The Indomitable Miss Harris

by Amanda Scott

  Nevertheless, the tasty brew did its work. By the time Ellen tucked her into her bed, Gillian felt as though she were floating, Thoughts of Landover and his probable lectures wafted through her mind but had no substance, nothing to make them stick. There was a vague thought that it was only fair, since Princess Charlotte would have to reap the consequences of her actions, that she, Gillian, must do likewise. The thoughts jumbled until she fancied herself a princess marching up to the Prince Regent to tell him quite rudely that he ought to go soak his head. But the Regent most unfortunately had Landover’s face and was brandishing a thick birch rod while he threatened to send her immediately home to Sussex. Then the birch rod disintegrated, to be replaced by a glass of bubbling champagne, and she thought, How magical. He can do anything. Landover lifted his glass in a toasting gesture and winked at her, smiling, before he faded away into a gray fog.

  There were other dreams or wisps of dreams, but morning came soon enough in a blaze of sunlight that lit up the room. Gillian opened her eyes carefully, half expecting to feel the effects of the peppermint brandy. But there was nothing. She stretched, much as a lazy cat might stretch, beginning with her toes and working up to arms, hands, and fingertips. Then she wriggled back into her pillows and adjusted the down comforter to wait for her morning chocolate. Bet entered a few moments later, bidding her a cheerful good morning.

  “Good morning, indeed. It looks glorious outside.”

  “Looks like bein’ a scorcher, miss,” replied the maid. “Summer’s settin’ in like as not. All the nobs’ll be leavin’ town soon, I’m thinkin’.”

  “Right after the Vauxhall fete,” Gillian replied. “The Prince Regent intends to leave for Brighton the day after, and I imagine a good many of us will soon follow.”

  “Aye, his lordship has a house on the Marine Parade, don’t ’e, so he’ll be goin’, like as not.” Bet set the tray across Gillian’s knees, then helped plump a rebellious pillow into place. “Will that be all, Miss Gillian?”

  “Yes, I think so, Bet. Has the early post come yet?”

  “Yes, miss, but his lordship said he wanted to look it over. Just took the whole lot into the study afore it was sorted.”

  “His lordship is up already?”

  “Indeed, miss. Been for a ride in the park ’n’ all. Don’t know how ’e does it neither. Jeremy said ’e didn’t be gettin’ home till after four. Looks well though, I’ll give ’im that. A bit smudgy under the eyes, perhaps, but chipper enough for all that.”

  “Thank you, Bet,” Gillian said dismissively. The girl bobbed a curtsy and departed, not the least offended by the tone. Gillian stared at her empty cup for a moment, then lifted the silver pot to pour out. So Landover was chipper, was he? The thought was a confusing one. She had expected him to be in the devil’s own temper, crying for her blood, and determined to hustle her off to Sussex. Her curiosity well aroused, she swallowed her chocolate quickly, then rang for Ellen to help her dress. A short time later, elegantly attired in cherry-sprigged muslin with a cherry satin sash and matching sandals, her long, soft curls tied back with a red ribbon high at the back of her head, she tripped briskly downstairs, subduing trepidation as she approached his sanctum.

  The footman Jeremy saw her coming and sprang to open the doors for her. Landover looked up from his desk. He smiled.

  “Come in, Miss Harris. Sit down.”

  “I thought you might wish to speak with me, sir,” she said, outwardly calm but spinning inside at the thought of what might lie ahead.

  “You did, did you?”

  “Yes, sir.” She sat in one of the Kent chairs, arranging her skirts with special care. “I … I expect you might have a thing or two to say about last night, my lord. I should prefer to have the matter behind us as quickly as possible.”

  “I see.” He watched her carefully for a full minute. She shifted uncomfortably, looking down at her hands, then forced herself to meet his gaze, wondering if he meant for her to say more than she had already said.

  “Gillian,” he said softly, “are you afraid of me?”

  Her eyes flew wide. “Afraid of you?”

  “Yes. Are you?”

