by M. C. Beaton
“It is early,” said Harriet repressively. “There is usually no one about at this unfashionable hour.”
The blue sky arched above, and a blackbird in a tree above their heads sent down a liquid cascade of sound.
Harriet glanced covertly at the marquess. He looked tall and powerful in a black coat, leather breeches, and top boots.
The marquess was studying Harriet, from her plain hat to her dowdy black silk dress covered by a shawl, to her worn half boots.
“It is still quite cold in the early mornings,” he said. “Have you nothing warmer to wear?”
“You forget,” said Harriet. “I am used to the cold.”
“Are you in mourning?”
“No, my lord,” said Harriet, exasperated. “Black silk was a good bargain at the local shop.”
“Mr. Hudson and I inquired after you several times, but we were always told you were gone from home.”
“Indeed?” said Harriet, folding her lips into a thin line. She did not want to tell him Cordelia had lied. Like most besotted men, he would probably not believe a word against his beloved. On the other hand, if he did, he might tell his cousin, and that impassioned young man might tax Cordelia with it, and she and Aunt Rebecca would find themselves on the next stagecoach back to Pringle House.
Sometimes Harriet wondered why they did not just give up and leave. Things were not so bad in the country in the summer. There were plenty of vegetables, and she had kept one of her father’s guns and sometimes went out on midnight hunting forays, knowing the locals would be shocked to learn that a lady was potting game, even on her own property.
The marquess studied her averted face, suddenly remembering what she had looked like naked. He felt his pulses quicken, and his mind firmly, with a great effort, banished the vision of a nude and rosy Harriet with water streaming down her body from his mind. The girl was undoubtedly a virgin, and a lady, although he was sure she would not long retain either virtue if she continued to live with her sister.
He was well aware that Cordelia was hard and selfish. He also knew her reputation and was anxious to bed her without the ties of marriage. He felt sure Cordelia’s mercenary little heart would soon overcome her hopes of a respectable marriage, and he had dropped broad hints that he was prepared to be generous. His cousin Bertram had only lately come to town, having finished several undistinguished terms at Oxford University. Mrs. Hudson, his father’s sister, was a widow and in poor health. She had begged the marquess to sponsor her son and to keep him out of the claws of card sharps, ivory turners, and the ladies of the town. The marquess found Bertram a tiresome young man, but he was fond of his aunt, so he took Bertram around with him as much as possible. Every time he went to Cordelia’s drawing room, the marquess planned to leave Bertram behind, and yet every time he found himself taking the boy along. The marquess was looking for a mistress and had already decided on Cordelia, since he found her to be extremely beautiful and knew that the more mercenary the woman, the easier she was to get rid of once the affair began to pall. But there was always something at the back of his mind that stopped him from making Cordelia a firm, if disreputable, offer.
He was sorry for Harriet and annoyed with her at the same time. Since her arrival, Cordelia’s character defects had begun to seem more glaring.
Harriet’s black hair was now crammed up under a bonnet. He remembered how it had looked, cascading about her shoulders like a gleaming black river, when she sat at the spinet.
Harriet was recollecting his generous payment for the hens.
“I must thank you, my lord,” she said, “for the ten sovereigns you sent me. It was more than the birds were worth.”
“I think not,” he said. “Two good laying hens obviously meant a lot to you.”
“Thank you,” said Harriet awkwardly. She wished he would go away. His very presence was disturbing her. He was a rake and no doubt felt obliged to charm every female he came across.
“I am giving a ball,” he said. “An unusual thing for a gentleman to do, I admit. We usually leave all the entertaining of that nature to the ladies. But I am anxious to introduce Bertram to some respectable young company. There is nothing like an interest in the ladies to counteract the bad influence of the stables and gaming tables.”
“I do not think you have to worry,” said Harriet. “Mr. Hudson appears to be of a romantic disposition.”
“Perhaps. I think it may be a pose to cover his shyness. If I sent you a card, would you come to my ball, Miss Harriet?”
