by Mira Stables
“So I had,” he said shortly, “and shall be gone again in a minute or two. But this is no fitting work for you. When I suggested that you should help Mrs Bedford, I did not mean such tasks as this. There are maids in plenty to clean and polish.”
Harriet realised what Mrs Bedford had meant when she had said that for all his easy-going ways, no one would venture to take advantage of Mr Simon. His voice was still perfectly level but there could be no mistaking his displeasure. She saw the occupation that she so much enjoyed vanishing from her grasp.
“But Sir,” she ventured, greatly daring. “I enjoy doing it. I have been bred up to work, and now that I am quite well again I cannot be happy without some occupation. Dr Fearing said that I must not sew or read for too long at a time. The furniture in this room is very beautiful. It deserves cherishing, and indeed it is not hard work. Besides,” a little guiltily, “I rest a good deal in between whiles because I like to look at the drawings. I hope you will forgive my curiosity. I do not read the papers, I promise you, and I am very careful to put everything back just as I find it. That is why Mrs Bedford entrusted me with the task. Please say that I may go on doing it.”
Her honesty pleased him, and he was not insensitive to the subtle flattery of the admiration that she expressed for his sketches, but he was not wholly appeased.
“When Dr Fearing said that you were not to sew for more than a short time,” he said firmly, “I am very sure that he did not envisage you performing such menial tasks as this. You should be out in the sunshine, walking or riding. Do you ride, by the way?”
“A little. I was used to ride the horses at the farm, but I have no riding dress and no horse. I have been out this morning though, with Meg and Mandy. As for menial work, my grandmama always declared that no work done with a good heart for the comfort of a household should be so described. It was not beneath the dignity of any woman, be she gentle or simple.”
Her head scarcely came up to his shoulder and there was an elfin slenderness about the childish body in its simple green gown, but she faced him bravely, her head well up, cheeks a little flushed in her earnestness. He was mildly amused. It was rather as though that ridiculous scrap of a pug was defying the much larger Meg.
“If I permit you to have your way,” he said seriously, “will you promise me that you will not neglect your health in – er – cherishing my household gods? That you will walk out of doors every day when the weather is fit?”
“I promise,” she said eagerly. “An easy promise to keep, Sir, since Mandy also will insist that I keep it faithfully.”
He smiled. “Then provided that you do not read for too long and put everything back exactly where you found it,” he teased, mimicking her earnest explanation, “you may read any of the papers that take your fancy. They are accounts of travels undertaken years ago. There is nothing private about them, else I had not left them lying about so casually.”
The small transparent face lit up with delight. Her thanks were rather jumbled and incoherent but there could be no doubting their sincerity. He gathered up his papers and left her to her innocent devices, smiling a little for her endearing simplicity and mulling over a scheme for borrowing a pony from a neighbour whose daughter was away at school. Herrington would be willing enough to lend it during Mary’s absence, and a little gentle equestrian exercise would be just the thing to put some colour into his protégée’s pale cheeks. She still looked to him alarmingly fragile.
He discussed this suggestion with Mrs Bedford that night when she came to thank him for giving his approval to the book-room arrangement. A very good notion, she fully agreed, but what was the child to wear? He would not have her ride astride in the boy’s clothes that she had worn on her arrival. Most improper, and just the thing to set the neighbourhood talking, but to suggest the purchase of a riding dress was more than she dare do. It had been trouble enough to coax Harriet into accepting the simple wardrobe that she now boasted.
“And no use to suggest that she borrow Mary Herrington’s habit, either,” agreed Mr Warhurst thoughtfully. “Mary would make two of her.”
Mrs Bedford waited hopefully. Her own plans were already made. Had been so, in fact, for some time. And they included more than a riding dress. It was a sensitive subject and she hoped that the initiative would come from Mr Simon if she gave him sufficient time.
