always a lively mix of excitement and eagerness. Pallid from long hours bent over rootstocks and drain pipes, Vinnie was quite literally a pale imitation. That she compared unfavorably with her twin in respect to appearance did not bother her, for it seemed only fair to her that Emma, who was constantly being taken to task for her ill-bred vivacity, have some advantage. Of the two siblings, Vinnie, with her calm disposition and sensible outlook, was the infinitely preferred one, a fact that had angered her from the moment she’d realized it, for even as a little girl she had loved and admired her sister’s daring. Fault her as you would, but Miss Emma Harlow never feared public rebuke or private reproach, and hearing the dowager criticize her own unbecomingly healthy bloom made Vinnie feel as if she didn’t either.

  Damn the consequences, she thought, the rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed Harlow girls do what they want.

  As fearless as she felt, Vinnie was not brave enough to interrupt the dowager for a second time and let her continue with her enumeration, of which she was now up to reason six (gardening was an inappropriately propagative subject for an unmarried female). While her host rambled, she sipped tea and mentally reviewed the list of requirements for admission: a treatise on the value of a society dedicated to horticultural pursuits, a presentation and an interview. Of the three, she was the least worried about the presentation, for she knew she could speak quite knowledgeably and effectively on the topic of proper drainage. True, she had never spoken on it in a lecture hall in front of two dozen equally knowledgeable men, many of whom would be waiting for her to make a mistake, but she refused to be cowered by the daunting prospect.

  Vinnie refreshed her tea and wondered if she should offer the dowager a cup, for the long lecture—fifteen minutes and counting—was surely causing her throat to feel dry. Despite the protracted speech, the duchess showed no signs of flagging and enthusiastically launched into a lecture on the joys of a more suitable hobby, which might have been called How Embroidery Will Save the Empire and Find One a Husband.

  Amused, aghast and exhausted, Vinnie sighed, swallowed a yawn and twisted her back in an attempt to stretch her shoulders without appearing to fidget from boredom. As she tilted her head to the side, she caught a glimpse of her sister peeking in the doorway. Although the Harlow Hoyden had a reputation for impetuousness, Vinnie knew she was in fact the opposite: Emma was very good at observing a situation and gathering information before settling on the best course of action. If
her thoughtful process had any deficiencies, it was in her understanding of what the word best meant.

  For now, Emma stood silently on the threshold and watched her sister for an indication of how to proceed. Meeting her curious gaze, Vinnie shrugged her shoulders as if to ask what could one do other than wait for the duchess to finish her diatribe. It was a rhetorical question, of course, but her sister had no patience for situations without clear resolutions and strode into the room to take charge of the matter. The dowager, having established her presence in the bed chamber a full twenty minutes prior to Emma’s arrival, considered the matter already in her charge (thank you!) and insisted that her new daughter-in-law, who had behaved very prettily at last night’s affair (thank you again!), entrust her to resolve the difficulty in a manner satisfying to all parties involved. Emma immediately countered that as the “difficulty,” a designation to which she strenuously objected, involved one party and one party only—that is, Miss Lavinia Harlow—they should entrust her to resolve it to her satisfaction. Needless to say, this sort of willful self-determination did not sit well with the Dowager Duchess of Trent, and she instantly began to browbeat Vinnie into accepting her wise counsel, though she strenuously objected to the designation of her robust encouragement as “browbeat.”

  At first appalled by the scene unfolding in her bedroom, Vinnie quickly saw the absurdity of it and had to bite back an almost uncontrollable desire to giggle. It was not only the argument itself that was ridiculous but the method with which it was being conducted as well, with tranquil smiles and soothing voices, as if no difference of opinion actually existed between the two women. To her credit, the dowager retained her excellent manners and tried to include Vinnie in the conversation by addressing her comments—sometimes scathing, sometimes complimentary—directly to her, but Emma, an ill-bred hoyden to the last, did not give her sister an opportunity to answer for herself. The discussion was overlong and overheated, with Sarah showing up at some point to offer her sympathy and support, and just when Vinnie worried that her twin might actually be on the verge of screaming in frustration, Emma caught her eye and winked.

  Wonderful impertinent girl!

  Seeing that her sister had everything well in hand, Vinnie decided it was safe to sneak out to work on her presentation. Since Sarah was at the duke’s town house, she knew her brother’s drawing room would be quiet, calm and empty and requested the coach take her there before anyone else realized she was gone. Roger, who had always been a doting if distracted sibling, welcomed her with a delighted smile, urged her to partake of breakfast as there was far too much for him to eat, apologized for his wife’s absence and returned to his newspaper.

  Vinnie remained in the Mount Street residence for the rest of the day, staying to enjoy an informal meal with her sister-in-law, and when she returned after dinner, she found the house as quiet as a church. Upon inquiring, she discovered that the dowager had decamped to Lady Courtland’s for a card party and that Emma and Alex had already turned in for the evening. As relieved as she was exhausted, she retired to her room, changed into her nightclothes and climbed into bed. There, on the nightstand, was a note from Emma. “Don’t fret,” it said in her sister’s florid script. “Solution in the works. Everything well in hand. More to come.” Too tired to decipher the ambiguous message, she promptly closed her eyes and fell asleep.

  In the morning, she expected another round of vigorous discussion, but when she came down for breakfast, she again found the house quiet. Unwilling to question her good fortune, she helped herself to a generous serving of eggs and plum cake before retreating to the drawing room to tackle the intimidating treatise. She had just finished the first draft when Caruthers announced the Marquess of Huntly to see her.

  “Me?” she squeaked.

  If Caruthers noticed her inordinately shrill tone, he gave no indication. “Yes, miss. Shall I show him?”

  Although her first impulse was to say absolutely not, she repressed it and nodded sedately to the butler. “Yes, thank you. And please ask Mrs. Crenshaw for tea.”

