He looked about his bedchamber, a last look knowing he would not see it for another two weeks or so.
Not even after a week of being home had he accustomed himself to life in England. One would think he would have slipped into his four poster on that first night home and slept like a babe, or nestled into the well-cushioned chair by the fire for an evening read, even relished in the bedside coffee that appeared as though by magic every morning. Instead, he spent his nights restless, could not find comfort in the chair, and considered it unnerving that someone brought the coffee so soundlessly he did not notice.
Life in India had been different. A cot for a bed. The room sparsely furnished. Staff nonexistent. After a time, he had accustomed himself to the sweltering heat, even in the evenings, so much so that England seemed in perpetual winter in comparison.
He left the bedchamber with a sigh, entered his dressing room, and rang for his valet.
However short the wait, he was impatient to be on the road. Grabbing one of the bags tucked in the corner, he began clearing the table of his shaving equipment and sundry items.
“You rang, sahib,” Abhijeet said.
Harold spared the valet a look before returning to his packing. “We’re to London again. Only long enough to meet Father’s solicitor.”
Swatting Harold’s hands from the bag, Abhijeet emptied it and began packing anew with meticulous care. With a refined British accent, only edged by a faint Bengali cadence, he commanded, “Sit. Leave this to me. Tell me of your father’s plan while I pack.”
Harold knew a battle he could not win and shrugged himself into a chair. “While we’re there, you should open your own shop. You’ve enough money and skill to be the most sought-after tailor in London. I’d much rather us share a drink as equals than have you dress me.”
“How many times do I have to tell you? A passion for fashion I may have, but I care not to do business with any Englishman but you. This is what I enjoy.”
“Dressing me?” Harold ribbed.
“Come, think what life I would live as a tailor. Not the life in a grand estate, living in luxury as a king, my belly full of the finest albeit blandest of England’s foods.”
“If we’re to be on the road to and from London every few weeks, you may change your mind about living in luxury.”
Abhijeet shook his head as he packed at least two weeks’ worth of clothes in a trunk. “You’re stuck with me, I’m afraid. I’ve had the taste of life in a grand estate and won’t give it up.”
Only after returning to England did Harold hire Abhijeet as a valet. It was the fellow’s own suggestion as they stood on the dock, Harold bidding farewell to a man he had come to consider a trusted friend. The Indian had spent too many years as a munshi for the East India Company to want to return to a life of business, but he had an inheritance significant enough to live the life of a gentleman, become a textile merchant, or do what he loved as a tailor. He preferred instead to live an easy life with purpose, pride, and ample time to himself.
Harold chuckled as he watched his valet work. “You simply don’t want the bother of owning your own home.”
“You see through me.” Abhijeet waved Harold out of the chair to change him into traveling clothes.
“I fear this trip is only the beginning, my friend,” Harold said. “He’s determined to follow through with the opium deal. My hope is the hunting party solicitations will be denied, and he’ll be left empty handed of capital. If he can convince his guests to invest, he’ll go through with it, and back to London we’ll go to make the arrangements.”
The valet stripped Harold down to his shirt before replacing the silk breeches with buckskin, the waistcoat with a utilitarian sleeved vest, and an unadorned frock coat pleated at the hips. “His lordship knows the Company is taking control of the opium farms in and around Calcutta?”
“He does.” Harold stood still for Abhijeet to bag his hair at the nape and tie it with a black bow. He favored this style when traveling, a more practical alternative to curling and powdering.
Abhijeet tutted. “Should the Company discover the ship, his investment will be at the bottom of the bay.”
“More like in the Company’s possession—ship, cargo, and capital.”
“You’ll pardon my saying but your father is a fool.”
Harold could not agree more, but saying so was disloyal, even said to a friend. “He’s in a tight spot and trying to save us all in the only way he knows how. If only I could make him see there are other ways out of this bind.”
Packed and ready, Harold nodded to his valet and headed to wish his mother well before departing.
