by M. C. Beaton
“You are the most modish lady here,” said Bertram with satisfaction.
“I am afraid I must be costing Lord Arden a great deal of money,” said Harriet half to herself. She forced a laugh. “It is as well we are to be wed, for if I changed my mind, I could not ever possibly manage to pay him back.”
She looked so young and lost as she said this, her large eyes clouded, that Bertram vowed Harriet Clifton should never marry the Marquess of Arden. The fact that one of the pleasant outcomes of breaking off the engagement might mean that Arden would never marry and that he, Bertram, would still stand to inherit the Arden wealth would admittedly be a bonus, but Bertram’s main motive was gradually changing back to getting Harriet for himself.
“Would you like me to take you to a quiet part of the park and teach you how to drive?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” said Harriet, momentarily forgetting her troubles.
Because Bertram always felt overshadowed by his magnificent cousin, and because Harriet was now very afraid of Arden, they were drawn together. They giggled helplessly over Bertram’s attempts to teach Harriet to drive. Harriet felt she was progressing a little along the road to happiness, unaware that she was regressing to the schoolroom and that Mr. Bertram Hudson was falling helplessly in love with her. For the more in love Bertram fell, the more boyish he became.
Cordelia, watching their return from the window, was well pleased. Things were proceeding more quickly than she had hoped. With any luck, she might be able to persuade Bertram to elope with the girl.
And so Bertram’s visits were encouraged, and he was allowed more time alone with Harriet than was deemed respectable. Aunt Rebecca, still lost in a rosy dream, saw nothing wrong in Arden’s young cousin spending so much time with Harriet. Agnes was too sunk in misery and self-reproach to notice.
A letter came for Harriet from the marquess, saying that he regretted his delay but hoped to be able to return as soon as possible.
Harriet was like a child who has been told that the school has burned down and therefore the summer holidays are to be extended.
She shared all Bertram’s enthusiasms, borrowed his Gothic novels, and had even agreed to go to Astley’s that very evening with him.
Philip Astley, a sergeant-major in His Majesty’s Royal Regiment of Dragoons, was a familiar figure in the West End of London as, mounted on his white horse, he would distribute his own handbills and point with his sword in the direction of his show, which was held on the other side of the river. He was a very enterprising man. When the Dowager Princess of Wales died, he bought up the timber used at her obsequies for a song and roofed in his amphitheater—the theater he had built with the seventy pounds he had got for a diamond ring he had found under Westminster Bridge.
Harriet was thrilled by the display and, unconsciously, clutched Bertram’s hand as a pyramid of men on horseback swayed above the audience. She was still, all unaware, holding Bertram’s hand when Mr. Tommy Gresham and a party of friends entered the theater. Mr. Gresham bowed to Harriet, raised his quizzing glass, and glared at their joined hands. Then he remarked loudly, “Arden still gone from town?” and walked off as Harriet, blushing, snatched her hand away.
Her enjoyment of the rest of the evening was spoiled. Mr. Gresham had made it all too plain that he thought she was behaving in too familiar a manner with her fiancé’s cousin. For the first time, Harriet began to wonder nervously about what the rest of London society was saying.
Bertram noticed she was depressed and silent as he escorted her home and put it down to her worry over her engagement.
Once back at the town house in St. James’s Square, he kicked off his boots, sank back in an armchair, and opened up a copy of the latest edition of The Calendar of Horrors, a lurid periodical that catered to the current passion for Gothic romances. The setting of a typical Gothic romance of the period was a dank, gloomy castle or abbey, perched on an isolated crag, wreathed in mist, and surrounded by a black, brooding forest. There were dark dungeons, subterranean passages, haunted wings, sepulchral vaults, secret panels and stairways, cobwebs, and bats. The eerie atmosphere, reeking of the charnel house, was designed to make the hackles rise, the flesh creep, and the blood curdle—no easy task in these days of the Regency where people were inured to the gruesome and the macabre by the frequent public hangings and floggings and the sight of criminals’ decomposing corpses dangling on gibbets. Most Gothic romances recounted the vicissitudes of a young and guileless innocent, the rightful claimant to riches, who was held in a castle; beset by wicked, grasping relatives or guardians; and terrorized by a host of ghastly creatures, the eldritch denizens of the realms of the supernatural. The eventual discovery of a document, proving the innocent’s claim, was followed by a dramatic rescue.
