Rules for an Unmarried Lady

by Wilma Counts

  Harriet stifled a polite yawn and a few minutes later her grandmother declared it time that they all sought their beds.

  Still, Harriet lay awake a long while considering her grandfather’s announcement. Harriet had never thought much about financial affairs. She had never had to do so. Bills for clothing and other necessities were sent to her grandfather. Her allowance had always been adequate for everything else—and suitably increased as she grew older. In recent years, it had been supplemented modestly by earnings from items she published in newspapers and magazines. She was always very proud of these achievements, though she could never have lived on such pittances.

  She deliberately turned her mind to that other matter to which they had barely alluded. Since leaving school, she had lived either in London with her grandparents or in the country with Anne and Sedwick, and felt totally at home, having her own suite of rooms—her own space, her own place—in each household. Would that change now? If so, how? To what extent? Well, of course it will change, you ninny, she chastised herself. It already has. The dowager’s moving into the Hall was a start.

  With the marriage of her eldest son, Lady Margaret had—quite reluctantly, Anne had confided later to Harriet—removed with her companion, Mrs. Sylvia Hartley, to the dower house where they were attended by a large staff that was supplemented from time to time by members of the staff from the hall itself. The two ladies had often dined at the Hall and were included in any festivity the earl and his countess hosted. Lady Margaret was very much a fixture at Sedwick Hall. The dowager rarely hesitated to offer her opinion on the shortcomings of her daughter-in-law’s management of the household that had, after all, once been her own, and she readily offered her suggestions on how occupants of the Sedwick nursery should be dealt with. Harriet had always admired the forbearance of her sister and brother-in-law in the face of the woman’s criticism. But really, it was none of Harriet’s concern was it? Only now, perhaps it was.

  Harriet had not been greatly surprised at Lady Margaret’s presuming to move into the Hall almost immediately on their receiving word of the deaths of the earl and his countess. The dowager’s directives were often more disruptive than otherwise, and the staff, used to seeing Harriet as a surrogate for their countess, often looked to her to straighten matters out—which she did, but incurred the annoyance of the dowager, even on a matter as trivial as a change on a menu item for the nursery. Harriet had ordered the change because Robert was allergic to strawberries, though the child’s grandmother seemed unaware of that fact. Harriet had noted subtle changes in the Hall since the dowager’s arrival: furniture that had been repositioned, knickknacks that had been rearranged or removed, but refused to dwell upon such things.

  Finally, she allowed her mind to veer to what was likely to pose the most monumental shift in matters at Sedwick Hall: the arrival of Colonel Lord Quinton Burnes. Harriet had never met Colonel Burnes. At the time of his brother’s marriage, the colonel, then a lowly lieutenant, had been serving in India. A few years later, he had had leave from service in the Iberian Peninsula, but Harriet had missed meeting him because she had been on an extended visit in Cornwall with her friend Miss Hero Whitby. However, for years she had heard his praises sung—to the point that she was sure such a paragon could not exist. Nevertheless, Anne had found him very personable and had expressed genuine regret that Harriet had not met the man. Two portraits in the Hall provided a glimpse of his character. One hung in the Hall’s portrait gallery and depicted the Fifth Earl, his countess, and his two then-teenaged sons: the earl and his wife seated in throne-like chairs, their sons standing rather stiffly at either side of them. The other was on the first landing of the main staircase: a life-size portrait of the then-major in dress uniform. In both instances, Harriet had always thought the boy and then the man in the paintings to be a person of thought and self-confidence—and not at all bad looking, with a steady gaze at the world and a firm jaw. She wondered if that firm jaw signified stubbornness and intolerance. She reached to turn out the lamp and punched her pillow into submission.

  * * * *

  The next morning as she had promised them, Harriet set out with all seven children and a nursery maid in an open landau for the park. They were crowded, with a footman crouched at the back of the vehicle, Phillip happily riding ahead with the coachman, the maid holding the littlest one, and others loosely squeezed into the two seats. A basket with a blanket, a jug of water, and some biscuits for snacks was tucked under a seat.