  “No, my lord,” she replied firmly. “Of course not.” He was silent, and she licked her lips nervously. Was she afraid of him? The answer came quickly, and she looked back at him directly, more sure of herself now. “I am not afraid of you, Landover, but I confess to a certain amount of fear regarding the action you mean to take. I do not wish to be sent home.”

  “What makes you think I might send you home?”

  His voice was quite gentle. Was he toying with her? Why would he do such a thing? Her eyes narrowed as she gazed searchingly into his. “Last night,” she said slowly, “I thought you were furious with me. I expected your wrath to descend this morning.”

  “Why? What did you do that was wrong?”

  Gillian sighed, staring at him, wondering if he had gone demented on her or if he was merely playing some stupid game. Her expression seemed to amuse him, which only made matters worse. “Do you expect me to condemn myself out of my own mouth, Landover? ’Tis simple enough, I should think. You forbade me to mix in her highness’s affairs, but I did exactly that, and I am afraid I should not hesitate to do it again under similar circumstances.”

  “And for that you expected me to punish you?” She nodded, watching him warily. He shook his head, smiling, then got to his feet and walked toward her. It was clearly a game, a game of cat and mouse. Her tension mounted as he neared her. He reached down and, taking both her arms, gently pulled her to her feet. His touch was electrifying. She trembled. “Gillian, sweet Gillian,” he said quietly, “it is true that you disobeyed me, but I cannot think—all things considered—how you might have done otherwise. What you did was done out of friendship, and you wrong me deeply if you think I would condemn the sort of friendship you have given to her highness. Such a gift is a precious thing, not given lightly. If I was angry last night—and I cannot deny it—it was anger directed at the situation, at the Regent if anger must be directed toward a person. Not at you.”

  “But you were seething when you put me in the coach,” she protested, looking up at him, her face flushed at his nearness, too conscious of his hands on her bare arms to be able to think clearly. But he had been angry, and it was difficult to believe that that anger had not been aimed at her.

  “I was furious,” Landover admitted, “too furious to trust what I might say to you, which is why I couldn’t discuss the matter then. But I was infuriated by my own helplessness,” he added, and there was a sound of anger mounting again even as he spoke. She cocked her head in puzzlement.

  “I thought you managed things rather neatly.”

  “To be sure. After the damage had been done.”

  “Damage! What damage?”

  “Your friendship, my dear. That precious, open friendship. It is as good as ended now.”

  “No! You cannot!”

  Landover drew closer despite her attempts to pull away from him. “Gently, child.” His voice was a caress, and she relaxed, trembling in his grasp. His arms slid around her shoulders. “’Tis none of my doing,” he muttered, “but ’tis a fact nonetheless. Prinny knows that Charlotte fled here first and thence to her mother. He will no doubt draw the logical conclusion, simply because he will prefer to pretend that Charlotte would never have thought to turn to her mother without outside influence—namely yours. I wish it had never happened, Gillian, but it did.”

  “You think I should have turned her from the door,” she accused.

  “Don’t be daft. Of course I don’t. You could have done nothing other than what you did do. You might have done better to have sent for me instead of accompanying her highness personally to Connaught House,” he added honestly, “but I quite understand why you didn’t feel that you could do that. And that is my fault. I should have made it clear much earlier that you can trust me.”

  Suddenly, she could think of nothing to say. She was con
scious only of his compassion, of a desire to nestle her head against that broad chest, to insist that of course she trusted him. Without warning, tears welled up into her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. Landover shook his head ruefully and held her away only long enough to dislodge a large linen handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and hand it to her. Then he pulled her close again.

  “Poor Gillian. It has all been rather tempestuous, has it not?” She nodded miserably, and he bent her head against his chest again, holding her, letting her cry. “It isn’t over yet, either,” he added when her sobs diminished. “Prinny will very likely give you the cut direct. I don’t imagine it will hurt your social standing much. Not when folks hear the whole tale. But things could be a mite uncomfortable. No more invitations to Carlton House for you, I’m afraid.”

  Gillian blew her nose, then looked up at him, tears still sparkling on her lashes. “What about you, Landover? Will he cut you, too?”

