by Jane Goodger
Harriet had been skeptical that she would do the gown justice, but when it was finally on her, when the last stitch had been sewn and the last button buttoned, Harriet could only stare. Her eyes filled with tears and she looked at Mrs. Statler, who beamed as if she had not only created the dress but the girl inside it as well. And perhaps she had. Perhaps Mrs. Statler had somehow created from nothing Princess Catalina.
“It’s beautiful,” Harriet breathed, staring in wonder at the hundreds of seed pearls that had been sewn into the bodice and down the skirt, an intricate design of swirls that seemed impossible to have accomplished in the span of three days. It fit her beautifully, accenting her slim frame and making it appear as if her bosom was far larger than it was—all without exposing too much. The rich blue opened to a cream underskirt with more seed pearls. The gown was heavy and rich and Harriet loved it. “You are a magician,” Harriet said, laughing.
“I knew there was a lovely girl beneath that hideous dress you were wearing,” Mrs. Statler said. “My work here is fini. Ah, another French word. Claudette will return in a week’s time to do your hair up nicely.” She turned to Claudette. “You will work with her curls, Claudette. No iron, oui?”
“No iron, madame,” Claudette said, taking one of Harriet’s curls and letting it spring back into place.
As quickly as they had come, Mrs. Statler and her entourage left, and Harriet felt a small twinge. It had been lovely having them all in her home for three days. They had become rather friendly in that time, sharing meals and stories and dreams. For the briefest of moments, Harriet wondered if she could go with them, back to London, and work in their shop. How wonderful to live independently, traveling throughout England and making women look lovely. The problem, Harriet realized fairly quickly, was that she could hardly darn a sock, never mind create the intricate designs these women had. She simply had no patience for sewing, which likely meant making a living as a seamstress was not a practical idea.
She closed the door and laughed at her folly. In no time at all, she would have ten thousand pounds in her accounts and would start looking for her little cottage.
Alone.
“You are such a spoiled ninny,” she said aloud. Instead of dreading saying good-bye to Lord Berkley, she should instead enjoy the present. Tomorrow would be sunny, she just knew it, and she would run all the way to Costille House and when they were alone she would throw herself into his arms and he would lift her and kiss her until she grew tired of being kissed.
* * * *
He missed her, damn it. Even though he knew Mrs. Statler was making good use of the rain—he knew because he’d had supper with her last evening—he’d barely stopped himself from readying the carriage and visiting her. That first day, he’d actually donned his coat and gloves before realizing the implications of showing up on her doorstep. What possible excuse could he make for a visit? And when informed that the Andersons were in London, what could he say? “I’ve actually come to kiss the youngest Miss Anderson silly. And did you know that we were scheduled to make passionate love all afternoon and the bloody rain ruined my plans?”
News of his luncheon at the Andersons’ seemed to have to reached every resident of St. Ives, no doubt fueled by those who had come up to him while he was waiting for Henderson in the pub. For months, few people dared to interrupt his solitude, and he’d thought it was because of lingering doubt about how his wife had died. One visit to a local family had apparently opened the floodgates.
That morning, his quiet morning tea at Teague’s Tea Shop had been interrupted at least three times by someone politely inquiring whether he’d had a pleasant time at the Andersons’. Neither cold stares nor intense concentration on his morning newspaper were enough to deter the townsfolk from saying a drawn out good morning. And, as he’d dreaded, one older woman had hinted that his sole reason for the visit was to show his interest in one particular Miss Anderson. Just to be contrary, he’d said, “You mean Miss Harriet Anderson?” It bothered him quite a lot that the woman had looked at him oddly, as if the idea of him going to see Harriet was absurd.
“Not our Harriet. Clara, the pretty one.”
“I find them both quite pretty,” he’d said blandly. “I actually cannot tell them apart.”
He could, though. He could tell them apart if he were blindfolded. In fact, the idea of exploring Harriet whilst blindfolded was a rather nice thought.
At any rate, showing up at their door when the family was not in was impossible. So Augustus had to settle for speaking with someone who had seen her that day, which explained his ready acceptance of a dinner invitation by Mrs. Statler. He was pleased to find out that though Harriet had initially rejected the idea of the ball gown, she’d quickly come around.
“You are all that is kind to help that young lady,” Mrs. Statler said. “I cannot imagine a family high-tailing it off to London with only one marriageable daughter and leaving the other behind. And in that dress.” She shook her head sadly. “To be perfectly honest with you, my lord, it does not appear from what I saw of the house that the Andersons are as strapped as you believe.”
“Oh?”
“They live in opulence, my lord.” She shook her head again and tsked. “I’ve seen such cases, as you might imagine. The favored child. Why, a certain duchess I shall not name—oh, very well, the Duchess of Belmont—so favored her younger daughter that the older one became quite melancholy and took to her bed. Eventually, she died, just withered away. A terrible thing, to be certain. Do you think that is what is happening here?”
“It is possible, though I do not believe it will come to that,” he’d said.
“Goodness no,” Mrs. Statler said, putting a hand over her heart.
