Reforming Harriet

by Eileen Putman

  He took a deep breath. “I will come right to the point, Lady Harriet.”

  “In London you used my given name.” Her tone was flat. She seemed withdrawn, cool. “But that is neither here nor there. Why are you here? I cannot imagine what caused you to undertake such a journey.”

  “I am here to ask that you release me from our contract now.”

  Her eyes widened. She placed a hand on the chair, her shock plain.

  “My apologies,” Elias said quickly. “I spoke too abruptly.”

  Gathering herself, she faced him. “It is merely that I was not expecting such a request. We agreed to end our engagement in August. I did not know you wished for... for another outcome.”

  “I do wish it.”

  She studied him. “Why?”

  “I believe the terms have been fulfilled.”

  A flush stole over her features, and she turned away.

  Instantly, Elias moved to her side. He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around to face him. “Our agreement was wrong-headed from the outset, Harriet. Its premise was flawed. Freddy would have been untrue to any woman. There was nothing about you, no flaw or inadequacies, that drove him into Caroline Forth’s arms.”

  She looked stricken. “You have seen Caroline. She is beautiful —”

  “She is a fraud,” Elias growled. “There is not one smattering of genuine feeling in her. You are more woman than she will ever be.”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Look at me, Harriet.”

  Her chin rose, and she met his gaze squarely. “I know you are merely telling me what you think I wish to hear,” she said. “But it is no use. I am aware of my shortcomings. You need not invent excuses or ply me with platitudes.”

  “’Tis no platitude to say that you are the most desirable woman I have ever known,” Elias said softly. His hands slipped to her waist. “I cannot continue our charade. I wish us to start anew, with only honesty between us. Return to London with me. Now.”

  But she pulled away. “I cannot.”

  “You are afraid I might hurt you — as Freddy did.” He caught her hand. “I would never betray you.”

  But she held herself stiffly, withholding. “Very well,” she said, her voice lifeless. “I will write a letter ending our agreement and authorizing the transfer of my shares to you. That is what you want, is it not? My shares?”

  Without waiting for an answer, she left the room.

  ***

  “This is better news than I could have hoped for,” Jeremy Wilson said proudly.

  Henry slumped in the hard wooden chair in Wilson’s office. He had left a damned good bottle of wine to respond to the solicitor’s urgent summons.

  “I never thought to have such success, but even that Hunt fellow finally agreed to our terms. Not graciously, but he agreed nevertheless — especially after I explained that Lord Westwood might feel compelled to present his offer in person. Henry, you may go and inform his lordship that I have successfully repurchased all of the shares Lady Harriet sold.”

  Henry frowned. “The earl is in Cornwall.” He had tried all week not to think about the potential import of Lord Westwood’s hasty trip to Cornwall. He had never seen the earl go to such extremes over a woman.

  The solicitor nodded. “That is why I have summoned you. I know I can count on you to deliver the news to Lord Westwood personally.”

  “What? To Cornwall?” Henry eyed him in disbelief. “’Tis a three-day ride at best! Days in the saddle, dashing over hill and dale just to have the earl sing your praises while fine wine sits a-wasting in London. Won’t do it.”

  The solicitor’s gaze narrowed. “I know you like your comforts, Henry. You live quite well when Lord Westwood is away, don’t you? But the earl has made this bit of business his highest priority. He would not look kindly on your refusal to cooperate.”

  Henry sighed. He had no desire to risk the earl’s temper. Scowling, he scraped back his chair. “Very well. Give me the papers.”

  ***

  “Mrs. Tanksley?”

  Monica looked up from her knitting. Squire Gibbs sat on the edge of his chair, glowering at the corner of the room where Eustace sat reading a book.

  “Yes, Mr. Gibbs?”

  “How long must I stay in this house?”

  Her spirits sank. She had found the week with Squire Gibbs most companionable. As she had long suspected, he was not the ogre some people thought. Indeed, he seemed to be a changed man since she had last seen him in Worthington. He had shed some weight, and his face had lost its florid appearance.

