by Wilma Counts
“It would not have been for the first time, though, would it, my dear?” Lady Margaret asked sweetly.
Harriet laughed. “Probably not.”
“May we know what it is you are working on?” asked the usually quiet Sylvia Hartley.
“An essay on the lives of working people,” Harriet replied. “Actually, it is to be a series of at least three articles—if I can just manage to whip those words into shape.”
Lady Margaret gave a tiny, very ladylike shudder, careful not to slosh the tea in her cup. “I simply do not understand why a lady of your position in society should trouble herself about those kinds of people.”
“Perhaps because we are the very sorts of persons who should be so troubled?” Harriet asked innocently.
“We do what we can,” the dowager said. “Why Mrs. Hartley and I dropped off a bundle of clothing and linens at the vicarage just today as we were on our way.” She turned to the business of handing around a plate of biscuits to go with the tea.
“And are the words shaping up well?” Quint asked.
Harriet suspected he was deliberately deflecting what might be his mother’s next line of discussion. “I misspoke. It is not so much that the words are not cooperating as that I simply do not have enough solid information at hand.”
“Hmm. I can see where it would be difficult to write about a topic in which one’s knowledge is limited,” he said with a grin.
Is he belittling me or my work? Harriet wondered, but she replied, “I certainly feel I have knowledge of a general nature—facts and figures from government documents and newspapers and so on—but I need the sorts of details that bring a story to life, that catch the reader’s imagination.”
“I am not certain I understand what it is you think you need, Miss Mayfield,” Mrs. Hartley said. Sylvia Hartley, Harriet often thought, was one of those basically shy women to whom fate had not been at all kind. Rather plain and self-deprecating, she had not only been left a childless widow at a young age, but she had been left without enough fortune to sustain her. She was the perfect foil for the more robust, decisive dowager, but Harriet felt more sympathy than affection for the little companion.
Harriet turned to her. “I need to know how these people actually live. Who they are. Where they come from. What they eat. What religion they practice. What they read, if they can do so. The sorts of information that is usually missing in official papers.”
“I should think you’d best leave well enough alone,” the dowager said. “We do not need any more needless gossip touching on our family going the rounds. Speaking of which—” She paused dramatically before continuing, “I had a letter recently from my friend Lady Martha Frobisher, and she imparted some rather startling information regarding your sojourn in London.”
Harriet closed her eyes momentarily and steeled herself for what might be coming. Lady Martha was one of the ton’s most infamous tattlemongers—the more salacious the gossip, the better.
“Did she now?” Harriet asked, trying to sound indifferent.
“Yes, she certainly did. You may be interested to know, Quinton, dear, that your wards have been paraded about in a bizarre replay of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.”
Harriet felt the man’s gaze turn to her, but she could not bring herself to look at him directly. Well, it was only a matter of time until that ridiculous story reached Derbyshire. England’s mail is nothing if not efficient.
“I knew it would come to something like this,” the dowager went on. “Now it is just as I predicted: my grandchildren are the laughingstock of the ton.”
“Truly, Lady Margaret, your friend rather exaggerates that on dit,” Harriet protested. “It was but a casual comment of a young woman seeking attention. A few foolish but forgettable words spoken in haste.” She leaned forward to set her cup on a low table before the couch on which she sat. “And, in any event, that snide remark was aimed at me, not my nieces and nephews.”
The dowager looked at her with a lifted eyebrow. “Nevertheless, I cannot condone the idea of our name being bandied about in idle gossip. We must protect the children from such. Would you not agree, Quinton dear?”
At last Harriet allowed herself to look at him directly and tried not to be distracted by what an attractive man he was. Even in civilian attire and slouched comfortably in an easy chair, he seemed to exude the same aura of control and confidence that one saw in that portrait of him on the stairway. He smiled at her and shook his head. “Sounds like something less than a tempest in a teapot to me,” he said. “In fact, it sounds rather amusing, but one of those things that is probably much funnier in the event than in the retelling.”
“Exactly,” Harriet said.
The dowager merely sighed and turned her attention to replenishing her tea.
Sylvia Hartley apparently felt compelled to fill the conversational gap. “We have had such a lovely summer. I do hope we may continue to enjoy fine weather into the autumn.”
The dowager set aside her teacup and sat even straighter than usual. “That reminds me, Quinton dear. I have not had occasion to bring this matter up with you before, but I am planning to host a house party in late September and October. It will be like old times when your father and I hosted a house party every autumn. Sylvia and I have been busily planning it for the last month or so and making a guest list.”
Harriet was sure this came as an unwelcome surprise to the woman’s son, for he put aside his own cup and sat up straight to stare at his mother. “You have done what?”
“I am planning a house party. We shall no longer be officially in mourning, and besides renewing a Sedwick tradition that was unfortunately ignored in recent years, the party will present a splendid opportunity to announce our return to society—and reintroduce my beloved son to the society he has missed all these years in serving his country.”
“Have you already sent out invitations?” he asked.
“Not formally. But I have mentioned it in correspondence with a few of my friends to be sure they will not accept invitations from others, you see.”
