Reforming Harriet

by Eileen Putman

  “So you have said. And yet, it would seem you have need of me.”

  Harriet looked away. “I have not been to town since Freddy’s death,” she said, thankful for the brandy’s false courage. “People will make a to-do over my return. I feel strangely reticent to face them, especially since I bear some blame for his death. I want to move on with my life, but I find that just now I need fortification, a suit of armor.” She eyed him apologetically. “That would be you, my lord. I hope you do not mind.”

  There was a long silence. Then: “Balderdash.”

  Harriet eyed him in confusion. “I do not understand.”

  His gaze narrowed. “You need no buffer against the world. That is at odds with everything you have declared to be the case in our brief, albeit turbulent, acquaintance. Do not ask me to believe such nonsense.”

  Harriet was silent for a moment. “Perhaps I have not been completely frank,” she conceded. “I have omitted something.”

  Lord Westwood ran a finger over the rim of his glass, but his gaze never left her face. “What?”

  She took a deep breath. “The truth is, my lord, I would like to learn to overcome my deficiencies. I would like to learn how the game between men and women is played.”

  “Good God.” He set his glass on the table with a thump.

  “I told myself that it did not matter that Freddy did not want me.” The words came out in a rush. “But it did matter. Because of me, he fell into unhealthful pursuits. In some way that I do not understand, I must do penance for that, my lord. I must learn to overcome my deficiency. And then I will be able to move on with my life. Otherwise, this marriage that Freddy and I had stands as meaningless. One must learn from one’s failures. ’Tis all for naught, otherwise.”

  “Lady Harriet —”

  “But I do not have the slightest idea how to go about it.” Harriet turned away from his penetrating gaze. “I feel helpless. I have never felt helpless before.”

  “I am quite certain of that” was his brusque response.

  “It is not that I wish to attract another husband,” she said. “I am done with all of that. I will never marry again. I only want to know how this thing between men and women is done. I went about it all wrong, you see. I had not the least understanding of desire.”

  There was a prolonged silence. Harriet ventured a look at him. She had expected to see ridicule or even embarrassment in his eyes, but she was not prepared to see steel.

  “Just how do you expect me to earn my shares?” he asked in a dangerous tone.

  Harriet eyed him blankly. “I do not understand.”

  “What, exactly, must I do to win them?”

  “Merely pretend to be my betrothed,” she said. “Escort me to parties, dance with me. The things that betrothed couples do.”

  “How does that help you overcome this alleged deficiency of yours?”

  Harriet could see he was intent on making a point, but it eluded her. “I still do not understand.”

  “You wish to know ‘how it is done.’ A kiss — that must be worth a dozen or so shares.” His lips thinned disdainfully. “But at that rate, it will take an age to win them all back.”

  “I —”

  “Thus it will be necessary to speed up the pace,” he said, cutting her off. “Perhaps a tumble in the carriage — might that be worth as much as fifty shares?” He stroked his chin as if pondering the matter. “Would that teach you about desire?”

  Harriet paled.

  “I thought only whores put a price on their services,” he growled. “Little did I realize I would be compelled to become one.”

  “I meant no insult,” she said, horrified. “You need only spend time in my company in public. I do not expect you to...to make love to me, my lord. I never — ever — meant to suggest that.”

  “I see.” His brows arched contemptuously. “You wish to dance around the edges of desire — not put desire into practice.”

  Harriet stared at him. “My lord, I fear you have misunderstood.”

  “I think not.”

  Her face grew warm. “I know little of such things — edges or no edges.”

  His sharp laugh surprised her. Was he mocking her? She took a deep breath. “I wish to know enough to be sufficiently forearmed against any unscrupulous gentleman or fortune-hunter who would attempt to take advantage of a widow such as myself...”

  “As if one would dare,” he muttered darkly.

  “…and to avoid making a fool of myself in the future, or ruining someone else’s life. Do you not see?” she insisted, trying to keep her voice steady. “I fell into marriage with Freddy with no notion of what it would bring. And it was a disaster.” She hesitated. “By that, I did not mean to imply that it was his fault. I did not know how to meet his needs. Even now, I do not know the remedy. I only know it is not within my reach.”