  Since his arrival in London, he had had little to drink, with the result that their evenings had been spent in pleasant conversation, their days in quiet walks. She had assumed that he, too, enjoyed their time together. Now she realized that her loneliness had led her to see friendship where there was only tolerance.

  “Until Harriet returns, I suppose,” she replied. “She is eager to speak to you about the positon.”

  “If she is so eager, why isn’t she here?” he growled.

  Monica bit her lip. “I did not realize that passing time in my company was such an onerous chore.” Oh, dear, why had she said that?

  Surprise swept his features. “It is not,” he quickly assured her. “It is just that —” He broke off.

  Monica placed her knitting in her lap. “Yes?” she prodded warily.

  “That son of yours,” he said in a low voice.

  Eustace sat in the corner, reading a book. He did not appear to hear.

  “Eustace?” Monica repeated, eyeing her son. “What about him?”

  “He has appointed himself your chaperon.” He reddened.

  Monica had indeed noticed that Eustace rarely left her alone with Mr. Gibbs. Her son was taking his new responsibilities as man of the house very seriously. The knowledge that Mr. Gibbs found Eustace’s watchfulness irritating cheered her. Perhaps he was not completely indifferent to her after all. “Does that bother you, sir?” she asked carefully.

  He looked away. “I am not a man to spend my days in inaction,” he said, ignoring her question. “There are things to be done in Worthington. If the mill is to be properly fitted for the milling season, certain steps have to be taken.”

  “Then you mean to accept Harriet’s offer?” Monica asked, surprised.

  “She has been most generous,” he said stiffly, “especially given…my past activities. It has taken me time to realize that. But time waits for no man, and I have been in a fair way to wasting much of it these last few years.”

  “My dear sir!” Monica exclaimed. “Why do you say so?”

  He flushed. “My eldest — that’s Louisa, as you may remember — she and some of the older children sat me down two months ago, told me their mother would not wish to see me in such a state. Truth is, I was so angry at the world over her death that I neglected the ones who needed me.”

  Monica eyed him sympathetically. “Acceptance, sometimes, is hard-won.”

  “That’s it, exactly,” he said. “I cannot change what happened, but I can do a sight more than I have been doing toward making my children’s lives better. That’s when Harriet’s letter came. And it occurred to me then that if I am going to run the mill, that there are things that must be done, and soon.”

  Monica absorbed his words. “What things, Mr. Gibbs?” she ventured.

  But he was looking at Eustace. As he realized she had spoken, Mr. Gibbs turned back to her and Monica realized what a nice shade of brown his eyes were. “What’s that, Mrs. Tanksley?”

  “You said steps must be taken before the mill can be fitted for the milling season. I only wondered what they might be.”

  He seemed surprised at her interest. “Well, since you asked, the chute has to be oiled, the hopper cleaned, and I am convinced that the angle of the shoe is all wrong.” He hesitated. “Surely, this must bore you.”

  “On the contrary, Mr. Gibbs.” Monica eyed him encouragingly. “I am riveted.”
<
br />   He beamed. “What most excites me is black lava stone.”

  “Lava stone?”

  “From Coblenz, on the Rhine. More accessible, now that the war is over. Lava rock makes the hardest millstones, and it can be cut and grooved with great precision. An experienced miller can set the stones very close together, so that the meal is ground very fine. Harriet would have the whitest, smoothest flour for miles around.” He said this with such enthusiasm that Monica smiled.

  “Why, Mr. Gibbs, I do believe you are quite determined.”

  He regarded her somberly. “I am thinking about my children. Without the mill, I don’t mind telling you that our income has been drastically depleted. Harriet has offered me a way out, and I must take it.”

  “I do hope your children have not suffered.” Monica was troubled. She had assumed Mr. Gibbs’s finances were not what they were during the years his family controlled the mill, but she had not known his situation was dire.

  “Only from the lack of a woman’s influence,” he said. “We are not destitute, but I have been feeling quite the fool these days. I should be shot for thinking that Harriet — or any woman — would have the likes of me.” He shook his head.

