Anita Mills (14 page)

For nearly two months Harriet was able to immerse herself in self-improvement. She not only learned the names of virtually every person employed in the running of the house, the stables, the barns, and the immense park, but also asked questions of them until she was reasonably certain of what each one did. Moreover, at the end of each day she retired to Richard’s chamber and made endless lists to ensure that she did not forget any of it. It was, she reasoned, the only way to learn how to manage her new home.

And the more questions she asked, the more Richard’s staff, flattered by her interest, unbent to answer. She soon discovered that beneath Mrs. Creighton’s rather stern exterior lay a competent, basically pleasant person. Stubbs was perhaps the more difficult task, but after having lived with Hannah for fourteen years, Harriet found him not impossible. Her willingness to view everyone in the house as a valuable person, coupled with a little genuine praise and a little flattery, soon had almost every servant from the housekeeper and the butler to the lowest footman and tweeny agreeing “the young mistress will do very well.”

As for the matter of where she would stay when Richard came home, she set about almost instantly to refurbish the last viscountess’s rooms, choosing not the ornate, opulent golds and reds she discovered there, but rather simple roses and greens. The plaster rosettes and intricate ceiling moldings had to be tolerated, because as much as she could change the smaller things, she did not think she dared alter the structural character of the suite.

One thing she did discover quickly: tradesmen—from the greengrocer, the carpenters, the painters, to the local modiste—were willing, eager even, to secure her patronage. She could have run up bills far in excess of her mother’s portion and her quarter’s allowance with no trouble at all had she been so inclined. And she was tempted, but as hurt and angered as she was by Richard’s desertion, she still could not bring herself to behave so shabbily. No, she would pay as she played, she decided, giving herself a certain distinction amongst the neighborhood.

The local seamstress, or modiste as she styled herself, came often in the first weeks of Harriet’s residence at Richlands, and the result, while not earth-shaking, was quite gratifying. But perhaps it was Harriet’s desire to prove Richard wrong, or perhaps she merely hoped that a stunning wardrobe would somehow compensate for what she perceived to be her plainness, for after having acquired enough day dresses and walking dresses to see her through a few days in London, she determined to visit a truly fashionable modiste.

Thus, armed with several copies of
La Belle Assemblée,
favorite pages turned back at the corners, she embarked for the city with Millie and Alice, another maid impressed from belowstairs for her ability to do hair. Rather than invading Richard’s town house and facing the task of subduing the servants there all over again, she took up four days’ residence in a moderately fashionable hotel. At Madame Cecile’s, plates were selected, fabrics were chosen, and gowns were ordered. Even the seemingly interminable fittings did not bother her save for a slight soreness of her breasts.

She was truly enjoying her freedom, thinking that the life of a married woman, particularly one whose husband was out of town, was not bad by half. She’d even resumed riding. And her determined pursuit of self-improvement provided a much-needed distraction from the pain of her husband’s desertion. In short, she was now more furious than anything else. But in the back of her mind she had to admit that she hoped he would be pleasantly shocked when he saw her, that he would realize just what he had so callously abandoned. For she meant to see him squirm.

It was on the trip back from London that she became truly sick. Not merely ill—sick. At first she thought she was but a trifle travel queasy, and then she decided it was the June heat, but by the time she’d shot the cat, as her brother would have said, some five times in the space of as many hours, she began to worry. And when she did not get better once she was back at Richlands, she consented to see the local physician.

“You are, I am quite positive, increasing, Lady Sherborne,” he told her.

“What? But I have just bought new clothes!” she wailed, unwilling to accept that such a thing could happen.

“Alas, but I cannot help that,” he murmured, surprised by her reaction. “But the other will quite take care of itself. Within the space of a month or so, the nausea will pass.”