So indeed it proved. “There must be stuff laid away in the attics,” he said rather irritably. “Surely something from which a skirt could be contrived. If needs must she can wear her boy’s jacket. But you are quite right. She must not ride astride. If word of such a proceeding came to her Grandpa Pendeniston’s ears, it would be like to set him off in an apoplexy. Not that it wouldn’t be a benefit to the neighbourhood, save that by all accounts his heir is worse. As matters stand she passes respectably enough as your niece, in delicate health and needing country air. At least that is the version that Jim Herrington presented to me this morning, and he seemed quite satisfied with it so I did not undeceive him. You don’t object to it, do you?”
“I do not, Sir. If you and Miss Harriet are satisfied, I’m proud. And we may look in the attics for something that will serve,” she reminded him tactfully.
“Of course. And if there is nothing suitable, then we must supply something by stealth. I am sure that I can perfectly rely upon you.” He gave her a conspiratorial grin and then, quite suddenly, his expression sobered and he said softly, “Dorothea’s things.”
It was the moment for which Mrs Bedford had been waiting. She was too wise to snatch at it. She allowed quite an appreciable time to elapse before she said, “Why yes, indeed, Sir. If it would not be painful for you. Nothing could be more helpful. There must be a number of things that could be put to good use, apart from the riding dress. They would all need to be altered and shortened, of course, for Miss Dorothea was much taller than Harriet. One thing I can say, remembering Miss Dorothea’s tender heart, she would have been the first to approve. All her sympathy would have gone out to our waif in her need. And after all, Sir, none of the family ever saw her wearing the clothes, so the sight of Harriet wearing them could not bring back sad memories.”
“The memory of Dorothea could never bring sadness,” returned Simon gently. “We are sorry only for ourselves, in losing her so young. Perhaps this chance-sent waif is meant to comfort us for our loss. Give her the keys to Dorothea’s trunk. Tell her the story. And beg her to make what use she will of the contents.”
So it came about that the next morning Harriet, a key clutched tightly in one hand, was escorted to the attics, shown a trunk, and left to make her own explorations.
Her heart was sore for her god, who had lost a beloved young sister when she was just seventeen and in the first bloom of her beauty. The wasting disease, said Mrs Bedford sadly, and little hope from the start, but one physician had suggested that a sojourn in a softer southern clime might at least arrest the progress of the fatal sickness. It was planned to send Miss Dorothea to Italy. Her trunk was already packed – and so happy and excited she had been over the dresses that had been bought for her – and then she had caught cold. No more than a summer cold, but her constitution could not stand it. Within the month she was dead. And to make the tragedy complete her mother never recovered from the grief and shock of losing her much-loved youngest child, and before a twelve-month was out she too was dead. Mr Simon had been in Germany then and it had not been thought desirable to bring him home.
What a shattering, sweeping loss, thought Harriet. Mother, sister and sweetheart, for Fiona’s betrothal to his brother had been announced just before Dorothea’s death. Small wonder that he had stayed abroad and had been only too content to join his father in those more distant expeditions that were portrayed in the book-room diaries and sketches.
She unlocked the trunk with an odd feeling of diffidence. It seemed an unwarrantable intrusion. Here was another girl’s life, another girl’s dreams. A girl a little younger than herself, who had not wanted to die si
nce she had been happy and excited over the clothes chosen for her Italian holiday. But once she had turned back the lid, every other feeling was forgotten in rapturous appreciation of the riches that lay exposed.
After a few moments of fingering and replacing she abandoned the attempt briefly to go and ask Mrs Bedford for a dust sheet. For an attic the floor was creditably clean, but packed right on top of the trunk was a ball gown in creamy yellow silk, and the thought of putting the lovely thing down on the unprotected boards was not to be endured. Then, with a little shiver of anticipation, she began the unpacking, examining everything carefully before laying it on the dust sheet. The dresses and pelisses were a little outmoded, but since Harriet had small notion of fashion that did them no disservice in their new owner’s eyes. She did think that some of the dresses were rather low cut, but that could easily be remedied. The skirts would have to be shortened and she could use the material to make ruffles to fill in the neck. Examining, planning, dreaming, she spent the morning in a trance, only emerging when Alice came to summon her to luncheon. Even then she must show Alice a scarf of gossamer lace, a pair of soft kid gloves and some real silk stockings before she could be persuaded to leave her treasure trove and turn her attention to the mundane business of eating.
