by M C Beaton
“What are you thinking?” asked Harriet.
“I am thinking,” said Aunt Rebecca slowly, “that we have a great deal to do before we go to London.”
Harriet gave her a quick hug. “So we are going! What will Cordelia say, I wonder?”
“She cannot turn us away,” said Aunt Rebecca stoutly.
Cordelia Bentley had a strong and healthy constitution, which was just as well since the latest fashions were causing the fair sex to drop like flies from pneumonia and influenza.
Despite the chill spring, Cordelia was dressed to receive visitors in a gown of thinnest pink India muslin, long pink gloves, heel less slippers, a white slip, and nothing else.
Her golden hair was cut fashionably short and formed a tight cap of curls on her small head.
She had wide blue eyes, a neat, straight nose, and a small, full-lipped, pouting mouth. By keeping to a rigorous diet prescribed by that leader of fashion Beau Brummell—vinegar and boiled potatoes—she had managed to combat a tendency to run to fat.
She had shrewdly invested the money she had gained from the sale of the Bentley estates in the Funds and was therefore able to keep a smart house on Hill Street in Mayfair, and a staff of well-trained servants and to look about for a new husband at her leisure.
She had had two discreet affairs since the death of her husband, both of which had augmented her bank balance. But fear of losing respectability and therefore spoiling her chances of a successful marriage had rendered her celibate. She was determined to become the Marchioness of Arden, although she feared Lord Arden did not have marriage in mind. Still, she was confident of bringing him to heel and dragging him to the altar. The power of her beauty had grown, and at twenty-five, she knew she outshone any of the new and younger beauties on the London scene.
Her house was furnished in the latest fashion. Everything was in gold and red stripes. In her drawing room was a very fine portrait of herself and Harriet when they were children, painted by Sir Thomas Lawrence. She had told Aunt Rebecca and Harriet that she had sold it, but, in fact, she had decided to keep it to provide herself with evidence of an aristocratic background.
Guests admired it greatly and listened with rapt attention when she told the sad story of her baby sister, Harriet, who had died in her arms on the riverbank after she, Cordelia, had bravely tried to rescue her from drowning. Cordelia had told the story so many times she had quite come to believe it herself.
She was sure it had impressed the Marquess of Arden. Certainly, his surly cousin, Mr. Hudson, had looked upon her with rare enthusiasm and, the last time he had called, had asked her to repeat the story.
Cordelia was expecting the marquess to call. She hoped he would come alone instead of bringing that awful cousin with him as he usually did.
She rang the bell and told the butler to tell Mrs. Hurlingham to present herself in the drawing room.
Cordelia did not like Mrs. Hurlingham, but she paid her nonetheless for her services as a companion.
She had found that a young widow needed the company of a respectable female to give her ton. She had placed a discreet advertisement in the Morning Post and had hired a hotel room for the day in which to interview the applicants, not wishing to cope with a line of dull females in her own home.
Agnes Hurlingham proved to be exactly the sort of female Cordelia felt she required. Mrs. Hurlingham had never been married but had simply adopted the title of a married woman when she had reached the great age of thirty. She was now thirty-one. She was a short, heavy-set woman with a heavy, sallow face from which two small bright blue eyes burned with the grim light of sexual frustration, combined with all the other frustrations imposed on a highly intelligent, passionate woman of insufficient education who had been confined in a narrow cell of country life and genteel poverty.
She was a bishop’s daughter, and the one thing she had in common with Cordelia was that her father had been a spendthrift during his lifetime and had died leaving his only daughter in straitened circumstances.
But she hailed from the untitled aristocracy, and every dowdy line of her breathed gentility, respectability, and breeding. Agnes Hurlingham did not like Cordelia, but she was grateful to her for all the comforts of a home in the West End, and of the two of them she was the one who enjoyed the plays and operas—unlike Cordelia, who judged the evening by the notables in the audience.
Agnes’s duties were to act as companion and chaperone. With her present, Cordelia felt that she had license to flirt outrageously. No one could accuse her of being fast with such a dragon beside her.