Quint sat in rigid silence for several moments, then rubbed his knuckles along his jaw. “I do wish you had mentioned this earlier. Had written me before I came home. I would have tried to discourage you.”
“Why ever would you do that?” she demanded in a hurt tone. “I have not had a chance to host such a party in years and years and I used to do so frequently. The late countess was not so inclined, but I was known as a splendid hostess, if I do say it myself.”
“To put it bluntly, Mother, it is an expense Sedwick can ill afford right now. I remember very well some of those parties you and Father hosted. Twenty or thirty or more people. They went on for weeks. Food and drink alone must have cost a small fortune—not to mention entertainment.”
“But a house party is such fun,” his mother protested. “Winston did not bring up finances when I mentioned it to him last year.”
“Win approved this affair?” he asked.
“Um—not precisely, but he did not object to it.”
“He probably did not really consider it at the time and then forgot about it,” Quint said. “Lord knows he had plenty on his mind in the last year or so.”
“Well, they certainly were not things he shared with his mother,” the dowager said.
“They would not be, would they? But under the circumstances, I seriously doubt my brother would have given approval for this sort of thing.”
“Are you forbidding me to do this? When I have already told a few of my friends…” She sounded as though she might dissolve into tears—a phenomenon Harriet had not witnessed in Lady Margaret before.
Quint sighed. “No, Mother. I am not forbidding you your house party. I know as well as anyone that ‘a few of your friends’ constitutes half the ton. In effect, you have handed me a fait accompli. You will kindly not do that again, for
there will have to be some serious economizing measures taken if Sedwick is to survive as even a shadow of itself.”
“Surely you exaggerate, my son.”
Harriet wondered how the woman could sound both triumphant and condescending, but her son was clearly having no more of it. He stood and stared at the older woman directly. “No, Mother, I do not. I do not know the full extent of what we shall have to do—I must meet with the bankers and other creditors first—but at the very least, I fear we will have to lease out the London townhouse for a few years. Now, if you will excuse me—” He reached for the door.
“No-o-o,” she whimpered as he closed the door behind him. “He cannot mean it. Give up the house in Mayfair? Not go to London for the season?”
“Perhaps it will not require such drastic measures, my lady,” the companion said soothingly.
“There is nothing else for it,” the dowager said, almost as though she were talking to herself. “I shall have to see Quinton suitably married and, when the time comes, that Phillip, too, chooses the right sort of bride. No more of these imprudent love matches.” Brightening, she turned to her companion and said in a more cheerful tone, “Tomorrow morning, Sylvia, we shall go over our guest list again.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I shall, of course, invite the Hawthorne and Montieth family connections,” Lady Margaret said to Harriet. “Do you think they might come?”
“Grandfather dislikes traveling, but he dearly loves company and he adores his great-grandchildren,” Harriet said. “I think it highly likely that Charles and Elizabeth would agree to accompany him and Nana.”
“Good.” The older woman sat in silence for some moments, but Harriet could tell that she had something else on her mind. Finally, she said, “I wonder, my dear Harriet, if you have given any thought to the fact that if I were to return to the dower house, that Sedwick Hall would, in effect, be a bachelor residence?”
“What? What are you suggesting?”
“I am suggesting nothing. Merely pointing out that my son is an unmarried man and you are an unmarried woman. Were I not available as chaperone, your presence here would be most improper.”
“Never mind the fact that there are seven children and perhaps as many as fifty servants on the premises,” Harriet said. What on earth is behind this? Does she think to get rid of me? She sat still, her hands in her lap, her fingers entwined, trying to look relaxed.
“Children and servants are not considered proper chaperones,” the dowager said.
“And are you planning to move back to the dower house?” Harriet asked. “I thought you had settled in here quite firmly.”
“Well, I always have that option, do I not?”
“Perhaps we can deal with this problem when it becomes one,” Harriet said. “I have always felt welcome here.”
“Oh, I did mean to suggest that you are not welcome.”
Did you not? Harriet thought bitterly.
“But you must consider also that Quinton may marry and I am sure a new wife would not want either of us underfoot, now would she?”
“Is he planning to marry?” Harriet asked, wondering why that idea should be repugnant to her.
“Well, not immediately,” Lady Margaret said with a laugh, “but surely one day—”
“Another issue that can be dealt with later, I think.” Harriet stood. “For now, I am rather tired, so I bid you a good night.”
She was more annoyed than furious at Lady Margaret’s not-so-subtle hint that she should remove herself from Sedwick Hall. Were it not for the children, of course, she would do so in a heartbeat. But she could not bring herself to desert them. Not yet. Not while there was so much need still unfulfilled.
Her mind turned to the topic that had obviously been uppermost in the colonel’s mind this evening. Harriet was sure she had always had a better understanding of the earldom’s financial affairs than the dowager had, for Win had always been quite frank in discussing things with his wife and her sister. The Sixth Earl of Sedwick had not been one of those men who undervalued the brains of women. In fact, Harriet had often thought her sister had been attracted to Lord Winston Burnes in part because he resembled Lord Hawthorne in some respects. However, finance was not a topic the dowager had ever been comfortable discussing. So long as her pin money was available, it had never seemed to occur to her to ask where it came from.
