by Mira Stables
This frank and friendly approach was far more than Harriet could have hoped for, and there could be no question of delaying her answer. She expressed her gratitude in becoming terms that caused her new employer to nod approvingly. That lady named a salary that seemed to the girl quite excessive for such simple duties as she was required to perform, but Mrs Pauncefoot assured her that after a week or so of the twins she would discover that she was not overpaid.
“Not that they are ill-mannered or spoiled,” she added, “or at least I trust you will not find them so, but they are so full of energy. I find an afternoon spent in their society quite as exhausting as one of my husband’s political dinner parties.”
There was only one problem to mar this hopeful prospect. What was to become of Mandy? One could scarcely expect Mrs Pauncefoot to house and feed a mischievous pup. Besides, it would be entirely contrary to established practice. Servants, even pampered ones, did not have such luxuries as pet dogs. She waited anxiously while brother and sister discussed various holiday plans in one or two of which she was included, and when they had settled all the details to their satisfaction and Mrs Pauncefoot had told her bracingly that she must get all her gear in good order to leave in three days’ time, she turned to Simon.
“Will you keep Mandy for me?” she said simply. “I know it is asking a great deal. I expect I really ought to find a home for her, but this has all happened so quickly that there is no time to look about for a suitable family. I could pay you for her food – and she is always well behaved with you. Perhaps then I could see her sometimes, if we spend some weeks here in the spring as you have suggested.”
Mrs Pauncefoot promptly offered to allow her to take the pup with her, but Harriet, while duly grateful, shook her head. “It would not do,” she said simply. “There would be jealousy. And while I am learning my new duties I would not have time for her. No, if Mr Warhurst would keep her, just for a little while, until I grow accustomed to the thought of parting from her. You might even find a good home for her, Sir. I suppose that would really be best.”
“And deprive Meg of her sparring partner? You cannot be serious! Of course I will keep her for you – and hope to teach her not to devour my handkerchiefs before you see her again. I shall not permit you to pay for her food. You may hem me some more handkerchiefs instead, for you will find that you need all your salary for clothes and fal-lals.”
“Yes, indeed,” chimed in his sister. “You will enjoy going shopping with Dorothea – and at last she will stop taking me to task for not providing her with a sister closer to her in age.”
“I fear she will think me too old to enter into her sentiments,” submitted Harriet. “Did you not say that she is just turned sixteen? Four years is a vast difference at that age.”
Mrs Pauncefoot frankly stared. “Why – how old are you, child?”
“Twenty, ma’am.”
Mrs Pauncefoot eyed her brother rather reproachfully. Fifteen or sixteen he had told her. To speak truth the girl did not look any more and she supposed that he had not given much thought to the matter, but it certainly did make a difference. For one thing it became more than ever essential that Harriet be removed from her brother’s protection as soon as possible.
Simon, too, was startled. How could he have been so far out in his guess? To be sure the miserable starveling that he had rescued had looked far different from this composed little creature. He was thankful that his sister had taken a liking to her. It certainly solved an awkward problem. And seeing a very thoughtful expression on that sister’s face, he hastened to introduce a new topic.
“And talking of fal-lals and fripperies,” he said lightly, “Harriet found a box of trinkets in Dorothea’s trunk – our Dorothea. There is nothing of great value except the pearl necklet that Papa gave her for her sixteenth birthday. Do you not think that your Dorothea ought to have that? Oh, yes! And the diamond bracelet that Grandmama left her. Apart from those, just one or two pretty ornaments – a locket that I gave her, and a pendant and a couple of brooches. I would like you to choose something for Harriet – you will know what would be most suitable – so that she will have a memento of our little sister when the other contents of the trunk are outworn.”
Harriet’s eyes glowed with gratitude, though she could not help wishing that he himself had made the choice. To a girl who had never in her life possessed an ornament, anything must be acceptable, but she would have liked him to finger and select. However Mrs Pauncefoot solved the problem by removing the necklet and bracelet, turning over the other items with a casual forefinger, and then handing over box and contents to Harriet with a careless air that entirely robbed the gesture of any sentimental significance. Secretly she was furious with her brother. Did he want to attach the poor child? For nothing could have been better calculated to give her a heartache. What between undertaking to care for her dog and pressing unsuitable gifts upon her, it was small wonder that she went about in a daze of adoration. And doubtless as soon as she had removed the poor little brat, he would forget all about her.
Simon did nothing of the kind. And no one more surprised than he. He had certainly thought to relapse into his customary bachelor comfort once the house was his own again. The brief interlude of petticoat interference had been pleasant enough, but he waved the ladies off on their journey with a certain sense of relief. Seen in retrospect the incident had been harmless and he could now revert to his old ways.
This pleasant state of mind lasted for two days. At the end of that time he began to feel uneasy. The disorder in the book-room positively irked him. The pug, Mandy, though not actually pining, looked at him with huge reproachful eyes, and he was obliged to admit that he felt restless and bored. He had lost interest in the journal and hard frost made hunting impossible. He was at odds with the world and nothing pleased him. He began to toy with a notion of going up to Town during the Christmas season. He might drop in on his sister – perhaps take his nieces and nephews to Astley’s. Possibly young Dorothea was of an age to appreciate the theatre – even an evening at Ranelagh. He would see.
