The Affairs of Harriet Walters, Spinster

by Cathy Spencer

  “You used to have a pleasant voice when you were a boy, Steven,” his father said.

  “Do you remember singing a duet with me two Christmases ago, Father?”

  “I do, and we weren’t too bad, as I recall.”

  “Oh, do sing it again,” Diane said. “Harriet hasn’t had a chance to hear you sing together.”

  “I will if you will, Father,” Steven said.

  The two men conferred with Mr. O’Malley. Standing side-by-side, they sang an Oxford school song popular with Edward’s generation. The song was slightly ribald, and drew laughter from their audience.

  The party wore on with an easy flow of food, drink, and laughter, everyone at their ease and enjoying themselves. Diane was called upon to sing, as was Bell, but Abigail flatly refused. As a penalty, she was asked to dance a jig instead, and was still protesting when Harold jumped up and pulled her to her feet. He took her hands and they danced together, the fiddler playing so spiritedly that the pins fell out of Abigail’s hair. It took Harold several moments to recover them all after the dance was finished.

  “Whoosh,” he panted, “I’ve been studying too hard and not getting enough exercise.”

  “Be careful, Gwinn. The ladies will not admire you if you lose your figure. A handsome doctor is a prosperous doctor,” Bell said.

  “I think that the most Harold can aspire to is distinguished,” Steven retorted to a bellow of laughter from the company. Abigail protested that Harold was quite the most handsome man of her acquaintance, which drew guffaws from the men and a comment that love must truly be blind.

  Harriet sat on a cushion with her back braced against the rail, enjoying the sun on her face and the breeze stirring her skirts. She laughed at the others’ antics and appreciated the singing, particularly Mr. Bell’s. He sang an old folk tune of her father's quite effectively, his eyes closed and his head resting on the back of his chair. Her complaisance was disturbed, however, when Diane suggested that Harriet should take a turn performing.

  “Oh no, I couldn’t,” Harriet said, the heat rising in her face. It was difficult enough to sing with a pianoforte to hide behind, but singing in such an exposed, casual manner would be torture.

  “Come now, Harriet, everyone else has sung for his supper,” Diane said. “All but Abigail. Or would you prefer to dance a jig?” Harriet couldn’t do that either, however. How ridiculous she would look bobbing up and down with everyone staring at her. Mr. O’Malley drew his bow across the strings to make a rude, raucous noise that made Diane and Edward laugh.

  From where he was sitting, Bell said, “Miss Walters shall not dance a jig. Jigs are for farmers and peasants.” Harold and Abigail exchanged an amused look at this remark. “No, Miss Walters is a lady and shall dance something more elegant – and with a partner. Will you, Miss Walters?” Bell rose to his feet and extended a hand. He smiled, and Harriet saw that his suggestion was meant as a kindness to save her the embarrassment of dancing alone.

  She summoned up all of her courage to say, “Yes, Mr. Bell. Shall we waltz again?” Taking his hand, she placed her other hand upon his shoulder while the others stared. The servants hastily pushed back the chairs to make an impromptu dance floor, and Mr. O’Malley began playing a melody with a waltz tempo. Harriet felt self-conscious with all eyes upon them, but Bell whispered, “Just look at me, Miss Walters,” before taking her in his arms and sweeping her onto the floor.

  It did not take long to regain the rhythm they had found together at the ball, and Harriet forgot the others to enjoy the pleasure of the dance. At first she kept her eyes upon Bell’s, but as her confidence grew, she closed them. It felt as if they were flying through space together, swooping and turning like birds. She could feel his firm hand guiding her, and felt ready to follow anything in his arms as he drew her into more complicated patterns.

  Finally, Mr. O’Malley drew out the song’s last sweet notes, and they slowed to a stop. Harriet opened her eyes, and Bell said, “Well done, Miss Walters!” They smiled at each other as even the deckhands broke into enthusiastic applause.

  Harriet became aware of Abigail at her side. “Miss Walters, you looked so wonderful,” her friend said. “Mr. O’Malley, may we have another waltz? Harold and I would like to try.”

