Reforming Harriet

by Eileen Putman

  But the sound of her soft laughter followed him out into the street.

  ***

  Harriet put the finishing touches on her toilette. Her maid, Heavenly, shook her head in disapproval. “If you ask me, them that want to soften up a man ought to pretty the package a bit.”

  “I will not cater to that man’s twisted notions of proper female behavior — or appearance,” Harriet declared. Indeed, she was quite satisfied with her reflection in the mirror. Her hair, normally as unruly as a basket of yarn the cats had got into, was pulled severely off her face and rolled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. She had deliberately chosen one of her severest dinner gowns, a high-necked black bombazine with long sleeves. She was ready to do battle.

  Lord Westwood’s sudden visit had been a most unwelcome surprise. For months she had ignored his letters and their increasingly strident tone. She had thought him safely tucked away on one of those Caribbean islands Freddy had spoken about, and the last thing she had expected was to find him in her shop this morning.

  “You don’t look like yourself, Miss Harriet,” Heavenly insisted. “And when a woman don’t look like herself, she don’t act like herself. And when she don’t act like herself, she —”

  “Spare me your lectures, Heavenly. I am perfectly myself. Why, who else would I be?” Harriet laughed, though in truth she was a little nervous. Lord Westwood had not been at all as she had expected.

  She had imagined a man who wrote such disapproving letters to be a prissy sort, small and bespectacled, balding and pinch-mouthed. But Lord Westwood was large — he’d had to stoop to enter her shop — and much younger than she had envisioned. Indeed, his vigorous appearance put him in the very prime of life. His sun-burnished skin suggested he spent many of his days outdoors, though she could not imagine a man of his hauteur lowering himself to physical labor, even in the service of tending his precious spice plants. Perhaps slaves performed the real work. Alas, she had heard that many of the plantation owners had slaves, despite the reforms forged by Mr. Wilberforce and others.

  Lord Westwood looked to be the type of man to use another human being in such a despicable fashion. His eyes, more black than blue, bespoke a censorious, unforgiving nature. Did the man never smile? She doubted that arrogant mouth was capable of mirth. Indeed, Lord Westwood looked to be the very opposite of Freddy, who had certainly enjoyed a good laugh. Had he been laughing, she wondered, when he collapsed and died in the arms of Lady Forth?

  “Hand me that shawl, Heavenly, if you please.”

  “Miss Harriet, you need a shawl like you need another loaf of bread. Any more fabric on those shoulders and you’ll suffocate.”

  Harriet ignored the warning, as she had been ignoring Heavenly’s axioms for the majority of her twenty-five years. The shawl gave her something to hold onto, a bit of extra security. For the thought of entertaining Lord Westwood for dinner had, as the day wore on, brought misgivings.

  Oh, she would hold her own — she had done so with men for years in her salons and the lively debate they fostered. What bothered her was the prospect of spending an evening in Lord Westwood’s forbidding company unrelieved by the distraction of others. Guests were as necessary to a meal as yeast to bread. Harriet rarely dined alone, and never alone with a man.

  “I wish I had invited Squire Gibbs. Or the Tanksleys,” she said.

  “Squire would spend the evening trying to get that mill away from you, and Mrs. Tanksley would go on and on again about why you should marry her son,” Heavenly muttered.

  “Well, I do not intend to sell the mill, and I certainly do not intend to marry again, so that is that,” Harriet declared, rising.

  She swept down the grand staircase that had been one of Freddy’s proudest accomplishments. He had ordered the pink marble from Italy and the gold from Africa. Craftsmen from Ireland had applied the gilt to the mahogany railing carved by Thomas Sutterly, one of the country’s foremost wood-carvers. Harriet had never seen anything half as grand, even in her father’s house. Personally, she thought the carvings of naked cherubs twining up the banister a bit much. But she had always believed in tolerance. If tolerating her husband’s eccentricities had sometimes been challenging, she had nevertheless managed to do so. She suspected her dedication to that principle would face yet another test in Lord Westwood.