  Caruthers bowed his head in assent, and as soon as he turned to leave, Vinnie began to fidget with her appearance, straightening her pale-blue walking dress and smoothing her curls. She had no idea how she looked, though the dark circles under her eyes, caused by the ball’s late night and yesterday’s early morning, were thankfully gone and her hair felt neat and presentable.

  She realized it didn’t matter—the Marquess of Huntly wasn’t there to admire her appearance but to talk her out of her decision—but she couldn’t smother the twinge of vanity or the jolt of excitement she felt. Part of her, that contrary part she had only just discovered, had hoped he would call so they could continue their lively discussion of her membership. She knew she had exasperated him with her stubborn refusal to go along with his plan, for she could read it plainly on his face, and something about his response made her feel oddly giddy. As sensible as ever, she tried to consign the emotion to mere novelty, as she had never exasperated anyone before, but she was too smart to fool herself. The truth—the absolutely awful, wretched truth—was that she enjoyed arguing with him and unsettling those unsettling blue-green eyes. She was, she acknowledged now, as perverse a creature as her sister, poking a sleeping tiger for the sheer joy of hearing him roar. Perhaps hoydenism ran in her family like eye color.

  When Caruthers admitted Huntly, she stood up, resisting the urge to tidy her curls yet again, and walked around the settee to greet him warmly. “Good morning, my lord,” she said with a bright smile. “Your timing is impeccable, for I have just now finished the first draft of my treatise. I hope you will read it and, as a member of the society, advise me on how I may improve it.”

  Although she meant this to be provoking, Huntly nodded amiably and sidestepped the topic entirely with a compliment on her appearance. “You are looking decidedly well,” he observed. “I trust you are completely recovered from the ball. As I had said to the dowager in a note yesterday, the festivities were a rousing success and I believe there will be no more chatter about her son’s unconventional choice in a partner.”

  Polite discourse was the last thing she expect from the marquess, but she was gracious enough of a hostess to converse congenially in return. “Please sit down. Caruthers is bringing in— And there he is,” she said when the butler entered with a tray. He placed it on the gold-inlaid table, inquired if there was anything else and quietly left. Vinnie filled two cups and handed one to Huntly. “I agree the ball was a triumph. Her grace was well satisfied and could speak of nothing else yesterday.”

  “Really?” Huntly asked softly, a slight curve to his lips. “She could speak of nothing else?”

  Amusement shown in his strange-colored eyes, not exasperation, and Vinnie discovered that she was the one who was unsettled. She knew how to respond to his anger—it was merely a matter of parry and thrust—but his mild good humor made her self-conscious and awkward, as if she had doused him again with her exploding hose.

  “Well, she might have devoted one or two words to the society membership on offer,” she admitted, hoping to get a rise out of him. “She is not pleased with my decision to accept it.”

  “I thought the turtle soup was particularly excellent,” he said calmly as he raised the cup of tea to his lips. “Her grace’s French chef quite outdid himself. I must be sure to congratulate him, for I know how challenging it is to coordinate an elaborate spread such as the one he provided.”

  Disconcerted by both his refusal to be drawn out and his knowledge of kitchen matters, she said, “Ah, yes, Monsieur Charpentier did a superior job. Everyone was well satisfied. I imagine the society has its own chef who provides meals for the members upon request. Do we ever host banquets?” she asked, confident that the inclusive we would elicit a response.

  Again, she was to be disappointed.

  “The flowers were also stunning,” Huntly said. “I’m sure I detected a few of Trent’s own specimens in the arrangements. I know he i
s partial to orchids, but he has done wonders with some of the rose species he has cultivated.”

  With this statement, which was, to be fair, as accurate as it was benign, Vinnie sighed loudly and put down her teacup with a sharp rattle. She could continue to make leading comments for the rest of the afternoon—it was easy enough to come up with obliquely related topics—but she didn’t have the patience. Having anticipated this meeting for two days, she knew exactly what she wanted to say to him. Her arguments were nicely arranged in numerical order, just like the dowager’s, and the more he put her off with polite nonsense, the more disordered her thoughts grew.

  “I don’t understand why you are here if not to try to talk me out of applying for membership,” she said forthrightly.

  If the marquess was surprised by her frankness, he didn’t show it. “To make amends,” he said.

  Now she was even more confused. “Excuse me?”

  “I treated you abominably at the ball, and I’m appalled by my own behavior,” he explained, placing his teacup gently on the table. “You are in mourning, a fact of which I’m entirely sensible, and I should have been more considerate of your feelings. I know from personal experience how devastating it is to lose someone you love, for my parents died in a carriage accident when I was eleven years old, and I imagine it’s even worse when you lose the person with whom you intend to spend the rest of your life. Opening you up to public ridicule and vulgar gossip when you are also dealing with the devastating loss of your fiancé was inexcusable of me. I cannot undo the damage I have done, but I can attempt to make amends if you would let me.”

  Vinnie, who had thought she’d experienced every unpleasant sensation to be derived from falsely grieving during the six months she’d pretended to mourn, discovered a whole new level of misery as she listened to him speak. It was one thing for people to pat her on the hand with compassion or to cluck their tongues with pity, for these gestures were obligatory, even compulsory, and she accepted them with the insincerity with which they were offered. But Huntly’s speech resonated with earnestness, as if he were showing her a secret part of himself, and that honesty, when she had none to give in return, was agonizing. Until this moment, her false grief had felt like a superficial detail, an insignificant fact of who she was that had no bearing on anything, such as, for example, saying one didn’t like peas to avoid eating a particularly mushy mound of them at a dinner party. Now she knew it was a fundamental misrepresentation of who she was, and while she kept up the lie, she could never get to know anybody, including Huntly.