Bertram eagerly began to read the next installment of his favorite serial.
As may be supposed, he was on the spot before the appointed hour, anxiously expecting the appearance of her who was so really and truly dear to him. What to him were the rarest flowers that grew in such happy luxuriance and heedless beauty? Alas, the flower that to his mind was fairer than them all was blighted, and in the wan cheek of her whom he loved, he sighed to see the lily usurping the place of the radiant rose.
Bertram dropped the magazine and sighed gustily, too. Had not the lily usurped the rose in Harriet’s cheek as they had left Astley’s? How splendid it would be to elope with her, to take her away from all care and harm. They could buy a little cottage in the country with perhaps a few ducks and pigs. Bertram pictured this scene of rustic bliss through half-closed eyes.
But what if Arden really loved the girl? He would soon find consolation, thought Bertram cynically. But he would await his cousin’s return and study the couple when they met.
He was sitting in the library, enjoying his dreams, when the door suddenly crashed open and the Marquess of Arden, brandishing a riding crop, strode into the room. With his white face, black hair, and glittering eyes, he looked exactly like the villain in one of Bertram’s favorite romances.
Bertram nervously eyed the riding crop and stuffed the magazine behind him.
To his relief, his cousin threw the riding crop into the corner.
“I did not expect your return so soon,” said Bertram. “Harriet said—”
“Harriet? You are on familiar enough terms with my fiancée as to call her Harriet?”
“I mean. Miss Harriet told me she had a letter from you saying you would be further delayed.”
“Well, as you can see, I was not. Now, pray tell me what you were doing taking Miss Harriet to Astley’s without a chaperone? Holding hands with Miss Harriet?”
Useless to deny it. The marquess must have come across Tommy Gresham on his way home.
“She seemed unhappy. I was taking care of her until your return,” said Bertram, trying to look dignified and failing miserably. “She grabbed my hand because of all the excitement of the show.”
“She?”
“Miss Harriet,” mumbled Bertram.
“What on earth was Aunt Rebecca Clifton about, to let you jaunt about the town with her niece?”
“Miss Clifton did not say anything. Oh, I knew you would spoil things.”
“I am going to spoil them more. You are not to see Miss Harriet again unless I am with you. Is that understood?”
“You are treating me like a child!”
“Then behave like a gentleman. Look, Bertram,” said the marquess in a softer tone, “I appreciate your keeping Miss Harriet amused, but it has got to stop.”
Bertram stood up. “If you have quite finished,” he said, “I shall retire to my room.” He stalked to the door, throwing an imaginary cloak over his shoulder and resting his hand on an imaginary sword hilt.
“Oh, Bertram, dear boy,” said the marquess sweetly.
“Yes?” said Bertram haughtily.
“You have forgotten your favorite reading matter.” The marquess held out The Calendar of Horrors. Bertram rushed forward, sn
atched it from him, and ran from the room.
Chapter 7
Bertram made his way to Hill Street at a disgracefully unfashionable hour—eleven in the morning—and told the startled butler that Lady Bentley must be roused immediately.
Findlater mounted the stairs with maddening slowness, but Bertram had the satisfaction of watching his speedy reappearance. My lady would see him in her bedchamber.
Bertram had never been in any lady’s bedchamber other than his mother’s. He strolled in, affecting an air of nonchalance.
Cordelia was proposed up against the pillows in no good humor, having had to tear the paper curlers out of her hair and remove her chin strap.
