Marrying Harriet (4 page)

Both sisters watched with approval as Harriet carried out the instructions with stately elegance.

‘Bless me, very good,’ said Amy. ‘Why is it you cannot learn to dance, I wonder? Effy, go and play a waltz. Now, pretend I am the man, Harriet. No, do not look down. And one and two . . . Not bad, not bad at all. What ails that dancing master?’

Harriet blushed. ‘I am not used to having a man’s hand at my waist.’

‘Odso! Then you had better get used to it.’ Amy rang the bell. When Harris answered the summons, she commanded the startled butler to waltz. Harriet stumbled and moved like a wooden doll. ‘Keep at it,’ admonished Amy.

Effy played on. Then Harris’s place was taken by the first footman, then the second, and finally by Mr Haddon, who came to call. Out of breath, Harriet pleaded for a rest and then said, ‘Why do you and Mr Haddon not show me how it is done, Miss Amy? The waltz, I mean.’

Harriet sat down and watched with satisfaction as the normally ungainly Amy drifted around the drawing room in Mr Haddon’s arms, until Effy hit a nasty chord and slammed down the piano lid, saying pettishly she could not play anymore.

. . .
don’t girls like a rake better than a milksop?

Thackeray

Lord Charles Marsham had an elegant mansion in Green Street. His staff were well-trained and content with their jobs, as Lord Charles preferred to keep his roistering away from home. Three weeks had passed since he had rescued that cat and somehow it was still with him – and more demanding than a wife, he often thought sourly. It followed him everywhere like a shadow and refused to be confined to the kitchens.

His friend Jack Perkins, a former colonel, was sprawled in Lord Charles’s library, glaring awfully at the cat, which had attempted to scratch him. Jack had tried to retaliate by kicking it and had been prevented from doing so by Lord Charles.

‘It is only a cat, demme,’ drawled Lord Charles weakly. ‘I have the devil of a headache and I cannot bear you shouting and stomping like an avenging fury. What are we doing today?’

Jack was usually the instigator of every wild episode in Lord Charles’s life, Lord Charles being too indolent to think up any of his own. Their mutual friends privately considered Jack Perkins a bad influence.

‘You’ve forgotten already,’ accused Jack. ‘Slap-bang-up Cyprian party at the Argyle Rooms tonight.’

Lord Charles, who had just risen from his bed, although it was three in the afternoon, wrapped his dressing gown a little closer about his body and shuddered. ‘Whores were never to my taste, Jack, and that you know. Gambling, racing, boxing, yes. Tarts, no.’

‘There are to be some of the highest-flyers in London there,’ said Jack. ‘You can’t continue to live like a monk. When did you last look at a female?’

‘I forget,’ sighed Lord Charles. ‘Salamanca, was it? Small, dainty thing with big dark eyes. No, Jack, I don’t think I shall go this evening.’

Jack Perkins thought quickly. If Lord Charles did not go, he would have to endure his own company – he did not consider women, whores or otherwise, company – and that he could not bear. He was not popular with his own sex, a fact that seemed to have escaped the indolent lord opposite.

The bond that held Lord Charles to Jack Perkins was that he believed Jack had saved his life when he had received that sabre wound, by carrying him on his back all the way back from the front lines. Jack let him continue to believe it, but a lowly foot-soldier had borne Lord Charles to safety, before returning to the battle, where he had been subsequently shot. Jack had been beside Lord Charles’s bed when he regained consciousness. Before he fainted from the pain of his wound and loss of blood, Lord Charles had been dimly aware of being lifted and carried. He assumed Jack had done it and thanked him, and Jack had gracefully accepted his thanks, hoping all the while that the real rescuer would never materialize to take the credit away from him.

Jack Perkins was tall and broad-shouldered, with large liquid brown eyes in a rather brutal face that was fiery-red due to the amount he drank. Unlike Lord Charles, he did not exercise or occasionally retreat from dissipation to cure the harm done by long nights of carousing.

‘Tell you what,’ he said, ‘we’ll only stay for a short while and then go on to Watier’s and gamble the night away.’

