by Lily George
Harriet shook her head. “I am needed here—I cannot be spared. I only learned about the journey yesterday, and Mama told me I could not go.”
Sophie jumped up from her chair, pacing the room. “Oh, but you must! It would be a wonderful experience for you, Harriet. Such a nice change of scene. And you might be able to finish your book, if you were away from home and all of your usual responsibilities.”
Harriet regarded her sister closely. “You aren’t jealous? You should be the one going, not me. And I do have so much to do here—”
“I’m not jealous.” Sophie smiled at Harriet. “I shall get to see Bath often, if I choose to marry the captain. And I couldn’t go along now, before we are engaged. It might cause talk. But if you were to go, it would be quite proper. Captain Brookes isn’t your intended, after all. And you could finally finish your book, without the task of caring for Mama at the same time.”
Harriet sank down into a chair. She held no envy for Sophie’s supposed future—or at least she told herself she was not jealous. Sophie’s words made sense. She could finish the book if she could leave home duties aside for a few weeks. Still, she resisted. “I haven’t a proper wardrobe.”
Sophie grasped Harriet’s shoulders, smiling and giving her a little shake. “For goodness’ sake, you can borrow some of my made-over dresses. Who cares about your appearance? You’ll be scribbling away on your book, or helping Mrs. Crossley as her companion. It’s not as though you are making your debut.”
“True.” Harriet sighed. Of course no one would care what she looked like. “Even so, I doubt very much Mama will change her mind, no matter what Mrs. Crossley says.”
A footstep sounded in the doorway. “Depend upon it, my dear, I can be most persuasive.” Mrs. Crossley beamed as she stepped into the room. “Begin packing your trunk, Harriet. We will leave in two days’ time.”
Chapter Eighteen
Harriet turned away from the carriage window and faced Mrs. Crossley, who had snoozed for the better part of an hour. During this restful part of the journey, Harriet pondered over how she was able to make the journey. She shook her head in disbelief. The mystery of how Mrs. Crossley convinced Mama to let her come on this trip still remained. After a terse command to Harriet to begin packing her trunk, Mama remained silent on the subject. When Harriet left, her mother simply presented her left cheek for a kiss, with no words of farewell. The coldness of the gesture stung, but Harriet learned to take her mother’s temper with a grain of salt. She could ask Mrs. Crossley about the discussion, but shied from the prospect. It did not matter what caused this to happen, anyway. It was enough that she was here.
She glanced back out of the window. Brookes rode alongside the carriage, Stoames trailing a few paces behind. Both usually did so, unless the weather turned nasty or Brookes’s leg troubled him. The arrangement caused Harriet mixed feelings of relief and disappointment. She missed his company but things were better this way. Every moment spent with him meant another moment in which she fell deeper in love. Since his engagement to Sophie loomed in the near future, it would be foolish indeed to build up her regard only to break her own heart in a matter of weeks.
Mrs. Crossley awoke with a little snort. “So sorry, my dear.” She yawned, stretching her thin arms into the air. “The swaying of the carriage always lulls me to sleep.”
“It’s all right. I was mulling things over in my mind.” Harriet yawned in response and smiled. “Though I feel a bit tired as well.”
“I’m so glad you got to make this journey with me. How bored I would be without you here. Although I imagine I am boring you with my endless naps. Never mind. Now that I am awake, we can have a nice chat.” Mrs. Crossley opened her reticule and pulled out a tiny round tin. “Have a sweet.”
Harriet selected a sweetmeat, savoring the raspberry flavor that melted on her tongue. “Thank you, Mrs. Crossley.”
“Oh, my dear, call me Aunt Katherine. Everyone does. I’m liable to forget whom you’re addressing, if you call me Mrs. So and So.” She popped a sweetmeat in her mouth and settled back against the cushions with a purposeful air. “Now, then, let’s gabble. I want to talk about John.”
Harriet’s heart leaped into her throat. The deception was over. Aunt Katherine guessed her true feelings, and was preparing to put Harriet on her guard. She knew it. Her love for John Brookes was apparent to everyone who saw her. “Yes?” She must remain alert and wary.