  Edward and Diane also joined in, and soon all three couples were waltzing with varying degrees of proficiency. Steven even tried to coax the house maid onto the floor, but she shook her head and hung back, and he was forced to cut in on his mother. When Mr. O’Malley had exhausted his repertoire of waltzes, he broke into a lively jig, and Bell led Harriet back to the chairs for a rest. Symonds came forward to offer wine to the two thirsty dancers. When the butler left, Bell clinked his glass against Harriet’s.

  “To the pleasure of dance.”

  “To dance,” she agreed.

  Harriet took a swallow of wine while Bell studied her. “You look happy and at peace today.”

  Harriet nodded as she stretched her legs out in front of her. Lifting her face into the wind, she smiled. “I feel very content.”

  “Good, I’m glad. Dancing makes me happy, too.”

  Harriet looked at him. “And yet, I have never felt this kind of pleasure in dance before.”

  “I could try to claim credit by saying that it was due to your partner, but I believe that waltzing has a freedom and spontaneity that country dancing lacks.”

  “I agree with you, sir. Everything else feels so prescribed upon the dance floor.”

  “Not just there, Miss Walters, but in life in general. Sometimes I feel so caged in the city.” He studied her. “Do you ride, my dear?”

  “I often rode in the country.”

  “What would you say to a ride in Hyde Park? It would give us another small taste of freedom.”

  “On horseback?”

  He laughed. “Yes. You on your horse and me on mine.”

  “I would enjoy that.”

  “Good. Will tomorrow suit?”

  “Yes,” she agreed impetuously. “At what time?”

  “Not too ungodly early, if you please. Shall we say two o’clock?”

  “It may be too warm by then. What would you say to nine o’clock?”

  Bell groaned. “I’m not usually out of bed by then.”

  “Why ever not? It’s so much fresher in the morning.”

  “But I’m not usually abed until two or three in the morning.”

  “Then make an early night of it tonight. How can you not feel sleepy after all this fresh air and exercise?

  Bell gazed at her with laughter in his eyes. “Eleven o’clock, then.”

  “Ten, and don’t be late like you were today.”

  “Fine, little Miss Dictator. That shall be your new name for now.” Harriet sat back, delighted to have won the skirmish.

  Bell turned to watch the others dancing. “We are much more accomplished than they, don’t you think?”

  “Much,” Harriet said with satisfaction.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Bell was merely a half hour late when he called for Harriet the following morning. He declined the butler’s invitation to wait inside, and was astride his horse when Harriet greeted him. Diane had insisted that she purchase riding clothes for just such an occasion, so Harriet was properly outfitted in habit, boots, gloves, and hat. She forgot to scold the gentleman for his tardiness when she beheld his horse, a tall, dappled-gray gelding with magnificent musculature.

  “Oh, Mr. Bell, what a beautiful animal,” she exclaimed. She hurried down the front stairs while Bell patted the horse’s shoulder.

  “Yes, I am fond of the creature. We’ve been together for two years, now. I call him ‘Onion.’”

  “‘Onion?’ What a peculiar name,” Harriet said, running her hand down the animal’s flank. The horse turned to look at her over his shoulder.

  “Yes, he has a peculiar appetite, too. His real name is ‘Hephaestus’ Hammer.’ Rather a difficult name to say, wouldn’t you agree? Wouldn’t people snigger if t
hey heard me say, ‘Get up, Hephaestus’ Hammer.’ You like ‘Onion’ better, don’t you boy?” The horse snorted and bobbed his head.

  “How clever! It’s as if he knew what you were saying.”

  “I’m sure that he does. One of us has to be intelligent enough to get me home at the end of the night. What about your mount?”

  Harriet turned to a rangy chestnut mare waiting with one of the stable boys. “Steven tells me that her name is ‘Cinnamon.’ This is my first time up on her.” Harriet handed her crop to the stable boy, who helped her to mount. The animal nickered softly as Harriet scratched her withers. “Anything I should know about her before we leave?” she asked the stable boy.

  “She’s steady, Miss, but a real goer if you ask her. She’s got heart.”

