by M C Beaton
“Mrs. Palfrey has been told to leave England and never return. There is no need for scandal. She will not trouble you or Miss Colville again.”
“And so she goes free? She should be hanging outside Newgate.”
“I agree,” he said heavily. “But only think! Were she arrested and brought to trial, there would be the most enormous fuss. Pictures in the print shops, scandal in the newspapers. Endless questioning.”
Harriet’s face hardened. “I suppose she is gone by now?”
“She will be gone before morning.”
“She could be stopped before she reaches the coast.”
“I tricked her into a confession. All she has to do is to deny the whole thing. She probably sent two of her servants. She will have rid herself of them already. It would be her word against mine.”
“What of the house in Plum Lane? Surely she owns that?”
“Mrs. Palfrey probably does, but she would not have used it if the title were under her name. I assure you, this is the best way, and you no longer have anything to fear from her.”
“Indeed! And what if your next mistress is just as villainous?”
“I have no intention of setting up a mistress,” he said stiffly. “I can only apologize for having brought danger to you through my association with Mrs. Palfrey. I did not know what she was really like.”
“No, I do not suppose you did. In the function she performed, gentlemen do not need to interest themselves in either love or character or tenderness or respect. It depends on wealth and rank, you see. Were you of a lower order and less money, then you could pay a shilling to a trull at the opera house for the same service and with just such indifference to character. But I am very tired, my lord, and cannot sit here for the remainder of the night, berating you over your lack of principles. The matter is finished. Much as I would like to see Mrs. Palfrey dragged to court, I think Susan has suffered enough.”
She rose and said with a sort of exhausted dignity, “I am sure you will not be surprised to hear me beg you not to call on us again.”
And for once in his privileged life, the earl could think of nothing to say.
He bowed and made for the door. “Stay!” called Harriet. He turned immediately, a faint gleam of hope in his eye.
“You gave your diamond pin to that villain. Send me the bill.”
The earl felt he had endured enough. “Don’t be silly,” he said harshly. He turned on his heel and was gone.
Despite her misery, Harriet slept late the next day. She then went to Susan’s bedchamber to find that young lady, sitting at the toilet table and clutching her head.
“I feel like the devil, Aunt Harriet,” she moaned. “I shall never touch gin again. You see, Jack said we should wait until the streets were quiet before he took me home and so we drank and drank.”
“You will never again drink anything as strong as negus if I have any say in the matter,” said Harriet. “Listen, Susan, there is something you must know and must keep to yourself.” She told her about Verity Palfrey being behind the abduction.
Susan brightened. “It is all rather romantic, now that I am safe. To have roused such dangerous spite!”
“It is not at all romantic, Susan. But be assured, Dangerfield will not approach us or set foot in this house again.”
“Why?”
“Why, you stupid goose? If we had not known him, his mistress would never have become so insanely jealous as to try to take your life. How can you even think of entertaining a man who consorts with a female like that?”
“Because females like that are females like that,” said Susan, soaking a handkerchief in cologne and applying it to her forehead. “No female of morals and character is going to embark on such a career when she does not need to. I have heard gossip that Mrs. Palfrey was left a comparatively wealthy widow. And Dangerfield is probably the same age as you are yourself. Would you have him lead the life of a monk? I swear, it is you who are the romantic, Aunt. I listen to gossip at balls and parties and it is not only the gentlemen who have mistresses but the ladies who have lovers. Hardly anyone marries for love. Now, I am lucky with my Charles and I am going back to bed so that I can look pretty for him.”
“You always look pretty, Susan. But we shall not be entertaining Dangerfield again.”
Chapter Seven
Everyone loves a lover, or so the saying goes, but by the end of another week Harriet was heartily sick of the billing and cooing of Susan and Charles. Now she really had to act the part of chaperone every time the pair got together. She tried to lecture Susan on the well-known fact that passions of that sort belonged only to the lower orders, to which Susan airily said, “Fiddlesticks! What can you possibly know about it, Aunt?”
She began to long for her old life. Charles had just left for the country, however, to secure Susan’s parents’ permission, although that had already been given by express post, and Harriet was looking forward to a more tranquil life. With the absence of Charles, Susan became quieter and reluctant to go to many events.
Susan irritated Harriet by saying if Lord Dangerfield was not to be entertained by them, then why was Sir Thomas Jeynes a welcome visitor, he who had also fought a duel over the dreadful Verity. But Sir Thomas had assured Harriet in private that Verity was a dangerous, scheming woman who had entrapped him in her coils. Harriet repeated this to Susan, who raised her delicate eyebrows and said if that excused Sir Thomas, why did it not excuse Lord Dangerfield?
