Lord Vere wrote to say he would be calling on her at eleven o’clock in the morning because he wished to ask permission to pay his addresses.
The other was from the Marquess of Huntingdon. He said he would call at two in the afternoon on the following day to discuss a serious matter concerning his future. He added lightly that at his great age it was time he settled down. Harriet felt a glow of triumph. Sarah and Annabelle would be engaged to two highly presentable men before the Season had even begun.
She ran up the stairs and knocked on Sarah’s door and went in. The two girls were sitting in front of the fire. Harriet showed them both letters and hugged them warmly. Then she turned to Sarah.
‘Are you sure, dear Sarah,’ she said, ‘that you consider it wise to accept such as the Marquess of Huntingdon? You are very young and his reputation—’
‘Pooh!’ laughed Sarah. ‘Turn down the biggest prize on the Marriage Mart? Do not be ridiculous, Harriet.’
‘Well . . . well . . . if that is how you feel,’ said Harriet. ‘I will rouse you, Annabelle, first. Wait in your room until I have given Lord Vere my permission and then I shall send for you.’
Sarah and Annabelle threw their arms about her, calling her a clever puss and saying they were not very surprised because both gentlemen had all but declared themselves at Richmond.
Neither gentleman had done anything of the sort, but the twins were both possessed of an overweening vanity that made them quite capable of hearing compliments and proposals that had never been uttered.
Harriet went back downstairs to find Rainbird depositing the tea tray on the table. ‘Wonderful news,’ cried Harriet. ‘Lord Vere is calling tomorrow morning to ask my permission to pay his addresses to Annabelle, and in the afternoon, Lord Huntingdon will also call with a view to securing Sarah’s hand in marriage.’
‘Felicitations,’ said Rainbird quietly. ‘On behalf of the servants, ma’am, we wish to thank you for a splendid day in Brighton.’
‘It was fun,’ said Harriet absentmindedly, her mind busy with plans. ‘Did you see your friend, Rainbird?’
‘No, Miss Metcalf. It appears she has married and moved to another address. May I pour your tea?’
‘Yes, Rainbird. Ask MacGregor to make some of those little caraway cakes. They are a great favourite of Lord Vere.’
Rainbird bent over the tray and poured a cup of tea. A drop of moisture fell on Harriet’s hand. She looked up quickly. The candle on the mantel lit only the table, leaving the butler’s face in the shadows.
‘Are . . . are you crying Rainbird?’ asked Harriet. The butler turned away, his back rigid as he made for the door.
‘Will that be all, madam?’
‘Yes, Rainbird,’ said Harriet sadly. ‘That will be all.’ Poor Rainbird, thought Harriet. He was crying.
A great weight of depression settled on her, and she did not then realize that the idea of the Marquess of Huntingdon marrying Sarah was repugnant to her; she put all her sadness down to worry about her butler.
EIGHT
Let bygones be bygones:
Don’t call me false, who owed not to be true
I’d rather answer ‘No’ to fifty Johns
Than answer ‘Yes’ to you.
ROSSETTI
Perhaps the day’s events might have brought about the eternal ruin of Miss Harriet Metcalfs reputation had it not been for one simple little act of kindness on her part.
Despite the excitements that lay ahead, Harriet summoned Lizzie and began the girl’s lessons. It was a relief to discover that the scullery maid was not entirely illiterate. She proved an apt pupil, and Harriet had hopes of seeing the girl able to read with ease before very long.
The previous day’s outing had brought the roses back to Lizzie’s pale cheeks, and the excitement of being treated to her gentle mistress’s full attention made her eyes glow.
Harriet was also moved by her ugly pet’s obvious devotion to the little servant. Beauty laid his head across the tin buckles of Lizzie’s shoes and gazed up at her worshipfully from his small eyes.
Upstairs, the twins were already out of bed and sending Emily hither and thither to fetch ribbons and laces.
‘Thought you wanted me to gossip about Miss Metcalf,’ said Emily as she heated the curling tongs on the spirit lamp.
‘Not now, Emily,’ said Sarah. ‘Our country bumpkin has done amazing well for us. I have never been quite so in charity with her before. Do you say that she was running around Brighton with those servants?’