  Downstairs, Harriet checked the table arrangements, though it was unnecessary — Horace always followed her instructions to the letter. Her quick trip into the kitchen was likewise unnecessary, as Celestial had everything well in hand. Heavenly and Celestial had been employed in her father’s household for as long as she could remember and had joined her staff upon her marriage to Freddy — though perhaps “joined” was the wrong word for two such strong-willed women. In truth, they had invaded it, giving Horace, Freddy’s butler, fits. Freddy had been appalled by the easy familiarity Harriet enjoyed with the twins, but then Freddy had been a bit of a snob, albeit a good-natured one.

  Lord Westwood had more than a touch of the snob in him. The man’s nose looked positively regal, and it was clear he viewed himself as superior to the rest of the world. He carried himself like the wealthy nabob he was — stiff and forbidding, encased in rather prickly armor. No doubt he lived like a king, with all the trappings his riches could provide.

  Wealth, Harriet had found, meant very little in the overall scheme of things. Her father was as rich as Croesus, but her enormous dowry had been woefully unable to purchase wedded bliss. Freddy had piddled away most of her funds on his gilt banisters and gilded women. She had been surprised as anyone to find herself part owner of a West Indies spice business, but what did any of it matter? Money was not the measure of a man — or woman.

  Unfortunately, she was doomed to spend an evening with Lord Westwood discussing that very subject, for the man’s letters had been rife with talk of profits, loss, capital, investments. Apparently he intended for her to consult him on every business move. The more Harriet thought about it, the more she resented the intrusion upon her time that this evening would mean.

  But when Horace ushered Lord Westwood into the drawing room, her resentment faded as she took in his appearance. His height, so noticeable in her tiny shop, ensured that he would dominate any room, large or small. The black superfine tailcoat fit his broad shoulders with nary a hint of padding. His white breeches hugged his well-formed calves like a second skin. A cravat, tied in an unfamiliar but restrained style, framed his chin and set off his dark features to gleaming perfection. His tousled black hair graced his high forehead with natural ease and with none of the dandy’s conceit or artificiality. Perhaps the flour had clouded her vision earlier, for she had certainly failed to take note of his considerable physical attributes. Then again, a man’s measure was not decided by the package in which it was wrapped, however appealing that might be, Harriet reminded herself sternly.

  He smiled politely, revealing a slight indentation in one cheek — could that be a dimple? Harriet was forced to concede that without a disapproving look upon his features, Lord Westwood was devastatingly handsome.

  She steeled herself against that unexpected smile. No doubt he intended to charm her into signing over Freddy’s part of the business. Well, he would soon learn that she was no easy mark.

  “Good evening, Lady Harriet.”

  “Lord Westwood,” she acknowledged, suddenly feeling stiff and unfashionable in her black bombazine. He bowed formally and, at her gesture, seated himself in the chair next to hers. Horace poured out sherry and discreetly left the room.

  Harriet decided not to mince words. “You should know at the outset, my lord, that I have no intention of selling my part of the business to you. Nor do I intend to consult you on decisions I make regarding my investments.”

  The polite smile faded from his face. They regarded each other for a long moment.

  “How is it, madam,” he said finally, “that you possess such an extraordinary amount of freedom in the matter?”

  The assump
tions behind his question irritated her. “This is the second time today, sir, that I appear to have shocked you by being my own mistress,” she said, unable to keep the annoyance from her voice.

  Even to her own ears, the words sounded shrill. “I beg your pardon,” she added quickly. “I have rather strong opinions on certain matters, but it is not my wish to inflict them on you, especially since our acquaintance is of such short duration.” Feeling excessively awkward, Harriet fell silent.

  Lord Westwood’s brow furrowed. He did not immediately respond.

  She was making a muddle of things, Harriet realized. She took a deep breath. “As to your question, Freddy’s estate came to me without preconditions, although my father remains a trustee. For whatever reason, after controlling me for half a lifetime, he has allowed me to do as I wish.” The reason, she suspected, was so he would not have to be bothered with her.