Chapter Nine
Thanks to Mrs Pauncefoot’s skilful handling of the situation, Harriet soon fitted into the household in Arlington Street. It was generally assumed that she was a little older than Miss Dorothea since she was emancipated from the schoolroom during lessons. Mrs Pauncefoot, at first wondering how in the world she could occupy the girl, soon found her useful in a dozen different ways. With her clear writing, and spelling that was a good deal better than her employer’s, it was not long before the writing of invitations and the keeping of lists and records devolved almost wholly on Harriet. Mrs Pauncefoot began to wonder how she had ever managed without her, and even the master of the house was heard to comment favourably upon her activities. She found favour, too, with the twins, because she obviously approved of their adored Tramp – an animal that appeared to be the result of a misalliance between a terrier and some kind of spaniel – and because she had a fund of stories about farm animals remembered from her own childhood and was endlessly patient with their questions.
It took longer to become acquainted with Dorothea. The girl was friendly enough, but she was at an awkward age, eager to shake off the shackles of the schoolroom, longing for the day when she would make her début. Not this coming Season, Mama had said firmly. She would be barely seventeen, and that was too young. Dorothea argued, cajoled and pleaded, but her parents stood firm. She might make an appearance in the drawing-room after dinner, and they would arrange one or two parties of younger people especially for her benefit, but there it must stop. Dorothea was rebellious and dissatisfied, and briefly inclined to be jealous of Harriet, that paragon of all the virtues, whom even Papa had praised.
Harriet was too diffident at first to take a strong line, but as her confidence in her real usefulness increased, she began to indulge in a little plain speaking. When Dorothea complained of the close watch that was kept on all her activities and excursions, not only by Mama bu
t by Miss Hall, her governess, and even by the older members of the household staff, any one of whom was quite likely to suggest that it threatened rain or was too cold for outdoor exercise so that some cherished scheme had to be abandoned, Harriet, while properly sympathetic, painted in the other side of the picture. How would Dorothea like to be wholly bereft of parents and friends, dependent solely on her own efforts to supply her every need? If one of her watchful guardians had suggested such a possibility, Dorothea would have been inclined to scoff at its absurdity. To Harriet, who had actually experienced the conditions that she described and who was not so very much older than herself, she was prepared to listen. And while Harriet did not disclose her more sordid experiences, she did provide an account of such an existence as gave the sheltered darling of a wealthy family a good deal to think about.
She was a good-hearted girl. Moreover she knew a little about her Mama’s charitable work among the lower classes. But they had always been to her a race apart. Harriet was a girl just like herself. Indeed, her grandfather was very wealthy. Dorothea had heard Papa say that ‘Old Pendeniston had shaken the pagoda tree to some tune.’ The phrase had intrigued her and she had taken the trouble to enquire what it signified. It meant the acquisition of an Indian fortune, explained Mama, in accents that did not invite further enquiry. When Dorothea, greatly daring, ventured to press her, she was told that not all Indian fortunes were acquired by creditable means. There had been several quite appalling scandals on this count, which Dorothea was too young to understand. No. No one knew anything to Colonel Pendeniston’s discredit, and that was quite sufficient on so distasteful a subject. Young girls should not concern themselves with such matters, and never, never mention them in public.
The fact remained that Harriet’s grandfather was a wealthy man. Yet for no fault of hers he had refused to acknowledge his granddaughter. Her other grandparents were dead; her father had died before she was born. Only her mother had stood between her and the life of odious servitude which she had described so quietly and soberly. Dorothea was young and vulnerable, not without imagination. It was not difficult to put herself in Harriet’s place. She found herself observing her parents with unaccustomed solicitude lest either should show signs of failing health. Partially reassured on this head by a sharp scolding from Papa for having spent all her pin money before the quarter was anywhere near done, she sought more information from Harriet, showing herself as avid as the twins in her search for knowledge.
The result was the beginning of a close friendship. It grew slowly, since there were vast gulfs of experience to be bridged between the farm-bred girl who had been carefully educated and then driven into a harsh existence as a serving maid and the cherished flower of a well-to-do family. It grew, with great advantage to both.
Mrs Pauncefoot, well aware, despite her many preoccupations, of the new docility in her daughter’s disposition, and distinctly intrigued by that daughter’s new-born concern for her mama’s state of health, had small hesitation in ascribing this pleasing change to Harriet’s influence. She had noted the improvement in the relationship between the girls, and had too much sense to pry into details. Instead she suggested that when Dorothea came down to the drawing-room after dinner, Harriet should accompany her. She knew only too well the devastating shyness that could paralyse a youngster who was the only creature present under thirty.