  He chuckled. “Not likely, I’m afraid. He may glower a bit and fume. He may even tear a strip or two off me for my insolence, for involving myself. But he does know I sent her back, and sooner or later there will be a treasure he covets desperately. I may be in the shade for a short while, but I shall come about.” He paused, watching her, then smiled. “Would you like to hear what happened after you left? It makes excellent entertainment, I promise you.”

  She nodded with a watery sniff. “If you please, sir.”

  The smile widened to a grin. “I please. But I think you should sit down. I recommend the settee, however, in case your spirits need further support. Come.” And he led her gently to a settee in the corner away from the desk. Gillian made no protest when he sat beside her, his arm still around her shoulders. It seemed only natural to snuggle against him while she listened.

  “You’ve never seen such a commotion,” he began. “Not only did Brougham, the Duke of York, and the Lord Chancellor arrive, but also Mercer Elphinstone—one of Charlotte’s previous ladies, you know—as well as the Bishop of Salisbury and the Duke of Sussex!”

  “Did the princess not tell them she had decided to return?”

  “Not a bit of it,” Landover chuckled. “I think her highness enjoyed herself hugely. It isn’t often she gets a chance to be the center of attraction, after all. She kicked and bounced as though she meant to dig in her heels and defy them all, and when Brougham informed her that she would be obliged to entertain the lot of them until she capitulated, she only grinned at him and, going on as she had begun, ordered her servants to serve them all dinner.”

  “She didn’t!” Gillian sat up straighter and stared at him in disbelief.

  “She did indeed, and when dinner was served, she practically commanded them to eat it.”

  “And did they?” Her eyes began to twinkle.

  He nodded. “To humor her they sat whilst she played hostess. She drank wine with her baldheaded uncles, chattered, cracked jokes, and laughed with all of them. I daresay she’s had few happier moments.” He paused, then added musingly, “She was like a bird set loose from a cage. Brougham said that, and it was as apt a description as anyone could give. Her spirits were absolutely soaring.”

  “I daresay she had her wings clipped soon enough, though.”

  Landover grimaced. “Very true. It was Sussex—cautious, kindly Sussex—who asked Brougham whether or not they could legally resist if the Regent made an attempt to carry Charlotte off by force. They couldn’t, of course. So Sussex, in that fussy way of his, advised her to return with as much speed and as little noise as possible.”

  “Is that when she told them she had already decided to do so?”

  “Not then. There was a good deal more fuss and bother, with her mother supporting the others in no uncertain terms. But there was method in Charlotte’s stubbornness. When she agreed at last to go, it was only on the condition that Brougham would draw up a formal declaration of her refusal to marry the Prince of Orange. Then she made him promise to see it published immediately upon the announcement of any such marriage, so that her people might know she had been forced against her will. The declaration was written on the spot and signed with all of us as witnesses.”

  “How … how brave of her,” Gillian whispered.

  “Brave indeed. Prinny will have her head for it. I must say I felt sorry for her when she climbed into that coach with Brougham and Miss Elphinstone. She looked for all the world as though she were climbing into a tumbrel, on her way to face the guillotine.”

  “Do you think his highness really thrashed her?”

  Landover shrugged. “I’m sure he was angry enough, and he’s certainly capable of it, but I daresay a thrashing is the least of her worries.”

  “What else?”

  “There’s no saying. Prinny’s capable of nearly anything when it comes to either his wife or daughter.”

  “I think he’s hateful.”

  “I daresay. I’ve certainly heard you voice that opinion upon more than one occasion.” He stood up and pulled her to her feet. “But don’t let me hear you say so again anywhere but here, if you please. You are in enough trouble with his highness without that. Have you made plans for this afternoon?”

  She shook her head, surprised by the abrupt change of subject.

  “Well, see if your Cousin Amelia would fancy a trip to Hampton Court. I’ve a mind to try my luck with the maze, and it isn’t nearly so much fun if one is alone.”

