by Mira Stables
Simon spoke of his parents, and of how they had shared everything. His mother had even accompanied his father in some of his travels in the orient, enduring every discomfort and even occasional danger rather than be parted from him.
“That was the kind of marriage I dreamed of,” he told her, lying stretched out beside the dying fire, his gaze on the dark arch of the heavens. “No room for loneliness there. My parents – oh – they did not always agree. I believe they argued quite fiercely at times. But because they truly loved each other it always ended in good humour and a little mild teasing, even though they still disagreed as strongly as ever.”
He rolled over on one side, studying the slender boyish figure hunched in the fireglow, knees drawn up, arms clasped about them. The darkness was insidious, beguiling.
“Of late,” he said abruptly, “I have been glad that I did not marry at twenty as I had hoped to do.”
There was sympathy in the quiet darkness that made it easy to say things that one would not have ventured in broad daylight. Harriet too was tempted. She said tentatively, “Mrs Bedford told me about Lady Fiona. I saw her several times in London. She is very lovely.”
“Very lovely indeed,” confirmed Simon cheerfully. “But not the wife for me. I believe she and my brother go on very comfortably together, but perhaps they both enjoy a fashionable existence. He is certainly very proud of her. Now I should be a much more jealous spouse. I would want my wife for myself alone. No cicisbeos; no attendant court of masculine admirers. Parties and plays – yes – but I would be her escort. Worse! I would expect her to be interested in the running of Furzedown and the estate. The welfare of the tenants’ families would be her particular concern, as it was my mother’s.” He broke off abruptly, with an awkward little laugh. “Just as well that I remained a bachelor, so exigeant a husband as I should have made!”
Harriet thought he sounded exactly the kind of husband for her – had she ever dared to raise her eyes so high. She sighed soundlessly and announced that she was sleepy and would go to bed.
So they came at last into Chippenham at dusk. The timing had been carefully planned, for tonight they must lie at a busy posting house. The busier the better, since Harry Dennis would go in at dusk and Miss Harriet Pendeniston would emerge next morning to make her curtsey to Miss Wilsher. The fewer people to witness this astonishing transformation, the better, and in the failing light not many would be sure whether they had seen a boy or a girl. And at first the plan worked well, most of the inn servants being occupied in serving late dinners or early suppers. Harriet was actually mounting the stairs to her chamber when disaster struck. As she reached a half-landing the door of a private parlour opened on to it, and a familiar voice said, “You need not come up with me, my dear. When I have the headache I am best left alone. A good night’s sleep and I shall be perfectly well in the morning.”
The door closed. The afflicted lady turned to mount the second flight, Harriet politely drawing back.
“Harriet!” exclaimed Lady Preston, shock and indignation mingling in her tones.
“Yes ma’am. Harry Dennis himself. Very much at your service,” exclaimed Harriet with a hurried glance about her and performing quite a creditable bow.
Lady Preston, headache notwithstanding, surveyed her from head to foot, making her blush for the first time since she had donned Mr Cushing’s clothes.
“So I perceive,” she said tartly. “And whither is Mr Dennis bound, if one may make so free? As an old acquaintance, of course.”
There was an astringent touch in the voice that stung. Harriet said defensively, “Mr Dennis is so deeply indebted to Lady Preston that she may make what enquiries she wishes. But perhaps it would be better to do so in circumstances of greater privacy.”
“I regret that I cannot invite you into the parlour,” returned Lady Preston stiffly. “My niece would be a good deal shocked by such an encounter.”
“Then will you honour me by sparing me a few moments in your bedchamber?” pleaded Harriet. “I promise you that no one has seen me closely, and that tomorrow Harry Dennis will have vanished. There will be no scandal, and indeed I can explain everything.” Lady Preston looked far from convinced, but at least this odd encounter went far to cure a headache brought on largely by boredom. She led the way to her room, but there was still a good deal of reserve in her manner.
“Your cousin has been in Bath seeking you,” she said abruptly. “He thought you might have run to me. I do not know how you can say there will be no scandal, for he left here bound for Worthing. The story is bound to get about. I must say I was surprised that you should have behaved so, just when everything was going on so prosperously. You were not given to distempered freaks when you were in London.”
But when Harriet had persuaded her to listen to the whole story, her sympathies veered sharply towards the narrator. Lord Halford had made no mention of the proposed marriage. He had told her ladyship that Harriet had run away because she objected to the rigid conventionality on which her grandfather insisted, and in doing so had caused her relatives to suffer grave anxiety for her well-being. Injustice to herself and Simon, whose part in her escape she had not so far disclosed, Harriet told the blunt truth about the proposed marriage that was to be no marriage because of the bridegroom’s preference for unnatural relations with his own sex. Lady Preston was deeply shocked, and when she learned how Harriet was to have been forced into this travesty of a marriage, she openly admitted that she did not blame her for running away.