This was more to Lord Charles’s taste. He rarely lost.

He rose wearily to his feet and stretched and yawned. ‘I had better dress,’ he said, ‘and take the air.’

He sauntered from the room and closed the door behind him. Jack smiled evilly on the cat, which had tried to follow its master, but now found itself shut inside. Jack rose and made a dive for the cat, which darted away from him and then let out a piercing, wailing, demented cry for help.

Lord Charles had stopped on the stairs to talk to his butler. He heard the cat, and with surprising speed in one so normally lazy and indolent, he darted back to the library and flung open the door. The cat leaped straight up into his arms.

He stroked the cat’s fur and said in his lazy voice, ‘I should have explained, dear Jack, that I am quite capable of killing anyone who harms this animal. Do I make myself clear?’

His eyes were hard and cold. Jack shifted uneasily and gave an awkward laugh. ‘Just having a bit of fun with the kitty,’ he said.

But the expression in Lord Charles’s eyes did not change. ‘I am warning you, Jack,’ he said, ‘leave this cat alone in future.’

He turned to leave. The cat hung its head over his shoulder and glared at Jack, its green eyes seeming to hold the same cold warning and menace Jack had just seen in its master’s. Although neither a Catholic, nor a particularly religious man, Jack was, nonetheless, highly superstitious and still believed in witches. He crossed himself as the library door closed again.

Harriet had been out on her first social call, a sedate evening of gossip with the ladies at Mrs Marriot’s, and escorted by Amy Tribble, Effy having complained of the headache while secretly hoping that Mr Haddon and Mr Randolph would call while Amy was gone. Effy often dreamt of working both gentlemen up to the point of proposing, and then refusing one of them and saying magnanimously, ‘Take my sister instead.’ But which should she refuse? Mr Randolph was agreeable and interested in all the things Effy was interested in herself, such as the latest gossip and the latest novels. Mr Haddon could be severe. But Amy was interested in Mr Haddon, and that lent him added lustre in Effy’s eyes. The twin sisters had been rivals for years.

Harriet was wearing one of the new gowns that had quickly been designed for her by Yvette and then made by Yvette’s team of seamstresses. It was of striped lilac-and-grey sarsenet, meant to be half mourning, but looking, Harriet thought uneasily, very French and, yes, somehow naughty with its low square neckline. Their carriage slowed and then stopped in a press of traffic outside the Argyle Rooms. People were arriving, people were leaving. Harriet looked with interest. The ladies were surprisingly immodest, she thought, very free in their manners, laughing and chattering.

‘Cyprians,’ said Amy shortly. ‘Whores. Must be a party. Not for your eyes, Harriet. A lady does not know such things exist.’

But Harriet continued to look. ‘Are all these men unmarried?’ she asked.

‘Of course not,’ replied Amy.

‘Then what are they doing with these women?’

‘Oh, Harriet, for pity’s sake, what do you think they are doing?’

‘But if they have wives . . . ?’

‘Marriage in society is mostly a business contract. You find your fun
after
marriage.’ Amy went on to soften the blow by describing how all
their
previous charges had married for love, until she realized Harriet was not listening. The girl was staring fixedly at a handsome, dissipated-looking man who was standing on the steps waiting for his carriage. Two prostitutes came out and flung their arms about his neck and he smiled down on them and shook his head and then kissed each one heartily.

‘Haven’t seen him before,’ said Amy, leaning forward to see what was holding Harriet’s attention. ‘Wonder who he is?’

‘That is Lord Charles Marsham,’ said Harriet calmly.

‘Oh.’ Amy’s face fell. She would need to tell Effy there was no hope there. Not that she blamed him for frequenting a Cyprian party. Men did those sorts of things, and genteel ladies pretended not to know about them. But he looked so very handsome and yet so very decadent that Amy knew he would never be interested in anyone as good and honest as Harriet Brown. And then it seemed as if he had recognized Harriet, for his gaze suddenly sharpened.

Lord Charles studied their carriage until the traffic shifted and they moved on and it was lost to view.