Agnes walked into the drawing room and slumped down in her usual chair well away from the fire. She was wearing a dowdy gown of some repellent brown stuff that seemed to be held together at the neck by a large mourning brooch.
“Who have we today. Lady Bentley?” she asked. “Arden, I suppose.”
“Yes, Arden, and let us hope he leaves his cousin behind. It is very hard to indulge in dalliance with that young man glooming and dooming around the place.”
“He is young, younger than you,” said Agnes, taking out some dingy gray knitting from a workbasket.
“Youth is no excuse for bad manners. Don’t slouch, Agnes.”
Agnes straightened her spine and stabbed one long needle into the gray wool on her lap as if she wished it were Lady Bentley’s cold heart.
Cordelia heard the ponderous steps of her butler, Findlater, approaching the drawing room and hissed, “He is come. He is arrived.”
She ran to the mirror and patted a curl into place.
“A Miss Rebecca Clifton and a Miss Harriet Clifton,” announced Findlater.
Lady Bentley’s pretty shoulders stiffened, but she did not turn around.
“Tell them,” she said clearly, “we are not at home.”
Harriet and Aunt Rebecca had had an exhausting time of it reaching London. Some young blood up on the roof had decided to try his hand with the ribbons and had ended up overturning the stage into a ditch. They and the other passengers were bruised and shaken but mercifully escaped worse hurt. But it had taken ages for the substitute coach to arrive. They had been unable to book rooms at the nearest inn, due to lack of money, and had had to spend an uncomfortable night dozing on chairs in the inn parlor.
Their companions on the journey—three young bloods, a farmer’s wife, a clerk, and a maidservant—had all become rather tipsy and loud at the inn, and familiarity with these new acquaintances made Harriet long to see the last of them.
When they were finally set down in the City, they had great difficulty finding a hack to take them to the West End. It was the busiest time of the day. Postmen in scarlet coats with bells were going from door to door. Bakers were shouting, “Hot loaves!” Chimney sweeps with brushes, hawkers with bandboxes on poles, milkmaids with manure on their feet and pails suspended from yokes across their shoulders were all crying their wares, competing with the bells of dust carts and the horns of news vendors. Great brewer’s sledges pulled by enormous horses rumbled across the cobbles. At last an elderly gentleman took pity on them and engaged a hack. The jehu brightened at the fashionable address, but only the imposing figure of a liveried footman on the steps of Cordelia’s house on Hill Street stopped the disappointed driver from cursing his fare over the paucity of the tip.
Both Harriet and Aunt Rebecca were dressed in black silk, since black silk had been a “special” at the mercer’s in Lower Maxton. Aunt Rebecca had decided to add some color by fashioning herself a bonnet out of hen feathers and by draping her ample form with a multitude of colored scarves and shawls.
Harriet was wearing a bonnet of chip straw that was tolerably smart. It had been presented to her by the vicar’s wife, who had social aspirations and had been much impressed by Harriet’s grand statement that she was to have a season in London. Around her shoulders she wore a gold brocade stole, one of the few pretty relics of her mother’s wardrobe.
Harriet had thought they both looked very fine when they set
out from Pringle House. But here, in the heart of fashionable Mayfair, contrasting their clothes with the finery they saw about them, she feared they looked like a couple of upper servants trying without success to ape their betters.
She wanted to turn and flee. But the footman was stolidly waiting on the doorstep.
They had not been able to afford the expense of visiting cards, but Harriet had neatly penned their names on two homemade squares of card and had turned them down at the corners to show Cordelia that they were calling in person.
The footman gingerly took the cards and went back inside, shutting the door in their faces—an open condemnation of their shabby appearance.
At last, the door was opened again, this time by the butler, Findlater. He surveyed them sorrowfully, as if dealing with such persons went right to his heart, and inclined his head as a signal that they were to enter.
The hall was bright with flowers in vases and had a black-and-white tiled floor. A graceful staircase led to the upper floors.
“Please wait here,” said Findlater grandly, and then proceeded to mount the staircase with maddening slowness.
“Well, here we are, Aunt Rebecca,” said Harriet brightly.