And just who are you even to think of criticizing? Harriet chastised herself as she sat her desk dawdling over the diary she kept faithfully every night. Had she not only half listened to Win’s laments? After all, the running of the Sedwick earldom had never been any of her business, had it? Actually, had she not more or less blindly gone about her own affairs all her adult life, paying but little heed to matters like the wherewithal to make those affairs transpire satisfactorily? That visit with the Hawthorne solicitor had torn the blinders away and brought her face to face with the realities of responsibility as well as privilege of great wealth. She was aware that she could probably ease many of the problems at Sedwick, if not erase them. But how far dare she go? She was reluctant to interfere beyond what she had already done. To do so would be presumptuous and the colonel would likely see her concern as just meddling. And besides, I still do not know this man. How could I even think of betraying Phillip by giving so much power to someone who had yet to prove his worth?
She rang the bell pull for her maid. She and Phillip were to go riding early the following morning.
Chapter 8
When Harriet arrived at the stables the next morning, she found Phillip there before her. He and Dolan, the head groom, were just outside the door of the stables, putting the finishing touches on saddling Phillip’s pony and Harriet’s mare. The sun, already promising a warm day, had dried away much of night’s moisture, and birds were offering a pleasant if somewhat discordant greeting to the coming day.
“Good morning,” she called, tossing Phillip an apple for his pony as she snuggled up to her mare with another for it and murmured, “Did you miss me, Miss Priss?” as she stroked the animal’s muzzle.
“I’m sure she did, Miss Harriet,” Dolan said, “though we exercised ’em all real good while ye was all gone—’specially after the colonel an’ his friend arrived ’bout two weeks ago. Good to have ye back now.”
“It is good to be back.” She looked at Phillip. “Shall we be off, then?”
He glanced toward the door of the stable, nodded, and came around to help her mount.
“Here. I’ll do that, Phillip.”
Harriet whirled around, surprised to see Colonel Burnes hand the reins of a majestic black stallion to another rider beside him and come to stand before her. “Good morning, Miss Mayfield. Fine day for a ride, is it not?” he asked with exaggerated cheerfulness. He knew he had caught her off guard, drat the man.
“Why—uh—yes. Yes. Yes it is. A very nice day for a ride. How nice that you could join us.”
“Or vice-versa,” he said, offering his gloved hand to help her step onto the mounting block. “I have been taking this brute out daily since I arrived.”
She braced her gloved hand against his shoulder as she stepped up and swung her leg and voluminous skirt over the tree of her side saddle. She was acutely aware of the scent of his shaving soap and of the sheer masculine power and flow of muscle as he saw to the simple task of adjusting her stirrup. She wondered fleetingly why she had never noticed such sensations before when Dolan or any other groom had routinely performed this duty for her. The moment left her slightly out of breath, him not at all.
To cover her momentary lapse, she said in some surprise, “You have been riding Lucifer? Win was the only one who could really handle that great beast. Far too temperamental.”
Quint stepped away from her mount and took the reins of his own from his fellow rider. He patted the stallion’s nose. “Ah, Luce,” he crooned, “she does m
align you, does she not? Perhaps Miss Mayfield is not aware that your manners have improved remarkably, especially when you are allowed around such beauties as her Miss Priss.” Then to Harriet he said, with a gesture at his fellow rider, “Miss Mayfield, allow me to introduce my friend Chester Gibbons, who agreed to a sojourn here at Sedwick until I get my bearings with this new lot in my life.”
“Couldn’t turn him loose in the wilds of England all by himself now, could I?” Gibbons asked with a grin and Harriet immediately liked the man for his warm friendliness. She also noted reddish brown hair, a profusion of freckles, and blue eyes that bespoke intelligence.
She laughed and said, “I suppose not, though I doubt many of us will be shooting at either of you.” She turned back to Quint. “So—am I to understand that you have been taking the devil’s own out on a regular basis?”
“Since I was one who talked Win into buying this fine piece of horseflesh, I thought I had at least best help keep him exercised.”
“Is that a way of saying we all end up paying for our sins somehow?” she asked with a smile.
“Perhaps. But Win and I thought Luce might also be the start of a great line too. Have you seen the new foal yet?”
“No, I have not.”
“He’s a beaut, Aunt Harriet,” Phillip said. “Father would have been so proud.”
“I think Win meant to breed Luce to that mare you are riding too, Miss Mayfield,” Quint said.
“Really? He actually said that?”
“I think so. He spoke of ‘a solid little bay mare that Anne’s sister always rides’—that’s the way he put it to me. Why? You sound surprised.”
“I am. Miss Priss is my horse. I own her. She does not belong to the Sedwick stable. Win never mentioned such a plan to me.”
“Surely he would have done so in due time.” When she nodded polite agreement, he added, “Do you mind if Gibbons and I join your ride this morning?”
