Rules for an Unmarried Lady

by Wilma Counts

  She immediately took umbrage. “No, I did not. Did she say I did?”

  He shook his head, but she went on before he could say anything.

  “Miss Mayfield,” she said, emphasizing the formal term of address, “may have heard of my plans for renovation of that wing where her rooms are located. I do remember mentioning that casually to Lady Hawthorne and her daughter-in-law, Elizabeth.”

  Quint sat back and ran a hand through his hair. “I fail to see why your nebulous plan for some possible future renovation would necessitate her leaving with her grandparents after your party.”

  The dowager shrugged and shifted in her seat as though to rise. “Well, she cannot stay here forever—we have been over this before, Quinton.”

  “Yes. We have. And your reasoning makes little sense so long as you reside at Sedwick Hall, surely you provide adequate chaperonage.”

  “But, my darling boy,” she said sweetly as she stood, “then she would have to be my guest—which she assuredly is not. Now, if you will excuse me—” She started for the door.

  “It makes no sense,” Quint repeated. He rose politely and stopped her in her tracks with his next words: “And there will be no renovations to the Hall. Anywhere. The estate cannot afford them. Should you wish to make improvements to the dower house, those, of course, would be your business—and funded by your widow’s endowment.”

  “Good night, son.” She nearly slammed the door.

  “Good night, Mother.” He sat back down in resignation, but became alert when he heard the door open again. But it was not his mother returning. He stood.

  “Lady Barbara.”

  She came close and he smelled the heavy scent of gardenias. “Good heavens, Quinton, I was once always Barbara to you—even Barbara darling or some other endearment—may I not at least be Barbara to you again?” she begged.

  “Of course,” he said in a rather neutral tone.

  “I left my reticule in here,” she said. “Oh, there it is.” She walked over to a small table on which lay a small silver bag on a silver chain. Quint had no doubt the bag had been “forgot” by design, but he merely waited for her make the next move.

  Which she did.

  “I have so longed for a moment alone with you Quinton.”

  “We had had several such moments at the picnic,” he said.

  “Oh, but we might have been interrupted at any moment by—by someone else—or” she shuddered “or by some child demanding your attention.” She emitted a false little titter of a laugh and moved closer to him. He could feel her body heat and while his anatomy was not immune to overtures from a beautiful woman, the rest of him seemed disinclined to follow through.

  She slipped her arms around his neck and pressed her body close to his. “Kiss me, Quinton. Kiss me as you did all those years ago.”

  And, God help him, he did.

  But as her lips moved and opened seductively to him, he felt little in the way of response. He gently pulled away.

  “I-I’m sorry, La—uh—Barbara. This is just neither the time nor the place.”

  “What do you mean? We once meant something—a great deal—to each other.”

  “A long time ago. And—if you recall—it was you who decided we would not suit—I think that was how you put it.”

  “But things have changed. We can—”

  “Not here. Not now. Not at my mother’s house party.”

  “Quinton, darling,” she cooed, moving an arm’s length away, but not releasing her hold on him, and openly laughing at him. “Even you know that the rules simply do not apply at house parties. Your mother certainly knows that! Why else did she give me a chamber so very convenient to yours, my dear?” She gazed at him a long moment, then said, “At my request, I might add, based on fond memories.”

  He stepped back. “You must be joking.”

  “Well, no.” She picked up her bag and let it dangle from her wrist, “But you do know which chamber is mine should you care to avail yourself of that knowledge. Oh—and do be sure to call me Barbara.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He smiled as she let herself out.

  Earlier Quint had thought of perhaps knocking at Harriet’s door this evening, despite having heard Sir Charles tease her about “those late-night hen sessions you women get up to.” However, these encounters—first with his mother, and then with Barbara—had somehow tainted any time he might now have with Harriet.

  * * * *

  In the first few days following the picnic, Harriet had two encounters that helped reinforce her decision to return to London with her grandparents. Perhaps there was something providential about the way matters seemed to be stacking up against her continued presence at Sedwick Hall. One day after the midday meal Quint and Chet had taken the gentlemen off to the game room for billiards, checkers, and card games—as well as a good deal of ale and such other drink as pleased the guests. The ladies would be similarly entertained in the drawing room with card games or stitchery or whatever they wished to occupy themselves with. Tea, lemonade, or ratafia were offered to slake their thirst. In general guests, male and female, were encouraged to relax and regenerate however they pleased.

  Having ridden hard that morning and for longer than usual, Harriet was content to work on a piece of embroidery she had neglected for lo! these many months. She knew of writers who could write what later became polished pieces on little snippets of paper in the midst of rooms full of people such this one, but that was not one Harriet Mayfield—or the Lady Senator, either. Even as this thought ran through Harriet’s mind with a mental sigh, Lady Pearson bustled over to take a seat next to her on the rose-colored sofa, her own embroidery hoop in hand.

  “May I join you, Miss Mayfield?”

  “By all means, milady.”

  “Do let us be Judith and Harriet. After all, we have known each other for years. We came out the same year, did we not?”

  “I believe we did,” Harriet agreed. “As you wish, Judith.”

