Anita Mills (13 page)

“Left?” The blood drained from her face as a terrible premonition stole over her, telling her something was very wrong. “He left?”

“About two hours ago, and Sir John and Lady Rowe are in a taking over it.”

“I see.” There must’ve been a terrible quarrel, then, but why had he not waited for her? He must be coming back—he’d but gone to the Marches’ for Two Harry. Yes, that was it, she told herself firmly. He’d gone after the horse, then would come back for her and they would leave. But what could her father have done to make him so angry that he would not tell her of it first? With shaking fingers she pulled out the letter and began to read the strong, bold script inside with disbelief. And part of her died.

“Harriet,” it began. Not “Dearest Harry,” nor “Harry,” even—just “Harriet.” With sinking heart she read on.

Sherborne. She’d not called him by his title in her life. She crushed the paper in her hand and stared about her in blank dismay. He was not coming back, she told herself bleakly, trying to assimilate the whole, but all she could really understand was that he’d left her. He’d left her alone to face Hannah’s scorn. The ache in her chest was unbearable, and yet she had to think. What? What had she done? Why had he left? And what on earth could she do? She had no answers to any of it. Her briefly happy world in ruins around her, she leaned her head against the wall and cried.

“Miss … milady,” Thomas tried helplessly, “if there is aught I—”

“Oh, Thomas! My … my h-husband h-has left me, and … and I am the most m-miserable of females!” she choked out, unable to control the sobs that shook her shoulders and racked her body.

Shocked, he could think of nothing to say, but he finally mumbled, “Mayhap ’twas but a row.” “B-but we never q-quarreled!” “You’ll come about, m-milady. Here, now—naught’s to be gained by cryin’ your eyes out, is there?” He looked about to make sure none saw, and then he reached a comforting hand to her shoulder. “Miss Harriet, there’s all of us here as cares about you, and—”

“Oh, Thomas,” she whispered, turning her tear-streaked face into his shoulder, “I cannot bear it!” “Harriet! Harriet!”

“Here, miss, you cannot let her see you so,” the footman whispered, stepping back hastily. Proferring a wilted handkerchief, he added significantly, “She’ll have a rare time if you let her, now, won’t she?”

Nodding, she blew her nose noisily and tried to compose herself. Whatever had happened between her and Richard, she could not let Hannah know of it, else she’d never live it down. Wiping her wet face hastily, she thrust the cloth into her pocket just as her stepmama came into the hall.

“There you are, you ungrateful girl! ’Tis hours and more we have waited for Sherborne to discuss matters at hand, and ’twould seem he has disappeared! Your papa is less than pleased, missy!”

In less distressful times, Harriet would have been cowed by the tone in the older woman’s voice, but now she was beyond caring. She sucked in her breath, let it out slowly, and faced Hannah. “I am Harriet Standen, Lady Sherborne, Mama, and ‘missy’ no more,” she managed evenly, despite the thudding of her heart. “And as for Sherborne, he has been called away.” She lifted up the crumpled paper in her hand, letting her stepmama see only that he’d written. “He begs your pardon, but ’twas unavoidable.”

Hannah’s eyes bore into her, but for once Harriet held her ground, refusing to blench beneath that cold stare. “And I am to ask Papa for the loan of his carriage, that I may proceed to Richlands and await my husband there.” Her chin came up as she mustered what dignity she could. “The matter of settlements will, of course, have to wait until the racing season is over.”

Hannah was speechless.

“Here, missy, what nonsense is this?” her father thundered from the doorway of his study. “Sherborne gone, you say?”

“Yes, and I will be leaving also, Papa. No doubt Ri … Sherborne will write a letter of explanation to you later. Now, if you will but excuse me, I must prepare for my journey to Richlands. And I shall require the traveling coach.”

“You … you cannot ride that far alone, girl!” Sir John expostulated. “ ’Tisn’t done!”

Harriet looked past Hannah to the footman. “I shan’t be alone, Papa—I have just engaged Thomas.”

To his credit, the young man did not betray his surprise when both Sir John and Lady Rowe turned to stare at him. Flicking a small numb of lint from his jacket front, he managed to murmur, “Just so, sir. I spoke to Lord Sherborne of it but this morning.”

“But you have no maid! And I’ll not let you take—”

“Er … I believe ’twas Lord Sherborne’s express wish to engage m’sister Millie,” Thomas added.