  “Lord Worthington had no heir?” the earl asked.

  “No. It is a worthless title, at all events.” She hesitated. Lord Westwood was her business partner, so perhaps it was best to be forthright. “My father took care of Freddy’s debts before our marriage.”

  “Your father is a generous man,” he observed in a noncommittal tone.

  “There was a price for his generosity.” With her father, there was always a price. “Though Freddy had no immediate heirs, my father preferred not to take the chance that his investment would be squandered. He dissolved the entail.”

  He regarded her in surprise. “An Act of Parliament?”

  “My father is a powerful man. It was not difficult.”

  “I see.”

  Harriet wondered what he thought of such a tale of money and manipulation. She was fortunate to have free rein over her own affairs, though it galled that she owed that very freedom to her father. Men were always trying to arrange things, never troubling themselves to ask whether their machinations were welcome.

  Lord Westwood was studying her. “The business has lost a great deal of money since Freddy’s death,” he said.

  Now they were at the reason for his visit. “That is regrettable,” Harriet replied. When he did not answer, she eyed him curiously. “Surely you do not hold me to blame.”

  There was a pause. “I do.”

  “What? Why, that is silly. I have done nothing.”

  “That,” the earl said, “is precisely the problem.”

  Harriet frowned. “The loss of a few pounds could not have seriously altered your finances.”

  “Thirty thousand.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Thirty thousand,” he repeated. “The decisions I have been unable to implement because of your refusal to respond to my instructions have resulted in the loss of thirty thousand pounds since November last. A king’s ransom, madam. It also appears you have sold some of the stock and availed yourself of a significant sum of cash. Ten thousand pounds, to be precise.”

  Harriet was surprised. It was rather a formidable sum. She had not kept track, for such things did not concern her.

  “It was my part of the business to do with as I wished, my lord,” she said. “At all events, I have put the proceeds to good use.”

  “And what might that be?” His gaze was hard.

  Was he trying to intimidate her? “Necessary improvements,” she replied crisply.

  “Please explain.” A clear command.

  “It is quite simple,” she said, trying to keep the edge from her voice. “I sold some stock to pay for the Whitmires’ wheat crop, which was devastated by the rains last year. Now they can plant winter wheat, which many think is a superior grain and —” She broke off. Lord Westwood’s expression had darkened considerably.

  “You sold stock in Westwood Imports to pay for a neighbor’s wheat crop?”

  “There was also Mrs. Gibson’s cow, which died suddenly last month,” Harriet said. “A family cannot subsist without a cow,” she added defiantly.

  “A cow,” he echoed.

  “It cannot have escaped your notice, my lord, that the village is in need of repair. Its fortunes have fallen over the last few years, and there is much to be done. And it does bear the Worthington name, a remnant of a time when Freddy’s family owned much of the land. I have a responsibility here.”

  “I see,” he said.

  “The mill needed to be rebuilt,” Harriet continued. “Squire did not keep it up, and Freddy had done no repairs after winning it from him in a card game. People depend upon the mill. But before the mill could be useful, we had to tear down the old dam, which was diverting the water power and flooding an old pasture. The Reeds needed water to irrigate their fields, so we built a new dam, and everyone is quite happy now. Especially the Smythes, who owned the old swampy pasture. Now they can use it for grazing land. Of course they did not have any grazing animals until —”

  “You bought them a herd of sheep.”

  Harriet beamed. “How did you know?”

  Lord Westwood exhaled slowly. For a moment he did not speak. “Lady Harriet,” he said finally, in a constricted tone, “I am certain that your neighbors are grateful for your assistance. But you have succeeded in severely depleting the assets of a business which I founded, which bears my name and which until last year was extremely profitable, without consulting me. I cannot imagine that you think that is fair.”

  She frowned. “When you put it that way, my lord, perhaps not. But perhaps you had too much money to begin with.”

  He eyed her incredulously.