‘They was all talking about it in the servants’ hall last night,’ said Emily, picking up the tongs and a strand of Sarah’s hair at the same time. ‘Seems she chatted away to them all just as if they was her equals and entertained them all to dinner at The Ship.’
‘It is the outside of enough,’ said Annabelle. ‘Do you hear, Sarah? Our money is being thrown into the laps of town servants who have probably already salted away a fortune.’
Sarah shrugged. ‘Since she has been instrumental in securing Huntingdon for me, then she may take her pleasures belowstairs as much as she likes as far as I am concerned.’
‘Do you hear, Emily?’ cried Annabelle. ‘How much my sister has changed! A forthcoming marriage soothes the savage breast wonderfully.’
‘But now they are all singing her praises,’ pointed out Emily. ‘It will be the harder now to turn them against her.’
‘You can always turn servants,’ said Sarah. ‘They do not really have minds of their own. But as of this moment we dote on our godmother. Do not wrench my hair, Emily. What has come over you?’
Harriet had put on her best morning gown to receive Lord Vere. It was of a misty-blue jaconet muslin made with a gored bodice and was finished with a tucker of fine embroidery. Over it she wore a cambric pelisse made with long sleeves. To add credence to her chaperone status, she had put on a dainty muslin cap. She thought it aged her nicely, unaware that the cap was vastly fetching, the almost transparent starched muslin sitting daintily on top of her blond head.
Although the day was warm, the heat had not yet permeated the building and so she had Joseph make up the fire with scented logs. Alice was sent to the market to bring bunches of daffodils and tulips to fill the vases in the front parlour.
Lord Vere arrived promptly. Harriet rose to meet him, looking at him with approval. For once he had forgone his usual Byronic style of dress and was wearing a blue swallow-tail coat and sporting a cravat of gigantic proportions.
He talked nervously of the weather and of how shattered he had been when she had failed to join the Richmond party.
Taking pity on his nervous condition, Harriet threw him a teasing look and said, ‘I am sure we could chat with greater ease if you unburdened yourself.’
Wild hope gleamed in Lord Vere’s eyes. To Harriet’s amazement, he threw himself down on his knees in front of her.
‘Love has taken away my courage,’ he said. ‘You are all the world to me, Miss Metcalf. Pray give me the very great honour of being allowed to call you mine.’
Harriet sat very still, looking down at him, her blue eyes wide with shock.
At last she cleared her throat nervously and said, ‘Lord Vere, I cannot have heard you aright. I understood from your letter you wished to ask my permission to pay your addresses to Annabelle.’
‘Annabelle!’ exclaimed Lord Vere, clutching Harriet’s little hands in a painful grasp. ‘How could you think such a thing? It is you I love. I love you to distraction.’
Harriet tugged miserably at her hands until he released them. She stood up and Lord Vere stumbled to his feet as well.
‘Lord Vere,’ said Harriet wretchedly, ‘if I have done anything, said anything unwittingly to encourage you in the belief that my affections were engaged, then I am truly sorry. I am in London solely in the position of chaperone to the Misses Hayner. I have no dowry and therefore I could not possibly believe any gentleman would wish to propose to me.’
‘But your lack of dowry doe
s not matter,’ cried Lord Vere. ‘Miss Metcalf . . . sweet Harriet . . . please accept my proposal.’
‘I cannot,’ said Harriet, looking sadly at his face, thinking how very young he looked, although she knew him to be older than herself. ‘I had not thought of marriage for myself.’
‘Then I may hope? When this Season is over . . . ?’
‘No, my lord,’ said Harriet firmly, although she felt a lump rising in her throat. ‘I am afraid there is no hope.’
He seized her hands again and kissed them passionately and turned and ran from the room.
Sarah and Annabelle, who had been listening at the door, fell back just in time. So great was his distress that he did not even see them. The twins scampered upstairs to Annabelle’s room.
‘Well!’ said Sarah, slamming the door. ‘Did you ever?’
Two bright spots of red burned in Annabelle’s cheeks. ‘She has done it again,’ she hissed. ‘The lying, scheming jade.’
‘Why on earth did she refuse him?’ asked Sarah.