The suggestion worked far better than she had dreamed. In fact, not surprisingly, it was Harriet who was stiff and awkward; and in trying to set her friend at ease and draw her into conversation with ladies who, however awe-inspiring, had been known to her all her life, Dorothea quite forgot her own importance and behaved like the modest affectionate girl that she was. Her Mama was gratified to receive several compliments on her pretty unassuming manners, and when the gentlemen joined the party she dismissed the two girls to their own quarters with a soft-spoken word of praise that sent them off in high gig. She was questioned about Harriet, both frankly and obliquely, and gave, as she had decided, an expurgated version of the truth. Yes, the girl was Colonel Pendeniston’s granddaughter. He had not approved his son’s marriage and had appeased his conscience by providing for the child’s education and then washing his hands of her. Since the deaths of her mother and her maternal grandparents she had been very much alone in the world. Mrs Pauncefoot had felt sorry for her and had offered her a home.
Knowing the lady’s warm heart, her friends were not greatly surprised. Knowing Colonel Pendeniston in fact or by repute, they were not surprised by his behaviour either. Himself of modest if respectable birth, he had a positive passion for blue blood. He had married his only daughter to the eldest son of an earl whose sole claim to fame was an unbroken descent from one of the captains who had accompanied Norman William to these shores. The fact that this pedigree was allied to empty pockets and a vicious disposition was quite unimportant to the colonel. He had money enough to stand the nonsense and he had acquired one of the oldest titles in the land for his daughter.
She did not live very long to enjoy it – if enjoyment and not endurance was the word. She died in childbirth, leaving a son to heir both the ancient title and her father’s wealth. That son was now twenty-five years of age but, by some odd quirk of circumstance, still unmarried. One would have thought him fortune’s darling – well-born, wealthy and almost excessively good-looking, but for one reason or another the various noble alliances that had been suggested for him had all come to nothing.
So nobody was really surprised that the colonel had disapproved of his son’s marriage to a mere yeoman farmer’s daughter, though one or two rather coarse-minded dowagers suggested that such a match might have done something to improve the strain. In general there was a mild sympathy for Harriet. These haughty dames would not have welcomed her as a bride for any relative of theirs – not unless her grandfather should relent and decide to endow her handsomely – but they were quite willing to be pleasant to her as long as she did not put herself forward in any way.
That was not Harriet’s intention. The varied activities of her London life had done much to alleviate a certain degree of heartache. To be sure she would wake at night and think of Mandy and Furzedown, and of Simon from whom the other two were inseparable, but she was usually so tired that she fell asleep again almost at once, while during her waking hours there was so much to occupy and to distract that she had little time for dwelling on the past.
Thanks to Dorothea’s trunk she was reasonably well provided with a modest wardrobe. In Dorothea’s namesake she now had a friend who was fertile in invention to cover small items that were lacking in her equipment. And unlike her friend she found the evenings in the drawing-room of absorbing interest. She listened eagerly to accounts of various parties, of plays that had been attended, of a new singer or violinist who had made a successful début. There was talk of changing fashions, of Christmas festivities, even, in lowered confidential tones, of various flourishing friendships that might lead to marriage. To Harriet it was as good as a play. She said little except when directly addressed, but all the time she was studying the behaviour of others and to some extent modelling her own upon it. Her speech, her carriage, even her manners were all polished by the constant association with Mrs Pauncefoot and her friends until she began to feel perfectly at ease with them, no longer afraid of making foolish mistakes and becoming a laughing stock. Dorothea grumbled because the girls were always dismissed as soon as the gentlemen put in an appearance. Not that any of them were particularly exciting, being mostly married and elderly in the eyes of sixteen, but they were male. Harriet felt that she could learn far more from the ladies and was well content as things stood.
Christmas brought a relaxation in nursery discipline. The boys came home for the holidays and there were riotous games of blind-man’s-buff and puss-in-the-corner, in which the grown-ups joined with as much enjoyment as the small fry. Julian, the elder boy, had been given an anamorphosis. This toy consisted of a tubular mirror which was placed on a
distorted picture and reflected it in its proper proportions. He and the twins spent hours gazing at this magical effect. When the weather was too wet or cold for outdoor exercise they played carpet bowls or bumble-puppy, a kind of ninepins played with a captive ball on a string. Everyone ate too much food and far too many sugar plums, and Harriet had never known so merry a Christmas.
The best – so far as she was concerned – was still to come.
Before the boys went back to school, Mr Warhurst presented himself in Arlington Street, announcing that it was high time that he became better acquainted with his nephews and nieces. His sister wondered if he had actually convinced himself that this was the truth, so boldly did he pronounce it. She was seriously put out. At any other time she would have been delighted to make him welcome. He came to Town all too rarely, but to come now, after appealing for her help in an awkward situation, just when Harriet was in a fair way to settling down contentedly in her new surroundings, was just the kind of thoughtless behaviour to which gentlemen yielded when some whim took them. She made no doubt that he had missed the child, running about after him as she had done, with her big worshipping eyes. So now he must amuse himself by playing the indulgent uncle to the whole brood, with whom Harriet must necessarily be included. It was quite infuriating, but she could scarcely tell him that he was not welcome!