by M C Beaton
She went around to the old pinking shed, which was filled with dead tree trunks that she had dragged into shelter.
“Why did I not think to chop more logs this morning?” muttered Harriet, seizing the axe.
She was chopping away busily when a calm voice behind her said, “Allow me, Miss Harriet.”
Will I ever stop blushing? thought Harriet miserably as the Marquess of Arden’s broad shoulders filled the doorway.
He shrugged himself out of his coat and hung it up on a nail, then took the axe from Harriet’s unresisting fingers.
“I am afraid I had forgotten it was the servants’ day off,” lied Harriet. “Please do not trouble …”
“It is no trouble,” he said, expertly wielding the axe.
Harriet watched with something approaching envy as a neat pile of logs and kindling began to appear before her eyes. She wondered how he kept his hands so white, since he obviously knew how to use an axe, and the thin cambric of his shirt revealed the play of strong muscles in his back.
“There!” He stacked a large basket with logs and kindling and nodded to her to lead the way.
He stopped in the kitchen and looked slowly around. The kettle was singing on the hearth, steam whistling through a hole in its old iron lid. Brightly colored plates, very few of them matching. shone from a Welsh dresser. Aunt Rebecca’s knitting was lying on the kitchen table at one end and a little pile of Harriet’s favorite books was at the other.
“We shall not stay very long, Miss Harriet,” said the marquess. “Perhaps we would all be more comfortable in the kitchen. Your servants do themselves very well.”
But from the glint in his eye, Harriet was well aware that the marquess had not for a moment believed her lie about the servants’ day off.
“I will fetch Aunt,” she said with a little sigh. The marquess was so tall and elegant and carefree that Harriet suddenly envied her sister, Cordelia, from the bottom of her heart. Cordelia belonged to the same world as the marquess, a world of scent and warmth, hot food, well-trained servants, and beautiful clothes.
“Oh, and incidentally, Miss Harriet,” said the marquess. Harriet turned at the door and looked around. “I am notoriously shortsighted and I have quite an appalling memory.”
Harriet looked at him intently, but the hazel eyes were grave and steady. “Thank you,” she said quietly.
When she returned, she was followed by her aunt, Mr. Hudson, and the marquess’s servants, who were bearing a hamper.
“Put it on the table,” said the marquess. “And John, ride to the nearest village and bring back a sweep. Double wages if he comes quickly.” He turned to Aunt Rebecca. “Your drawing-room fire will blaze very merrily once the chimney is unblocked, ma’am.”
“I do not know how to thank you,” said Aunt Rebecca, quite overset. “That a gentleman such as you should see to what straits we …”
“Madam,” said the marquess firmly. “In that hamper are six bottles of the best port. I am going to open and decant one now. We will all feel much warmer after a glass.”
As the marquess decanted the wine. Mr. Hudson, much animated by the warmth and the prospect of a glass of port, began to unpack the rest of the hamper, laying the contents out on the kitchen tables. Harriet gazed in a dazed way at all the luxuries that were appearing out of that seemingly bottomless hamper. There was a Westphalia ham, cakes and biscuits of every description, cold pheasant, and loaves of fresh crusty bread.
“This is rather fun,” announced Mr. Hudson, looking younger and more boyish by the minute. “We shall have a party.”
“That’s the ticket.” The marquess grinned. “Serve the ladies, Bertram.”
The “murdered” hens were hung on a hook in the scullery, and Harriet and Aunt Rebecca settled down to a most enjoyable meal. The party was interrupted at one point by the return of John with the sweep, and Holland covers had to be found to protect the meager furniture in the drawing room.
The marquess talked lightly and easily of the happenings of the day. The newly appointed regent would not enjoy all the power of his father, George III. But he could form a government. He had been expected to favor the Whigs and had startled everyone by coming down on the side of the Tories. This brought him many enemies: the Whigs hating him and the Tories still distrusting him. The regent had become deeply religious—although no one expected it to last—and read a chapter or two of the Bible daily with his favorite mistress, Lady Hereford.