“I wish we had not come,” whispered Aunt Rebecca nervously. “The atmosphere of this house is not welcoming.”
“Fustian,” said Harriet bracingly. “I shall enjoy living here, I think.”
Findlater came majestically down the stairs, their two cards on a silver salver. He fixed his eyes on the cornice. “My lady is not at home.”
“What!” Harriet gasped. Then she recovered. “How silly of me. She has merely gone out.” She looked hopefully at the butler. “We will wait until her return.”
“That,” said Findlater impassively, “would not be advisable.”
Tears gushed out of Aunt Rebecca’s eyes. “To refuse to see her own sister,” she wailed. “It is too much. Oh, Harriet, I cannot go back in that coach again. I would rather die.”
“At least we do have a home to go to,” said Harriet gently, although her mind was working feverishly. The marquess’s generosity had meant they had been able to travel inside, but now they had only enough money left to take two outside places.
“Come, Aunt,” urged Harriet. “We are not wanted here.”
There was a brisk knocking at the door.
Findlater opened it and bowed low before the two men on the step. “This way, my lord, Mr. Hudson,” he said. “My lady is expecting you.”
“Miss Harriet!” exclaimed Mr. Hudson, walking into the hall. “And Miss Clifton. What are you doing here?”
The Marquess of Arden stood framed in the doorway.
“We are just leaving,” said Harriet in what she hoped was a dignified manner.
But at the sight of Mr. Bertram Hudson and the Marquess of Arden, Aunt Rebecca began to cry noisily again.
“It’s so terrible,” she said. “Cordelia will not even see us. Her own sister! And me … her aunt!”
“Her sister!” exclaimed Mr. Hudson. “But Lady Bentley said that her sister had died after she rescued her from the river.”
“Are you Lady Bentley’s sister?” demanded the marquess, his eyes fastened on Harriet’s face.
“Yes,” said Harriet stiffly. “Now, if you will excuse us …”
“No, we will not,” said Mr. Hudson hotly. “If Lady Bentley ain’t going to entertain you, then she ain’t going to entertain us.”
“What is all this commotion?” Cordelia appeared at the top of the stairs. Her blue eyes widened as she took in the scene: the marquess looking amused, Mr. Hudson glaring up at her in a fury. Aunt Rebecca weeping, and Harriet staring defiantly.
“I am sure Lady Bentley did not receive the message correctly,” said the marquess. “Such a fair angel would not turn her own sister away.”
“Harriet!” cried Cordelia. “Is it really you? Stoopid man, Findlater. I thought you said Crampton.”
She ran lightly down the stairs and gave Harriet an affectionate hug.
Then she swung around gaily and smiled bewitchingly up at the marquess. “Here is my little mouse of a sister come from the country. You naughty child, Harriet. You should have apprised me of your arrival. What brings you to town?”
“To stay with you,” said Harriet, eyeing her sister cynically.
For one brief moment, Cordelia’s beautiful eyes went hard and cold.
“But we cannot stand here in the hall,” she said, rallying. “Come upstairs to the drawing room.”
Once in the drawing room, Cordelia ignored Agnes, who was standing, obviously waiting to be introduced, and drew Aunt Rebecca to a sofa by the fire. Her mind was working furiously. Once the marquess left, she could send her sister and aunt packing.
Harriet stood looking toward Agnes. “You have not introduced us to this lady.”
She admired the delicate pink that rose to Cordelia’s cheeks. Now, when I am annoyed, thought Harriet, I go as red as a beetroot.
Cordelia performed the introductions. “Your sister!” exclaimed Agnes. Her eyes swiveled to the portrait. “But I thought …”
“What a fusspot you are, Agnes.” Cordelia laughed. “Always thinking the most incoherent thoughts.” She turned to the marquess. “Never tell me you have already met my little sister.”
“I have had that pleasure,” said the marquess. “We called at Pringle House when we lost our way.”
“Goodness,” said Cordelia. “You must have found it a sad mess.” She waggled a playful finger at Harriet. “You and Aunt Rebecca are so miserly….”
“On the contrary, dear sister,” said Harriet in a flat voice, “you know we have barely enough to live on—hence our visit to you.”
