by M C Beaton
The duchess mercifully swooned again.
Harriet’s toe found a good-sized crack in the side of the building. Above the gutter was a low balustrade, and behind that a small space between the balustrade and the steep slope of the tiled roof.
With a superhuman effort, her muscles cracking, she heaved herself up and over, she and the duchess tumbling over the balustrade to lie facedown on the other side.
The wild cheering of the crowd was suddenly stilled as a great tongue of flame broke through the roof several yards to the left of where Harriet was lying.
Harriet struggled to her feet, picked up the duchess in her arms, and set off in a shambling run along the edge of the roof toward the adjoining building.
At the edge of the roof she stopped in dismay. There was a gap of twelve feet to the next building. She could not possibly jump it with the old woman in her arms.
Behind her came a terrible rumble and crash as part of the roof fell in.
The heat of the roof under her feet was becoming intense. Down below a sea of white faces stared up.
“Help!” cried Harriet piteously. “Help!” But her voice was drowned by the roaring and crackling of the fire.
And then she heard her name.
“Harriet,” said an imperative voice. “Over here. Move quickly.”
The Marquess of Arden was standing on the other roof, untying a stout length of rope from about his waist.
“I will throw you one end,” he called. “Tie it firmly to the parapet.”
The rope snaked over. Harriet laid the duchess gently against the slope of the roof and seized the rope. At first her hands were trembling too much to tie it securely, but at last she managed to knot it firmly.
The marquess, who had secured his end, stripped off his coat, kicked off his boots, and made his way, hand over hand, across the intervening gap.
“Come along, Miss Harriet,” he said. “Your troubles are over.”
“Take her first,” said Harriet, gasping, pointing to the duchess.
“Very well. I will be as quick as I can. Pray God you do not lose your life in this rescue of one of London’s most parsimonious, selfish old hags.” He unwound a thinner length of rope from his waist. “Tie her on my back. Hurry!”
The duchess was lashed to his back. He crossed quickly to the other roof, slashed at the rope that bound the duchess to him with a knife, and tumbled her unceremoniously onto the tiles.
He swung himself back over again and seized Harriet. “Put your arms about my neck,” he said urgently.
“I can’t,” said Harriet, trembling. Her legs seemed to have turned to water and her arms to have lost their strength.
He bent his head suddenly and kissed her full on the lips, a hard, intense kiss.
Then he looked down at her, his eyes glinting in the red light from the fire. “Please do not be missish, Harriet,” he said severely.
“Missish!” Harriet gasped, and then she began to giggle.
“That’s better. Hold on to me.”
Harriet put her arms tightly about his neck. She could feel his muscles rippling under his shirt as he swung down onto the rope, with her tightly pressed against his back.
With a shattering roar the roof behind them gave way, a huge pillar of flame shot up, scorching loose the end of the rope that Harriet had tied to the parapet, and they plunged down into the space between the houses. The marquess braced his feet to take the impact as they struck the opposite building.
Then he began to climb up. White-faced, Harriet clung to him.
He climbed quickly and nimbly up onto the other roof and set Harriet on her feet.
Down below, the crowd cheered themselves hoarse. The marquess looked down at Harriet. Her gown had dried but was ripped and torn. There was a smudge of soot on her left cheekbone and a scratch on her right. Her hair was a wild and tangled mess. Her eyes, looking up into his face, seemed enormous.
He gathered her into his arms and kissed her very gently this time. Harriet closed her eyes. She could hear the roar of the crowd and the greedy crackling of the fire, she could feel her breast being crushed against his chest, and then suddenly all she could feel were his lips moving against her own. The world became dark and silent, an odd mixture of passion and peace.
“Disgraceful!” cackled a malicious old voice from somewhere at their feet. “Kissing and cuddling while I’m at death’s door.”
The marquess gently set Harriet away from him and looked down into the bright evil eyes of the Dowager Duchess of Macham.
“Oh, it’s you. Arden.” The duchess sniffed. “Might have known. Never could leave women alone. S’pose you rescued me.”
“No,” said the marquess. “You owe your life to Miss Clifton here.”