Mellowed by food and wine, Mr. Hudson confessed to ambitions to emulate Lord Byron and read them several of his own poems. Aunt Rebecca assured him that he was much better than Lord Byron, and Harriet, who thought the poems were rather dreadful, nonetheless added her praise, since she was relieved to see that the moody Mr. Hudson had a cheerful side to his character.
At one point, Mr. Hudson showed alarming signs of beginning to ask them why they lived in such poverty, but a warning glance from the marquess silenced him.
Harriet did not mention Cordelia, because, for the first time, she was realizing the full enormity of her sister’s selfishness and did not even want to speak her name.
Aunt Rebecca did not mention Cordelia either, for fear of being snubbed by this magnificent marquess in the way she had been snubbed in church.
More port was drunk to celebrate the relighting of the now-swept drawing-room fire. Seeing a spinet in the corner of the room, Mr. Hudson begged Harriet to sing them a song. The spinet had not been sold because half of the keyboard was stuck down with damp.
Emboldened by the wine, Harriet sang several pretty ballads in a pleasant soprano. Her hair was now dry, and the one pin, which had proved adequate to keep it up on the top of her head when her hair was wet. finally gave way.
Her black hair tumbled down about her shoulders, and with an embarrassed laugh, she tried to put it up again, finally spreading her hands in a gesture of resignation.
The two men stood watching her as she twisted around on the seat of the spinet, the glory of her hair hanging to her waist.
“ ‘Her beauty made the bright world dim, and everything beside seemed like the fleeting image of a shade,’” quoted Mr. Hudson in a half whisper.
“We must take our leave,” said the marquess, his eyes suddenly hooded by his heavy lids. “Make your bow, Bertram.”
Harriet murmured an excuse and fled from the drawing room. In her bedroom, she twisted her hair up into a tight knot and pinned it securely.
When she returned to the hall, both men were taking their leave of Aunt Rebecca, who was telling them the best way to reach the London road.
“Do you come to London, Miss Harriet?” asked Mr. Hudson intensely.
“I am afraid not,” said Harriet.
“Then I shall …”
“Bertram!” The marquess’s voice held a warning. “We are keeping the ladies standing in the cold.”
Mr. Hudson threw his cousin a furious look before turning to make his bow to Harriet and Aunt Rebecca.
The marquess bowed. “Good-bye, Miss Harriet,” he said. “Perhaps we shall meet again.”
“I doubt it,” said Harriet wearily, remembering all the social snubs of the county. This aristocrat had obviously found his visit amusing, but he would not wish to return simply to see two such unfashionable and poverty-stricken ladies.
He looked at her with something like pity, opened his mouth as if to say more, closed it again, put on his curly-brimmed beaver, and followed his young cousin out into the twilight.
Harriet closed the door behind them.
“There is a full moon tonight,” said Aunt Rebecca, “so we need not feel guilty about their staying so late. For a moment, dear Harriet, it was like the old days. Your dear mama loved company, and my poor brother, your papa, always had the house full of young men. It is going to be very hard to return to our old ways after such a holiday. Men are so useful.”
“Money is so useful.” Harriet sighed. “Come back to the kitchen, Aunt. It is too cold in the drawing room
. All the heat still goes right up the chimney, even though it has just been swept. We have all those delicious treats from the hamper to keep us merry for quite some time.”
Aunt Rebecca brightened. “There are even two canisters of tea, one India and one China. I fear the hamper had been given to them by whoever it was they had been staying with. I thought Mr. Hudson was quite taken with you, Harriet.”
“Yes,” agreed Harriet, leading the way to the kitchen. “He had had more than enough to drink. Lord Arden took him away smartish to avoid any embarrassment.”
In the kitchen, they set to work to store away all the groceries and meat. The bottom of the hamper was lined with newspapers.
“They are quite recent,” said Harriet. “Only a month old. A newspaper is a rare luxury. There is half a decanter of port in the drawing room. I will fetch it, and we can toast our toes in front of the fire and find out how the great world is getting along.”
Harriet returned not only with the port but with the blazing remains of the drawing room-fire on a shovel, which she added to the kitchen fire.