  “Then why not stay here in the country, away from all of that?”

  Harriet raised her chin. “I will not hide. I am not a coward. I will face my mistakes and learn from them.”

  “But not face them alone,” he said pointedly. “You wish me to be your shield. Does that not strike you as contradictory?”

  She stared at him. “Yes. You are right. I was wrong to suggest it.” He had as good as called her a coward, and he was correct. How could she have come up with such an outlandish proposition? Was it the brandy talking?

  The heavy silence stretched into minutes. Such was her mortification that she could not bear to look at him. Harriet put her glass on the table and squared her shoulders. She would calmly bid him goodnight and walk out of the room as if she had not just exposed herself as a great fraud. Lord Westwood would be glad to see the last of her, and who could blame him? She had made an utter fool of herself.

  He cleared his throat. But Harriet could not bear to hear another denunciation. “Goodnight, my lord,” she said quickly, moving to the door, not meeting his gaze. She could think of nothing else to say, no words that would erase the damage. She had insulted him and revealed herself to be the veriest fool. Her face was hot with embarrassment. “Please do me the very great favor of forgetting I spoke.”

  “It would be a mistake,” he said gruffly.

  Harriet halted. Slowly, she turned to him. “It — it would only be a temporary arrangement,” she ventured. “I would never wish to feel helpless for any length of time.”

  “Helpless,” he echoed and shook his head in disbelief.

  Harriet searched his face. “My lord, do you mean to suggest that you will do this?”

  “Do I have a choice, madam?”

  “One always has a choice, Lord Westwood.”

  He grimaced. “Until I met you, I was foolish enough to think that was true.”

  Harriet waited, bracing herself for the finality of his rejection. “It is an outlandish notion,” she conceded.

  “Yes,” he agreed.

  “Quite unthinkable,” she added.

  “Yes.”

  Harriet frowned. “Yes, it is outlandish and unthinkable? Or yes, you will do it?”

  “Both.”

  Harriet gasped.

  “I will have it in writing,” he said before she could speak.

  “Of course —”

  “And understand this, madam: I dance to your tune because it is the only one available at the moment.” He strode to the door, then turned. His dark eyes were hard. “But I should not like to be in your shoes when the music changes.”

  ***

  In the end, she did sign a statement. Swearing on a Bible before Mr. Stevens, her astonished solicitor, and Lord Westwood’s solicitor, Mr. Wilson, on her very first day in London, Harriet promised to break her engagement to Lord Elias Westwood by August 12, the scheduled date of Parliament’s adjournment. She also directed Mr. Stevens to permit Lord Westwood to inspect the transactions that involved the sale of her shares, a prospect that her solicitor appeared to regard with some alarm, until she firmly told him she would brook no objection. The pape
rs sealing their bargain were signed as their betrothal announcement was sent to the Gazette.

  Removing to town had been surprisingly easy. Nervous at the prospect of entertaining Lord Westwood on her own in London, Harriet had prevailed upon Monica and Eustace to accompany her and remain for the Season. She confessed to her friend the truth about her betrothal as they were alone in the carriage bound for London. Eustace rode alongside the carriage. Monica was delighted that Eustace would have an opportunity to acquire some town polish, though she heartily disapproved of Harriet’s betrothal scheme and had not entirely given up on attaching Eustace to Harriet in the future.

  “Eustace deserves a woman like you, Harriet,” Monica had said. “You would be the making of him.”

  “He deserves a girl nearer his own age.”

  “He is twenty. There are five years between you.”

  “There is a lifetime between us, Monica. I have already buried a husband.”

  “He has no title, so it is not essential for him to marry a virgin,” Monica replied frankly. “What I most want for him is a woman of worth. Like you, dear.”

  Harriet eyed her friend in amusement. “Nonsense. You only want me for a daughter-in-law so that you can be sure he is in good hands.”