She sat alone in the great library at Richlands long after he left, too stunned to think. She carried Richard Standen’s child. She carried the heir to all that surrounded her. He’d married her in haste, gotten a child of her, and left her, not knowing it. At first she felt terribly cheated, as though fate had once again turned against her. She’d planned how she would look down the last touch when he came home, and now, if he ever did get there, she would be fat and increasing! And if he did once again turn to her, it would be because of the child she carried!

“My lady?” One of the downstairs maids peeked around the door. “Cook is wishful of knowing when you would have supper?”

The very thought of food sent a shudder of revulsion through her, and for a moment she thought she was going to be ill again. “I…I do not believe I shall dine tonight,” she managed through clenched teeth.

“She said she would send up toast and tea to your bedchamber if you should prefer it.”

“No.”

The room grew darker, and still she sat, for once allowing herself to wonder where Richard was just then. When she’d been in London, a visit to her bank had yielded the information that she was some three thousand pounds richer than when he left, indicating that Two Harry was doing very well indeed. But there’d been absolutely no word from him. Of course, he did not exactly have her direction, she owned judiciously. But then neither did he care. What had he written in the awful letter?
Upon my return, we shall discuss what shall be done concerning this unfortunate marriage.
Well, fate had certainly dealt him a blow also, for now he could scarce divorce her, not whilst she carried his child.

“Merrrow.”

There was a soft rubbing against her leg, followed by a leap into her lap. Athena turned around several times, kneading against Harriet’s still reasonably flat stomach, and then she stood on her hind legs to place paws on either side of her mistress’s neck, leaning forward to nuzzle nose to nose. It was much the way she used to comfort Harriet when Hannah’s tongue became unbearable.

For a time Harriet held her close, stroking the long, slender cat’s back, drawing comfort from her. “What a blue-deviled pair we are, Athena,” she murmured. “You are unhappy because the last of your litter is gone, and I am unhappy because I am increasing.”

The cat sat back on her haunches, looking at Harriet, and then she lay down, purring loudly, in her lap. And as Harriet rubbed the soft warm fur, she began to take solace from the cat. Perhaps, she mused slowly, perhaps she ought not to feel so alone. She would have the child, Richard’s child—a sturdy little boy or girl—to love. Athena purred steadily now, and Harriet began to dream of her child, wondering whether it would favor her or Richard.

“You’ll take sick,” Mrs. Creighton chided her, coming in to light the sconces on the wall. “Your Millie’s turned down your bed, Lady Sherborne, and Alice has your toast and tea ready. If you do not make it too sweet, maybe it’ll set better. And if you want, I’ll summon Thomas to help you up—or you may lean on me, for that matter,” she added kindly.

With an effort, Harriet shifted the cat off her lap and rose. “No, I shall be fine. I am tired, ’tis all.”

“Well, now, you be sure to eat, my lady. I’d not have his lordship thinking we were starving you at a time like this.”

Upstairs, both Millie and Alice fussed over her, brushing her newly cropped hair and helping her into her nightrail. Alice slipped out for the tray while Millie plumped her pillows.

“You knew, did you not?”

“That you was increasing? Well, I suspected as much, what with you married in April,” the girl admitted. “Just wish Lord Sherborne was here to take care of you, that’s all.”

“Well, he is not,” Harriet snapped peevishly. Then, realizing how out-of-reason cross she must sound, she leaned back against the pillows and closed her eyes. “I’m sorry, Millie.”

“I guess I ain’t much of a maid, am I? Oversetting you and all like that.”

“Millie—”

“No, it ain’t bred in me, mum, and I know it.”

“Nonsense.”

“You goin’ to write to him?”

“No. I have not his direction,” Harriet sighed. “And I cannot see what difference ’twill make. If I’ve learned naught else these last months, ’tis that I can take care of myself.”

“Mum?”

“What?”

“I just wanted you to know I ain’t a hand t’ gossip b’lowstairs any. I ain’t never told ’em how it is with you.”

“Thank you, Millie.”

“But there’s them as wants to know why he ain’t here or ain’t wrote.”

