Her plan had not worked. He had seen right through her and he had chosen not to propose to her. He did not want to marry her but now he was trapped and... What if he was telling the truth? What if he had not known she was with child? Did she want him to suffer in a marriage he did not want? Could she live with herself, knowing what she did about her motives and knowing that there would be no betrothal had it been Benedict’s free decision? And would he ever forgive her when he found out the truth about her and Stanton?
He was due to call on her at ten.
She loved him. She did not want him bound to her from a sense of obligation or duty.
Benedict no longer had a choice, but she did. Suddenly, she knew what she must do.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Don’t worry?
Benedict ripped the letter in half and in half again, and dashed the pieces to the floor of Harriet’s salon. She’d done it again—led him on and then betrayed him! Broken off their betrothal and gone. He rammed his fingers through his hair and paced up and down, fury boiling in his gut. Then his steps slowed as common sense began to penetrate his anger. Her wording—she had released him... Had she gone for his sake? He must believe she had. He must not allow the lies of the past to cloud his judgement.
Where would she go?
To Brierley? Hardly.
The Stantons? Possibly.
That charity house of hers? Where was it again? Cheapside? Again, possible.
What had she said again? He retrieved the ripped letter, strode to a table by the window and laid the pieces out, fitting them back together.
Dear Benedict,
I have been unfair, both in not believing you last night and in accepting your proposal. I therefore release you from our betrothal: I have come to realise that to be forced into an unwanted union can never provide a solid foundation for a happy marriage such as our friends demonstrate.
I have gone to find the truth of what happened eleven years ago.
Do not worry, I beg of you. I am no longer your concern and I shall be perfectly safe. I have written to Edward to inform him that our betrothal is at an end and that I shall accept his offer of a cottage at Brierley Place, so you will no longer need to worry about me. If what the solicitor told you is true as to the source of the monies, I imagine Edward will not be so churlish as to withhold my allowance for very long! And I dare to hope that, after Kitty is settled, he will again countenance my presence in London.
I wish you good fortune in your search for a bride, and I hope that your union will be blessed with children and you will lead a happy and contented life together.
Do not worry about me. I will see you upon my return and tell you what I have discovered.
Your good friend,
Harriet
Three times she had told him not to worry. What did the foolish woman think he would do other than worry? Why the hell hadn’t he made her talk to him last night? Why had he decided it would be better this morning after they’d both had a chance to calm down and think things through?
Because you were scared of what you must admit, and of what you might hear, if you both spoke from the heart.
Now she had gone and the ache in his heart rippled through his body until he could feel it in his toes and the tips of his fingers and in his jaw, which was clenched tight against his tears.
Where would she go?
Thoughts flitted in and out of his mind, never settling for long enough to allow him to examine them.
Calm down, slow down, think!
He sat on a nearby chair, head bowed, his hand resting on the torn letter as if he could absorb her thoughts through his fingertips.
Think logically.
I have gone to find the truth of what happened...
Who would know? Malcolm, Brierley and her father were all dead. The present Lord Brierley? He shook his head, frustration mounting. Who else was involved? Harriet herself. The solicitors!
He surged to his feet and was halfway across the room before he realised the three men who had planned this would have had no need to confide the whole truth to their solicitors.
Planning—what had they planned? If it was true about the baby, and he could not, having witnessed Harriet’s distress, disbelieve it then the men—her father, his guardian and her future husband—had conspired to keep Benedict in the dark about Harriet’s pregnancy, and Harriet in the dark about Benedict not knowing. They’d told Harriet that Benedict had rejected her and they married her off to Brierley. The whole thing stank of Malcolm. He had made no secret of his disapproval of Benedict spending time with the village children and of his plan to find a suitably well-bred bride for his heir. But Harriet’s father was complicit in the deception.
And that must be where Harriet had gone—to see her mother—the only person who might still know the truth of what had actually happened.
He dredged up a memory... Harriet, talking about her mother and her aunt... The sea air... Whitstable. That was it.
Benedict headed for the door.
‘What time did her ladyship leave?’ he asked Stevens, who was hovering outside the salon door, an anxious expression on his face. ‘Did she say where she was going?’
‘She took a hackney at seven this morning, sir, carrying a portmanteau. Janet says her bed wasn’t slept in and that she packed her bag herself. I heard her direct the hackney to Lad Lane so I can only assume she is going to Brierley Place, but she did not say so.’
Or Whitstable. The Swan with Two Necks was in Lad Lane, and the stagecoach that ran from there to Canterbury would pass through Faversham, a scant five miles or so from Whitstable.
Benedict whipped up his horses and arrived back in Grosvenor Street in record time.
‘Order the carriage round,’ he said to Reeves as he strode into his house. ‘I am going into Kent. Fletcher!’ He had kept Malcolm’s valet on as well, after his kinsman’s death, despite having little use for one. Fletcher appeared at the top of the stairs as Benedict took them two at a time. ‘Pack a bag—enough for a couple of nights away, please.’
‘Am I to accompany you, sir?’
‘No. No need.’ He did a quick calculation in his head. With any luck, and frequent team changes, he should be in Whitstable by six.
* * *
‘She is not here, as you can see.’ Mrs Rowlands showed Benedict into the empty sitting room of the small house she shared with her widowed sister. On the opposite side of the hallway he had glimpsed a dining room through an open door. It, too, had been unoccupied. Involuntarily, he glanced at the ceiling.
‘My sister is resting in her bedchamber.’