  Monica sighed. “When you put it thus, I suppose you are right. But I want him to choose well. I don’t want him blinded by some lightskirt.”

  “Cut the leading strings, dear,” Harriet said. “Eustace must find his own future, not fall into one you have fashioned for him. Besides, the prospect of me marrying your son strikes me as unseemly. He would doubtless recoil at the prospect.”

  “I suppose the heart goes where it will,” Monica said wearily. “I learned that when Francis ran off with my maid, curse his lecherous soul. How fitting that he died on that ship to the Colonies. A cold, watery grave suits him.”

  Harriet patted her hand. “What Francis did was regrettable, and I do not mean to diminish your pain, but that was years ago. You must bury the past. Perhaps in London you will meet someone to catch your fancy.”

  “I would rather see how Lord Westwood catches yours,” her friend replied archly.

  Harriet frowned. “I do not know what you mean.”

  “Do you not?” Monica made a tsk-tsking sound. “You cannot deny that he is a fine figure of a man.”

  Harriet refused to acknowledge that point. “It is a business arrangement between us, nothing more.”

  “My dear, I fear you are headed for disaster. This masquerade is the most ridiculous — nay, dangerous — notion you have ever devised.”

  “Not at all,” Harriet replied. “It is a perfect solution. Lord Westwood will recover his shares. And I will learn what I did wrong with Freddy.”

  “You did nothing wrong. Freddy was a scapegrace. As was my Francis. Gentlemen of conscience and quality do exist, dear. Lord Westwood may be such a one.”

  Harriet shook her head. “I seek only a better understanding of my own deficiencies.”

  “You have no deficiencies,” Monica retorted.

  “I hope Lord Westwood will be an adequate teacher,” Harriet said in a musing tone. “He can be rather gruff at times.”

  “An adequate teacher? Oh, I suspect so.” Monica eyed her pityingly. “You may be a widow, Harriet, but you are the merest lamb.”

  Harriet laughed. “I have been a married woman, remember?”

  “Marriage to Freddy cannot have prepared you for this deep game with a man like Lord Westwood,” Monica warned.

  “It is not a game,” Harriet insisted. “It is a business arrangement.”

  “Business.” Monica arched a brow. “Of course.”

  ***

  Heavenly and Celestial, who had not been told of the fraudulent nature of her betrothal, accepted the news of Harriet’s engagement with astonishment, then glee. Even Horace had unbent sufficiently to allow himself a congratulatory smile.

  But now, standing in the kitchen of her London townhouse, preparing to supervise preparation of a meal for fifty guests, Harriet could not stop thinking about something Lord Westwood had said before he left Worthington. He had stopped at the bakery for meat pies to take on his drive to town. Harriet was there, along with several of the ladies who would run the shop in her absence. He had not looked altogether pleased to see her. When she tried to explain her bread-making process, he showed a grudging curiosity in how the simple combination of flour and water could turn into such a foul-smelling mixture as that which she had flung at him and the squire.

  “’Tis the wild yeast,” she explained. “It causes the mixture to bubble and take on a life of its own. I pour some of it off, add more flour and water, and it ferments further. When the mixture is at its most lively, I mix the dough. I keep containers of it at different stages of the process. That way some is always available.”

  “Deuced lot of trouble, isn’t it?”

  “The effort to achieve something extraordinary is worth it,” Harriet said. “Those spices of yours require some coaxing before they are ready, do they not?”

  He seemed surprised at the question, but appeared to consider it. “To be sure, it can take weeks to dry the pimento berry to the precise, shriveled state and color that indicates the flavor is sufficiently concentrated —” He broke off. “Very well,” he added as she tried to suppress a smile. “Point taken. But you shall never persuade me that foul substance of yours has redeeming qualities.”

  The ladies had insisted on giving him a basket of assorted pastries to accompany the meat pies, but when he searched his pockets for payment, Harriet stayed his hand.

  “We do not accept money here.”

  He frowned. “Ever?”