  “Good.” Judith seemed to be searching for a topic as she bent her soft brown hair over Harriet’s piece of embroidery. “What is it that you are working on?”

  “A small tapestry—meant to depict Cassandra sounding the alarm to the people of Troy.”

  “My. You truly are a bluestocking, are you not?” Judith said, but it was not said unkindly.

  Harriet laughed, leaned close, and whispered, facetiously, “That’s what they say.”

  “Nevertheless, it is very nice work,” Judith said graciously.

  Harriet thanked her, wondering a bit at this particular overture from one of the Winsome three. She had never garnered such attention from any of them before—well, except for Angelina’s ridicule, which perhaps had some explanation in its being some sort of holdover from schoolgirl rivalry. Tiresome and petty at this late date, and best ignored.

  For a moment Harriet concentrated on rethreading her needle and Judith busied herself with her own work, then Judith quietly cleared her throat. She gave Harriet what could only be described as a look of sympathy.

  Sympathy?

  But before Harriet had time to ponder that, the other woman spoke. “I am wondering, Harriet, whether you are—uh—aware of a—uh—‘history’—between Lady Barbara and Lord Quinton.”

  Harriet was nonplused. “Whether I am—?” She settled on the ploy of ignorance to buy time. “I have no idea what you are talking about. And he prefers the title colonel.”

  Judith immediately took an apologetic tone. “Oh, my, I do hope I have not offended you in any way.”

  Harriet waved a hand dismissively. “Not at all. Why on earth should I be offended?”

  “Well—uh—I—that is—some of us—have seen the way you and—Lord—uh—Colonel Burnes look at each other, and I just thought you should know that there is this history, you see—”

  “And you thou
ght to warn me away so your friend could have a clear field—is that it?” Harriet ask in a carefully neutral tone.

  Judith drew in a sharp breath. “I would not have said it so crassly. I merely hoped to spare another woman being hurt if possible.”

  Harriet held her gaze for a long moment before deciding that yes, she seemed sincere. “Thank you, Judith. I appreciate your concern, but, truly, neither you nor Lady Barbara need worry yourselves.”

  “I—I just thought you should know,” Judith said weakly.

  “And now I do,” Harriet said, setting aside her needlework and preparing to escape.

  Judith leaned closer as though to share a secret; her voice lowered as she said, “Oh, but did you also know that Lady Margaret is actively promoting a match between her son and Lady Barbara?”

  “Really? Again?” Harriet feigned mild interest.

  Judith nodded. “It’s true. Again. I think she hopes it will work this time for Barbara would make such a biddable daughter-in-law—not like your sister at all.”

  “No, I doubt Anne was very ‘biddable.’”

  “But that is rarely the case between those members of a family,” Judith said, gathering her embroidery work and rising. “If you will excuse me, I must speak with Lady Charlotte Ridgeway.”

  Harriet wanted to ask whom she was going to warn her against, but was too glad to see her leave to detain her.

  Two days later the second encounter took place and it started at least in the very same room.

  Lady Margaret and her houseguests were receiving a number of local callers in the afternoon. The drawing room was abuzz with conversation in several groups, the norms for such calls being more relaxed in the country than in London. Among the local people paying calls was Sir Desmond Humphreys. Harriet had been mildly surprised to see him, having heard he was away from the area—and he had missed the dowager’s picnic. It was unlike Sir Desmond to miss any local social affair of note. He apologized loudly and profusely to Lady Margaret on his arrival for having missed her picnic.

  “I was in London these last weeks on business that just would not wait, my lady. Please believe me, I would not miss a fete of yours for any but the most dire of reasons.”

  “How flattering,” she gushed.

  Later, as he seemed on the verge of leaving, he specifically sought out Harriet, who was just turning away from a group standing near the French doors leading out to a balcony overlooking the gardens two floors below. The day was warm and the room was full; the doors had been opened to allow in fresh air. Humphreys touched her elbow and said, “Might I have a private word with you, Miss Mayfield?”

  She gave him an inquiring look, but found no reason to refuse him. She gestured toward the open doors. “There is no one on the balcony. That should provide sufficient privacy, I think,” she said, ignoring a slight look of disappointment on his face.

  As usual, he was dressed in the latest of male fashion, in this instance a maroon coat, a gold embroidered waistcoat, black satin pantaloons, and a neckcloth tied in a complicated knot that defied the imagination almost as much as his garments seemed to defy certain laws of elasticity in their materials.

  He guided her to a far corner of the balcony and looked back over his shoulder cautiously.

  “Is something wrong?” Harriet asked.

  “Oh, no,” he answered, with what seemed a condescending chuckle to her. “It is just that a man wishes for a good deal more privacy for what I am about to ask you.”

  Harriet felt a tremor of dread, but before she could forestall him, he rushed on. He took both of her hands in his. “Miss Mayfield, we have known each other quite some time—several years in fact. I have long admired you and have of late grown quite fond of you. You would make me the happiest of men if you would consent to marry me.”