  Her grandmother had come out to see them off. “Are you sure about this, my dear?”

  “Yes. ’Tis only a short distance to the park.” Harriet checked to be sure they had umbrellas just in case London’s always unpredictable weather turned on them, and that they were well supplied with bread to feed the birds and toys to occupy the children, before signaling the coachman to start. It was early enough that they would have time to frolic in the park before the usual “see and be seen” crowd of the ton began to fill up the pathways. When they reached the park, the coachman parked the landau outside one of the gates in a line of similar vehicles. Each child was given something to carry—a toy or a small sack of bread crumbs—and the lot of them set off for the pond amidst a good deal of boisterous skipping, running, and yelling. Harriet made no attempt to quell their exuberance beyond being sure they did not overrun others in the park.

  She was amused to see that Maria, at almost fourteen, was too much of a lady to be quite so caught up in the moment as the others were. “You will help me to keep track, to see that I do not lose anyone, will you not, my dear?” Harriet said to her eldest niece.

  “Of course, Aunt Harriet. I always did so for Mama.”

  “Yes, you did. She once told me how much she appreciated that.”

  “Did she really, Aunt Harriet?” The girl turned anxious blue eyes up to Harriet and Harriet was reminded yet again of how much these children missed their parents and how much they still needed reassurances that they had been and were important—and loved. She put an arm around Maria’s shoulders. “She certainly did! Actually, she told me on more than one occasion just how much she relied upon you.”

  “Oh.” Maria looked down, but Harriet could tell that she was pleased.

  While the footman Beaton hovered over the three boys and Sarah as they sailed toy boats on the pond, Harriet and the maid accompanied the other girls slightly farther along the bank, where they fed the ducks and geese with much awkward flurrying of arms, flapping of wings, avian quacks and honks, and human giggles and shouts of alarm, real and feigned. Soon enough, the boat people joined the bird feeders. In all, they were having a wonderful time. The children were genuinely enjoying the outing and Harriet was immensely glad to see them simply losing themselves in having fun.

  Eventually, she became aware that the park was beginning to fill up—and that the nature of the crowd had changed remarkably. She had quite lost track of time. Many of the people now filling the byways of the park were members of the see and be seen crew. It was time to gather up her little group and set them to collect their belongings strewn about on the grass. Just as this thought flashed into her mind, she heard a loud very young female screech, “Robby, no-o-o.”

  Harriet whirled around in time to see eight-year-old Robert grab the sack of bread crumbs from which four-year-old Elly had been feeding the ducks at the edge of the pond. Elly reached for the sack, slipped on the muddy bank, and fell into the water. Before Harriet could manage the five or six feet to where Elly had fallen into the pond, Beaton, the footman, plunged into the knee-high muddy water and retrieved the screaming, drenched child.

  “Sh-h. Don’t cry, my lady,” Beaton soothed. “You’re safe.” But the child, obviously terrified, continued to cry out and reached for the only figure of rescue she readily recognized: her Auntie Harry.

  Beaton hesitated to hand over the little girl whose pretty pink outfit was not only soaking wet, but caked with mud. �
��Never mind,” Harriet said and took the child from him, aware only of those little arms around her neck, the terror subsiding in the small body. Then she became aware of another small person at her elbow.

  “Is Elly all right?” Robert asked in a worried tone. “I didn’t mean for her to fall. Really. I didn’t mean it.”

  Harriet reached her hand down to clasp his shoulder. “I know you did not mean to hurt your sister. It was an accident. But maybe you were not thinking as well as you should have been.”

  “Maybe. Next time—”

  Nurse Tavenner came up with the baby Matilda on one hip and holding a small blanket out to Harriet in the other hand. “Oh, Miss, your dress. That mud will never come out,” she said in a mournful tone.

  Harriet set Elly on her feet and wrapped the blanket about the little girl’s shoulders, then looked down at her own light gray wool walking dress splashed with mud on both the chest and skirt and sighed. “I don’t suppose it will.”