  Their gazes held. Monica felt something move inside her. Her heart filled with small, foolish hope. But perhaps it was not so foolish after all, for Cedric was studying her with a very odd expression. Indeed, his eyes held something very like that which echoed in her own heart.

  Monica glanced over at her son, who was trying not to appear to eavesdrop. “Eustace?” she called.

  He rose, ready to do battle for his mother’s honor. “Yes, Mother?” He glowered at the squire.

  “I promised Mrs. Thornton that I would return this book to her.” Monica took a book from the table near her chair. “She lent it to me more than two weeks ago.”

  “Heavenly’s friend in Kensington?” Eustace frowned. “Very well. I will return it tomorrow.”

  “She is nearly an invalid, Eustace, dependent on others for her well-being. I would prefer that you take it now.”

  He eyed her incredulously. “But it is past tea time. It will be supper before I can get there — if I remember the way. Cannot this errand wait until —”

  “Now,” Monica said firmly. “If you please.”

  Eustace’s gaze darted from his mother to Squire Gibbs, who was regarding him quite benignly. Eustace glared at the book in his mother’s hand. Then, without a word, he took it and strode from the room.

  “I believe that boy is growing up,” Cedric said carefully.

  “Not a moment too soon,” Monica replied. “Would you care for a brandy? Sherry, perhaps?”

  “I’m not one for spirits these days.”

  “You are to be commended for your self-discipline, Mr. Gibbs.”

  Cedric eyed her thoughtfully. “Mrs. Tanksley?”

  “Yes?” To Monica’s great embarrassment, the word came out a squeak.

  “We have known each other for many years. And yet, I feel as though I am seeing you for the first time. Do you understand what I mean?”

  Monica’s heart turned a little somersault. “I think s-so,” she stammered.

  “Then I hope you will understand when I say that I hope Eustace gets quite lost in Kensington.” Rising, he reached for her hand.

  “Oh, dear,” Monica said breathlessly as she realized his intent. “Oh, dear.”

  “My sentiments exactly,” he murmured, and pulled her into his arms.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Rage came in many forms, as Elias well knew. Hot anger could turn a man into an instant fool and blind him to all reason. But sometimes rage sharpened reason, elevated it to the edge of a newly honed stiletto. Zephyr’s abandonment on their wedding day had produced something close to that, and he had responded by calmly walking out of St. Paul’s with whatever dignity was left to him and abandoning London for Jamaica. It was there, amid the hot sunshine and fertile land, that Elias redoubled his efforts to expand his spice business — unwittingly, with the help of Harriet’s dowry. And so it was from rage that, in time, he forged a new life.

  But while Elias had gotten over the debacle with Zephyr, he did not think he would soon forget Harriet’s stiff, dispassionate reception of him and her lifeless acquiescence of his request to end their arrangement. She would doubtless dispense with the matter by a missive, and that would be that. It was clear she intended never to see him again.

  That he would not allow. She was his. He would not lose her.

  If it wasn’t rage he felt now, it was just as consuming — a wave of emotion blocking all reason. It was the kind of emotion that throughout history had spawned schemes of revenge, murder, abduction.

  Sweet, satisfying abduction.

  And so he was here, outside this ancient castle in the dark of night, prepared to launch a tactical maneuver. Elias dismounted, careful to stay within the shadow of the castle, though in truth it was nigh impossible to see anything on this moonless night.

  But a man who risked nothing, achieved nothing. If she would not come willingly to him, he would take her anyway. He’d even brought a sword. He would fight for her, perhaps to the death.

  Good God. He sounded like a Norman invader. What was wrong with him?

  As Elias surveyed the endless expanse of stone above him, cold practicality made a mockery of his irrational scheme. Had he been a Norman invader, perhaps he would have stood a chance. As it was, Sidenham’s castle must have been impregnable to generations of invaders — and almost certainly to a lone man on horseback with a sword he hadn’t used in years. Had he thought to slay dragons?

  With a rueful shake of his head, Elias walked toward the same door through which he had entered yesterday, the one in front that led into the Great Hall.