“I will try,” said Harriet. She had nothing to wear, but she was interested in a gloomy way to see if Cordelia would intercept the invitation. “When is it to be?”
“In a week’s time. I had meant to send you an invitation, but I was becoming convinced of your aversion to frivolity.”
“I would like to be frivolous… for a little,” said Harriet. She looked so forlorn, he had an impulse to take her in his arms and kiss her, and was quite startled at the intensity of his own desire.
“Then I shall hope to see you, and your aunt, of course. May I escort you home?”
“You are very kind, my lord, but I would prefer to walk by myself for a little.”
She curtsied to him gracefully and then moved quickly away across the grass. The marquess stayed, watching her slight figure in its ugly black dress until she was out of sight.
Harriet eventually made her way back to Hill Street, feeling shabby and depressed.
As she walked up past the drawing room, she could hear Cordelia’s voice raised in anger. “Do you know what that cat Lady Jessop said to me t’other night, Agnes? She said, ‘How clever of you to be able to bring your sister back to life. You must indeed be the enchantress all the gentlemen say you are.’”
“Shouldn’t have told that tarradiddle about her drowning,” said Agnes gruffly.
“I didn’t say anything of the sort, and you know it,” said Cordelia waspishly. “I don’t know what everyone is talking about. I never said such a thing.” Like all consummate liars, Cordelia was already beginning to believe she had never told that fairy story about trying to save her sister from drowning. “Harriet is a shabby embarrassment and must go. She and that old frump of an aunt have had time enough, sponging off me. You must tell them to leave. Agnes.”
“Shouldn’t you tell them yourself? She is your sister, you know.”
“I pay you to do as you are told, so let me have none of your impertinence, Agnes. I am to go to the opera tonight. Get rid of them before I return. There is a stage leaving the White Hart at eight o’clock this evening. Make sure they are on it.”
Harriet stood outside the door, shaking with rage. To be sent off to the country like an unwanted parcel! Cordelia would go to the marquess’s ball, where she would lie and giggle about her little sister who preferred a life among the hayseeds to the sophistication of town. It was past bearing, but Harriet knew there was nothing she could do to stop them from being sent away.
All at once, she felt she had to get out of the house again, away from Cordelia’s selfish malice, away from Aunt Rebecca’s nerves, away from the insolent servants.
She had three shillings in her pocket, part of the very little money remaining of the marquess’s generosity. If Cordelia wanted them to go, thought Harriet furiously, then she could pay for inside seats on the coach for them.
She decided to go out again, to walk until she was really tired and then treat herself to an ice at Gunter’s, Gunter’s being one of the very few places in London a lady could visit unaccompanied.
Out she went, along Hill Street, down Chesterfield Street, across Curzon Street, through Shepherd Market, and across Piccadilly into the quiet of Green Park, where tame deer came to nuzzle her hand.
Few of the fashionable crowd paid any attention to her, judging her to be a lady’s maid by her sober blacks.
She walked and walked, now determined to stay away until that stagecoach had left. It was awful to think of going back to Pringle House, t
o a life of drudgery and poverty, before she had had any fun at all. Harriet was young and romantic. She longed for frivolity and pretty dresses. If Cordelia had been kind and had treated her to only a few weeks of the Season, Harriet felt sure she would have returned to the country content.
It was only the thought of Aunt Rebecca having to face dismissal on her own that made her think of turning her steps back toward Hill Street.
She had wandered as far as the City. The road back seemed very long. Her worn boots were beginning to hurt her feet. Her stomach rumbled with hunger. She had gone to Gunter’s earlier, but the sight of all the fashionably dressed ladies and gentlemen eating ices inside had made her too shy to enter.
She walked down Oxford Street into Hanover Square and blinked at the commotion that met her eyes.
Chapter 3
Smoke was pouring from a tall building at the corner of the square.
As Harriet watched, a tongue of flame shot out from a downstairs window. She worked her way to the front of the crowd, praying that no one was trapped inside.