“The important thing is that she be presentable for the ball. I should hate for anyone to think less of her simply because she was not as well-adorned as her sister.”
Mrs. Statler sighed, obviously impressed with his generosity and putting him firmly in the category of hero, and Augustus smiled and wondered what the fine Mrs. Statler would say if she knew shy Miss Anderson was his lover. That bit of news would toss him from the pedestal she’d happily put him on. “I’ll make Miss Anderson the most beautiful dress at the ball,” she said. “The blue satin you chose is perfect and will look exquisite. She’s such a delightful girl, I’m more than happy to put in the extra hours to have the dress ready in time, my lord.”
She should be quite happy, for he had paid an exorbitant amount of money for the gown. Not that he cared, but if he was going to spend the money for expedited service, he wanted it done by his deadline. The ball was in one week and his grandmother would arrive at Costille House in just four days, the rest of the guests soon after. That left only four days for Harriet and him to be together. As one of the local men burst into the inn shaking rain from his coat and hat, Augustus prayed for the sun to shine each day.
It wasn’t only that he missed her, the work at Costille House was slowing without her there to give directions. Though it was continuing as much as possible, there were a few things that would have to wait until Harriet was able to return. He’d toured the house with Mr. Billings and was relieved to see that most of the major construction was completed. They were simply waiting for Harriet to give instructions to the men on the small details. Costille House, not long ago in complete ruin, was now nearly back to her original state. He should have been elated, but all he could think of was ending his affair with Harriet. It could not continue, not with her parents soon returning.
And he selecting a bride.
It had been foolish to begin this affair thinking that when the renovation was finished, he would be miraculously done with her. He had a terrible feeling he would never be done with her, even though he told himself at least ten times each day that he must be done with her. It was what they’d agreed to. At the time, lust had fogged his thinking. Hell, it still fogged his thinking.
With other women, the minute he closed the door on their lovely derrières, they were out of his mind—until he had a particular need to see them again. With Harriet, it was entirely different. Certainly, he could hardly wait to bed her again. God, just thinking of sinking his flesh into her was enough to make him hard. Devil take it, she was on his mind all the time. And it wasn’t only visions of her naked that plagued him, but her laugh, her smile, the way she rolled her lovely eyes when he told her an awful joke. The way she bit her full lower lip when she was deep in concentration. He didn’t just miss her body, he missed her. And that, more than anything, was damned terrifying.
He’d never found himself in such a predicament before in his life. He caught himself thinking things he’d never thought before—whether she liked a particular flower or if she disliked fried liver as much as he did. On that third day when the rain came down and he knew she would not be coming to Costille House, he went to the cottage by himself and lay on the bed simply to breathe in her soft scent which lingered on the pillow. He knew he was being pathetic but he simply couldn’t stop himself. He missed her to the point of a physical ache. Perhaps he was coming down with some illness, one that made him completely addlepated.
What in hell was wrong with him? Perhaps that day in the mist when her hair came to life, she had bewitched him.
* * * *
Harriet entered her room that night to the sound of rain stinging her window. Frowning, she walked over and looked out, seeing nothing but the blurred outline of the distant trees. If it rained again tomorrow, she swore she would don her Mack and boots and walk to Costille House no matter what. Hugging herself, she wondered how it would be when she no longer had Augustus to look forward to. In such a short space of time, he’d become vital to her. She missed his scent, the deep timbre of his voice, the way he smiled crookedly when she said something that amused him. She missed his velvet skin, his hard muscles, the way his warm flesh felt against hers, the hard slabs of muscles on his chest and stomach.
She missed everything about him, as a woman deeply in love would, she supposed. This separation only made her realize all the more how much she loved him. And it had only been three days! Just thinking of saying good-bye, of never holding him again, of never sharing a quiet time in bed together, made her eyes burn with unshed tears.
How would she ever do it?
When she thought back on the other times she’d been convinced she was in love, she seemed like a silly girl who didn’t know the first thing about true love. If she had known how difficult it would be to protect her heart, she wasn’t certain she would have entered into this affair.
“Would I have?” she whispered, laying her palm against the cold window pane.
She thought about Alfred Tennyson’s poem In Memoriam A.H.H., part of a collection of poems Alice had given to her for her twenty-first birthday. She’d thought the poem rather boring and tedious, until she’d got to that one line that made her heart ache.
I hold it true, whate’er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
’Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.
At the time, she’d thought of Henderson when she’d read those heartbreaking lines. Now, she knew what real love was and those words were particularly poignant. She hated those words, because she did not believe in them. Already it hurt and she could not imagine how it would feel to stand in front of him, look into his dark blue eyes, and tell him good-bye.
But she must, because there really was no other way for them.
She turned away from the window and stared at her bed, picturing it in her little cottage, and tried to gather the joy that such a thought would have produced not one month earlier. What had been exciting now seemed interminably lonely. Taking a deep breath, she shook her head in an effort to rid herself of the self-pity that was threatening to ruin her evening.