Could that possibly be the girl who had asked him to rescue the cat? He was sure there could not be another woman in London with those vivid blue eyes, black hair and that square jawline. Jack Perkins came out behind him. ‘Hey, friend,’ he said, ‘come back in.’

‘Going to walk,’ said Lord Charles suddenly and headed off rapidly down the street. The traffic was still moving slowly and he recognized the rented livery carriage after walking only a few hundred yards. Not knowing quite why he was so interested, he followed the carriage on foot, keeping always behind it.

It finally drew to a halt outside a house in Holles Street. The flickering light of the whale-oil lamp over the door shone on a brass plate with the name ‘Tribble’ inscribed on it in curly letters, dating from the time when London did not have street numbers. The two ladies got out. One was tall and mannish and quite old; the other, he was sure, was that girl – what was her name? Harriet, that was it, Harriet Brown.

He strode forward and swept them a bow. ‘We meet again, Miss Brown,’ he said, while his expert eye noticed with surprise the sophistication of her gown.

Her steady eyes regarded him with compassion. Harriet had decided to be sorry for this sinful creature. She introduced him to Amy.

‘Saw you on the steps of the Argyle Rooms,’ said Amy bluntly. ‘Did you follow us here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

Lord Charles looked amused. ‘I recognized Miss Brown and decided it would only be polite to call on her and tell her about the welfare of the cat.’

‘Midnight ain’t the time for calls,’ said Amy testily.

But Harriet stepped forward. ‘You still have the cat? Oh, how very good of you. Is it well?’

‘Extremely well, Miss Brown, and sends you its regards.’

‘Is it male or female?’

‘Male, Miss Brown.’

‘And what do you call it?’

‘I have not given it a name.’ Lord Charles had a sudden fit of inspiration. ‘I think
you
should choose a name for it, Miss Brown, and I shall call on you tomorrow to learn your choice.’

‘I thank you, my lord,’ said Amy firmly, ‘but tomorrow is not suitable. Come, Harriet.’

But the minister’s daughter stood her ground. If Lord Charles had indeed kept the cat, then Lord Charles was not all bad and there was hope of reform. It was her duty to help the wicked see the light.

‘I am sure, Miss Tribble,’ she said firmly, ‘that you will find I have ten minutes to spare at three o’clock in the afternoon and would be most glad to see Lord Charles.’

While Amy stood dumbfounded, Lord Charles swept off his hat again and bowed and took his leave.

‘You great ninny,’ said Amy as soon as they were indoors. ‘You are supposed to be in training to find a suitable husband, not to encourage the doubtful attentions of a womanizer.’

‘There is hope there for reform,’ said Harriet. ‘That cat may be the making of him.’

‘Pah!’ said Miss Amy Tribble.

*   *   *

It was fortunately highly fashionable for gentlemen to carry muffs. Lord Charles therefore popped the cat inside a large sable one after he had dressed with his usual care and set out for the Tribbles on the following day. To his slight annoyance, he nearly bumped into Jack Perkins, who was coming to call on him.

‘Where are you bound?’ asked Jack curiously.

‘Making a call on a lady,’ said Lord Charles laconically.

He put the cat-filled muff on the seat of his curricle and then jumped in beside it and picked up the reins.

‘Which one is it?’ asked Jack eagerly. ‘Must be one of the high-flyers for you to be making an afternoon call. Harriet Wilson? One of her sisters?’

‘No, not a whore,’ said Lord Charles. ‘Stand away, there’s a good chap, or you will make me late.’

Jack would have persisted, leaning on the edge of the carriage, had not he suddenly noticed that the muff appeared to have developed a pair of eyes that were watching him steadily. He gave an exclamation and jumped back. Lord Charles smiled at him and his carriage moved off.

Jack Perkins stood on the pavement, looking bewildered. It must have been a trick of the light. Then he realized that a Lord Charles who was going to call on a lady might be a Lord Charles who was contemplating marriage, and that did not suit Jack at all. Although he would not admit it to himself, part of his brain was dimly aware that a lot of society doors would be closed to him without Lord Charles’s friendship. He decided he must wait to find out the name of this lady and then do his best to drive a wedge between the pair.