by Jane Goodger
All discussion of murder was long forgotten. “You proposed? To Harriet Anderson? And she said no?”
“Yes,” Augustus snapped. Then he leaned back in his chair. “Well, not precisely.”
“What, precisely?” Henderson said, and Augustus glared at him because it looked as if his friend was trying not to laugh.
He furrowed his brow, recalling their terrible conversation, the one during which Harriet reminded him of their bloody agreement.
“Tell me what was said,” Henderson demanded. “I find it difficult to believe Harriet would have forgotten that you proposed. I believe that is a detail she would have related to Alice, despite her hysterical tears.”
“She was crying?” Augustus asked, feeling his gut twist.
“I have no idea. Go on, tell me what you said to the poor girl.”
Not wanting to discuss his rather sordid agreement with Harriet, Augustus hesitated. “I must have your word you will not say anything to Alice.”
All humor left Henderson’s face. “My word,” he said solemnly.
“We had an affair, she and I. She refused to become my mistress, as you are well aware. Instead, she proposed a short-term arrangement, one in which we would part as friends. And I…”
“Fell in love,” Henderson finished for him.
“Yes, I did.”
Henderson smiled gently. “And did you ever tell her?”
“Of course not,” he said. “It would have violated our agreement.” Augustus ignored his friend’s snort. “The night of the ball, her parents were, let us say, unpleasant.”
“We heard. One of Alice’s friends was there. She didn’t realize Alice was good friends with Harriet. The description was painful.”
Augustus nodded. “It was worse than that. Harriet was humiliated and there was nothing I could do to prevent it. The next day, I went to tell her all was well and to ask her to be my wife.”
“What did you say?”
Augustus stared blindly at the desk in front of him. “We talked briefly about the prior evening, my grandmother’s reaction. We agreed it was unfortunate. And then I told her it didn’t matter, that I wanted us to continue … Oh, Christ.”
“What?”
“I told her I wanted to continue as we’d been. I was so tired, I hadn’t slept in more than twenty-four hours. I meant it to come out romantic, that I couldn’t bear to live without her, but I now believe she thought I was asking her again to be my mistress.” Then he let out a foul curse.
“That can be remedied,” Henderson said. “Just tell her you were mistaken.”
“Yes,” Augustus said, drawing out the word, deep in thought. “I can do that.”
“Now that your romantic difficulties are solved, how can I help you solve your murder?” Henderson asked blithely.
Chapter 14
I need to see you.
Harriet stared at those four words, written on the back of one of Lord Berkley’s calling cards, nearly illegible. But she was familiar enough with his terrible penmanship to be able to read the short missive.
She’d been in possession of the calling card for approximately two minutes. When the young boy had approached her during her daily walk, she’d taken the card, looked at it quickly, and was about to hand it back, but the lad was already running away. Augustus knew her well enough, it seemed, to know she would not want to accept it. With a sound of disgust, she threw it away so that it landed, face down, in a small puddle. Like a little paper boat. For a long minute, she stared at it, knowing even years from now she would without effort be able to remember precisely what it looked like, how it moved in the slight breeze, how one corner began to dip and sink.
“I want to forget,” she said to the card, feeling the all-too-familiar ache in her throat. Taking two determined steps away from the card, she fought a losing battle to go back and retrieve it, a keepsake for her to hold forever.
She had nothing of Lord Berkley but her excruciatingly detailed memories of their time together. Not even when she’d sent a note to him with Mr. Billings’ list did she hear from him. Not when Mr. Billings was questioned, not during the inquiry. It turned out, poor Mr. Billings had been wracked with guilt, but that Lady Greenwich’s death was entirely accidental, though Billings had been there when it happened. They had met at the tower the night of the party and had argued bitterly. Lady Greenwich pulled away from Mr. Billings and had tumbled down the stairs, breaking her neck. In a panic, Mr. Billings, fearing he would be accused of murder, threw her from the tower to make it look as if the lady had committed suicide. It was the sort of sordid story Harriet found morbidly fascinating, and she longed to talk about it all with Augustus. But it was as if she and he had never spoken a word to each other, had never made love, or shared the most wonderful hours of her life together.
How foolish she had been to think she could walk away from such a man without any repercussions, thinking her memories would only give her happiness. Instead, she was tortured by them. One would think that after six months without a word, without a letter, the ache would have gone away. It had not. How many times had she wondered if she had done the right thing? Would it have been better to live her plain and boring life, blissfully ignorant of what it was like to fall in love, to understand the fulfillment a man could give her? Her cursed memory made it impossible to forget the way he’d looked at her right before she’d turned around and left him. Impossible to forget the silence that followed him as he walked away.
And now, all these months later, he wanted to see her.
With a sound of disgust, she walked to the puddle and picked up the card without looking again at the message, and shoved it into her pocket, feeling angry at herself for not being able to let it lie.
The day was warm and sunny, the ground moist from two days of unusual July rain. In the distance, St. Ives Bay was an impossible blue and Harriet didn’t need a mirror to know that it precisely matched the color of her eyes. Or so she’d been told. By him.