“Do read to me,” said Aunt Rebecca. “My poor eyes are too weak.”
Harriet smiled and smoothed out one of the newspapers. “What do you wish to hear about, Aunt Rebecca? The war in the Peninsula? The new regent?”
“No. the social gossip. I want to hear all about the balls and parties and what everyone was wearing.”
“Very well. Good heavens! Here is intelligence of Cordelia. It says: ‘Lady Bentley still shines, although our great metropolis is thin of company. At the opera, she caused more eyes to turn in her direction than Catalini. That famous singer was quite eclipsed by our modish beauty, whose shining hair, dressed à la Titus, outshone the glory of the Bentley diamonds.’”
Harriet slowly lowered the paper. “Do you realize, Aunt,” she said in a thin, little voice, “that just one, just one tiny little Bentley diamond could keep us in modest comfort for quite a long time?”
“Dear, dear, haven’t I often thought so? But you know, Harriet, it does not do to be thinking of such things. That leads to self-pity, and self-pity is such an uncomfortable state of mind, rather like the colic. My delicate nervous system will not stand self-pity or bad thoughts. Is there any gossip?”
“Plenty. Oh, if I am not mistaken, here is Cordelia again, although it refers to her as Lady B. Can the M. of A. be the Marquess of Arden?”
Aunt Rebecca flicked through the pages of the peerage in her mind. “Bound to be,” she said at last. “Depends, of course, what the gossip is about. There is the Marquess of Anstruther, but he is in his dotage—not that that would deter Cordelia.”
“It is all rather nasty,” said Harriet. “No one will ever forgive Cordelia for selling the Bentley estates, and at such a profit. They would rather she had lost them at the gaming tables and then shot herself like a respectable member of the ton. It says here: ‘Can the famous estates of the M. of A. be at risk? As well as his notoriously flinty heart? Rumor hath it that our noble peer is enamored of the fair Lady B., who is well known for her agility in disposing of landed estates. Let us hope that the M. of A. loses only his bachelordom, and not his shirt as well.’”
“Oh, how cruel!”
“I cannot see Cordelia caring what anyone says of her … provided she gets what she wants. Do you think our marquess would be enamored of such as Cordelia?”
“Of course,” said Aunt Rebecca simply. “There was never a man who was not.”
Harriet scowled horribly.’ This one little party, this short intrusion of the fashionable world into her own life, had brought color and magic—and discontent. The long, empty days of cold and hunger stretched ahead. Cordelia had never known what it was to be hungry or cold. She had ruthlessly sold all the best items in Pringle House to supply herself with a wardrobe to dazzle Lord Bentley.
Aunt Rebecca and Harriet had to survive on a tiny annuity. Under the terms of the late Mrs. Clifton’s will. Pringle House could not be sold, or they would forfeit their annuity. Mrs. Clifton had gone to her grave convinced that everything would turn out splendidly for her daughters. Having never handled any money or bills herself, she was sure the annuity would be ample enough to keep the large house and large staff. The clause forbidding the sale of Pringle House had been put there for sentimental reasons. Mrs. Clifton had loved the mansion and wished it to stay in the Clifton family.
“When did we last write to Cordelia?” asked Harriet suddenly.
“On her birthday, last June. We always send her a little present on her birthday.”
“And she did not even bother to reply,” said Harriet grimly, “although that shawl you crocheted took months, and the silks cost us more than we could really afford.” Harriet took a sustaining gulp of port.
The kitchen fire crackled busily as the wind outside began to rise and snowflakes whispered against the windows.
Harriet took a deep breath. “I think, Aunt,” she said, “that we should pay Cordelia a visit.”
“Just what I was thinking,” said Aunt Rebecca calmly, much to Harriet’s surprise, since she had braced herself to face another bout of hysterics. “I was much taken with the Marquess of Arden,” went on Aunt Rebecca, knitting busily. “Such a fine man. And not at all old. About thirty, I should think. The gentlemen, both of them, were attracted to you, dear Harriet.”