“I think what you are doing with John is marvelous, and I wanted to tell you so. Keep up the good work, my girl.”
“Good work? Do you mean the book?” Harriet tilted her head and regarded the old woman, keeping her own features bland. Perhaps her secret was safe for the time being.
“Well, I think the book was an excellent start to get Brookes going in the right direction. But I was talking more specifically about his faith. I overheard a little of what you told Brookes the other day, when he told you about Waterloo.” Despite her best effort, Harriet’s eyebrows shot up, causing Aunt Katherine to giggle. “Don’t worry, my dear. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but I awoke in time to hear you discussing your faith, and I didn’t want to intrude on a private moment. So I kept still until you left.”
Harriet closed her eyes, willing the blush creeping over her face to vanish. Surely Aunt Katherine saw her leaning against John. Her actions were most improper, and Auntie probably meant to take her to task—most kindly, of course.
“My dear, I understand why John lost faith. And I know that you have suffered, too. Not that anyone has told me anything—John isn’t the type to gossip. But it seems that suffering can make us grow, or imprison us in perpetual bitterness. It seems to me that your devotion has deepened in adversity. I am sure you are opening John’s heart by sharing your beliefs.” Aunt Katherine leaned forward and pressed her hand over Harriet’s, giving her a warm smile.
Harriet took a deep breath to steady her racing pulse. “I have experienced some unpleasant things in my life, Aunt Katherine. But enduring the loss of Handley Hall and the death of my father seems very slight indeed compared to what John has borne. I was not trying to pander to him, but rather, offer some small comfort.”
“I understand, my dear. And I think that we can’t compare our troubles to someone else’s lot in life. What seems an insurmountable obstacle to you might seem nothing at all to me. If we keep our faith, it will carry us through.” Mrs. Crossley drew her hand back and sank farther into the cushions. “When I was a young girl, newly married to Mr. Crossley, I lost my baby. You know, my dear, it isn’t proper to talk of these things with a young girl, but I feel you are an old soul. I became violently ill after the loss of my child. Truly, I would have died without Mr. Crossley’s love, and without His grace.”
“Oh, Aunt Katherine, that is terrible. I am so sorry.” Harriet crossed the carriage floor to bridge the gap between them. She settled down beside the old woman and turned to face her, clasping her wrinkled old hand in her own.
“Do you know, I am in my seventy-second year, and not a day goes by but that I don’t think of my child.” Tears welled in her dark eyes, dimming their usual spark. She squeezed Harriet’s hand. “Mr. Crossley and I were never able to have another baby. That is why I became so close to John and Henry. They were like my own sons. And I hold John’s happiness most dear. It pains me to see him floundering around, talking like a skeptic.”
Harriet returned the pressure on her hand. “You must have been devastated, Aunt Katherine. I am so sorry. I can only say I am glad your love and faith carried you through.”
The older woman leaned forward, peering into Harriet’s face. “My dear, I make a habit of meddling in John’s affairs. Ask him, and he will be only too happy to agree. But I do feel that this time, I have a special license, so to speak. I want John to be happy. He’s suffered so much. And I think your influence can only bring
about the best results. So I urge you, please continue to speak to John about your beliefs. I have a feeling that you can open his heart, where others might not be able.”
Harriet warmed under Aunt Katherine’s praise and trust, but the enormity of everything the older woman said overwhelmed her. Harriet rested her head against the carriage cushions. “I don’t know what more to do, other than to talk to him, and listen, and finish the book.”
Aunt Katherine released her hand. “Don’t worry, my dear Harriet. I’ve a feeling that’s all John needs.”