Chapter 4
Hazel admired the passing scenery from the Trethow carriage window. The rocky and sheep-dotted landscape of their seaside home gave way to hills and hedgerows as they traveled farther from Trevena in Cornwall and closer to Exeter in Devonshire for Baron Collingwood’s hunting party. They were but a mile from Agnes’s home at Longfirth where they would stop briefly to collect Agnes before continuing the journey. How her father had managed to convince Mr. Plumb to allow Agnes to join, Hazel would never know, but she was eternally grateful; a hunting party of lords and landowners sounded the dullest of droll drabbers.
Her father, Mr. Cuthbert Phineas Trethow, was not the dull sort but rather a man of vitality and spirit. He had spoken nonstop since leaving Teghyiy Hall. Much of the monologue centered on hunting. But some he reserved for his disappointment at not bringing his son, Hazel’s brother Cuthbert Walter Trethow, a young man mere months from his fourteenth birthday. Almost a grown man, Mr. Trethow argued. Should be introduced to the right sort at an early age, all in preparation for his career as a Member of Parliament. Cuthbert had other ideas for his future, but neither he nor Hazel had mentioned that to Mr. Trethow. Their father had a plan for the boy’s future and would stop at nothing to see it through to fruition, just as he had a plan for Hazel’s marriage, a sentiment she felt as strongly against as her brother felt on the political front.
“Promise me,” her father was saying as she realized he had been talking about her, not just to her, “you’ll make a favorable impression.”
“Of course, Papa,” she said, uncertain to what she committed herself but confident she could make a favorable impression on just about anyone.
“This is something we’ve hoped for since our youth. To see it happen at last—what proud papas we shall be!”
Hazel eyed her father with narrowed gaze.
Papa rubbed his hands together, a greedy grin glinting.
“The investment you mean?” Hazel hedged.
“Have you not been listening? The betrothal!”
Her gaze narrowed further; her lips pursed. “What betrothal?”
“Between you and Collingwood’s heir, of course. If my suspicions are correct, it’s the reason he’s hosting the hunting party. He hopes to announce the betrothal in front of his important guests.”
“Oh, that.” Hazel made an unladylike snort. “Not likely, Papa. That’s your dream, not mine. I will marry for love, not match myself to some stranger.”
To her mind the conversation was concluded. Score one for Hazel, Papa zero.
“Don’t say that, my bird. I need this. It is my dream and Collingwood’s too. Think, you’d be a baroness one day! Rather than for a come-out, you could attend the London Season and be introduced to the Queen as a future peer’s wife.”
“Hmm. And this has nothing to do with the investment?”
Her father cast his eyes to the floor of the carriage, a sheepish pink to his cheeks. “Understand, Collingwood’s letter made promises of wealth beyond measure. We could move into a grander estate, one to rival the baron’s own! He’s hesitant to do business with a friend, not wanting to combine friendship and business, he said, so he aims to interview potential partners at the party. Hazel, love, I can’t be overlooked
. I know I’m a simple man. I know his guests are more apt to laugh than consider me a partner. But should you be his future daughter-in-law, well, he can’t possibly exclude me, now can he? This will be the making of us!”
As her father’s animation increased, so did her foreboding for this party.
So close to finding love, she had been. So close to that elusive first kiss of love’s lips. And now she was being auctioned at the town fair to some dullard. Why was he still a bachelor if he was such a catch? Likely as ugly as a sheep’s bottom with the manners of a toad. She could see him now, the heir of the Collingwood barony, teeth rotted and the breath of a fermented chamber pot, his ideas of wooing a woman being to douse her with his perfume to hide his stench, and spray her with spittle as he professed an undying affection for his snuff box.