‘Because she is after your marquess, that’s why.’
But Sarah’s vanity remained intact. ‘You imagined Lord Vere was after you, Annabelle. But there is one thing I know, Lord Huntingdon wishes to make me his own.’
‘Oh, really?’ said Annabelle, quite animated with rage and venom, ‘just you wait until two o’clock!’
‘Shhh!’ said Sarah. ‘Here she comes.’
Annabelle picked up a book, and Sarah picked up a piece of sewing.
When Harriet came slowly into the room, the girls looked neat, calm, and maidenly.
‘I am so sorry, Annabelle,’ said Harriet wretchedly. ‘He does not wish to propose to you.’
‘Then why did he write such a letter?’ demanded Annabelle, keeping her eyes fastened on her book.
‘He – Lord Vere, that is – was under the false idea that I, of all people, would welcome his advances. I refused, of course. Oh, my dear girls,’ said Harriet, her eyes filling with tears, ‘after all my hopes for you!’
‘There is still Huntingdon,’ pointed out Sarah, with a malicious look at her sister.
‘So there is,’ said Harriet, brightening. Her face fell again. ‘But Lord Vere was so suitable for Annabelle.’
Annabelle composed herself and raised her eyes. ‘Do not fret, dear Harriet,’ she said. ‘The Season has not begun, and I was only going to accept Lord Vere for his title. My affections were not seriously engaged.’
‘Oh, you best of girls,’ said Harriet, giving her a hug. ‘You have no idea how much better I feel. Sarah, I shall send Rainbird for you directly when Lord Huntingdon asks my permission.’
‘How too vastly touching,’ sobbed Annabelle as soon as the door had closed behind Harriet. ‘I could not bear to let her see how badly my sensibilities have been wounded. I could strangle her!’
‘Gently, Sis, only think what beaux I can find you when I am the Marchioness of Huntingdon.’
Lord Huntingdon had come to the momentous decision to marry Harriet Metcalf after that dreadful outing to Richmond. He and Gilbert, Lord Vere, had not discussed it, or the absence of Harriet Metcalf. The marquess had taken his leave of Lord Vere as soon as possible. He wanted to be alone to turn over the problem in his mind at his leisure.
Harriet had got under his skin. He had thought of nothing and no one else while he had sat listening to the trite chatter of those Hayner girls. His face felt stiff with smiling. He was sure he would not be causing any serious damage to Gilbert’s heart. Lord Vere had seemed perfectly happy with the twins and had not asked after Harriet once.
That Harriet might refuse his offer never once crossed the marquess’s mind. He knew his worth. He was rich, titled, and neither a cripple nor did he have a squint. No woman in her right mind would turn him down, particularly a penniless one.
As he walked along to Clarges Street, he did not notice that clouds had covered the sun, or feel the chill breath of the rising wind on his cheek. He was wrapped in dreams of how first overawed, then grateful Harriet Metcalf would be.
Harriet’s experience with Lord Vere had somewhat dimmed the day for her, and it was a sedate little lady who rose to meet the marquess when he was ushered in.
He refused refreshment, wanting to get out the proposal that was burning in his mind. She looked so delectable. Her lips were soft and pink. He wondered how old she was. She had said something about her parents dying a certain time ago. She must be in her middle twenties, and yet she looked fresh and young and virginal.
But Harriet did not feel it necessary to encourage him to get his request to pay his addresses to Sarah over and done with. Unlike Lord Vere, he did not look in the slightest nervous. In fact, she thought he looked extremely handsome. His cravat was snowy perfection, and he wore his morning clothes with an air. His hessian boots shone like black glass. His chestnut hair gleamed with threads of gold. It was very thick and had a natural curl.
He smiled at Harriet suddenly – a warm, tender, and seductive smile. She felt the hot colour rising in her cheeks and wished he were not quite so attractive.
‘Well, Miss Metcalf,’ he said, after the topic of the weather had been thoroughly exhausted, ‘you know why I am come.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ said Harriet calmly. He looked at her a little surprised. He would have considered it more in character if Harriet had looked a little flustered or nervous. But the wide blue eyes that met his with such open candour betrayed no nervousness or embarrassment whatsoever.