She carried downstairs with her a round-topped coffer which she had found in one corner of the trunk. It too had been locked, but the tiny brass key was in the lock and Harriet had discovered that it contained a number of pieces of jewellery. It seemed strange that it should have been left in the trunk. Possibly the dead girl’s mother had felt unable to face the painful task of going through the contents.
Mrs Bedford entirely agreed with Harriet’s own view that, while she might perfectly properly accept the other contents of the trunk, jewellery was a very different matter. The coffer was put aside to be handed over to Mr Warhurst, and the pair settled happily to discussion of what could be done with the other things. They agreed that the alteration of Miss Dorothea’s riding habit must be the first task. Harriet spoke wistfully of the glories of the ball gown.
“Not that I should ever have the opportunity of wearing such a gown, but it is so very beautiful,” she sighed.
“You never know what the future may hold,” pronounced Mrs Bedford portentously, “but there is no time for working over such luxuries as ball gowns just now. What a good thing that I did not buy muslins, since there are such a quantity, and those pelisses will be very useful to wear over your dresses when the weather turns colder. But first the riding dress.”
Accordingly Alice was enlisted into service to help carry the piles of yellowing finery down to Harriet’s room, where the ball gown was hung away tenderly in one of the big cupboards and piles of linens and lawns were sent down to the laundry room. Work was to begin at once on the riding dress and on two morning gowns that only needed shortening, and three days later Harriet had her first ride.
She was a little overcome when Mr Warhurst signified his intention of accompanying her on this occasion, but his prosaic explanation that he was making himself responsible not only for her safety but also for that of Mary Herrington’s pony soon put the matter in its proper light and enabled her to exercise some control over shaking hands and a fast-beating heart when he put her into the saddle. It was fortunate that the pony was a docile beast, for she had not ridden for five years, and never in a proper habit, while the reins felt clumsy because she was wearing leather gloves. She felt very stiff and strange and was so busy dealing with these minor discomforts that she had no idea what a pleasant picture she presented, sitting very erect in the saddle with her intent and solemn face under the soft beaver hat with its pretty curling plumes.
Mr Warhurst spared her the indignity of the leading rein but he made her walk and trot and canter Dandy until he was satisfied that she had the basic skills at her command before he announced that they would take just one turn to the top of the Warren which would permit them to essay a short hand-gallop, and that that would be enough for today. Harriet, feeling more at home in the saddle with every passing minute, was disappointed, but far too much in awe of her escort to voice a protest. Perhaps he sensed this. He assured her very kindly that as it was she would feel painfully stiff after the unaccustomed exercise, and then shattered her completely by announcing that, for the moment, he meant to keep her tuition in his own hands.
“You have the makings of a capital little horsewoman,” he told her, in that lazy unemphatic voice, “but at your stage it is very easy to get into bad habits. I shall not be able to take you out every day, though I should be able to manage three or four times a week until hunting begins. By then you should have progressed far enough to be permitted to ride with a groom. Until then you will oblige me by forfeiting your rides on the days when I have other engagements. I am afraid that you will find me a strict teacher, but in the years to come you may have cause to be grateful to me.”
She could not possibly be more grateful than she was at this moment, thought the dazed Harriet. And she would suffer any discomforts, any mortifying strictures, rather than disappoint her teacher. It was difficult to keep her happy excitement within decorous bounds as she gathered up her long skirts with unpractised hands and hurried into the house.