“Do not dwell,” she said, walking with determination to her bed and pulling down the covers with a flourish. After blowing out her bedside lamp, she lay in bed listening to the sound of the rain hitting her window. Normally, it was a soothing sound, but this evening it was a small torture. “Dear Lord, I know I am committing a terrible sin by fornicating, and you have no business granting me a wish, but I would dearly love to wake up and see the sun shining. If you don’t mind. I’m sure I’m not the only person in Cornwall who would like the see the sun, so perhaps you can grant someone else’s wish.”
Harriet giggled at her foolishness, then turned her back to the window and put a pillow over her head to muffle the sound of the rain.
The next morning, the first thing Harriet became aware of was the trill of a cirl bunting in the garden below. And then, she opened her eyes and squinted against the sun, the wonderful, bright sun.
“Hooray!” Sitting up, she threw off the blankets and rushed to the window to see a lovely world, glittering from the remnants of last night’s rain. Her window faced the south, and looking to the east she could see the sun just above a dark line of clouds, the foul weather that had kept her inside for days. “Good riddance,” she said, then stuck out her tongue, before dancing away from the window.
In a matter of minutes, she had donned one of her work dresses, pausing only for a moment to consider wearing something prettier. Then, realizing she had lost four days of work, she put the simple gray dress on begrudgingly. Chances were, she would spend a long day working…and other things. Grinning, Harriet looked in the mirror and hardly recognized the girl looking back at her. This Harriet was impossibly happy, her eyes sparkling with excitement, cheeks flushed (she’d been thinking about what she and Augustus would likely be doing later that day), and hair a mass of curls surrounding her face. Pulling two strands from each side of her head back and securing them with a clasp, she managed to tame her curls a bit while leaving her hair down as Augustus had so many times told her he preferred. She found that she preferred it this way as well.
She headed down to the breakfast room only to find nothing had yet been prepared. Cook could hardly be blamed; for the last four days Harriet hadn’t managed to drag herself down the stairs until after ten in the morning. A quick look at a wall clock told her it was just past six o’clock. Instead of waiting, Harriet hurried down to the kitchen where she found the few remaining servants who hadn’t gone to London sitting at the table eating their own breakfast.
When she entered, they scrambled to stand but Harriet waved them down. “I just want something quick to eat,” she said, going to a counter where a plateful of scones sat. She grabbed one, then hastily slathered on a thick layer of strawberry jam. After taking a napkin, she walked out of the kitchen, calling, “It’s such a lovely day, I think I’ll spend most of it outdoors. I’ll see you this evening. No need to prepare lunch for me.”
Though the sun shone, the breeze was brisk and the temperature cool, so she donned her warm wool coat and a scarf for her head, and headed out the door, her heart singing. In a matter of minutes, she would be at Costille House and she would see him. How she would be able to school her features or stop herself from running into his arms, she did not know, but it was still imperative that the workmen did not suspect she and Augustus had been carrying on a torrid affair right beneath their noses.
Harriet couldn’t say why, but it was rather fun to be a bit naughty at last. Everyone she knew would be terribly shocked if they discovered what she’d been up to of late, how shamefully she’d been behaving. For some reason, Harriet could hardly bring herself to care. Perhaps she’d spent so many years being good, doing what was expected, living a completely boring existence, that this bit of rebellion had just been waiting to burst out of her. Then again, there were many girls who were quite content never doing anything unexpected. She found that, instead of being ashamed of her behavior, she was reveling in it.
And that was a terrible, wonderful thing she realized. She
had become a fast woman and it was exciting—as long as no one found out.
By the time she headed down the long, tree-lined drive that led to Costille House, her boots were quite wet and muddy from all the rain. The trees obscured the house from sight, but Harriet could hear hammers banging, the men already hard at work, and she hurried her steps. Work usually did not begin until eight o’clock; Mr. Billings must feel a bit behind if they were starting so early.
As she approached, she could see several men in the courtyard installing the iron brackets that held the torches. Though the gas lamps were not original to the castle, Harriet had hated to see them go. She didn’t agree with all the changes the earl insisted on; removing the gas lamps and fixtures throughout the house was one of them. What harm did a few gas lamps make? Still, Harriet had to admit that tearing out all the modern renovations had been the right thing to do. It was almost as if the house were letting out a great sigh of relief to be restored back to its previous state.
Pushing open the heavy front door, she stepped into the house to find a beehive of activity. At first, the men didn’t notice her enter, but when they did, she was inundated with questions, seemingly called out from every direction. Mr. Billings shouted for them to quiet, then approached her, a grim look on his face.
“Lady Porter arrives tomorrow, Miss Anderson, and there is still much to do. I don’t know why Lord Berkley did not send a carriage for you these last few days, for we are considerably behind now.”
“I’m certain we will finish on time, Mr. Billings,” Harriet said with confidence she did not really feel. “Let’s make certain the public rooms are completed before moving on to the lesser rooms which likely will not be seen by the guests. Where do you need my help?”
“If you could go down to the barn and label the items that are left, the men can bring them to the ’ouse and place them in their proper places. I’ve got some tags for you I found at Chelsea’s yesterday that should work nicely.” Mr. Billings pulled a sack from his jacket pocket; inside were paper tags with bits of string attached.