‘And you accept?’
‘I can hardly accept for someone else.’ Harriet smiled. ‘But, yes, you have my permission, and you will find Sarah delighted to see you.’ Harriet rose.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked, his voice sharp.
‘Why, to fetch Miss Sarah.’
‘Do you need that chit’s approval? You are the chaperone and not Sarah.’
‘But I am not a tyrant. I do not tell my charges whom they must marry!’
‘Sit down,’ barked the marquess.
Harriet sat down again, her blue eyes filled with wonder.
‘We appear to be talking at cross purposes. I shall make matters plain and simple. I wish to marry you, Miss Metcalf.’
‘Oh, no!’ shrieked Harriet. ‘Not you as well!’
‘Explain yourself.’
‘I thought Lord Vere had come to propose to Annabelle, but he proposed to me instead, And now you! I thought you wanted to marry Sarah.’
‘Why should I want to marry some chit barely out of the schoolroom?’
‘She has a dowry,’ wailed Harriet.
‘Money appears to control all your thoughts and motives. I do not want to marry Sarah Hayner. I want to marry you.’
‘I don’t want to marry you,’ said the much-goaded Harriet.
‘Why not?’
‘I do not love you. You . . . you frighten me.’
‘I thought love did not enter into your calculations, my mercenary widgeon. I am rich—’
‘I do not want money.’
‘I am a marquess.’
‘I do not want a title.’
‘Then, in heaven’s name, what do you want?’
‘I had not thought of marriage for myself,’ said Harriet. ‘Oh, but I should want someone to love me and cherish me and be faithful to me.’
That was surely the marquess’s cue to go down on one knee and swear undying love and devotion, but pride kept him where he was; pride made him say in a flat voice, ‘Then you ask the impossible. I once had all that to give and gave it to that heartless strumpet I made my first bride.’
‘I did not think you had ever been married,’ whispered Harriet.
‘I am thirty-two.’
‘But with such a reputation for philandering—’ began Harriet.
‘Enough,’ he said. ‘I had forgot that tongue of yours. I must be out of my wits to have ever contemplated allying my name to a vulgar, countrified wench such as yourself.’
‘Oh, yes,’ agreed Harriet
wholeheartedly. ‘So now you know I am not worthy of you, we may be comfortable again.’
‘Comfortable!’ He seized his locks and gave them a massive pull. ‘Madam, pretend we have never met.’
Once more, Number 67 saw the hurried departure of a rejected lord. Once more, Annabelle and Sarah scurried upstairs to nurse their rage and burning cheeks.
‘You see!’ cried Annabelle. ‘You see!’
‘I see,’ said Sarah. ‘Oh, here she comes. Tell her I have lain down with the headache and shall see her later.’
Sarah gloomily listened to the whisperings at the bedroom door until Annabelle came back.
‘And he did propose to her,’ said Sarah in a flat voice.
Annabelle nodded.
‘She has done it again,’ said Sarah. ‘Anyone who might love us is ruthlessly snatched from us, and she stands there with her eyes full of tears, looking as if butter would not melt in her mouth, and says she had nothing to do with it. Isn’t that the way of it?’
‘She was sore distressed – or appeared so,’ said Annabelle. ‘But she did not accept him either.’
Sarah rang the bell and when Emily appeared she said, ‘Fetch us champagne.’
‘I may wish you well, my ladies?’ asked Emily.
‘No, you may not wish us well,’ said Sarah. ‘We are in need of a restorative. Our dear godmother received proposals from our beaux all right, but they proposed to her.’
‘I told you, ma’am,’ said Emily hotly. ‘She is not to be trusted.
‘Get along with you,’ said Sarah wearily. When Emily had left, Sarah muttered, ‘I would like to kill Harriet.’
‘Why don’t we get Emily to spread some gossip after all?’ said Annabelle. ‘All we need to do is tell the truth. She did set out to steal Papa’s affections away. She did!’
‘Did she?’ said Sarah. ‘Do you know, Sis, perhaps what makes Harriet such a formidable rival is that she never does mean any wrong. She did not do anything with Huntingdon and Vere other than run around trying to push them into our arms.’
Wicked Godmother Page 11