“I did not know you had a sister employed as a maid!” Hannah retorted angrily. “As for you, missy, how is it that Sherborne did not think to apprise me of this turn, I ask you?” she
demanded.

“I told you—’twas unexpected.”

Hannah peered even more closely at her now. “You have been weeping!” she accused triumphantly.

“I did not wish him to go.”

“Humph! Sounds havey-cavey business to me!”

“Papa, I shall write when I reach Richlands,” Harriet promised, eager to escape. “If you will but order the carriage, I really must follow my husband’s express wishes, do you not think?”

“Well, as to that…” He hesitated, rubbing his chin as he often did when faced with a struggle between his wife and his daughter. “Damme, Hannah! She ain’t mine to tell anything anymore! She’s Sherborne’s! And if he’s wanting her to follow him today, stands to reason she ought to do it! There! I have said it! Run along, missy, and get what you require.”

“John—”

“My mind is set, Hannah! A woman must do as her husband says!” he snapped, brushing his wife’s protests aside. “The carriage will be ready within the hour! Though I think it remiss of the boy to neglect the settlements,” he muttered under his breath. “But that ain’t to say as he won’t be back.”

His piece said, he stalked back to the refuge of his study with his wife on his heels. Harriet raised her eyes gratefully to the footman who’d supported her. “You do not have to go, you know. As it is, I have no notion of my welcome.”

“I’ll come. ’Tis sick I am of her overbearing ways myself.”

“Do
you have a sister, Thomas?” she inquired hopefully, thinking somehow that her arrival would be less remarked if she had a maid to support her.

“Aye. She ain’t a maid precisely, but I daresay she can learn.”

Standing in the immense entry hall at Richlands, waiting whilst the butler sought out the housekeeper for her, Harriet experienced very real qualms about having come to Richard Standen’s primary country estate. It was far grander than anything of her imagination, and everything from the starchy butler to the cavernous marble-floored hall, the broad sweeping staircase, the high gold-trimmed ceiling, and the immense hundred-lamp chandelier gave her a very real sense of inferiority. Even the dozen or so Standen ancestors stared balefully down from portraits that lined the entrance hall, each seeming to tell her she had no right to be there.

To calm her very real fears, she moved from one to the other of the ornately framed pictures, studying each one. Hannah had boasted once that the Standens were an ancient and noble family, but Harriet had not realized until then just how old they were. One portrait in particular caught her attention, and she stepped closer to read the engraved brass beneath.
Robert Standen, Baron Lynford, 1545-1589.
She cocked her head and looked upward, trying to discover any resemblance between the fellow in the Elizabethan collar and the present Viscount Sherborne. But ’twas too distant, she decided, moving on to the last one.
Henry Standen, Fifth Viscount Sherborne, 1765-1802.
Richard’s father, another Harry, who’d died the year her father had married Hannah Belford, Richard’s aunt on his mother’s side. Well, he looked much like his son, she decided, in his painted eyes. Her gaze traveled slowly to the tall, elegant woman on the wall beside him.
Catherine Belford Standen, 1771-1799.
She’d been but twenty or twenty-one when her son was born, and only twenty-eight when she’d died. What had Richard said of them—that they’d had no children other than him because they did not deal well together? The lovely dark-haired woman wore an infathomable expression, as though she carried her thoughts with her to her grave. These then were Richard’s parents.

A stab of pain cut through her as she looked at them, and she felt betrayed all over again. Was it like this between men and women—did the women love and the men hurt them always?

“I am Mrs. Creighton, Lord Sherborne’s housekeeper. I believe Mr. Stubbs said you wished to speak with me.”

For a moment Harriet’s mouth seemed almost too dry for speech as she spun to face a middle-aged woman dressed almost as well as she. But as Thomas already had her portmanteau through the door, she knew some explanation must be in order. Behind her, the girl Millie stared upward in awe at the huge chandelier, like a veritable gapeseed come to town.

“So nice to meet you, Mrs. Creighton.” She forced herself to smile at the older woman. “Did my husband not tell you to expect me? Dear me, but how dreadfully shameful of him.” She held out her hand. “I am Lady Sherborne.”

“There must be some mistake,” the housekeeper answered after a lengthy silence. “Lord Sherborne is not at home. He went to race his horse at Newmarket.”

“Of course he did.” Harriet’s heart thudded as Mrs. Creighton looked at her with utter disbelief. “And Two Harry won. Oh, dear, did he not tell you of me at all? I am—was—Harriet Rowe, and we were wed in Bath last week.”