In memoriam, she recalled Anthony Faldo, Viscount Brooks. Blonde locks waved in the night’s breeze, teasing her to run parted fingers through the tresses. She pouted to remember there had been no breeze, his hair had been tightly curled at the sides, and he would not have welcomed her roaming fingers. As embarrassing as the memory, the idea of him held fast in her heart. He represented a man of her choice. No arranged betrothal between interfering parents. No toad with foul breath. No unhappy marriage. He represented freedom.
When the carriage turned along the Longfirth Hall drive, Hazel realized her father was still talking, doing his best to convince her to make a good impression before the conversation would need to change for Agnes’s sake.
Setting her teacup in its saucer, Hazel leaned towards a giggling Agnes. “I wager he’s a connoisseur of monocles. Always looking about the room with one eye magnified.”
“His idea of courting a lady is,” Agnes said with a pause, “showing her his periwig collection.”
The two dissolved into laughter.
The object of their fun was Mr. Harold Hobbs, the notably absent Mr. Harold Hobbs. Hazel might have felt a twinge of guilt at poking fun at the man if she could remember him or, more to the point, if her father had not pressed his marriage ploy. As it was, Mr. Hobbs was not in residence to rebut their silliness. He would return from a London trip by the end of the week, the Collingwoods had promised their guests, hopefully in time for the soiree.
Not that he was missed. The only guests who had thus far arrived were the Trethows with Miss Plumb and a Mr. Butterbest with his wife and two sons. All other guests were set to arrive on the morrow.
The drawing room was no less lively this evening, despite the drizzle of rain tapping at the windows. Lady Collingwood enjoyed the company of Mrs. Butterbest. Lord Collingwood entertained Mr. Butterbest and Mr. Trethow. And the Messrs. Butterbest made eyes at Hazel and Agnes from across the room. All through supper, the two gentlemen had flirted with them. Agnes had a heart only for Lord Driffield and so gave them a polite albeit frosty reception, while Hazel considered them for all of two minutes before dismissing them as suitors.
Wealthy as Croesus, she was to understand, but milksops. The twins were in their early twenties with hair so powdered she could not say with confidence its natural color. They deferred to their parents on every score. Is it not a fine day? Hazel might ask. Our father says we’ll pay for this fine weather with three days of rain. One of the twins might answer. Will you be riding to hounds? Agnes might ask. Our mother feels it prudent we look after our safety, we mean to say the ladies’ safety, by staying behind with the women on hunting days. No, these young men would not do. They could never hold a candle to someone like Lord Brooks.
Agnes touched a hand to Hazel’s arm to draw her attention from the twins. “You don’t think your father is serious, do you?”
“Of course not. He would never force me to marry. His words were meant to encourage me, nothing more. Papa believes he can curry favor on this business deal if I’m engaged to Lord Collingwood’s son.”
“But hasn’t this been arranged for years?”
“Informally, nothing serious.” Hazel reassured her friend as much as herself. “Papa would never force me. You know how he is.”
Agnes grimaced. “He was fibbing, then, when he told my father this was to be your betrothal party?”
“He what?” The teacup rattled against the saucer.
“That’s the only reason Father allowed me to come. Was your father playing mine to ensure I could attend or….”
Or indeed. Hazel was not overly concerned, but it was a troubling turn of events. When they returned and she was not betrothed, there would be a price to pay with Mr. Plumb, not only for his being misled by Mr. Trethow, but also to her own reputation in the man’s estimation, not to mention to whomever he then spoke about it.
She would not think ill of her father. He must have a plan in mind, for he would never force her hand nor fall out of the good graces of Mr. Plumb.
Before she could respond to Agnes, she caught sight of Messrs. Butterbest making their way across the room to them, intent on flirtation if she could judge by their overly eager expressions. With a bow, the gentlemen eyed Hazel’s and Agnes’s bosom.
A stir at the drawing room door caught Hazel’s attention, caught everyone’s attention. All heads turned at the sound of a shriek and a grunt.
“Unhand me, you cretin!” cried a woman as the double doors flew open. “Where’s Eugene? I must see Eugene to bed.”