  “Excellent. I’m sure that we shall get along well. Shall we go, sir?”

  Bell nodded and set off at a leisurely pace down the street with Harriet following. They refrained from conversation until turning into the park, where they could ride side-by-side.

  “Shall we head to Rotten Row for a gallop?” Bell asked.

  “Yes, please.”

  “I know that you are a country woman, Miss Walters. I’ve heard a little of your history from Diane, but I should like to know more. Tell me about your childhood.”

  Harriet spent the next half hour talking about her childhood and how she had come to live with her aunt in Rexton. She also described her friendship with Mrs. Evans, and the peculiar way in which she had become an heiress. Bell listened quietly with his attention entirely focused upon his companion.

  “I did not give you credit for your courage, Miss Walters. You left your home and everyone you loved to live with an aunt in a place you hardly knew. And here you are in London with people you did not know even a year ago. You have had adventures.”

  “Yes, and they have changed me. I am not the same person I was a year ago.”

  “How so?”

  Harriet gestured impatiently. “I was a mouse – a crab – scuttling away to hide whenever people took notice of me. I had so many fears, and I’m struggling with them still, but at least I put myself forward a little more now. But enough about me. Tell me about yourself, Mr. Bell.”

  “Talking about myself is not one of my favourite pastimes.”

  “But I would like to know you better. Where did you grow up, for example?”

  “On a country estate in Gloucestershire.”

  “Not so very far from my Somerset. You were a country lad, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Brothers and sisters?”

  “Two older brothers and three sisters.

  “Are your parents still alive?”

  “Very much so.”

  “How did you come to live in London?”

  “My family owns a large estate, and I was superfluous with two older brothers content to help run things. I was pretty much left to my own amusement when I was a boy, and got into several scrapes. My father decided that I should soldier ‒ teach me some discipline, don’t you know ‒ so he purchased me a commission in the cavalry. I served with them for five years and fought against the French, but found army life dull when we were not actively engaged. After an indiscretion with a general’s wife, I sold my commission and came back to London. I’ve been here ever since – four years, now.”

  “Do you ever see your family anymore, Mr. Bell?”

  “Sometimes. I was home fourteen months ago for a visit. Mother sends for me whenever she’s feeling sentimental. I may be the black sheep of the family, but not to the point of disinheritance. Plus, my grandmother left me an annuity, so I live as I please.”

  “I see,” Harriet said as the horses plodded past some deer grazing on a hill. “I remember that you said something yesterday about feeling confined by the city. Do you ever intend to leave London? Perhaps you could move to a small town, marry, and start a family?”

  “A woman’s solution to all of life’s ills.”

  “Do you find a bachelor’s life so satisfying, then?”

  “Bravo – you’ve hit the nail on the head, Miss Walters. I admit that the bachelor life has begun to pall. All of the little escapades and flirtations are not as diverting as they once were. My only source of excitement these days is gambling. The thought of leaving London and starting fresh somewhere else has crossed my mind. Who knows, maybe I’ll leave England for India, or even the colonies.”

  “That sounds very adventurous, sir.”

  “In that respect we are similar, Miss Walters – just on a different scale.”

  “That’s funny. Miss Pope once said something very similar to me.”

  “Miss Pope is a very independent-minded female. No doubt she’ll have her adventures, too.”

  They arrived at Rotten Row and watched a horseman and carriage driver racing against each other, the carriage horses barrelling after the rider.

  Bell sighed. “It’s too crowded for a really good run. You always have to be on the lookout for some neophyte who can’t control his horse and gets in your way.” He glanced up at the overcast sky. “The wind is rising and the clouds are beginning to threaten. I would not be surprised to see rain before we get you home again.”

  Harriet had been absorbed with their conversation, and unaware of the darkening sky and the wind that caught at her veil and whirled the dust around them. “Perhaps we should set off straightaway, sir?”

  Bell considered her for a moment. “You are a country woman, Miss Walters. Surely you are not afraid of a little rain?”

  Harriet’s eyebrows rose. “I have been drenched before without melting.”

  “Wonderful. You appear to be a good horsewoman.”