“And to think that I persuaded you to visit your grandfather,” she said remorsefully. “My dear, I wish I had never done so. For deeply as I sympathise with your feelings we cannot publish the story to the whole world, while the fact of your having run away is bound to leak out and every one will want to know the reason. But you haven’t finished the story. How did you escape? Where did you run to, and where is Benworthy? If she is with you it may be possible to concoct some sort of a tale. Where have you been all this while?”
Well – she had always known that there would come a reckoning for that stolen week of heaven. She took a deep breath and embarked on further recital. The deepening dismay on Lady Preston’s face as one damning fact was added to another, might have been comical if Harriet had not been so fond of her. For what had she done that was wrong? Reckless, perhaps, for she had known perfectly well that her own reputation was at stake, but certainly not wicked.
“And you have been all this time in Mr Warhurst’s company? Quite unattended! And not even putting up at respectable inns but roving the countryside like a couple of gipsies. I never thought to hear of a young girl of sound principle lending herself to such a crazy start, let alone a great gentleman of Simon Warhurst’s standing. I shall have something to say to that young man when next I see him.”
She paused a while for reflection. Presently she went on slowly, “There is only one thing for it. We must get you married.” Before Harriet could protest she added severely, “You would be very well served if I cast you off entirely, for your behaviour has been foolish and improper beyond belief, but I am willing to believe that you erred in innocence and since I persuaded you to go to your grandfather I feel myself in part responsible for the awkwardness of your situation. So I will see what can be contrived. You shall return to Bath with me. We shall be sadly cramped. My good-sister’s house is not large. And Bath is quiet just now. There are still one or two eligible gentlemen who reside there permanently, so I do not wholly despair of making up a respectable match for you. Benworthy must bring your clothes and” – she broke off as Harriet shook her head vigorously. “Now what objection can you have to that, pray?”
“It would be to betray my whereabouts to my grandfather, and he has legal rights over me until I come of age, which is not for another week.”
“Oh, very well. We must make shift without Benworthy. I daresay there wouldn’t have been room for her anyway,” snapped Lady Preston irritably. “What a tiresome chit you are! What can your
grandfather do in a week? If I were in his position I would wash my hands of you and look elsewhere for a bride for that horrid young man.”
But Harriet, who had experienced something of the colonel’s ruthless determination, could not be reassured. “It will be much safer for me to stay hid with Miss Wilsher. And indeed I would not put you to so much trouble, for I have made up my mind to it that I shall not marry. In any case, how could I honourably accept an offer when you yourself have said that the scandal is hound to leak out? Think of the poor gentleman’s feelings.”
Lady Preston grudgingly admitted that there was something in this argument. “But it is nonsense to say that you have decided not to marry. I shall think of some way out of the tangle,” she promised determinedly. “Now you may kiss me goodnight. Go to bed – and don’t fall into any more scrapes.” So that Harriet was able to count herself forgiven and retire to her room with an easier mind.
Chapter Sixteen
A note delivered by a chambermaid informed her that she was to breakfast with her two protectors in Lady Preston’s parlour, and urged her to try to present a respectable appearance. It promised to be a lively meal, she thought, with a good deal of brisk skirmishing about her plans and prospects. It was difficult to do much about her appearance with only one well-worn dress and shabby shoes, but she dressed her hair very neatly in one of her more feminine styles, and went down to the private parlour wearing her most demure expression.
Lady Preston’s militant bearing and a certain tension in the atmosphere informed her that sparks had been flying, but her ladyship greeted her with a smile and Simon rose to pull out her chair and enquire her choice among the various dishes with his customary ease. The niece to whom Lady Preston had referred on the previous evening was not present. Presumably she had been told to take breakfast in her own room. The decks had been cleared for action.
While she ate she was informed that her ladyship had kindly charged herself with the task of buying her a new dress and cloak and one or two other indispensable articles so that she could enter upon her stay with Miss Wilsher fittingly equipped.
It was the last straw. She hesitated only briefly, sighed sharply, and decided to speak her mind. Ever since Simon had pulled her out of the river she had been the recipient of charity in one form of another. The time had come to call a halt.