“They are not alone,” Harriet muttered dryly, wishing for Alice to return with the toast.

“Well, I told ’em you’d heard from him—last week afore we went to Lunnon. Oh, I know it ain’t right to lie about such things, but letters did come from Rowe’s Hill and all.”

“ ’Tis all right, Millie—this time. But I wish you would refrain from discussing me with anyone.”

The girl hung her head. “There. I knew you was goin’ to be angered with me. But, mum, I didn’t want ’em to think—”

“As ’tis none of their business, Millie, they don’t need to think about it at all. But I daresay you could not help it,” Harriet allowed tiredly. “Would you go see what keeps Alice? I find I shall probably be able to eat the toast, after all.”

Alone again, she tried not to think of anything for a while, but the girl’s words had struck home, probably because they were such a reminder of what Richard had said on their marriage.
I mean to take care of you.
Well, he had not. Bitterness welled anew inside her as she thought of how kind, how tender he’d been that night. And then he’d left her. ’Twould have been kinder not to have raised her hopes at all.

There was a faint padding across the carpet, followed by a thud on the foot of the bed. Then, with slow feline grace, Heloise made her way to the top. Almost immediately, Abelard followed, his black fur shining in contrast to the whiteness of the sheets. And on the floor, Athena paced and meowed.

“Well, you might as well join us,” Harriet offered, leaning over to pick her up. “Though I warn you—there’s naught coming but dry toast.”

Alice returned with the tea tray, frowning at the sight of three cats on the bed. “Leave them be,” Harriet ordered, reaching for the first piece of toast.

“I don’t know as his lordship’s going to like it when he gets home and finds three of ‘em’s moved into his bed. ’Twas bad enough when the funny-looking one was crawling up from the bottom, or so Mr. O’Neal said. And at least she had the decency to wait until he was asleep, instead of wantin’ to eat his crumbs.”

“Where is Mr. O’Neal, anyway?”

“Gone to meet his lordship somewheres in France, accordin’ to Mr. Stubbs, who’s heard from him. Wrote he was leavin’ last week, I think.”

France. Harriet’s heart sank. It was as though Richard never meant to come home again. “Did Mr. O’Neal write anything else to Mr. Stubbs?” she wanted to know, despite the fact that it was highly improper to gossip with the servants.

“Only that the horse was winnin’, but I guess you knew that yourself. I mean, I guess Lord Sherborne wrote you of it.”

“Yes. Yes, he did.”

“I just wish O’Neal’d come back,” the girl added. “It don’t seem right with him not fussin’ about cat hair on things. He was used to complain, and Lord Sherborne’d tell him just to brush it off. But, lud, what an Irish temper O’Neal has! He’d brush and mutter, brush and mutter, until Crighton’d come up and tell him to keep his Irish cant to himself, you know. But his lordship never paid the least attention to it—just winked at me and went on.” The girl grinned at Harriet. “Aye, O’Neal fussed, but the cats stayed.”

“I thought Richard—Lord Sherborne—did not like cats.”

“Humph! He’d put ’em out at night, and afore he’d be back to bed, that funny-looking one’d be a-hidin’ under the covers. Determined little vixen, if you was to ask me. But I wasn’t there, of course—I had to hear it of O’Neal in the mornings.”

Harriet bit into the toast and chewed slowly, hoping fervently that when it was swallowed, it meant to stay down. “I gave him the cats, you know.”

“Well, I thought they must be particular favorites, ’cause when Creighton would have put ’em outside in the barns, he wouldn’t let her. Had Cook fixin’ food for ’em ’cause they were homesick, he said.” The maid tidied up the bedside table and hung up Harriet’s dress in the wardrobe. “Ring when you are done, and I’ll come back for the tray.”

The toast tasted like sawdust, but Harriet forced herself to eat it. The sooner she kept something down, the sooner the awful sickness would go away, or so she hoped. She managed one slice and set the tray on the table, too tired to bother with it. Lying back once again, she closed her eyes and tried to sleep.