  XIV

  “THE THING IS BEING buzzed all over town,” Sir Avery said at the dinner table several nights later, “and all are against the Regent, of course.”

  “Never had a princess so many champions,” smiled Mrs. Periwinkle, “and everyone behaves as though her punishment were totally unmerited.”

  “Well, I certainly think he was unnaturally harsh,” said Gillian.

  “Don’t believe half of what you hear,” advised her brother loftily. “I, for one, prefer the stuff one reads. The broadsides have been positively merciless to his highness. And the comic prints! Well, I ask you.”

  “They are dreadful,” said Gillian flatly.

  “Do you truly think so? I find them amusing. Particularly the one I saw today by that George Cruikshank fellow. ’Tis entitled ‘The Regent Kicking up a Row,’ or ‘Warwick House in an Uproar,’ and shows Prinny flourishing a thick birch rod whilst Charlotte runs shrieking off to Mama. The faces are especially good, I thought. Poor Miss Knight is kicking her heels on the floor, whilst the other ladies are falling all over one another in their haste to get out of harm’s way, and the Bishop of Salisbury is exchanging absurdities with John Bull in the background. Dashed amusing!”

  “I doubt her highness finds such things at all amusing, Avery,” Gillian retorted angrily. But he only grinned at her and demanded to know if the other two at the dinner table did not find the news sheets entertaining. Neither one deigned to answer him directly, but Mrs. Periwinkle reminded Gillian that there are more flies to be caught with honey than with vinegar.

  “’Tis a point our dear princess seems never to have learned,” she added. “Only look how she dragged her poor Sussex into the matter, a move that can only have been calculated to turn the Regent’s fury in a new direction.”

  Landover was the only one who had given no opinion regarding the public furor over the Princess Charlotte’s flight and the consequent penalties. As Gillian’s gaze met his now, his expression seemed to be a mixture of sympathy and mild amusement. She glared back at him, then angrily attacked the roast squab on her plate.

  Perhaps, she thought, it was a bit unfair of Charlotte to have dragged the gentle Duke of Sussex into the mess, but what else could she have done? After a few no doubt miserable days’ solitary confinement at Carlton House, the Regent had sent her to Cranbourne Lodge in the charge of the four grim ladies who had replaced her own beloved attendants.

  A small silence had followed Mrs. Periwinkle’s observation, but Gillian broke it now, declaring indignantly, “They say she is watched day and night, that
her desk is rifled, her letters intercepted, that she is not allowed to write letters herself or have friends to visit. Why, ’tis even said she had to steal the very paper and pencil she used to write his grace of Sussex.”

  “A letter full of piteous complaints of her ill treatment,” observed Landover, speaking for the first time, his tone ironic. “Does that sound like the princess you know?”

  Gillian gave the matter some thought. “Perhaps not,” she admitted, “but it seems to have answered the purpose well enough, and that must count for something.”

  “So you presume to know her purpose,” he replied, watching her carefully. “I confess that I do not. I know only that the duke, poor fellow, hastened straight off to the House of Lords burning with righteous indignation and clutching his list of questions.”

  “There is nothing wrong with asking a few pertinent questions, Landover,” Mrs. Periwinkle pointed out briskly. “’Tis how one learns to tell a hawk from a handsaw, after all. And her people have a right to know whether their crown princess is being held prisoner or not.”

  “And whether her physician ordered sea air for her health?” chuckled Sir Avery. Gillian shot him a withering look, but Mrs. Periwinkle acknowledged the relevance of the remark with a small nod of accord.

  “That was indeed carrying things a bit far,” she agreed, “for how can her physician have made any such recommendation if she has been held incommunicado, as it were?”

  “Just so,” replied Sir Avery, still grinning. “But the Prime Minister squashed old Sussex flat, you know, saying there were certain ‘disagreeable implications’ in his questions. What a phrase! But it sent the duke about his business quick enough. And now the precious news sheets are full of Princess Charlotte’s daily rides in Windsor Park and the visits paid by Mercer Elphinstone and the rest of her dearest friends, so I for one think the whole affair has been little more than a hum from the outset.”