“It is quite unnecessary,” she said. “If you will lend me a needle and thread and a pair of scissors, this dress can be made perfectly presentable and I can easily mend the rent in my cloak. In a week’s time – less – I shall be starting a new life, seeking a new post. I know, better than either of you, how I should be dressed for that new life, and this dress is perfectly suitable. It is a little too fine, perhaps, but it is just such a dress as might have been bestowed upon me by an indulgent mistress when she had tired of it, and it will serve very well. I am sure that Miss Wilsher will perfectly understand my position, and since I do not propose to go out of doors while I am staying with her, she will not be embarrassed by my shabbiness.”
There was a brief stunned silence. Where Harriet was concerned, both Simon and Lady Preston were accustomed to making the decisions. It was a shock to discover that the days of such guardianship were over. Lady Preston spread her hands in a gesture of resignation. Simon was made of sterner stuff.
He smiled at her ladyship and said pleasantly, “If you will proceed precisely as we planned, I will undertake to bring Harriet to a better frame of mind.”
Lady Preston was only too thankful to do so. “Then I shall set out at once,” she announced cheerfully, “and I shall take my niece with me. You may use my parlour for your scolding, and I wish you joy of it.”
For a long moment Simon studied the beloved little face; saw the new maturity, the quiet determination, and knew it would not be easy. This was no child to be cleverly cajoled, but a woman who had chosen her path and would hold to it. He needed something stronger than sensible arguments.
He said slowly, “A week ago you came to me in distress and begged my help. You placed yourself unreservedly in my hands, asking me to devise a plan to save you from your enemies. So far as I was able, I have done what you asked. Perhaps you will tell me where I have erred to cause you to withdraw your confidence.”
The sudden and completely unexpected attack penetrated to the heart. She forgot all about the stubborn resistance that she had meant to oppose to all persuasions. She flushed scarlet, stammering in her earnestness as she exclaimed, “Why, n-nothing. You have been everything that is kind and ch-chivalrous.”
“Then why are you so determined to shake off my assistance and ignore my advice? You might just as well have slapped my face.”
It was too much. Try as she might her eyes glistened with tears scarce held back, and her voice was husky with them as she said humbly, “I will do as you wish, Sir. Indeed I cannot endure your displeasure.” And then, on a sob hurriedly gulped back, “You must believe that. Please! Especially after this last wonderful week. You must know that I would do anything to serve you – to bring you happiness.”
There was a deep silence. Then Simon’s voice, queerly strained, said slowly, “Anything?”
Her face brightened a little, though two tears slid down her cheeks. “Yes. Anything. I can imagine no greater joy than to serve you and to bring you contentment.”
The words were deliberately chosen, long rehearsed. Her ambitions were lowly. But when other gentlemen had admired her she had sometimes dreamed that Mr Warhurst might yet succumb to a similar weakness and would perhaps take her for his mistress. If that day ever came, she would yield to him gladly, proudly. Was she not his by right? But for him she must have died. If thoughts of personal bliss tended to modify the magnitude of the sacrifice, she dismissed them as sinful. Poor Harriet was more naive than she dreamed. Now she awaited his decision, half-eager, half-frightened.
He said quietly, “Are you willing so far to honour me as to consent to be my wife?”
The suggestion shocked her into silence. Even in her most extravagant dreams she had never imagined this. Before she could recover from her stunned amaze he went on, “I am too old for you, I know. A rustic oaf, dull and set in my ways, but I promise that I will do all that a man may to make up to you for the sacrifice of your youth and beauty.”
Somehow she found her voice. “No sacrifice,” she said in a husky little whisper. “If you really mean it, then to stay with you always, to belong to you, would be such happiness as I never dreamed to win.”
He gazed at her disbelievingly for a moment. Her face was glowing into tremulous new-born happiness. She put out a tentative hand towards him and was drawn gently into his arms.
“You are quite sure?” she whispered. “I am no match for you, I know, though no one could love you more dearly. Only I had thought – you are nobly born and a great gentleman – you n-need not marry me, you know.”
There was nothing gentle about the grasp on her hand now. It hardened to steely strength as his arms tightened about her.
“Never let me hear such nonsense on your lips again,” he said harshly, and crushed the soft mouth with his lest she should venture to disobey.
She had loved him so long and so hopelessly. A sweet melting warmth suffused her body. She was pliant and willing in his arms, and if she was all untaught in the ways of love she was an eager pupil. Simon had been long starved of such delights. He put her from him a little unsteadily. “We can be married on your birthday,” he planned swiftly. “A special licence – that’s the thing.”
“No marriage portion,” reminded Harriet with a glimmer of mischief. “Grandfather will certainly disinherit me once and for all.”
“And a good thing too. It took all my courage to ask you to marry a man ten years older than yourself. Had you been an heiress as well, I doubt I could never have ventured it.”
“Then grandfather has done me a true kindness at last,” pointed out Harriet, and slipped her hand confidingly into his.
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