Cordelia’s thin eyebrows vanished under her hairline. “Am I to take it,” she said in a silky voice, “that you have really come to stay?”
“Yes,” said Harriet stoutly. “Our trunks are in the hall.”
Turning her back on the marquess and Mr. Hudson, Cordelia silently mouthed, “Oh, no, you don’t.”
“Famous!” exclaimed Mr. Hudson. “You will be a welcome addition to this Season’s beauties. Miss Harriet.”
The marquess looked from Cordelia’s flushed face to Harriet’s mutinous one and drawled, “Indeed, Lady Bentley, your beauty is heightened by your magnaminity. It is not every reigning belle who would welcome her little sister at the beginning of the Season. When hospitality and kindness are added to beauty, I find the sum total most … seductive.”
“Why, I never thought of turning away dear Harriet or Aunt Rebecca. I quite dote on them,” said Cordelia with a charming smile. “Dear, dear Harriet, you must be exhausted after your journey.” Cordelia rang the bell. When Findlater appeared, she tripped lightly over to the door and murmured something in his august ear. Findlater inclined his head and replied in a low voice.
“Splendid!” said Cordelia, swinging about and clapping her hands. “Your rooms are ready and you may both retire. Agnes, do go with them. I am sure Mr. Hudson will be a most splendid chaperon.”
“I had hoped for a little conversation with Miss Harriet,” said Mr. Hudson stiffly.
“You will have plenty of chances in the weeks to come. Agnes!” Cordelia’s lilting voice held a note of steel.
Harriet curtsied to the marquess and then to Mr. Hudson. Cordelia had already turned away and was bending over the teapoy, extracting canisters of tea. The graceful curve of her body thrust her breasts against the thin fabric of her gown. Harriet glanced at the marquess and noticed a yellow, predatory light in his hooded eyes as he looked at Cordelia. She felt a pang of disappointment. She had thought of him often since his visit to Pringle House. As time had gone by, she had begun to picture him as a noble and generous hero, the type of man who would be above her sister’s petty wiles. But he had just proved to be like all the rest. And what Cordelia wanted, Cordelia always got.
Harriet gave a little sigh and followed Aunt Rebecca and Agnes from the drawing room.
> The rooms allocated to them were an insult: two poky little chambers on the top floor, each sparsely furnished. Agnes’s face was a careful blank.
“This is to be your sitting room, I believe,” intoned Findlater, leading the way along a low-ceilinged corridor.
The room he ushered them into was little better than their bedchambers. It had obviously been a schoolroom once. A battered spinet stood in one comer, and a pile of slates lay on a chipped and scarred table. A large rocking horse stared glassily at them from beside the empty hearth. There was an odd assortment of furniture that had found its way up to the schoolroom when its use downstairs had been over. The room was very cold.
“We would like fires lit in all our rooms,” said Harriet in a thin, little voice.
Findlater opened his mouth to say that he had been given no such orders, but there was something in the proud tilt of Harriet’s little chin that silenced him.
“Well, here we are,” said Aunt Rebecca brightly when the silent Agnes had left, followed by the butler. “At least Cordelia has welcomed us.”
“She did not welcome us at all,” said Harriet furiously. “She would have thrown us out had it not been for the opportune arrival of the Marquess of Arden and his cousin. She is as hard-hearted and selfish as ever she was. But beggars cannot be choosers. At least we are in London. I will talk to Cordelia about her shabby treatment when we see her at supper.”
But they were not to see Cordelia. It transpired that all their meals were to be served to them in the schoolroom.
“I don’t care,” said Harriet as they prepared for bed after having hung their meager stock of clothes away. “I just don’t care.”
But she cried herself to sleep, because the Marquess of Arden had not shown the slightest flicker of interest in her and because all her hopes that Cordelia might have changed had been dashed.
In the days that followed, Harriet and Aunt Rebecca were given to understand by a tight-lipped and embarrassed Agnes that Cordelia did not wish to see them belowstairs.
She had agreed to feed them and give them house room provided they kept out of the way. If either of them made a nuisance of herself, they would be turned out.