Each day, she would walk along a road that was lined with tall hedgerows and followed the curve of the bay, feeling the warm sun on her skin—in the opposite direction from Costille House. Her walks were the only times when she felt even the least bit content, when she was able to push away regret and not wonder what it would have been like had she accepted that ten thousand pounds. She hadn’t, of course. When the footman had arrived with it in hand, she’d sent it back without regret.
And so she remained at home with parents who were growing more and more desperate to find Clara a husband, and a sister who seemed determined never to marry. Life had become nearly unbearable for all of them.
The sound of a carriage brought her from her thoughts, and Clara moved to the side of the seashell-laden road to make room, only to find Lord Berkley, sitting smartly atop his gig, looking down at her with a smile and making it difficult to breathe. On his head was a straw boater, the kind she’d seen artists wear as they set up their easels to begin capturing the charm of St. Ives. He pulled on the reins and stopped, letting out a low, “whoa” to his beautiful bay. When he had come to a full stop, he pushed the boater back so she could better see his face, and Harriet instantly wished he had not, for he looked almost too handsome to bear. Harriet gave him a stony nod, then continued on her path even knowing how futile walking away would be.
“You were coming to see me?” he said, his voice so close she knew he must have set the brakes and hurried after her on foot.
“I was not.” It was extremely important to pretend indifference.
“Since you are here, then…” She kept walking. “Harriet. Please.”
Bloody, bloody, bloody hell and damnation. She even spoke a few curse words she’d heard from the work crew under her breath before stopping still, hands fisted by her sides. It was the tone of his voice, a sadness she tried to ignore, the pleading note, that caused her to stop. Hang it all, why did she
still care? “Very well,” she said, turning around, schooling her features so he wouldn’t have the first idea that her mind was in turmoil. “What did you want to see me about?”
“I believe I wrote that I needed to see you.”
“Did you?” Such a foolish thing for her to say, because he knew that she would remember his exact words. He gave her a grim smile.
“I need to show you something.”
Six months without a word, and he wanted to show her something. Nothing about what had happened, nothing to indicate that he had missed her, though to be fair, she hadn’t really looked him in the eyes yet so she could not gauge his mood. Why not see what he had to show her? She had nothing better to do that day other than continue to walk or return to her oppressively unhappy home. She assumed it was something about Costille House, and the thought of returning there caused an odd bit of pain in her breast, but she forged on.
“Very well,” she said, lifting her head and keeping her expression completely impassive, as if her heart wasn’t hammering in her chest. It was so good to see him, to hear his low voice. It was as if her body remembered every touch, every kiss, every moment she’d spent in his arms. Why could she not remain indifferent to him, even after all this time?
Harriet went ’round to the other side of the gig and allowed him to assist her up. It was a warm day and she was not wearing gloves, but was grateful that he was wearing his. She wasn’t certain whether she could have stood the pain of touching his warm skin.
Harriet had never ridden on a gig, and for a moment, real fear struck her. She was so very far from the ground and it seemed there was nothing holding her inside the vehicle other than a low, cushioned side that offered little in the way of protection should she be jostled about. She found herself clutching the side with one hand and resisting the urge to clutch Augustus with the other. In moments, he was sitting next to her on the too narrow seat, his thigh brushing up against hers. Though she stared straight ahead, Harriet was aware that he gave her a long look before snapping down the reins.
In the first minutes of their ride, Harriet didn’t pay attention to where they were going; she was too busy berating herself for climbing aboard. It wasn’t until they had driven past St. Ives village in the opposite direction from Costille House that she became a bit concerned about their destination.
“Where are we going?” They were the first words spoken between them since she’d sat down on the gig.
Shooting a quick glance at her, almost as if he’d forgotten she was sitting next to him, he said, “You will see soon enough.”
“Soon enough” took another minute or so, during which Harriet pretended fascination with the sea. Indeed, it was such a lovely day, there were numerous boats on the bay, including a large sailing ship in the distance, sails unfurled and stark white against the deep, azure sky. They rounded a corner, then turned onto a small lane, shadowed beneath a canopy of trees, before entering a clearing. And there it was.
“My cottage,” she whispered.
Before her lay the house she had dreamed about since she was a little girl, with its rose-covered stone walls, its second-floor balcony overlooking the sea, the front door with its mullioned windows, the flower boxes filled with colorful blooms. She blinked, not quite believing what she was seeing. Bringing her here was both the most wonderful and the cruelest thing he had ever done.
“It is yours,” he said. “My gift to you.”
“Take me home,” Harriet said, not meaning a single syllable. Looking at the house was like walking into a dream. In her heart, she longed to thank him, to throw her arms around him and ask how he had found such a miracle. This was her cottage.
“I will. But let’s just take a look around, shall we?”
He jumped down and walked around the back of the gig to stand below her, hand outstretched. She ignored that hand for perhaps three seconds before grasping his fingers and allowing him to help her down. “I cannot accept this. You do know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, but I’m giving it to you anyway. You refused to take payment for the work you provided, payment well deserved, I might add. Besides, it is already in your name.”