“Mr. Hudson was in his altitudes, and the marquess did not favor me at all, although I must allow his manners were of the best,” added Harriet with feeling, remembering how carefully he had kept silent over having seen her naked.
“But he is only one man,” said Aunt Rebecca dreamily. “When the Season comes, London will be full of them just waiting to be picked up, like pebbles.”
“I was not thinking of marriage,” said Harriet. “I was thinking of warmth and comfort and food. If Cordelia thought she did not have to show me to her friends, but simply feed me, I do not think she would mind so much.”
“Our yearly allowance is due next week,” said Aunt Rebecca. “It is not much, and we cannot possibly spend it all or we would have no money for our return. But perhaps we might have enough to purchase two outside seats on the stage.”
“I could sell the hens to Farmer Pennyfeather,” said Harriet, “and leave the keys of the house with the church for safekeeping. It is not as if we have to worry about being robbed. We have nothing left to steal.” She giggled. “Won’t Cordelia be furious!”
“No, no. I am sure her natural good feelings, which have long lain dormant, will come to the surface,” said Aunt Rebecca. “I will write to her tomorrow and apprise her of our coming.”
“No, don’t do that,” said Harriet slowly. “We’ll surprise her.”
“Oh, yes,” said Aunt Rebecca, smiling through a rosy, port-induced mist. “That will be fun!”
Chapter Two
When the next morning dawned, cold and sleety, Aunt Rebecca had become nervous and anxious again. The idea of packing up and journeying to London to throw themselves on Cordelia’s hospitality seemed a terrifying idea in the sober light of day.
Aunt Rebecca pottered miserably and uselessly about the kitchen and then announced she was taking to her bed for the rest of the morning because all the excitement of the day before had badly damaged her nerves.
Harriet was forced to confess to herself that she did not feel very courageous either, but there were the seemingly endless household chores induced by poverty and lack of servants to keep her busy.
It was only when she found herself looking for an old pair of cotton gloves to cover her hands, which she had just anointed in a mixture of bacon grease and lemon juice to reduce their redness, that she realized she was still determined to go to London, and repairing her damaged hands was one little step in that direction.
By early afternoon, wails and shuffling sounds from Aunt Rebecca’s bedroom, which was in the old study off the hall, heralded her second appearance of the day.
Then came the clamor of the door knocke
r.
Harriet ran to answer the door, her heart beating hard.
A liveried servant stood on the steps. “The Marquess of Arden’s compliments,” he said. “Will you deliver this package to Miss Harriet Clifton direct? His lordship said it was most important.”
Harriet realized he took her for the maid, but did not correct him. She could hardly wait until she had regained the kitchen so that she could open the small parcel.
Aunt Rebecca came in as she was tearing off the paper.
“Was that someone at the door, my love?” she asked.
“A servant with this package from the Marquess of Arden,” Harriet told her.
Harriet ripped off the last piece of paper and looked in dismay at a small, square morocco jewel box. He could not possibly be sending her jewelry. Gentlemen did not send jewelry to young misses unless they were members of the Fashionable Impure. Perhaps he thought she was!
She opened the box and lifted out a letter that was lying on top. Underneath, embedded in silk, were ten golden sovereigns.
“Dear Miss Clifton,” she read. “Pray accept this small payment to compensate for the murder of your birds. On behalf of myself and my cousin. I wish to thank you and your aunt for a most pleasant impromptu visit. Yr. Humble Servant, Arden.”
She read it again, aloud.
“Ten sovereigns!” exclaimed Aunt Rebecca. “And presented with such tact.” She sat down in a chair and rested her chin on her hand and thought hard.
The Marquess of Arden was unmarried. He had gone to extraordinary lengths to be kind to them. Correction. To be kind to Harriet. Therefore, it followed he had been struck by her beauty. Aunt Rebecca adored romances. Gentlemen were always being “struck” by beauty. It would be wicked—it would be flying in the face of providence—not to take Harriet to London.
Aunt Rebecca wandered off into a comfortable dream where Harriet was the Marchioness of Arden, and she herself, dressed in the finest silk and covered with a Norfolk shawl, held court in the fashionable West End of London.