  “What are you thinking, Mr. Bell?”

  “Only, shall we race the weather home?” He pointed his crop toward a hill. “I believe that Brook Street lies in that direction.”

  “You mean, race across the park?”

  “Exactly. Let’s get off the drives and head overland. Only yesterday we were talking about freedom, Miss Walters. Would you like to experience a little?”

  Harriet studied the lay of the park, and then smiled at her companion. “I’m an excellent horsewoman, and the stable boy said that my mount has some ‘go’. I‘ve never raced the weather before, but I should like to try. Lead the way, sir.”

  Bell grinned, saluted Harriet with his crop, and whirled Onion about. “Hi, Onion. Get up!” he shouted, digging his heels into the animal’s sides. Harriet laughed and dashed after him on Cinnamon.

  Bell’s gelding was big and strong, and pulled away from the mare, but she didn’t like being left behind. Soon Harriet was galloping neck and neck with Bell, the horses thundering across the grass and flinging up clumps of sod. A bolt of lightning forked across the horizon, followed seconds later by the rumble of distant thunder. Bell paused on a hill to get his bearings before pointing to the east and tearing off again, Harriet at his heels.

  They raced across the park, dodging carriages and pedestrians wherever their route intersected a pathway. Bell was a fearless rider. He splashed through creeks, jumped hedges, swerved around trees and statuary, and barrelled through a herd of cows. Harriet did not know the park and had to react quickly, but she was equal to the task. Bent over her horse’s neck with the veil pushed back from her face and her skirts flying, Harriet urged Cinnamon forward. Just as the entrance to the park came into view, the storm broke and rain came pelting down. Bell and Harriet had to slacken their pace around the carriages, horsemen, and pedestrians at the park entrance, scurrying to get out of the rain.

  The pair turned into a city street and maintained a steady trot, breaking into a canter wherever the streets straightened and became clear. The wind drove the rain at them, but Harriet felt exhilarated rather than uncomfortable. Riding in the storm was exciting and reckless and unlike anything she had ever done before. At last they reached Brook Street, stopping their steaming horses in the driveway before the Fitzwilliams’ door.

 
Bell turned in the saddle and called, “That was a capital ride, Miss Walters.” Staring at each other, they burst into laughter. Both were sodden and mud-splashed, rain dripping from their pink faces. Bell jumped down from his horse and tied the animals to the railing. He ran over to Harriet and held up his arms. She kicked her feet free from the stirrups, grasped the gentleman’s shoulders, and was dragged from the saddle. Once she was on the ground, Bell put an arm around her shoulders and they ran to the front door. The gentleman pounded on it with his fist, Symonds opening it moments later. They laughed at the startled expression upon his face, Bell pushing past the butler, and dragging Harriet with him.

  “Have someone look after our horses, will you Symonds?” Bell said. “They have been ridden hard and are soaking wet, just like us. Is Diane anywhere about?”

  “Yes, sir, she’s in the morning room.”

  “Don’t worry about us, Symonds – we know the way,” he called over his shoulder. The butler stared opened-mouthed as Harriet and Bell staggered down the hallway, leaving a muddy trail in their wake. Bell pushed open the morning room door and they paused, dripping, on the threshold. Diane jumped up from her writing desk at the unexpected interruption.

  “Good heavens, what's happened to you two?” she exclaimed.

  Harriet and Bell giggled, Harriet collapsing against her companion. “You’ll have to forgive the mess we’re making on your carpet, Diane,” he said. “We were out riding and got caught in the storm.”

  “I can see that, you goose. You’re both drenched.” She went to the bell rope and summoned help.

  “You won’t get Symonds. He’s having the horses looked after,” Bell said. One of the maids came hurrying into the room.

  “Don’t worry about me, Diane,” Harriet said, tugging her hat from its pins, her hair a straggly mess around her shoulders. “I’ll run upstairs and change my clothes.” She patted Bell’s arm and said, “I’ll see you in a little while,” before turning into the hall. He grabbed her hand and gave it a kiss, and she smiled at him over her shoulder before turning away.