“No, he did not.”

“And this is Thomas, my footman, and Millie, my maid.”

The look the housekeeper gave the girl, who still gawked shamelessly about her, was plainly skeptical. “Rowe?” she murmured finally, turning her attention again to Harriet. “Relations of his then.”

“Yes. His mama and my stepmama were sisters.” Harriet tried another smile. “But for now, I am quite fatigued from my journey from Rowe’s Hill and I should like to freshen before I dine. I pray you will show me to my chamber. And I shall require lodging for Thomas and Millie.”

There was another pregnant pause as the housekeeper hesitated, and Harriet determined to show authority. “Mrs. Creighton, I do not like to repeat myself.”

“He did not say to expect anyone …” Then, after a slight hesitation she added, “… my lady.”

“Then I suggest you send to his lordship, apprising him of your concern. In the meantime, I shall still require my chamber, thank you. Come, Millie,” she ordered grandly. “We shall follow Mrs. Creighton, who seems to be under the misapprehension that I do not belong in my own house.” And when the housekeeper did not budge, she sighed and opened her reticule. “I consider this insolence of the highest order, and so I shall tell my husband, but since you appear to doubt me, I will for this once show you my marriage lines. I do not, however, expect to find this necessary again.”

The woman stood silently as Harriet unfolded the document for her, and there she saw the unmistakably bold signature. “Your pardon, my lady,” she managed, betraying her shock. “Why he would allow such a thing, I cannot think … that is, but
of course
you must be welcomed to Richlands. Mr. Stubbs,” she addressed the butler who now hovered curiously behind Harriet, “you will have someone carry up Lady Sherborne’s case to the master’s chamber.” And to Harriet she unbent enough to confide, “There’s been none in her ladyship’s rooms since she left them, so I expect he will want you in his. I mean, naught else’s fit for your ladyship, I shouldn’t think.”

It was Harriet’s first small victory over Richard’s household. “Thank you, Mrs. Creighton. Once I am unpacked and changed, I should like to look at the last Lady Sherborne’s chamber, for I mean to have it refitted to my taste. Oh, and I should also like the direction of a competent seamstress.”

“As to that, there is a very good woman in Lower Weston, my lady. Perhaps Stubbs could send one of the grooms over with a request that she attend you here tomorrow.”

Attend her at Richlands? Harriet could barely conceive of such a thing, but then, she’d not been a viscountess before, she reminded herself as she followed Mrs. Creighton up the grand staircase. The soles of her kid slippers seemed to sink in the thick carpet runners that covered the treads.

“When do you expect his lordship to return?” the housekeeper asked her.

“As to that, I am not certain. I believe he means to race Two Harry at all the major tracks while he can. The season is so short, after all.”

“Surely he does not mean to stay away until fall.”

“As long as Two Harry wins, I would not begin to guess when he will come home,” Harriet answered dryly

The older woman stopped in front of a pair of double doors at the end of the hallway. “This is Lord Sherborne’s chamber, my lady. Hers is beside it. ’Tis the one we have just passed.”

The door swung open, revealing a chamber of stately elegance. Harriet, used to the small
room
at Rowe’s Hill, could scarce credit her eyes, for it looked to her as though Richard Standen lived in sinful, regal splendor. As her eyes traveled from the ornate chandelier to the moiré taffeta walls to the heavy Aubusson rug to the twin marble fireplaces at either end of the huge room, she was overwhelmed.

“His lordship does not particularly like it, or so Mr. O’Neal would have us believe—says ’tis over-large and pretentious, I am told. Mr. O’Neal,” she added with a hint of disapproval, “is Irish and full of gossip.”

“Mr. O’Neal…” Harriet murmured faintly, still looking at the room.

“Oh, mum!” Millie breathed. “Ain’t it grand!”

“Mr. O’Neal is his lordship’s valet, but he is on holiday just now, as Lord Sherborne did not think he would need him at Newmarket. Lord Sherborne,” Mrs. Creighton stated flatly, “did not expect to be gone long, or so Mr. O’Neal was told.”

“Yes, well, I daresay his plans have changed.”

“ ’Tis to be expected of a man and his sport, I suppose.” Mrs. Creighton drew open the heavy damask draperies, admitting the late-afternoon sun. “Would your ladyship be wishful of anything else? Or will your maid tend to everything?” Once again she glanced at Millie and shuddered. “While we have no lady’s maids here, madam, there is one who appears to have some skill with hair.”