“I hope you have a good reason for waking me up,” she said.
Bertram looked uneasily about for somewhere to sit down, but every chair seemed to be heaped with mounds of clothes.
He advanced and stood at the end of the bed. “Arden is back.”
He had the satisfaction of seeing Cordelia straighten up. “And?” she demanded.
“And he has told me I must never see Harriet again!” exclaimed Bertram, all flashing eyes.
He conveniently forgot that his cousin had merely instructed him not to see Harriet alone.
“But I was under the impression Arden was not to return for several more days.”
“Well, he has,” said Bertram. “Harriet is an angel. Such a man would crush the bloom of her youth and innocence.”
Cordelia blinked and then rallied. “It is a pity,” she said, looking at him from under her lashes, “that a strong young man such as you could not persuade her to, er, elope.”
“She would never do that. She is all that is honest and upright.”
“But were you to persuade her to go on a drive to see—let me see—your mother… And if you made good progress on the road north and left me to tell Arden she had cheerfully run away with you, believe me, he would call the whole engagement off himself. He has a great deal of pride.”
“I do not have very much money,” said Bertram, suddenly feeling very weak and cowardly.
“But I have,” said Cordelia, forgetting she had told him she did not have any. “I will supply you with the means to make your escape.”
“I don’t know,” he faltered.
“And I thought you were so brave and noble,” jeered Cordelia. “Let Harriet marry her marquess. There is no one to save her but you.”
Bertram stared at his boots.
“Of course, it would have been a great adventure,” said Cordelia dreamily. “I can see it all. The steaming horses; the flight to the north; Harriet, at first shocked, then grateful, flinging herself into your arms.”
And yes, all at once, Bertram could see it, too. Had he not just finished reading a romance that had a similar scene? Arden had made him feel like a child. He should be proved wrong.
“I’ll do it!” he said. “When?”
Cordelia hesitated. “Tomorrow. Try to get her to agree to go with you tomorrow.”
“But today Arden will call and read the riot act. He will forbid her to see me.”
“Then see her now,” said Cordelia urgently. “Say your mother is ailing and is anxious to meet her. Make Arden appear like a monster. Remind her of your friendship and swear her to secrecy.”
“My cousin is not a monster….”
“Of course not. But the end justifies the means. You wish to save her, do you not? She dreads this marriage and is only going ahead with it out of a sense of duty.”
Cordelia rose from the bed in one graceful, fluid movement and wound her arms around Bertram’s neck.
“Oh, my hero!” she breathed.
Bertram’s chest swelled. “Never fear,” he cried, tossing back his hair. “I will save her.”
Not yet knowing of the return of her fiancé, Harriet felt nonetheless guilty at entertaining Bertram in the drawing room on her own. Aunt Rebecca was still asleep, and she did not want to rouse Cordelia or Agnes.
Mr. Gresham had made her all too aware of the folly of her behavior. What would the marquess think when he learned she had been seen at Astley’s with Bertram?
But Bertram had been kind to her, and she felt an almost maternal affection for him, although she judged him to be about a year older than she.
He launched into the tale of his mother’s illness, begging her to go with him.
“Arden has returned,” he said.
“In that case,” said Harriet cautiously, “it would be as well to ask his permission.”
“Which he will not give!” cried Bertram passionately. He sank onto one knee before her. “Oh, Miss Harriet, you do not know my cousin as I do. You only see the softer side of him. He is harsh and arrogant and delights in humiliating me. Surely you have noticed?”
“No,” said Harriet honestly. “I think Lord Arden treats you with affection and courtesy.”
“When you are present, but when we are alone… It was always thus. Even with his mistresses. Poor Sally Broadshaw—the opera dancer, you know. She smiled at another man and he horsewhipped her.”
Bertram sent up a prayer to God to forgive him for maligning his cousin.
Harriet had turned ashen.