With an impatient huff, she began walking toward the front door. She could not, absolutely not, accept the house. But she could at least look at it, since she was here. Besides, her curiosity was getting the better of her. The cottage seemed to be a memory of something she’d never actually seen, like a dream you try to keep sharp in your mind, but that inevitably fades away. She knew she had never seen this house. If she had, she would have remembered it precisely, not in this vague muddled way that was just out of grasp. When she reached the front door, she stopped short, immediately seeing the worn slate step she’d imagined. How was this possible?
“I don’t understand,” she said, turning to look at Augustus, who held back waiting for her reaction. “It’s as I imagined it. Yet I have never been here, I’m certain.”
“Perhaps you saw it as a child, and were so young you do not recall being here.”
“Perhaps.” That would explain, she thought, how vivid the image had been, the smallest details, like the window boxes and the slate step, worn down by years of feet treading upon it. She couldn’t recall coming down this small lane, for it was quite a distance from her home and she would have no reason to travel here, but that did not mean she hadn’t been there as a young child.
He opened the door for her and she tried not to notice the hard line of his cleanly shaved jaw. She found herself wondering, worrying really, that he had lost weight. When she stepped through the threshold, she couldn’t help but let out a small gasp. It. Was. Perfect.
How could she find the strength to walk away from something she’d been dreaming about her entire life? Oh, this was impossibly cruel. Directly in front of her was a wide staircase that led to the second floor. Two small sets of stairs, one on each side, led to a landing and then the main staircase rose to upstairs rooms. She touched the thick newel posts, made of some dark wood, sturdy and strong, just as she’d imagined them. To the left was a small sitting room, to the right, the home’s main parlor. The ceiling had thick, dark beams and was slightly curved, like a ship captain’s quarters, her own whimsy, yet there it was. The honey-colored, wide-planked floors shone with new polish and a chair, deep and soft, sat before a large fireplace, now filled with birch logs ready for lighting on the first cool fall day. It was her chair, the one she’d pictured herself sitting in on those long, lonely winter nights. Behind her, Augustus was silent, but she could sense he was bursting to know her thoughts. Truthfully, her throat was too tight to speak at the moment.
Harriet slowly walked up the stairs, knowing what she was going to see. Her bedroom, larger than she’d imagined, was laid out precisely as she would have had it. The room took up half the house, with a set of French doors leading to a balcony, decorated with planters overflowing with flowers. A raised platform, set off by an arch, held a telescope. It was all too much, too perfect. She ran from the room and across a small hallway into a smaller bedroom that overlooked a back garden. Just as she’d wanted; a place for her sister should she want to visit or even live with her. Augustus followed her silently, watching her intently as she took it all in.
The house was pristine, so a small bit of dust beneath the window sill caught her eye. It was so out of place, Harriet bent and swiped her finger along it, straightening with a deep furrow between her eyes.
“What is wrong?” he asked, stepping into the room.
Harriet studied the tip of her finger, her heart slowing and then beating hard and fast. “Sawdust,” she said, and looked up to find that Augustus could not quite meet her eyes.
“There were some repairs…” he began, but his voice faded as she rushed from the room. “Harriet.”
She ran from room to room, finding more and more evidence of what she suspected, finally ending up in the livin
g room, standing before a fireplace that had never seen a fire. She could sense him coming up behind her, close enough to touch her, close enough to imagine she felt his warmth.
“Why?” She clutched her hands together in front of her, kneading them, not knowing what she wanted him to say. “Why would you do this?”
“Because I want you to be happy.” It seemed his words were ripped from deep within.
“I cannot be your mistress, Gus,” she said, turning to look at him.
“That is not why I built the house. I built it for you. And your husband.”
Inexplicably, her throat tightened, something that seemed to happen with terrible frequency of late. “Oh, Gus, I shall never marry.”
“That is unfortunate,” he said, and something about the way he was looking at her made it difficult to breathe. When he dipped down to one knee and looked up at her, Harriet truly did lose the ability to draw air into her lungs. “I was hoping I would at least get a chance to propose before you rejected me entirely.”
“But…but…”
“I love you, Harriet Anderson. I realized quite quickly after I left that day that I cannot live without you in my life. These past months have been exceedingly unpleasant. My only comfort was coming here each day and imagining us here together. Or at the very least, imagining you happy here alone.”
And just like that, Harriet’s heart melted, completely and totally, and she flung herself into his arms, nearly knocking him over. “I ought to say no, simply to torture you the way I have been tortured these months.”
“You should not do anything of the sort.”
She kissed his cheek, his jaw, his lips. “Why did you not tell me all this months ago?”
“I’ve missed your curls,” he said, burying his face against her neck.
“Gus,” she said in mock anger.
“When I went to your house the day after the ball, I intended to propose. In fact, I thought I had until Henderson made me realize what I had actually hinted at. I suppose this,” he said, looking around the cottage, “is proof of my love, is my way of saying I’m sorry for completely making a mess of my first proposal. I wanted you to have your cottage but I didn’t believe I deserved you. Then, I realized I could not be happy without you. I fear this house began as an altruistic gesture but quickly turned into a very selfish one. Say you’ll marry me.”