  “The business never did Freddy any good, if you must know,” Harriet explained. “He had a most unfortunate gambling habit and frittered away his money on unhealthy pursuits. In fact, I believe the business hastened his death.”

  “Whatever pursuits in which your husband was engaged,” Lord Westwood responded, “it is hardly fair to take your anger at him out on my business —”

  “Oh, I am not angry,” Harriet assured him. “Not at all. Freddy was entitled to do as he wished. But he could not handle wealth, and I believe it shortened his life.”

  “I see. So you decided to give the wealth away.”

  “It may please you to paint me as a spendthrift, my lord, but the truth is I have used the money for greater good. Reapportioned it, one might say, for a better purpose. As is my right, I believe.”

  Lord Westwood rose. He wore an odd expression. A rigid one, she thought.

  “I thank you for the sherry, but I cannot stay for dinner,” he said. “To be quite frank, madam, I am having great difficulty controlling my temper. It is a character flaw, to be sure, but there it is, nevertheless. We will continue this discussion on another occasion.”

  Harriet regarded him regretfully. “Oh, dear,” she said. “And I had Celestial prepare broiled salmon with caper sauce.”

  “Caper sauce?”

  “I find it marries quite beautifully with the raspberry vinegar-marinated asparagus, though one might be forgiven for assuming that the pungent flavors would do battle. They do not, I assure you.”

  The earl set his glass of sherry on the table. “I suppose you cook the life out of it.”

  “The asparagus? Oh, no, my lord. We steam it slightly just until the color sharpens. Then we plunge the stalks into cold water to stop the cooking. They are quite crisp and more than hold their own with my crusty French rolls. Did I mention the buttered prawns? We dress them with plenty of garlic so they do not fade away amid the other dishes. I like food that makes one sit up and take notice.”

  Lord Westwood squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. “I am sure it is delicious, and I regret ruining your dinner, but I have learned over the years that my temper is not to be trifled with. I am afraid I must —”

  “Trifle? Oh, dear.” Harriet rose quickly. “We were to have a trifle for dessert — ’tis my own creation, something of an international dish. Prime English custard layered over a cake soaked in Madeira wine, overspread with candied fruits from Italy. I finish it with ice cream flavored by Turkish a
pricots. But since you are not staying for dinner, I must tell Celestial not to unmold the ice cream, else it will be ruined. Please excuse me.”

  She moved toward the door.

  Lord Westwood cleared his throat. “Lady Harriet.” His voice sounded strained.

  “Do not worry,” she assured him, waving a dismissive hand. “I am not in the least offended by your premature departure. I have a most open mind about masculine behavior. But that is neither here nor there. Good evening, my lord.”

  “It is just —” He broke off.

  She turned. “Yes?”

  “I would be loath to...” He hesitated.

  Harriet smiled encouragingly.

  “To ruin your trifle,” he finished.

  Harriet frowned. “Does that mean you wish to stay for dinner after all?”

  But before he could answer, the door opened and Horace stood at the threshold. “Dinner is served,” he intoned.

  An aroma of freshly broiled salmon, pungent caper sauce, raspberry vinegar, prawns heavy with garlic, and musky exotic fruits filled the room. Lord Westwood took a deep breath, pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped his brow. He closed his eyes.

  “Yes,” he declared in a ragged tone. “I believe I do.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  His nose had betrayed him. Elias had been ready to walk out of Lady Harriet’s parlor, taking his anger safely into the night before it brought disaster. But his nose had sabotaged him, and now he sat at her table, consoling himself with raspberry vinaigrette and capered salmon.

  It was no small consolation. A rich fish like salmon deserved a zesty accompaniment. Most cooks never understood that. Harriet Worthington did. She also knew the lush, pink flesh should be cooked just until the edges lightened, leaving a deep band of pink inside.

  “Otherwise it dries out,” she told him. But there was no need to explain to Elias. He had been eating salmon for years. He hated it dry and meaty like worn-out beef. Lady Harriet might be an abysmal businesswoman, but she was the first hostess he had met who truly understood salmon.