“Make way!” shouted a man. “Here comes the ‘surance.”
In fine style, the Reliable Insurance Fire Brigade rolled up to the front of the house, the bell clanging merrily.
The firemen were dressed in blue jackets, canvas trousers, and hardened leather helmets that had hollow leather crests over the crowns. This form of helmet, Harriet had read, was taken from the war helmet of the New Zealanders. It had the addition of a hind flap of leather to prevent burning matter from falling down the fireman’s neck. The foreman wore his silver badge of office and carried a baton in one hand a leatherbound notebook in the other. He consulted the notebook as soon as he jumped down from the fire engine.
“Who lives here?” he demanded laconically as soot-blackened servants piled all the furniture and paintings they had been able to salvage in the square outside.
“My mistress,” said a butler, gasping. “Her maid has just told us she was asleep when the fire broke out and she had locked herself in her room. She is the Dowager Duchess of Macham. We’ve got to rescue her.”
“Let me see,” said the foreman, thumbing the pages of his book. “Lindsey, Longham, Lumley… Ah, Macham. Ain’t paid her insurance this age. Come along, boys. No pay, no service.”
An elderly lady appeared at one of the upper windows, screaming for help.
“You can’t go,” said Harriet, catching the foreman by the sleeve. “In the name of humanity, you cannot leave her to burn.”
“She should’ve thought of that and paid up,” said the foreman, shrugging Harriet off.
Harriet looked about desperately. A fireman had left a leather bucket of water at the side of the pavement.
She sprang into action. Seizing the bucket, she doused herself from head to foot with the contents and, without pausing to think of the danger, ran headlong into the burning house.
“What’s happening?” cried a Mr. Harry Postlethwaite, one of London’s latest ornaments and a Pink of the Ton, scrambling up on top of a carriage to join his friends. “Can’t see a dammed thing.”
“Some gel’s run right into the building,” said one of his friends. “Gone to rescue that old duchess creature, Macham.”
“By jove,” said Mr. Postlethwaite. “More over there, chaps, and let me see. Gad’s ‘oonds! What a sight. It’s better than Astley’s. I say.” he added recklessly. “I’ll lay you a monkey that gel gets her out.”
His friends eagerly began to lay bets and their gambling fever spread to the crowds around, although his faith in Harriet was not shared. It was ten to one that the dowager would burn.
The fire had miraculously not yet reached the staircase. Harriet sprinted up the steps two at a time and hurtled along the upper corridor that led to the bedchambers, flinging open door after door, until she finally crashed into the Dowager Duchess of Macham’s bedroom, gasping as the acrid smoke went down into her lungs. Why the duchess, who had unlocked her door too late to be assisted by her servants, should not have tried to escape by the way in which Harriet had come, instead of screaming for help from the window, was a mystery. The shock of her predicament, combined with the fumes, had overpowered her, and the duchess lay by the window, a crumpled and unconscious figure.
Harriet’s years of chopping wood, carrying pails of water from the pump, and scrubbing floors stood her in good stead. She slung the frail body of the duchess easily over one shoulder and ran for the door, only to retreat back into the room with a cry of dismay. The end of the corridor at the upper landing was now a blazing inferno.
She set the duchess down and leaned out of the window. A hoarse cheer went up from the crowd below.
Harriet twisted her neck and looked up. There was only one more floor before the roof and a thick drainpipe ran up beside the window.
She tore off her crumpled bonnet and hitched her long, still damp skirts up by the tucking folds of the clinging black material into the tapes of her gown. Kicking off her boots, she picked up the duchess again and edged out onto the sill until she was standing there above the roaring crowd with the duchess over her shoulder.
Thanking God that her grace weighed little more than a child, Harriet gripped the drainpipe firmly in both hands and began a lopsided climb, praying that the duchess would not recover consciousness and struggle, since she needed both hands free.