“No, no. Everything is fine.”

“We dine at seven—country hours, you know.”

With that, she was gone, leaving Harriet to stare in dismay at her new surroundings. She’d known from childhood that Richard was rich, but she’d never guessed it was anything like this. Her small loan of one thousand pounds must have seemed terribly insignificant. No, she reminded herself fiercely, it was not. It mattered not what he possessed—the fact remained that at the particular time he’d needed her money desperately. It was that fact that made it possible to do what she did now. He was in her debt.

As she looked around her, she could not conceive that her father could have ever been to Richlands. Or that he had managed to keep his hands out of Richard’s pockets when her step-cousin was a boy. But then she supposed it must have been the influence of Richard’s maternal uncle, who’d been cotrustee until his death the year before. But Hannah must have known. Not that she ever mentioned her sister Catherine even in passing. It gave Harriet a certain satisfaction to think that perhaps the lovely Lady Sherborne had quite cast her elder sister in the shade. Only jealousy could have accounted for Hannah’s lack of interest in Richlands. What she could not possess, she refused to care about.

“Oh, mum—over here!” Millie breathed. “There’s a dressing room! Did you ever see the like of it?”

But Harriet was no longer attending anything. She’d opened a drawer in a large carved mahogany chest, discovering the neatly folded piles of Richard’s shirts. Stricken, she closed the drawer and her eyes at the same time. The now familiar pain of betrayal cut through her and left a dull ache in her breast. Why? Why had he let her love him? And why, oh why, had he left?

“I say, mum … Oh, my, are you all right?”

“No.” Her face crumpled piteously as she turned away.

The girl’s arms went around her, hugging her close. “Here, now—don’t you cry none, mum. Thomas told me how it was with you.”

Harriet fought the urge to have a really good cry, and won. Slowly mastering herself, she smiled tremulously. “No. My own mama was used to say when I was a little girl that spilt milk never wipes itself up.”

“Eh?”

“I think she meant we must take it upon ourselves to help ourselves—or some such thing.”

“I dunno. I only heard about cryin’ over it myself. But if it lightens your spirit, you think what you want it to mean,” the girl decided, shaking her head.

“Just because he does not want me does not mean he shall cast me aside,” Harriet added stoutly, stiffening her resolve to remain at Richlands until Richard should come home and explain himself. She, she recalled firmly, was the injured party. And she was Lady Sherborne, after all.

“Aye, you have the right of that,” the girl agreed.

Thus fortified, Harriet turned her attention to what she would do. For the next few weeks at least she would be mistress of a great house. She would use her freedom to improve herself, to forget Hannah and her hateful tongue. Resolutely she sat down
at
Richard’s desk and drew out the ink jar, pen, and paper. The first thing she would do was direct his solicitor to release her first quarter’s allowance. The second would be to obtain her remaining thousand pounds. And then she would refurbish the other chamber as befitted her new station in life. In short, she would learn to face life’s disappointments from a position of strength. And if Richard Standen did not like what she did, he would just have to evict her. But whatever happened, she
would
have an explanation of him. He could not destroy her pride and humiliate her and not answer for it.

As the pen stroked across the paper, she was startled by the feel of something soft and warm rubbing across the top of her foot. Looking down, she saw a ball of multicolored fur curling playfully around her ankle. And then a pair of decidedly round, decidedly unmatched eyes winked at her.

“Heloise!”

Reminding herself that the cat could not possibly remember her, she bent to lift her up. “So you have become used to Richard’s bed, have you? Disgraceful!” But she nuzzled the small dark nose as she said it. For answer, Heloise pawed at the loose tendrils of hair that framed her face.

“There’s a cat in Lord Sherborne’s chamber?” Millie asked in surprise. “I did not think lords had such creatures in the house.”

“Actually, he has three of them,” Harriet murmured, holding the calico close and listening to her loud purr. “Oh, Helly, I have missed you.”

“Well, my da wouldn’t have ’em anywheres but the barn, and we didn’t live like this. But there’s no unnerstandin’ the Quality.”

Harriet felt the pink tongue rasping against her neck like the back of a file. And, as low as her spirits were, she knew she had something to love again. “You know,” she whispered against the soft fur, “as soon as I am finished with my letters, I mean to discover your mama and your brother also.”