The fact was that although Harriet had said she forgave the earl for having called her a withered spinster, the remark still burned and hurt. Sir Thomas’s easy company was like a balm to her wounded soul, and she even turned a deaf ear to her friend Bertha’s warnings about him.
Sir Thomas listened so carefully to everything she said, and Harriet was not to know that he was constantly seeking a way to use her to get revenge on Dangerfield.
But the fact was that Sir Thomas was beginning to find Harriet’s company a bore. She was an intelligent woman and he did not like intelligent women. When Harriet discussed political matters with him, he found it mildly shocking. The ladies should flatter and coax and tease, cast their eyes down at a compliment and blush prettily, not look you directly in the face and question your judgment on matters that should be strictly masculine preserves. Furthermore, Dangerfield kept clear of her, and surely, if he had any interest in Miss Tremayne, he would have danced with her at least once.
Nor did Harriet seem at all romantically interested in him, Sir Thomas, and even confided to him that she would be glad when the Season was over to return to the quiet company of her bluestocking friends.
“Sounds flat,” said Sir Thomas, stifling a yawn. “Do these females go about in society?”
“No, although they are all of good ton,” said Harriet. “We meet regularly at Miss Barncastle’s house in South Audley Street.” She gave a little sigh. “They have not called on me. I hope they have not forgotten about me.”
“I am sure they have not,” he replied gallantly while idly making a mental note of the name of Miss Barncastle.
A day before Charles was due to return, Harriet woke Susan to remind her that they were to make an early start to go on a barge trip up the Thames, early being eleven o’clock in the morning. But sleepy Susan pleaded, “You go and leave me alone. With that Palfrey woman out of the country, no one can plague me.”
Harriet hesitated but then decided that provided she warned the servants to keep a strict guard on Susan to make sure the girl did not leave the house, no harm could surely come to her. She herself was to be escorted by Sir Thomas.
She was almost ready to go, when a note arrived by Sir Thomas’s footman to say he was indisposed, Sir Thomas having decided that any revenge on Dangerfield did not lie anymore through Harriet.
The day was fine, the stifling heat and humidity having cleared to be replaced by bright sunlight and a fresh breeze.
She felt suddenly timid at the idea of going by herself, although ther
e would be plenty of people there that she knew. But she stiffened her spine. A barge trip on such a good day would be pleasant.
Her carriage took her to the pier at London Bridge. The first person she saw when she climbed on board was Lord Dangerfield, who was talking to two pretty girls and appeared well entertained.
With relief Harriet then saw Bertha and her husband, Lord Dancer, and went to join them. “Faith, it is good to see you without the dreadful Sir Thomas! But what of Susan?”
“She prefers not to attend,” said Harriet. Bertha had been told all about Susan’s adventures. “I take great care of her safety.”
“I do not think you do,” retorted Bertha crossly. “You encourage Sir Thomas, and Mrs. Palfrey was his mistress.”
“A long time ago,” Harriet pointed out.
“Be on your guard. Dancer, do call the waiter and get us some lemonade.”
Lord Dancer smiled amiably and went off to accost a waiter, was waylaid by a party of friends, and promptly forgot about the lemonade.
“Just look at him,” said Bertha. “He has forgotten already. My one fear on my wedding day was that he would forget which church we were being married in. Ah, Dangerfield. Be so kind as to supply us with lemonade.”
Lord Dangerfield, who had been about to pass them, raised an imperious hand, and a waiter came scurrying up. When the lemonade arrived, Bertha thanked him prettily and then said with a well-manufactured air of surprise, “Why, there is Lady Tasker. I haven’t seen her this age!”
She tripped off. Harriet studied her glass of lemonade and Lord Dangerfield studied her bent head. Her face was shielded by a broad-brimmed straw hat. Her gown was of straw-colored silk, and she wore a light flower perfume.
“How is Miss Colville?” asked the earl.
“She is well, but Mr. Courtney is in the country, visiting her parents, and so she does not feel inclined to go out. She has even given up eating chocolates.”
People passed and repassed them on the barge. A small orchestra played languid sweet airs in the bows, and the barge slid slowly through the brownish waters of the Thames. As they stood together, they created around them such an air of intensity of feeling that those who were about to approach them backed off.
“Miss Tremayne,” said the earl, “before I go away and leave you in peace, I want you to answer me this. Why is it that I am persona non grata because of my past relationship with Mrs. Palfrey and yet Sir Thomas Jeynes is not?”
Harriet had been worrying in the back of her mind about that question ever since Susan had broached it. She could think of no fair reply.
“I was very much shocked by Susan’s abduction. I… I realize now it must seem odd.” She bit her lip. He had come immediately to her help when summoned, he had put his arms around her and comforted her, he had given his diamond pin to that villain.
He stood looking down at her intently. “I am not used to your world, my lord,” she said. “One is apt to judge people by their… friends.”