She was going to bear a child. Richard was in France. If he did not care for her, would he care for the child? Did he ever think of her? Would he even come back? She had no answers, but she could not help asking the questions over and over again.

Having completed the racing loop of Doncaster, Chester, and Derby, and not wanting to draw further attention to the fact that Two Harry was as yet unbeaten in the overnights, those races that could be entered by any thoroughbred registered the night before, Richard took Two Harry on to the Continent. There the horse could get needed experience and the oddsmakers would have less of a chance to see him before he came back and entered the more prestigious big-purse events like the 2,000 Guineas at Newmarket the following year.

During the months of June, July, August, and September, Richard ran Two Harry in everything from local fairs to sanctioned thoroughbred races in France, Germany, and Italy, losing only thrice to local favorites on difficult, unfamiliar courses. And each time Two Harry acquired too much notice, he moved on.

Even abroad, and particularly in Germany, there was considerable interest in the horse’s rather unusual name, and Richard found himself having to explain its origin far more often than he cared to. It was, he began saying, merely named for two horseracing enthusiasts. But each time the matter came up, he was reminded of Harriet. In fact, despite his determined pursuit of fortune and pleasure, he thought of her far too often for his peace of mind.

Much of his racing career he owed to her—the horse’s name, his racing colors, the horse itself even. More than once, after he’d won particularly lucrative or competitive races, he’d actually thought about writing to her. But each time, he’d reminded himself that she’d duped him, trapped him, taken advantage of his friendship, and wed him by deceit. But there was that about her that still nagged him, an underlying doubt. Had it not been for the fact that he’d overheard her father and Hannah laughing over it, he’d not have believed it. But it wasn’t as though they knew he could hear them. And Harry had not hesitated to accept him that second time in Bath. Alone at night, in the dark silence of his bed, he puzzled over what had happened, sometimes hating her, sometimes doubting, but always wanting.

And a parade of willing widows, lovely Cyprians, and eager daughters of local nobility did little to ease the loss he felt over Harry’s perfidy. And yet he was too proud to go back to her, too angered still. So he flirted, drank far too much, and wagered fortunes daily on his horse, telling himself that he’d deal with the problem of his marriage later.

By mid-September he was at a small dirt track outside Palermo, Sicily, taking bets on yet another race, when his attention was caught by a young girl in the crowd. Something about the color of her hair, the set of her chin, her almost furtive glances under her mama’s watchful eye, reminded him of Harry. He stared at her, forgetting the man who haggled over odds with him, forgetting the hot sun, forgetting everything. It was as though he were looking at Harry. The girl, now aware of his fixed gaze, smiled shyly, then turned to point him out to her mother. And within the space of a few seconds he was facing her irate brother. In Sicily, he discovered, a man did not look at a female quite like that and live. It was only after he stammered out an apology, explaining that she reminded him much of his wife, that the race went on at all.

His wife. He’d said it aloud. He’d admitted he could not help thinking of her. As Two Harry crossed the finish line ahead by a length, Richard admitted defeat to himself. So she had misled him, entrapped him into marriage. Did that make her any different from the dozens of girls on the Marriage Mart, girls who flattered and flirted, spouting all manner of silliness in hopes of gaining husbands? Not really. At least Harry had had the excuse of wanting to escape Hannah. While the crowd clamored around him, while sweaty men counted out money into his hands, Richard abruptly decided to go home.

As he made arrangements for transport to England, he felt relieved. He’d go home and let her explain, and he would forgive her for her deceit. She might not be the beauty he’d once thought he wanted, but he’d take her to London, fit her out in decent gowns, and present her to the
ton
as his viscountess.

For much of the journey home he planned her entree into society, reasoning that with him at her side she would somehow take. Having crossed the bridge between anger and acceptance, he allowed himself to think of her freely now, convincing himself that his Harry might well be an Original. By the time he docked at Dover, he was not only reconciled to the task, he actually looked forward to it. He’d punished her enough; now he would make it up to her. Besides, he could no longer deny the very physical need he felt whenever he thought of her.