  “Oh, my goodness.” She tried to break the connection, but he retained his grip on her hands. Her first thought was that his speech sounded practiced. She wondered if he did it before a looking glass. Then she wanted to laugh at the incongruity of that thought, and she knew this man’s sense of self-importance was far too fragile for any but the utmost solemnity. She gave the hands gripping hers a vigorous shake and he loosened his grasp. “I am aware, Sir Desmond, of the immense honor you do me, but I simply cannot accept your offer.”

  He dropped his hands to his sides and said bluntly, “I cannot believe at this late date you are holding out for a better offer.”

  “No, that is not it.” She wanted to slap him, but merely added the trite “I simply feel we would not suit.”

  “Well, my dear Miss Mayfield, I happen to think we would suit very well indeed,” he growled as he grabbed her by her shoulders and pushed her against the wall, outside direct line of vision from the French doors of the room. His face was close to hers; his breath smelled of fish and onions; his voice grated. “You may have heard me say I just returned from London.”

  Angry now, she was ready to spit in his face. “Why should I care where you have been?”

  His smile was really just a baring of his teeth and he still had hold of her shoulders. “Because, dear girl, I went there to buy back my notes on Sedwick Mills—only to find someone had beat me to it.”

  Harriet felt a frisson of fear travel the length of her spine, but bravado won out. “So?”

  “It just happens that I have a family connection who sits on the boards of a number of the City’s financial institutions—including the Seton-Trevors Bank.”

  Harriet put a hand to her forehead.

  Now his smile was more real, though just as repulsive. He seemed to wait for her to say something, but when she did not, he said smugly, “Exactly, my love.” He lowered his hands and went on in a more persuasive tone now. “As I see it, were you to marry me, we could leverage Sedwick’s guardian into selling us the remaining interest in those mills and we would thus have a very substantial hold on the textile industry in this county, what with my mills too.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” she said.

  “And, if it will make you any more amenable to marrying me, I will have it written into the marriage settlements that I will change my will so that you will have complete and absolute control of that enterprise on the occasion of my death. Given the rather considerable difference in our ages, that should be of some interest to you.”

  She drew in a deep breath and said very quietly, but very firmly, “Sir Desmond, nothing would make me more amenable to marrying you. It is simply out of the question.”

  He stared at her balefully for a long moment, then rubbed one hand across his face and stepped back slightly, though his body still blocked her way. “Well, then,” he said, “I am willing to buy your interest in those mills for twice what you paid for those notes. That gives you a handsome profit on that transaction. I am sure if you discuss it with whoever has authority over your financial affairs, you will find he will take the offer when I present it to him.” He stepped away, allowing her to flee.

  “Don’t hold your breath for that,” she said over her shoulder.

  She thought she heard him mutter “You’ll be sorry,” but she ignored it.

  And of course the first persons she encountered as she came through those French doors were Quint, his mother, and Lady Barbara. Quint looked at her and at Humphreys right behind her.

  “Harriet?” Quint put out a hand, but she mumbled “Sorry” and brushed past him. She heard the dowager make an inane comment about a lovers’ quarrel.

  * * * *

  Although he had followed through on his decree that Phillip be acknowledged the official host of this house party, Quint found that often he had to step in and take the lead, especially in organizing matters of traditional all-male activities, such as an expedition to a local pugilistic exhibition that was to be held in the market arena in Hendley. Having polled the guests as to who wished to ride to the affair, who wished t
o drive their own vehicles, and who wished to avail themselves of Sedwick carriages and drivers, Quint made sure all were adequately provided for in the way of transportation and that they were all supplied with food and drink once they reached their destination.

  So long as he stayed close to his uncle or Mr. Gibbons, Phillip was allowed to accompany the gentlemen, but none of the younger boys were, for Quint remembered all too well that such “exhibitions” often got out of hand, erupting into brawls. Grown men could fend for themselves, but Quint was taking no chances with eight-year-olds!

  He knew his mother had planned an elaborate tea party for the female guests and that she had invited a considerable number of local ladies to join them. She had even hired a local group of actors to provide entertainment: they would turn one area of the ballroom into a theatre of sorts and perform scenes from Shakespeare and popular plays of the day. Harriet and Mrs. Hartley had been prevailed upon to provide soft music while the dowager’s guests imbibed tea and lemonade. Quint privately thought those two had the patience of saints, but Harriet had told him that playing the piano spared her having to engage in unending meaningless chitchat—or pretend to do so.

  The big outings for the men were, of course, the grouse hunts. They had been lucky in having good weather for both, especially the last one, which involved not just the houseguests, but also several local men that Quint felt he wanted to know better. On that basis alone he might not have included Sir Desmond Humphreys, but, he reminded himself, he had no business deliberately giving offense in the name of Sedwick. Once again Phillip was the nominal host of this event, and the invitations had been issued in his name.

  Lying in his bed late one night, sleepless, wanting Harriet, and trying to force his mind in other directions, he had to smile at the idea of Phillip as host. His mother still chafed at the idea, but she did not hesitate to claim it as all her own when the Marchioness of Hastings lavishly praised her for such an original idea after that first formal dinner.

  “I vow, Lady Margaret, you will have set a new a trend. Every London hostess will be seeking ways to project young people into the center of things. Though few are as suited to the role as your young Phillip. He looks so well in his evening wear, and his manners are impeccable,” the woman gushed.