“Her? S’pose she’ll want money.”
“No, she does not want money, you reprehensible old harridan. I wish you had not recovered your horrible senses so quickly,” snapped the marquess. “If your old carcase has as much energy as your tongue, we can make our way out of this building before it catches fire as well.”
“I am going to faint,” said the little duchess, struggling to her feet.
“I do not care what you do,” said the marquess nastily. “I am going to take Miss Clifton to safety.”
“Ha! Take her to your bed, more like.”
“If you, madam, take it upon yourself to broadcast to the world that I gave Miss Clifton a chaste embrace I will personally set you on fire.”
“It ain’t that I ain’t grateful to her,” whined the duchess. “You should take better care o’me, Arden, ‘stead o’ preachin’ and moralizin’. The night air is cold.”
“Then I suggest you warm yourself at your fire,” said the marquess, jerking his thumb in the direction of the blazing building.
The duchess began to moan about the loss of her valuables. Harriet tried to reassure her by saying she had seen a great amount of furniture and paintings piled up outside on the street, but the marquess led her firmly away.
The building they descended into through a skylight had been evacuated, and with the little duchess grumbling behind them, they made their way down through the deserted rooms and passages.
The marquess put an arm around Harriet’s shoulders as he led her out into the square. The noise and cheering of the crowd were deafening. They surged forward, threatening to crush her to death in their enthusiasm.
Mr. Hudson was there, plucking at Harriet’s sleeve and babbling, “The bravest thing I ever saw. You should have told me what you meant to do, Arden. I would have rescued her. I …”
The marquess swung Harriet up into his arms and began to shoulder his way through the cheering crowd.
Cordelia was late for the opera. She was not much troubled by that fact, since she had no interest in the music, only in the effect caused by her appearance.
“Did you tell them?” she asked Agnes over her shoulder.
“Miss Harriet is gone from home and has not returned,” said Agnes. “As for old Miss Clifton, she is not well, and I prefer to order her out when her niece is with her to sustain her. I will be able to accompany you after all.”
Cordelia narrowed her eyes. “Be sure you have told them, one way or t’other by the time I return. You need not accompany me, Agnes,” she added maliciously, knowing how much Agnes loved the opera.
“Don’t like going in halfway through the opera anyway.” Agnes shrugged, though her intense gaze bored into Cordelia’s back as her young mistress turned back to the mirror. “Listen to that noise. It’s coming closer. If the mob’s out, you may not be able to go yourself.”
“War riots.” Cordelia sniffed contemptuously. “One never knows what to do … whether to be for or against.”
The Tories were for the British war against Napoleon’s armies in the Spanish Peninsula, the Whigs against.
Both political parties rented mobs. There was the antiwar mob and the prowar mob. A British victory could mean your windows were smashed in for not displ
aying candles all over the house and drawing back the curtains in celebration, and the antiwar mob would wreak havoc with equal enthusiasm on any house that seemed to support the campaign.
“Tell the servants to light all the candles,” said Cordelia, “and listen hard. If they’re antiwar, draw the curtains.”
“They are cheering. It must be a victory,” said Agnes,
“Look out of the window and make sure.” Agnes raised the window and leaned out. After a few moments, she drew her head in and gazed at Cordelia in a dazed way.
“It’s Arden,” she said. “At the head of a cheering mob with Miss Harriet in his arms.” Cordelia elbowed her aside and thrust her head out. “The deuce,” she muttered.
She turned from the window and ran from the room and down the stairs.
The noise of cheering grew nearer and nearer.
Pinning a smile on her face, Cordelia opened the door.
The marquess was just setting Harriet down on her feet on the step.
“Dear me,” said Cordelia. “Did little Harriet faint?”
“Little Harriet is a heroine,” said Mr. Hudson. “She rushed into a burning building and saved the life of the Dowager Duchess of Macham.”
“Poor Harriet,” murmured Cordelia sweetly. “Always so impetuous.”
The marquess gave her a cold look. Cordelia rallied and rushed forward and gathered Harriet in her arms.