Chapter Seven
A month fled. Harriet bloomed visibly. There were very few days when she did not have a riding lesson, and although, true to his word, the teacher was strict, the lessons were enjoyable because the pupil was so eager and industrious. Simon began to speculate as to whether he dare buy a mount a little more lively than gentle Dandy. Mary Herrington would want him back anyway for the Christmas holidays. Was his pupil sufficiently awake to the time of day to realise that such a mount had been bought especially for her use? He rather thought not. It was a pity, he reflected, that girls had to grow up. Fifteen – or was she perhaps a little older, he wondered vaguely – was a delightful age. He was in no mind to forego his almost daily rides. Apart from being such a satisfactory pupil, she was a pleasant companion, both sensible and intelligent. Her schooling might have been cut short, as Mrs Bedford had told him, and apart from a sweet singing voice she had no fashionable accomplishments but she had an enquiring mind and an almost masculine notion of fair play. He knew about the singing voice because these days she was so happy that she sang about the house. He knew about the enquiring mind because on their rides abroad, in the intervals of correcting her style they talked a good deal, and there were times when he was hard put to it to answer her questions. Indeed, had she been a nameless waif instead of Robert Pendeniston’s grandchild, he might almost have thought of adopting her and attending to the completion of her education himself.
Perhaps that was why, when a spell of very wet weather called a temporary halt to the riding lessons, he occasionally summoned her to the book-room to discuss the journal he was writing. Harriet loved these sessions. To be asked to choose one of her favourite sketches and to be told all about it was the greatest treat imaginable. It was almost better than the riding lessons, because here her opinions were received with interest and she was closely questioned as to why she had formed them. The odd thing was that under the stimulus of her naïve interest, Mr Warhurst found his own pleasure in the journal reviving and strengthening. He had been toying with it in a desultory fashion for several years. It provided a change of occupation for the occasions when work was done, he was weary of reading and no one came to call. There were not very many of them, so the journal had made slow progress.
Now, Harriet’s vivid interest brought back his own youthful memories in something of their first freshness. After she had been dismissed to her early supper and bed – on which the doctor still insisted – he would find himself sorting, editing, polishing, and completing half-finished sketches so that Harriet could get an accurate impression. The journal began to come to life in his hands and he found himself remembering a dozen half-forgotten details that must be incorporated into it. And then, of course, Harriet must be summoned so that s
he could hear the revised passages. His calls upon her time increased considerably, and Mrs Bedford began to grow anxious. The dealings between the pair were perfectly innocent and open, and on Mr Warhurst’s part there was only a rather thoughtless enjoyment of a new interest. But where Harriet was concerned, Mrs Bedford strongly suspected that the attachment was deep and serious. And since there could be no question of marriage between such an ill-assorted pair, she was more than a little concerned. Mr Warhurst’s behaviour was no more than that of a strict but kindly uncle, but she doubted if Harriet saw it in that light. Where, hitherto, she had been simply grateful for the chance that had brought Harriet under the master’s protection, she now saw breakers ahead, and began to cast about in her mind for means of parting the pair. If Harriet were to fall in love with Mr Warhurst it could bring nothing but heartache. A new post would have to be found for her. Mrs Bedford judged her to be quite strong enough now to undertake some form of employment, so it be with a kindly mistress and not too onerous. She would speak to Mr Warhurst about it.
Mr Warhurst, so approached, proved singularly obtuse. He could see no need for such haste. The girl was very well where she was. In fact, she was proving unexpectedly helpful to him in his writing, as well as bringing some sort of order to the chaos that had been the book-room. Let her stay, at least until Christmas was past. It would give her time to get really strong again. After Christmas they would see.
The last thing that Mrs Bedford desired was to make her master privy to her fears. She was obliged to accept his decision and to content herself by devising tasks and errands for Harriet that would keep her away from the book-room as much as possible when Mr Warhurst was in occupation. Since she was not accustomed to such devious shifts she became unusually irritable and puzzled poor Harriet considerably.