“And yet I did not judge you by your friends.”
“What do you mean?”
“The acidulous ladies who glared at you so awfully in Piccadilly.”
“That is not the same. Their morals are impeccable.”
“Possibly because there has never been any chance and never will be of their morals being under threat.”
“That is a dreadful thing to say.”
“Sad but true. Look around you, the day is fine, the orchestra is pleasant. Cannot we call a truce?” He held out his hand. “Shall we shake on it?”
She gave him a reluctant smile and then took his hand. He gave her hand a firm shake.
“Now let us talk of more pleasant things. We are bound for Hampton Court. Have you been there before?”
“About eight years ago.” Harriet gave a little sigh. She had gone with her friends. It had not been a very enjoyable outing. Miss Barncastle had become lost in the maze, and when they had finally found the guide to direct her out of it, their boat had gone and they had to hire a carriage to take them on the long journey home. Miss Teale and Miss Carrington had called Miss Barncastle a fool and suggested that she and she alone should meet the expense of the carriage. Furthermore, none of them had seen Hampton Court itself, as all the day had been taken up trying to get Miss Barncastle out of the maze. Nor was it the guide’s fault. He had been taken up leading a more distinguished party around the royal palace and had warned them not to go into the maze until he was free, but Miss Barncastle had said that she had “a wonderful sense of direction” and had insisted on going in alone.
“I did not have a chance to see Hampton Court itself then,” said Harriet aloud.
He took her lemonade glass from her, signaled to a waiter, and exchanged their lemonade for iced champagne. “A toast to renewed friendship, Miss Tremayne,” he said, raising his glass.
She was suddenly ridiculously happy. She raised her glass to his. “Friendship,” she echoed.
They crossed to the side of the barge. They were moving slowly into the upper reaches of the Thames. The water had changed from brown to blue. The fields and trees on either side, despite the recent heat, were still vivid green.
“So peaceful,” said Harriet. “Will the wars never end?”
“We need another Nelson,” said the earl. “Although Wellington will possibly do on land what Nelson did on the sea.”
“He was a clever and intelligent sailor.”
“True. But the French, during the Terror, executed most of their great admirals. You see, as you know, in this country the aristocracy go into the army and the gentry to the navy. In France the aristocracy traditionally became naval officers.”
“And yet Napoleon’s land armies go from success to success.”
“Perhaps,” he said dryly, “it is because his marshals lead from the front and our generals from the rear. It is essential to have the command from the front not only because of the morale it gives the troops but someone has to sort out the fog and the mess. By midmorning, with all the gunpowder used, it becomes like fighting in a thick fog and at times one doesn’t know foe from friend.”
“You were there in the Peninsula?”
“Not only the Peninsula, but India before that.”
“Did you sell out?”
“Invalided out.”
“What happened?”
“I took a ball in the shoulder and contracted a fever. When I finally recovered after hovering between life and death, it was to learn that my father had died and that I must return to take up my new responsibilities.”
“And were the responsibilities heavy? So many of our aristocracy seem to lose fortunes on the card tables that they do not seem to consider their responsibilities at all.”
“Such was my late father.” The earl looked out across the water, his eyes hooded. “I was still weak and grief-stricken when I arrived home. Because of tutors and then the army, I had not known my parents very well. I remember my mother as a thin, vague lady who kept complaining of feeling ill, and then one day, to everyone’s surprise, she actually died of a heart attack. I was five at the time, so I have only a dim memory of her. My father always seemed a bluff, generous man. He would talk a great deal about what a good landlord he was and how his estates were among the finest run in England. My grief over his death did not last very long as I began to plow through the mountain of debts and then found the tenants’ farms and cottages in a terrible state of repair. The agent said it was necessary to raise the rents again in order to begin to pay off some of the mountain of debt. I got rid of him.”
“Why?”
“If you bleed the tenants dry until they are nigh starving, they have no interest in the land or produce or in anything in the whole world but keeping body and soul together.”
“What did you do?”
“I called them all together in the great hall. I told them that no rents would be taken from them for a year. In return, they must work for me as they had never worked before. We would all ne
ed to work together. Food would be shared out. I sold my father’s jewels and statuary to fund repairs and drainage and phosphates. Those three years were the happiest of my life. And then disaster struck.”
“A bad harvest?”
“Worse than that. My great-aunt, who had been a recluse for years, died of smallpox. She left me a very great fortune.”
Harriet looked at him in surprise. “But that is not a disaster!”
“Ah, but it was for me, not for my happy tenants. My days had been filled with hard work, with juggling the accounts, with making every penny work, and quite suddenly all the debts were paid and I could afford every improvement, every repair. I set up a school for the children of the tenants, things like that. I thought I would be able to return to the idle life of London, but I confess I have quite often been bored.”