“Come inside, dear,” she cooed, “and we will put you to bed immediately. You must be exhausted.”
“I confess I am a trifle tired,” said Harriet with a watery smile.
“Agnes!” Cordelia called over her shoulder. “See Miss Harriet to her room.”
“I will take my leave,” said the marquess, looking down at Cordelia with an odd expression on his face.
Harriet was glad to escape out of range of Cordelia’s gimlet eye. Harriet knew Cordelia was furious because she had once more brought herself to the Marquess of Arden’s attention.
Aunt Rebecca was waiting at the top of the stairs, her large, moonlike face swimming in the gloom. She had heard the news of Harriet’s bravery, as she, too, had leaned out of the window to watch her niece’s triumphant arrival home. All the excitement had caused Aunt Rebecca to make one of her mercurial recoveries from nervous depression. Agnes led Harriet into the schoolroom and seated her by the fire, and then left Harriet to tell Aunt Rebecca about her adventures while Agnes went in search of brandy.
When she returned, she poured them all a strong measure.
“It seems you are the talk of London, Miss Harriet,” said Agnes. “If you are not too exhausted, please tell me all about it. I have told the servants to carry a bath up to your bedchamber.”
Harriet recited her tale of the fire and the rescue once more.
“But you are a heroine!” exclaimed Agnes. Then she fell silent, her intense gaze roaming around the shabby schoolroom while her mind worked busily.
Agnes was beginning to detest Cordelia. It was difficult, she thought, watching the candlelight flicker on Harriet’s sensitive little face, to believe that two such sisters came out of the same stable.
Underneath her beauty, Cordelia was vulgar and coarse. Harriet, despite her shabby clothes and soot-stained face, still managed to look like the lady she was.
Agnes made up her mind. “I am going out for a little, Miss Harriet,” she said. “I will return in time to see you before you go to sleep.”
She left Aunt Rebecca and Harriet together and ran to fetch her cloak and bonnet. Then she called for a hack and set out in the direction of the City, calling at first one newspaper office and then the other.
Agnes Hurlingham knew Cordelia was hoping that Harriet’s bravery would be quickly forgotten. And so Agnes was determined that the whole of London would know about the rescue of the duchess.
Meanwhile, as Harriet was enjoying a warm bath. Aunt Rebecca sat by the fire and turned over in her mind all Harriet had told her about the Marquess of Arden.
Aunt Rebecca felt ashamed of herself and what she considered her own abysmal lack of spirit. She should not have lurked in her room, frightened and depressed because Cordelia did not want them.
It was her God-given duty to see that Harriet found a husband. Mr. Bertram Hudson, for example, was certainly interested in Harriet. And perhaps the marquess himself would bear watching.
Taking advantage of the new deference of the servants, Aunt Rebecca rang for supper for herself and ordered a tray of delicacies to be offered to Harriet when she emerged from her bath.
As she had promised, Agnes returned in time to make sure Harriet was comfortably prepared for bed and had everything she needed.
Harriet smiled at her sleepily and said, “You are very kind to me, Mrs. Hurlingham. I cannot thank you enough.”
Agnes’s conscience smote her. She had only been kind to Harriet to spite Cordelia. “Call me Agnes,” she said gruffly. “You should not really be in these quarters, you know. I will speak to Lady Bentley on the subject.”
So it was that Cordelia, returning from the opera, found Agnes patiently waiting for her.
“Such devotion, Agnes,” she said nastily, “or do you want to say something to add to my already disastrous evening? Society, I would have you know, was quite shocked to see me this evening. Why was I not at home tending to my brave little sister? Pah!”
“That is what I wanted to talk to you about,” said Agnes Hurlingham. “You’re going to be in the suds unless you do something about her.” She jerked her thumb inelegantly in the direction of the ceiling.
“Do something about Harriet?” demanded Cordelia with dangerous sweetness. “What do you mean, Agnes? I have already told you what has to be done with her. Send her packing.”