Uncertain of his welcome at Rowe’s Hill, he determined to travel first to Richlands, engage carpenters and painters to refurbish his mother’s awful rooms, and write to Harriet from there. It would, he hoped, ease the awkwardness of his return.

At Dover he visited a jeweler and purchased a more fitting bridal gift—a diamond-and-emerald brooch. He’d hoped to discover a ring suitable to replace his, something more elegant and feminine, but decided to wait until he took her to London. A marriage ring ought to reflect the taste of the wearer, after all.

That night, after supper, he carried a bottle of the innkeeper’s best Madeira upstairs and split it with Sean O’Neal, his valet. After five months of traveling town to town, inn to inn, there’d sprung up more than the relationship of lord and servant between them. The affable Irishman, Richard had discovered, was not only charming to the maids but also an excellent listener.

“What do you think, O’Neal—am I a fool or not?” he asked, leaning back and sipping reflectively from his glass.

“Well, yer honor’s honor, as to that I couldn’t say, but show me a man not a fool for ‘em, and I’ll show ye a dead one.” Grinning, the valet drained his cup and refilled it. “Aye, and who’s not prey to a pretty face, I ask ye—not me, anyways. But from what ye’ve said t’ me, seems t’ me the question’s how high in the boughs she’s goin’ t’ be.”

“Harry?” Richard considered for a moment, then shook his head. “Harry,” he pronounced definitely, “is never given to freaks of distemper.”

“Beggin’ yer honor’s pardon, but she’s a female, ain’t she? And, faith, but there’s not a one of ’em as don’t cut up the dust, is there, now?” O’Neal reminded him.

“No matter how angered she is, she’ll be glad enough to escape her stepmama. That, at least, I have in my favor,” Richard mused, finishing his wine. “And I mean to tell her I forgive her from the beginning.”

“Will ye, now? Seems to me, your honor forgive me f’r sayin’ it, if this Lady Rowe’s all you’ve said o’ her, ’tis yourself that’ll be needin’ the forgiveness.”

That was one part of his conscience Richard did not want to dwell on, for more than once he’d wondered what Hannah had said after he left, only to push it aside. Whatever it was, it could not have been pleasant, he was certain. Well, this time when he took Harry from Rowe’s Hill, she’d never have to go back.

Draining yet another cup of the strong wine, the valet eyed his master over the rim. “Bothers ye, don’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I never favored one female myself, you understand, but if I was to, I think I’d f’rget the thinkin’ on it and put it t’ the touch. Females,” he announced emphatically, “is deuced odd creatures, don’t ye know? A man never knows what they’ll do until they do it!”

“Just the same, I think I’ll write first.”

“Now, beggin’ yer honor’s honor, but if ’twas me …” The valet’s grin broadened. “I’d want t’ face her. Ain’t one of ’em alive as don’t melt f’r the blarney.”

“Of which you seem to possess a surfeit. My ‘honor’s honor,’ is it? O’Neal, if the truth were known, beneath all those groveling words, there beats the heart of a scoundrel,” Richard reminded him dryly.

“Faith, but there’s more’n a bit of scoundrel in all of us, I’d have to say, your honor,” O’Neal agreed blithely. “But if I was goin’ t’ be a coward and write t’ her, I’d not wait for Richlands.” He held up the bottle, shaking his head. “ ’Tis gone, all o’ it, yer honor. Got t’ get the both of us another.”

Much later, after the valet had retired to sleep off the effects of too much wine, Richard sat up and tried to write. But either he was too foxed to make sense or he couldn’t find the right words. Finally he crumpled the sixth sheet of paper and threw it on the floor in disgust. No, he’d have to write from Richlands, after all. And as he eased his travel-wearied body into bed, he wondered if O’Neal were right—if he were a coward not to face her.