  She suddenly became aware of an open carriage that had come to a stop nearby. A young woman, blonde, in an apple green grown with a frilly matching parasol, was standing in the carriage, holding court, as it were: two gentlemen sat on mounts on the other side of the carriage and three young men stood with doffed hats gazing up at her admiringly from the near side. Harriet’s gaze traveled up to meet the woman’s belittling glance.

  Angelina Grampton, now Lady Bachmann. This I do not need, she thought as she bent her knee in a quick polite curtsy of greeting and turned to call, “Come along, children. Our coachman awaits.”

  “Oh, la, gentlemen!” the beauty of the moment called in a loud, falsely merry tone. “How lucky are we? We have stumbled into the very midst of a fairy tale. Behold! We have Snow White and her Seven Dwarfs!”

  “Snow White indeed! So clever, my lady!” the youngest of the gentlemen echoed with a chuckle. Harriet recognized him as a sycophantic follower of the Bachmann woman.

  Lady Bachmann indeed! Harriet thought in a sarcastic play on the young man’s fawning tone. Miss Angelina Grampton had been one of that group at Miss Penelope Pringle’s School for Young Ladies of Quality who had disparaged and dismissed the “Hs” as mere bluestockings. Later, Angelina and her lot had tried to make the Hs miserable during their shared come-out year. Their catty gossip might have been effective had Harriet, Henrietta, and Hero actually set much store by their talk. Angelina had quickly made what was considered a good marriage—that is, one that came with money and a title. Now, not only having provided her aged spouse his requisite heir, but also having seen him laid to rest in the family vault, she had reemerged on the social scene two seasons ago as one of the so-called “Winsome Widows.” This was a sobriquet that some wag had attached to three women who had been widowed while quite young and had rejoined the social whirl of the ton. Harriet and many others were convinced that the three worked to live up to that frivolous title.

  “Come, Maria.” Harriet called, eager to be away. “Take Elly’s hand and help me keep the blanket about her lest she take a chill.”

  “Ew. She’s muddy.”

  “I know. Here. Put this handkerchief between your hands.”

  “Yes. I think that will work.”

  “Oh, Miss. Uh, Miss—Uh—Mayfield, is it not?” the beauty in the carriage called down. “Would you like one of my gentlemen here to help you?”

  Harriet gritted her teeth. Angelina knew very well who she was. She looked up and smiled despite the streak of mud she knew she had on her cheek. “Thank you for your kind offer, but I have sufficient help.”

  “Perhaps we shall see you at Lady Carstairs’s musicale this evening,” Angelina trilled as a parting shot.

  “Perhaps,” Harriet said, breathing a sigh of relief as she brought up the rear of her little group leaving the park.

  Chapter 3

  For the next few weeks Harriet happily divided her time between her own pursuits and those that would keep the children suitably entertained or occupied. She shamelessly indulged herself in attending not one, but two meetings of the London Literary League. Besides the Carstairs musicale, she attended other such social functions with her grandmother, and the two of them made and accepted “morning” calls. Almost immediately, Harriet heard whispers of the “Snow White” story, but she shrugged them off, sure that on dit was too silly to last.

  Then, as happened so often, the Prince Regent managed, with little effort on his part, to divert society’s attention to himself, though in this instance Harriet had to admit that he had a sufficient degree of help. Harriet and her grandparents had actually been present on that occasion. Along with most of the rest of the audience in Drury Lane Theatre, the Hawthorne party had already been seated when the Prince Regent entered his royal box, accompanied by his royal guests, the King of Prussia, the Czar of Russia, and the renowned General Blücher—all dressed for show in military finery as befitted the allied conquerors of the villainous Napoleon, who was now consigned to the island of Elba. They bowed and waved to the theatre crowd for some minutes, clearly basking in the adulation. Then Harriet heard her grandmother’s sharp intake of breath and her whispered, “Oh, my goodness.”