Brookes strode down the musty corridor of the inn, thanking his lucky stars that this was the final night they would be staying on the road. The prospect of a luxurious apartment and good food was most appealing. He hated to admit any weakness, but his leg ached from the wearying daily rides. Stoames rode beside him all the way, and for his companionship, Brookes was grateful. He could have chosen to ride in the coach, and sometimes did, but Auntie’s relentless prying got on his nerves. More importantly, every moment he spent with Harriet left him reeling with frustration. He wanted to marry her right away, but he still hadn’t ascertained Harriet’s feelings on the matter. He would not relish the prospect of sitting across from Harriet in a game of whist. She could be holding all the right cards or nothing, and a man could never read her expression.
He entered the supper room, only to find it empty. Harriet and Auntie were still refreshing themselves from the long ride. He spotted a decanter and goblets that appeared clean enough, arranged carelessly on the table. He poured out a glass of watered-down claret. Disgusting, really, the quality of it, but ’twas the best he could hope for until tomorrow. On cue, the innkeeper bustled in, rubbing his hands. If only all these chaps didn’t look the same.
“Well, sir? And what can we bring for you?”
“A light supper, I think, for myself and the two ladies.”
“Very good, sir. We could bring pigeons in a hole.”
Brookes’s stomach churned. Exactly what they had eaten last night. He sighed. “That’ll do.”
“Well, Nephew, what have you bespoken for us to eat? I am famished.” Auntie sailed into the room, holding her hands out to Brookes.
“Same as last night, Auntie. I shall be happy to get to Bath and eat properly again.”
“What? No spirit of adventure? Surely a soldier dines on far worse every night.” Aunt Katherine reached up and tapped his cheek with her forefinger.
“Yes, but I didn’t pay for the privilege. Where’s Harriet?” He poured a glass of water for his aunt, and handed it to her with an overly chivalrous air.
“Here I am.” She stepped into the room, smiling. “Don’t tell me, we’re having pigeons again.”
“Indeed.” He poured another glass of water for Harriet. She was looking particularly lovely, even after the long and dusty journey, in a simple blue dress. Blue suited her best, though he never saw her in a color he didn’t like. “Has the food on this journey lessened your taste for travel?”
“Oh, no. I enjoy traveling very much. If I were home, I would be having potatoes again with the same two people I always dine with. There’s so much more fun in eating pigeons for dinner in inns that look remarkably the same, but are countless miles apart.”
“And the company?” Aunt Katherine demanded, raising her empty goblet for more.
“Most enjoyable, I assure you.” When Harriet made her declaration, a becoming flush stole over her cheeks. Brookes searched her face, trying to read the answer to his question in her eyes. But she kept her glance cast down at the floor. Yes—she would be a formidable card player indeed.
Aunt Katherine set down her fork and leaned back in her chair, yawning openly. “Well, wonderful though that tough pigeon was, I don’t think I will stay for fruit and cheese.”
Harriet looked over the rim of her glass. “Should we retire?” Aunt Katherine did look pale and weary. Perhaps she should help her into bed early.
“No, no, my dear. You stay and enjoy the rest of this rather dubious supper. I am going to read for a while and then have a nice early bedtime. Good night, children.” Aunt Katherine rose from her chair and patted Harriet’s shoulder. Then she crossed over to Brookes and kissed his cheek.
“’Night, Auntie.” He returned the gesture briefly.
When Aunt Katherine quit the room, the air grew still. Harriet had trouble catching her breath. Perhaps if she spoke about the subject weighing heaviest on her mind, it would ease some of her anxiety. “John, I would like to ask a question, if I may.”
He lifted his brows. “Of course.” He poured another glass of wine, downing it in a single swallow.
“Mama believes that the book is a waste of my time and yours. She doesn’t feel that I can write well enough to have the book published. She doesn’t like for me to work. And she feels that my sister’s marriage to you is—” Harriet floundered, trying to think of a delicate way to introduce the subject of money. “—more important.” Well, that sounded weak, but polite.
“Your sister and I are not engaged, Harriet.” The intensity of his gaze seared her. Surely he peered into her very soul. She rose to break the spell—and to protect her privacy.
“Well…I understand that, and I know that you and Sophie are trying to become better acquainted, but Mama has very high hopes that an engagement would be imminent.”