The twins snorted laughter as a shivering woman shuffled into the room, her nightdress soaked through, clinging indecently to her frail figure, her mobcap flattened against frizzed grey curls. She looked all about the room in confusion.
“Nana!” Lady Collingwood was at the woman’s side in an instant, her husband following suit.
“Mother,” said the baron, shielding the figure from view, “did you walk here from the dower house in the rain? You’re not even wearing shoes!”
Two footmen shadowed her, faces crestfallen and apologetic.
Hazel and Agnes exchanged glances of both sorrow and curiosity as their hosts ushered the woman from the room.
“It’s Eugene’s bedtime,” she repeated as they led her away.
When the doors closed behind them, the twins’ guffaws trumpeted.
Hazel set her saucer on the table and rose from her seat. She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and glowered at Messrs. Butterbest. Their expressions sobered.
With a withering glare, she hissed, “Stop your shameful silliness this instance.”
They had the decency to look abashed.
Hazel was not finished. “You both ought to be ashamed of yourselves. That is no less a personage than the Dowager Baroness Collingwood, who deserves the utmost respect. If you’ve no more manners than this, I’ll see to it you eat in the stables for the remainder of the week.”
That Hazel was younger, two heads shorter, and a guest on equal footing with no power to have anyone eating in the stables did not seem to occur to either of the young men. They stared at their feet and mumbled apologies, red splotches coloring their cheeks. Giving a satisfied harrumph, Hazel offered a bright smile to her father and Mr. and Mrs. Butterbest across the room then sat down, turning her attention back to Agnes.
Agnes’s lips curved into a grin.
“Don’t look so smug,” Hazel said. “We’re no less guilty with our gossip about Mr. Hobbs.”
“That’s different, and you know it.”
“Is it?” Hazel asked under her breath, her eyes on the closed door.
The next morning, Hazel enjoyed a cup of chocolate in Agnes’s dressing room, the latter clad in her shift while her lady’s maid curled her hair.
It did not escape Hazel’s notice that Agnes’s suite was not as nice as her own. Although the suite was the same size with the same view of the gardens, Agnes’s bedchamber and adjoining dressing room appeared tired. The wood had dulled, the rugs faded, and the curtains frayed. The most attractive aspect of the room was the strap
work of the ceiling, but even it needed new plastering and painting.
Perhaps Baron Collingwood could not be bothered with a guest such as Miss Plumb. He was, after all, exceedingly wealthy, a man who favored the finer things and hosted lavish parties, or so her father had explained in his impassioned speech in the carriage.
Agnes sighed at her reflection, admiring the first set of completed curls in her tête de mouton hairstyle. “If I could drink chocolate every morning, I would be the happiest of persons. Father would never approve. He thinks chocolate sinful.” She turned to wink at Hazel. “That makes it all the more divine!”
In response, Hazel savored her chocolate with a dramatic moan. “When you’re the Countess of Driffield, you may have a cup of chocolate at every meal.”
She eyed the lady’s maid but knew their conversation was confidential. All who attended Agnes, be they governess or lady’s maid, were loyal to their mistress, if not outright protective.
“But when will that be?” Agnes’s smile slipped at the corners. “Nathan promises he’ll find a way, but until then I’m trapped.”
“An elopement would be romantic. He loves you, so what’s stopping him? Once under his protection, your father will have no control over your life.”
“He’s afraid of the scandal an elopement would cause.”
The lady’s maid finished Agnes’s hair and shifted position to help slip on stockings and shoes.
“If he’s against that,” Hazel reasoned, “then I don’t see why he can’t procure a license with or without your father’s permission—he’s an earl! He must have some sway.”
“He’s trying to find another way,” Agnes said, lifting one leg then the other for the maid. “His grandmother is determined to marry him to someone of her choosing and would make life difficult if she didn’t approve of me. A little more time, he says. With a little more time, he can convince his grandmother to accept me.”
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