  Harriet followed the older woman’s gaze. There, directly across from the royal box, the Prince Regent’s estranged wife, Princess Caroline, was entering a box of her own. People seated on the floor of the theatre had caught sight of her and jumped to their feet, shouting her praises. There was no doubt where the sympathies of his subjects generally lay in the prince’s ongoing dispute with his wife. The princess rather brazenly waved at the royal box and the visiting royals quickly bowed to her, so her husband was forced to follow suit, albeit with little grace. Harriet had no doubt what the main topic of tomorrow’s gossip would be in every London drawing room.

  * * * *

  Harriet did not immediately act on her grandparents’ information that she was an immensely wealthy woman. She told herself that she needed time to digest that information, though the truth was it had not come as such a great surprise. She had always known there was money in the family: her grandfather’s closeness to the crown did not come merely from political considerations, and, though she had been but thirteen at time of Anne’s debut, she had been aware of the rumors swirling of the Mayfield heiresses—in the plural. She had simply never paid much attention then, and had had little cause to do so later. Now, perhaps, she had more than enough cause to take notice.…

  With this in mind, she met with the Earl of Hawthorne’s solicitor, one Josiah Hinckley and his son Josiah Junior, who would be taking over for his retiring father. Her grandfather accompanied her, and the four of them sat on cushioned chairs around a polished mahogany table in one corner of the law office, papers spread before them. Both Harriet and Lord Hawthorne had made it abundantly clear that Miss Mayfield fully intended to assume control of her affairs herself from here on.

  “Or until such time as she should marry, I assume,” the younger Hinckley said with a smile. He was a man of middle years and medium height, with slick black hair and warm, dark brown eyes. His broad forehead and long nose were exact duplicates of his father’s, as were the brown eyes, though the father’s hair was white and thinning.

  Harriet shifted uncomfortably on her chair. “That is not likely, but should such an unforeseen event occur, you will be notified immediately.”

  “Of course,” father and son murmured in unison.

  “There is, however, a financial matter I should like to have taken care of as soon as possible, and in as discreet a manner as you can manage.”

  “As you wish, my lady,” the elder Hinckley said and extended a hand. “If it is a matter of gaming debts, just give me the vouchers, and I shall take care of them. I have often performed such services for ladies of the ton.”

  Harriet felt herself coloring. “You misunderstand. I think—that is—they may be largely a matter of gaming debts, but not mine. I shoul
d like for you to investigate fully the nature and extent of indebtedness and liabilities against the estate of my nephew, Phillip, the Earl of Sedwick.”

  “My lady?” the two lawyers asked in unison again.

  “Harriet, my dear?” her grandfather questioned.

  “You all hear me aright, I think. I wish to know the full extent of Sedwick’s problems—so far as they are known in the financial community, that is.”

  The younger Hinckley cleared his throat. “If rumor has any basis in fact, that may be quite a basketful, Miss Mayfield. And—uh—then, what might you have in mind, if I may be so bold as to ask?”

  “Hmm. A basketful, you say. I feared as much. Then,” she said more decisively, tapping a fingertip on the table, “I should like you to buy up such of the Sedwick debts and mortgages as I can afford without risk to my own properties or holdings. However—I do not want my name involved in these transactions at all. Is that understood? It must be done anonymously.”

  “I am quite sure we can negotiate such a private arrangement, but are you absolutely sure you wish to do this, my lady?” the elder Hinckley asked. “It could be a tremendous amount of money—and on a risky venture.”

  Harriet looked at the man directly. “Mr. Hinckley, if my grandfather had come to you with such an order about his own funds, would you have asked him that question?”

  The man colored slightly. “Uh, perhaps not. My apologies, my lady.”

  “Suffice it to say then, that I have my reasons and I am willing to take the risks. And you will note that I am not putting at risk the substance of my fortune.”

  “Yes, miss. We shall do as you have directed. It will take some time to gather the necessary information and then to negotiate the best deals on your behalf. We shall contact you in, say, two weeks?”

  “Fine,” she said.

  Back in their carriage, the Earl of Hawthorne said, “Harriet, are you sure about this?”