  “The bakery is for the benefit of all.”

  “You give away your goods?” He eyed her incredulously. “The shop’s losses must be astonishing. Why, the price of bread alone these days is substantial.”

  Harriet nodded. “Exactly. No one can afford to buy it. With all the rain, wheat crops have been failing. We give our bread away to all who need it. In exchange, they put in a few hours each week making more bread. It is the same with the mill. Farmers use it without cost and donate a portion of their flour to the bakery.”

  “That system —”

  “Works quite well,” she insisted. “I have heard no complaints other than from Squire Gibbs, and only because his income has been greatly reduced. He is not a bad sort, only a man with eight children and no helpmeet. I have a job for him, if he would but listen to me. But his pride has prevented him from doing so.”

  “You would employ the man who assaulted you?” Lord Westwood was appalled.

  “Sometimes one’s dearest friends come from the ranks of former enemies — do you not think so, my lord?”

  “What I think is that you live in a world of fairy tales.” With those parting words, Lord Westwood had tucked the basket under his arm and departed for town.

  Lord Westwood was mistaken, Harriet thought as she eyed the ingredients for the almond cheesecakes she planned to serve tonight. She did not live in a world of fairy tales. Her feet were planted firmly in reality. A woman on her own must be prepared. A wealthy widow would be fair game to seducers — Squire Gibbs had shown her that, bless his misguided soul. It was time she learned to protect herself. She had certainly known little of men when she married.

  Had she loved Freddy? She’d thought so at the time. But his straying made her doubt her love and, ultimately, her own worth. Would Freddy have been unfaithful to a woman more skilled in the feminine arts? The question was unanswerable. And yet the more he had strayed, the more Harriet’s doubts had consumed her.

  That was the root of the secret she had told no one — not Monica, certainly not Lord Westwood. She intended to triumph over the forces between the sexes that had caused her to give her heart to a man who had not wanted it. She would learn how to keep her heart whole in a world ruled by men.

  And then she would never, ever, be hurt by a man again.

 
; CHAPTER SIX

  “I’ve seen you face combat in a happier state.”

  Elias glowered at his batman. “As always, Henry, your views are inescapable.” The news of his betrothal had left Henry uncharacteristically silent for a full thirty seconds, but he had quickly recovered to state his opinion in blunt terms.

  Elias saw no need to disclose the exact nature of the betrothal. More than once he wished for someone to tell him that he had not lost his mind in agreeing to Lady Harriet’s outlandish plan, but Henry would not have been the one to turn to. At forty, he was more than a decade older than Elias and even more confirmed in his bachelorhood. And while Elias had once come within a hair’s breadth of marriage — disastrously so — Henry had never been tempted by the institution and thought it an altogether ruinous state. Indeed, Henry had barely contained his relief when Miss Zephyr Payne left Elias standing at the altar, a white rose in his lapel and humiliation on his face.

  Not that Henry wished him unhappiness. The man was loyal and devoted. But his loyalty was that of a fellow comrade in arms. Women might be a necessary evil upon occasion, but they did not belong permanently in a man’s life.

  Come to think of it, that was a fair summation of his own philosophy, Elias thought grimly. It made him deeply uneasy that he had entered into a betrothal, even a fraudulent one. To be sure, it was in the service of acquiring the shares, without which he could not rest easy at night, knowing that Lady Harriet was dedicated to throwing their worth away on every cause she could find.

  Elias stared at his reflection in the mirror. Lines of disapproval etched his forehead just above his nose. His jaw tensed forbiddingly. Henry was right. He looked as if he were headed for his doom.

  “Do not wait for me tonight,” Elias said. “I do not know when I will return.” That was because he had no idea what Lady Harriet expected of him on this, the first night after the Gazette officially proclaimed them betrothed. Did she wish him to stay by her side like a fawning supplicant, to linger adoringly after the guests had departed?

  The role of paid paramour did not suit him. Elias would rather take on Napoleon and all his eagles than attend this one eccentric, unpredictable widow tonight.