The crackling and roaring of the fire eating at the building lent her the strength of a madwoman. Up she went, inching her way, the limp figure of the old woman hanging like a sack over her shoulder.
A silence fell on the watching crowd below, a silence broken only by the petulant voice of Mr. Bertram Hudson demanding loudly from the edge of the square, “What is going on?”
“Quiet,” said the Marquess of Arden. His great height allowed him to see above the heads of the crowd.
Normally, the square would have been dark, lit only by the flickering, feeble lights of the parish tamps. But the raging blaze from the building threw everything into high relief: the gaping crowd, the jostling hawkers selling gingerbread and hot chestnuts as if at a fair, and the slim, black figure edging up to the roof, the body on her shoulder.
Pray God, she makes it, thought the marquess. Can it possibly be Miss Harriet? Or am I being haunted by slim girls dressed in black silk?
A sudden desperate urge to do something, anything, to help that gallant little figure made him begin to shoulder his way through the crowd with Bertram Hudson following behind, still querulously demanding to be told what it was all about.
Harriet felt herself becoming giddy and faint. The gutter was just above her head, but all at once the madness of fear that had given her strength left her.
A sigh like the wind passed through the watching crowd. It seemed certain she would fall.
The marquess groaned. The downstairs floors were a raging inferno. There seemed no way he could get to her.
“Go on!” he shouted suddenly. “Go on, Harriet. You can make it.” He was still not quite sure whether the slight figure now far above his head as he stood in front of the burning building was Harriet. But he called again, desperately, “Go on. Climb!”
“Climb!” roared the crowd, taking up her name. “Climb, Harriet.”
Harriet clenched her teeth, taking courage from the noise below. She stretched up one hand to the gutter.
The duchess moaned and stirred.
“Don’t,” pleaded Harriet. “Don’t move.” She needed both hands to climb up onto the roof, and so long as the duchess remained a limp, inert figure, it was possible. She could not manage it if she had to stop to hold on to a frightened woman.
The duchess mercifully swooned again.
Harriet’s toe found a good-sized crack in the side of the building. Above the gutter was a low balustrade, and behind that a small space between the balustrade and the steep slope of the tiled roof.
With a superhuman effort, her muscles cracking, she heaved herself up and over, she and the duchess tumbling
over the balustrade to lie facedown on the other side.
The wild cheering of the crowd was suddenly stilled as a great tongue of flame broke through the roof several yards to the left of where Harriet was lying.
Harriet struggled to her feet, picked up the duchess in her arms, and set off in a shambling run along the edge of the roof toward the adjoining building.
At the edge of the roof she stopped in dismay. There was a gap of twelve feet to the next building. She could not possibly jump it with the old woman in her arms.
Behind her came a terrible rumble and crash as part of the roof fell in.
The heat of the roof under her feet was becoming intense. Down below a sea of white faces stared up.
“Help!” cried Harriet piteously. “Help!” But her voice was drowned by the roaring and crackling of the fire.
And then she heard her name.
“Harriet,” said an imperative voice. “Over here. Move quickly.”
The Marquess of Arden was standing on the other roof, untying a stout length of rope from about his waist.
“I will throw you one end,” he called. “Tie it firmly to the parapet.”
The rope snaked over. Harriet laid the duchess gently against the slope of the roof and seized the rope. At first her hands were trembling too much to tie it securely, but at last she managed to knot it firmly.
The marquess, who had secured his end, stripped off his coat, kicked off his boots, and made his way, hand over hand, across the intervening gap.
“Come along, Miss Harriet,” he said. “Your troubles are over.”
“Take her first,” said Harriet, gasping, pointing to the duchess.
“Very well. I will be as quick as I can. Pray God you do not lose your life in this rescue of one of London’s most parsimonious, selfish old hags.” He unwound a thinner length of rope from his waist. “Tie her on my back. Hurry!”
The duchess was lashed to his back. He crossed quickly to the other roof, slashed at the rope that bound the duchess to him with a knife, and tumbled her unceremoniously onto the tiles.