“No,” she whispered. “I cannot be marrying such a monster.”
“If you come with me to my mother’s,” Bertram urged, “you will have time to think about what you should do. Come, we are always so comfortable together—like brother and sister.”
Harriet gave him a shaky smile. They had been like brother and sister. The marquess seemed like an ancient lecher compared to this affectionate, naive youth.
“Yes, I would like to get away for a little,” said Harriet. “I shall not even tell Aunt Rebecca. I will merely say I am going to my dressmaker and wish to see her alone.”
“Better still,” said Bertram buoyantly. “I will call for you at nine in the morning. No one will be awake.”
“Does your mother live very far away?”
“No, only a matter of an hour or two’s drive.”
“Then I will go with you,” said Harriet, “and perhaps I will be able to decide on the drive what I must do.”
At two in the afternoon, the marquess called and demanded to see his fiancée in private. He did not know he was jealous of Bertram; Harriet did not know he was jealous of Bertram—and so the haughty, angry man who berated her on her lack of dignity, morals, and social sense seemed very much the monster of Bertram’s fiction.
“It was all very innocent,” said Harriet wearily. “Bertram is so young, so carefree, so much like a brother, I was not aware I was doing anything wrong.”
“And yet,” grated the marquess, “when I wished to take you aside from the crowd at Vauxhall, ah, then you remembered the proprieties and said we should be chaperoned. I thought you were a lady of breeding and good manners. Miss Harriet, despite your unorthodox upbringing. Did not Miss Clifton warn you of the dangers of such behavior?”
“Because Bertram is your relative, she saw nothing amiss,” said Harriet.
“Your relationship with my cousin has progressed rapidly in my absence. You call him Bertram, and yet you address me as my lord.”
“Perhaps you are regretting your decision to wed me,” said Harriet eagerly. “After all, you were rather coerced into it. I will gladly release you from—”
“Release me. Me!” The marquess looked at her in amazement. How could she even suggest such a thing, after all his magnanimity and generosity?
Then he noticed her pallor and the shadows under her eyes. “Forgive me,” he said gently, “I had forgotten the strain you have been under since you came to London. You are bewildered and distressed and do not quite know what you are saying. Please cancel your social engagements for today and get some rest. We will talk more of this tomorrow.”
He bestowed a chaste kiss on her cheek and left.
His pride is so great, thought Harriet miserably, that he will not even listen to me.
But the marquess had received
a severe shock. He walked for a long time, thinking about Harriet’s behavior and his own.
Then he struck his brow with a dramatic gesture worthy of Bertram and exclaimed out loud, much to the alarm of an elderly couple who were passing at the time, “I have been dishonest!”
He did not want to marry Harriet because it was a fine and generous thing to do. He wanted to marry her because, quite simply, he wanted her. Life without her would be dreary and empty. He had never once said that he loved her. And now he had barked at her and lectured her. Was it not natural she should prefer the company of a youth like Bertram? Did she know how sulky and difficult and cruel Bertram could be when he wasn’t getting his own way? Damn Bertram! To be jealous of such a whelp.
She did not have any jewelry. His face brightened. He would buy her a fine necklace, call on her tomorrow, and tell her of his love. She must love him. Such a love as his could not go unreciprocated.
Two young belles sighed as they watched his long, lean, athletic figure stride by. They were very young and very pretty, but the marquess did not even notice their existence.
He felt his behavior toward Harriet Clifton had been that of the veriest coxcomb.
While the Marquess of Arden was walking about the streets of London discovering his love for Harriet, Agnes was entertaining Mr. Prenderbury.
When he was with her, she managed to forget the terrible lies she had told Harriet. They talked of so many things, books and plays and operas.
Cordelia flounced about the drawing room, listening to them in a bored sort of way and, at last, seeing that Mr. Prenderbury was oblivious to her charms, she decided to leave them alone. After all, it was not as if an old maid like Agnes needed a chaperone.