  There was much to be said for the direct approach.

  ***

  Heavenly was worried. Lady Harriet had not left her room for hours, and she’d given her food only an indifferent glance. That was likely the fate of the dinner Heavenly now carried on her tray, as well. Though her mistress had not shared details of her private meeting with the earl yesterday, Heavenly suspected he was the cause of her distress.

  Thus, when Heavenly saw Lord Westwood standing in the Great Hall, demanding of a hapless footman that he produce Lady Harriet forthwith, Heavenly strode over to him.

  “Why are you here, my lord? Haven’t you done enough to her?”

  Lord Westwood turned to her. She had forgotten how very tall the man was. Even in the largest room in the castle, his stature was impressive. “Am I to understand that she is not well?” he demanded, concern and something far darker etched on his features. “Has a doctor been summoned?”

  “What ails her is not something any quack can mend,” Heavenly snapped. “I’m thinking it can be laid at your door. She hasn’t been the same since your visit yesterday.”

  He absorbed that with apparent interest. “I see. Where is she now?”

  Heavenly studied him. From the looks of things, Lord Westwood was prepared for anything. He wore a great cloak and a sword, and his demeanor was one of wary readiness. Almost, she believed this man could help her poor dear. Her gaze narrowed. “What is your purpose, my lord?”

  “I intend to make off with her.”

  Heavenly blinked. “What?”

  “I cannot say it more plainly.” He took a step toward her. “I will not leave without her.”

  Heavenly eyed him warily. “I’ll not be party to anything that hurts her.”

  “Of course. And now you must either move out of my way, or take me to her forthwith.”

  With a silent prayer, Heavenly shoved the dinner tray into his hands. “Follow me,” she ordered gruffly.

  ***

  Harriet did not look up from her window seat when Heavenly brought in the tray. The last thing she wanted was another bowl of Cook’s beef knuckle soup, which would have been helped enormously by a pinch of tarragon.

  “Close the door, Heavenly,”
she said crossly, staring out into the gathering fog. “You are letting in the draft.”

  Harriet felt, rather than heard, the door swing shut. That in itself was unusual, for Heavenly had taken to slamming doors to show her displeasure at Harriet’s refusal to unburden herself of her private thoughts. Perhaps this was a different tactic.

  “It is no use,” Harriet admonished. “I have nothing to say about Lord Westwood. And were you to ask him, I am sure that he would have nothing to say about me.”

  “Not so,” said a masculine voice.

  Harriet looked up with a start. He stood in the center of her room — indeed, he very nearly filled it — wearing a cloak and sheathed sword.

  It was a moment before she could speak. “Why are you here?” Her heart was racing. “Where is Heavenly?”

  “Come,” he commanded. “We are leaving.”

  She took a deep breath, striving for calm. “I have no intention of going anywhere with you, my lord. Indeed, it is quite possible that I loathe you.” Harriet willed him to believe her lie. If he did not leave, she feared she would never free herself from the strange power he exerted over her.

  That statement did not faze him. Instead, he took a step toward her. “If I thought that were true I would not be here. But it is not, is it?”

  Harriet turned away from him. Once more, he had seen through her. Was there no sanctuary from this man? Was there no way to make herself whole again? To be who she was before he entered her life and upended it?

  Perhaps he read her mind, for suddenly he upended her world anew — literally lifting her off her feet and carrying her over his shoulder and out of her chamber.

  ***

  In the end, it had been amazingly easy. Elias carried her down two wide stairways and through the Great Hall without incident. She did not fight him. One or two servants stopped to stare, but they did not intervene. Clearly, Heavenly had matters well in hand. When the footman who had initially confronted Elias watched calmly as he strode off with the duke’s daughter, Elias’s estimation of Heavenly’s skills rose.

  Though she offered no resistance, Harriet held herself stiffly as he settled her on the saddle behind him. He took no comfort from the fact that she was forced to hold onto him as they rode down the dark road. Nor did he delude himself that she would acquiesce to his plans.