“They’ll be calling you a sort of Lady Macbeth if you do that to London’s latest heroine,” said Agnes. “They’ll be calling in droves tomorrow just to get a look at her. And servants talk, you know. ‘Fore you know it, it’ll be ‘round the ton that she and her aunt are housed in the attic. That her clothes are monstrous shabby. Ain’t the conduct of a lady—that’s what they’ll say.”
“Pooh!” said Cordelia. “No one will call. Furthermore, Agnes, I do not like your tone. Remember your place, my good woman. Call Martha and tell her to make me ready for bed. You silly woman! As if saving that old miser of a duchess that society has detested this age will make the slightest bit of difference!”
Agnes hardly slept that night. She was out in the street in the morning as soon as she heard the news vendor’s horn, and, armed with all the papers, she retreated to her room. London in 1811 boasted eight morning papers. Agnes’s large mouth widened into a grin of pleasure as she saw that every paper had given prominent space to the bravery of Harriet Clifton.
She rang for the butler and told him to make sure Lady Bentley was given the newspapers with her morning chocolate and then took herself off to bed. Only a month ago, on her birthday, Agnes had given way to a hearty bout of tears on seeing a life of servitude stretching out before her to the grave. For the first time in ages she began to feel that life might hold some interesting surprises. She smiled to herself as she fell asleep.
Harriet awoke to find the maids bustling about her room, packing up her meager belongings.
“What is happening?” she demanded, struggling awake.
“Lady Bentley’s orders,” said the housekeeper from the doorway. “We are to move you and Miss Clifton into rooms on the floor below. Lady Bentley’s compliments and you are to present yourself in the drawing room, miss, at four o’clock. Her ladyship has supplied you with two gowns and begs you to pick whichever one you consider suitable.” The housekeeper suddenly smiled. “It is so exciting, miss. The house is like a flower garden. Everyone in London seems to have sent presents and bouquets and poems. And the newspapers, Miss Harriet! Every single one has written about your bravery.”
It was a bewildering day for Harriet. The new rooms allocated to her and Aunt Rebecca were elegantly furni
shed with a pretty, private sitting room between their two bedrooms.
Dressed in one of Cordelia’s oldest gowns, a plain taffeta dress in half-mourning colors of dove gray piped with black that Cordelia had worn shortly after the death of Lord Bentley, Harriet sat in the drawing room, telling her story over and over again for the benefit of the ton.
Wrapped in her numerous shawls and scarves, Aunt Rebecca listened each time with the same enthusiasm with which she had heard the first account. Although Mr. Hudson was very much present, hanging onto Harriet’s every word, the Marquess of Arden was not, and Aunt Rebecca felt a little pang of disappointment.
Cordelia smiled and smiled, feeling her face beginning to ache. She could not get rid of Harriet so long as this adulation lasted, and, worse, she was quite clearly expected to take Harriet with her to all the fashionable events of the Season.
Agnes Hurlingham’s conscience troubled her. Her loyalty surely lay with the mistress who paid her wages, and not with these newcomers. She alone knew what it was costing Cordelia to smile and smile as tribute to her sister followed tribute.
But Agnes’s pity for Cordelia was to be short-lived.
A soberly dressed gentleman introduced himself as Mr. Arthur Prenderbury and claimed to be a distant relation of the Cliftons. He was a scholarly-looking gentleman in his forties with a long, rather serious face and steady gray eyes. After having paid his compliments to Harriet, Cordelia, and Aunt Rebecca, Mr. Prenderbury seated himself next to Agnes and engaged her in conversation. Had she seen Mrs. Jordan in Country Girl? For his part he thought it a shocking mélange of absurdities.
Agnes began to talk about the theater, flattered by her companion’s steady attention. He made her feel feminine and witty, and he laughed appreciatively at several of her sallies.
And then, “Mr. Prenderbury!” Cordelia sailed up, a vision in pale pink muslin embroidered with tiny rosebuds and a garland of silk rosebuds in her hair. “I have been sadly neglecting you. I see you have been keeping my poor old companion amused. Too kind. Do come and meet Lady Jenkins. She is quite a bluestocking and makes my poor head ache, since I have not the faintest notion of what she is talking about. But a scholar like you will be more than a match for her.”