He shrugged his shoulders and sat back in his chair. “What are you trying to say?”
“Would you read my manuscript?” The question ended with a squeak. She cleared her throat awkwardly and grasped the back of her chair for support. “I want your opinion on the matter. If you think it has promise but needs work, I will keep going. But if it doesn’t have a hope, then I would rather hear it from you first. Your opinion means more than anyone else’s.” The words poured out in a torrent of anxiety.
“Why does my opinion mean more?” He lifted one eyebrow.
“Because—you lived it.”
Was that a flinch? Harriet couldn’t tell. Somehow her answer had displeased him.
“Yes.” His voice was quiet and neutral. He toyed with the stem of his empty wineglass.
“You’ll give me your honest opinion? I would rather you be absolutely truthful with me.”
“Would you?” His fingers clasped the wineglass with a sudden tightness, and a little snap sounded through the room. He dusted the shards of glass from his hands with his handkerchief.
Harriet rushed over to his side. “Did you cut yourself?”
“No. Who knew that clunky thing could be so delicate?” He extended his hand to her.
Harriet grasped his rough fingers, a shiver coursing through her at his calloused touch. “Are you all right?” She turned his hand over. No, he hadn’t cut himself. She dropped his hand as though it were on fire, and bit her lip. She must refrain from any physical contact with John. A mere touch was simply…too dangerous. And she couldn’t show her attraction or her confusion.
He nodded, turning one corner of his mouth down with a rueful expression. “Yes. Nothing but wounded pride.”
She nodded and backed away a few steps. “The manuscript’s in my trunk. I’ll go up to bed now, but I’ll leave it outside your room. I would like your honest opinion…”
He gazed at her speculatively. Then he grinned, a devastating smile that sent her heart aflutter. “Harriet, I promise to be completely honest with you in everything from now on.”
Chapter Nineteen
Brookes strolled down the streets of Bath, balancing his umbrella in one hand as he negotiated the crowds of tourists. The foul weather failed to deter the hordes of fashionable people who came to Bath to see and be seen. The rain hadn’t eased for the three days they’d been here. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but the dampness of the summer made his bones ache. Not that he wa
s all that old, of course, but still—it slowed a man down. He would venture to the Pump Room this afternoon and try some of the curative waters. It wouldn’t do to get old and decrepit before his time. After all, he wasn’t even thirty. He must still appear spry to Harriet. Not that he could court her just yet—but still, he desired to appear only virile and strong.
Cantrill had rooms in Westgate Buildings, just around the corner from Aunt Katherine’s flat on Bilbury Lane. ’Twas a mere stroll, even on a wooden leg. Yet Brookes hungered for a rest and a bracing cup of tea—if not something stronger—by the time he knocked on Cantrill’s door.
The door swung open, revealing a thinner and more serious Charlie Cantrill than Brookes remembered. “Greetings, man, it’s good to see you.” Charlie grinned broadly, the somber expression fading as he swung the door open fully to allow Brookes inside. “Come in out of this miserable weather.” His sleeve covered most of his mutilated left arm. How surprising—he was not wearing his artificial limb. Why not?
“Cantrill, good to see you. Sorry to see old Boney couldn’t finish you off.” Brookes left his umbrella in the vestibule and stepped inside, removing his greatcoat.
“Toss your coat over that chair, there, and come in. No, old Boney could only take my arm, and of course he made off with your leg, my good fellow. Let’s have a drink and toast Wellington, our fearless leader.” Cantrill led the way into a small sitting room, where a fire burned cheerily in the grate. “Cognac or scotch?”
“Thank you, Cantrill. I feared you might offer me tea.”
“Well, I myself will have tea. I gave up spirits a long time ago, but keep it around for sinners like yourself,” Charlie rejoined with a wink.
“Really, old man? A teetotaler, are you? Well, this old sinner will have a scotch, if you please, and keep it neat.” He chose a chair near the hearth, and regarded the ease with which his comrade could pour and mix drinks, even with one hand.