Benedict gazed at Harriet’s mother in frustration. Small likenesses to Harriet, glimpsed in isolation, smote at his heart—her elegant posture, the shape of her brow, the set of her chin. They stood facing one another. Mrs Rowlands had not taken a seat—the implication being that Benedict was not welcome to stay—and neither had she offered him refreshments.
‘Have you heard from her?’
‘I received a letter about a week ago.’
‘Well—have you any idea where she might have gone?’ he asked in desperation.
The woman was as uncommunicative as it was possible to be, without out-and-out rudeness.
‘I am afraid I cannot help you,’ Mrs Rowlands said. ‘I suggest you return to London and wait for Harriet to contact you, if she chooses to do so.’
The woman was a poor liar, but he could not fault her for trying to protect her daughter. Harriet was here. He felt it in his gut but, short of forcibly searching the house, there was little he could do. Did Harriet know he was here and was hiding from him? Or had Mrs Rowlands taken it upon herself to shield her daughter from him?
‘She told me about the baby.’
Mrs Rowlands flinched
. ‘We do not speak of that.’
So it was true. ‘Why was I never told?’
‘What could you have offered my daughter? You were just a youth, with nothing in the way of prospects until Sir Malcolm died, and he held all the power. You ruined our daughter’s life and broke our hearts. We lost her when she married that man.’
‘Lost her? How?’
Mrs Rowlands walked to the door. ‘It can do no good raking over the past. Leave it where it belongs. If Harriet wishes you to know, I am sure she will tell you when she is ready to. I am sorry for your wasted journey.’
‘It is of no consequence. If you do happen to see Harriet, tell her I was here. Tell her that I am gone to Tenterfield Court, when she is ready to talk to me.’
He had no choice now but to leave. He trod down the short path to his carriage and then looked back at Harriet’s mother. ‘And tell her that, in my eyes, our betrothal still stands.’
‘Betrothal?’ Mrs Rowlands’ voice rose in sharp enquiry. ‘What betrothal?’
He ignored her and opened the carriage door.
‘Where to now, sir?’ Atkins called from the box as Benedict mounted the carriage steps.
‘Tenterfield Court.’
He settled against the squabs as the carriage rocked into motion.
...to be forced into an unwanted union can never provide a solid foundation for a happy marriage...
Those words had haunted him the whole journey from London. An unwanted union. Did she mean unwanted by her? If so, he must accept he was chasing a lost dream. Or did she—as he hoped and prayed she did—mean unwanted by him? He must trust Mrs Rowlands to give Harriet his message and he must trust Harriet to understand why he had given her this opportunity to come to him freely. It was time they were open about the past, and about their present feelings, if they were to have any chance of happiness.
He would give her until the day after tomorrow. If she did not come, he would return to Whitstable and, this time, he would find her. But he hoped against hope that she would come of her own accord.
* * *
When Harriet awoke, sunlight was flooding through the open curtains in an unfamiliar bedchamber. She squinted and rubbed at her temples, which throbbed. A loud gurgling accompanied a churn of her stomach and the events of the day before came tumbling out of her memory and into her conscious thoughts. She was at Mama’s, in Whitstable. As if in confirmation, the haunting cry of a seagull echoed outside the window.
Her stomach rumbled again, reminding her she had not eaten since yesterday, when she had managed to grab a quick slice of bread and cheese at one of the inns when the stagecoach had pulled in for a change of horses. She frowned. That would explain the headache, but why had she not eaten when she arrived here in the middle of the afternoon? Those memories—her actual arrival—remained hazy. But she recalled with absolute clarity the reason for her impromptu journey to the Kent coast.
Benedict. Their betrothal. The burning question she hoped her mother could answer.
She got up and crossed to the washstand in the corner of the neat, impersonal guest bedchamber. There was clean water standing in the jug and she poured it into the basin. It was cool, but it would help to wake her up. She washed quickly and pulled on the same dress she had travelled in yesterday. Someone, she noted, had brushed the dusty evidence of six hours of travel from the blue fabric. She brushed her hair and roughly plaited it before going downstairs.
The clock on the mantelshelf in the sitting room read quarter to eleven.
‘Good morning, Mama.’ Harriet crossed the room to the window, where her mother sat—embroidery in hand—and bent to kiss her cheek.
Her mother smiled. ‘You are looking better, my dear. That tincture of laudanum worked—you have slept for almost seventeen hours. You had better have something to eat. Go and ask Joan to prepare toast and tea, will you, please?’
‘Mama, I need to ask—’
‘Yes, yes, my dear, but first you must have something to eat.’
She put her embroidery on the arm of her chair and rose to her feet. She framed Harriet’s face with her hands and shook her head, smiling. ‘Listen to your mama, stubborn girl.’
Tears welled up to thicken Harriet’s throat and she turned away before Mama saw. ‘Yes, Mama,’ she said.
Oh, how she wished she could return to her childhood, to a time when life was uncomplicated and full of promise. How she wished she could forget everything—Benedict included—and stay here in peace with her mother and her aunt. She silently berated herself for her ingratitude, and vowed to cease this self-pitying nonsense. Look at all the women and girls who had fared so much worse than she had. The workhouses were full of them, single mothers who had no option but to rely upon the parish to survive.
When she returned from speaking to Joan, Harriet said, ‘I cannot remember what I said—or did, for that matter—when I arrived yesterday. How is Aunt Jane?’
Mrs Rowlands filled her in on her sister’s various ailments until Joan brought in tea for two and buttered toast for Harriet. Once she had left the room, Harriet opened her mouth to question her mother, but she was beaten to it.
‘He came looking for you.’
Harriet gaped at her mother. ‘Who? Benedict?’ She started to her feet. ‘Where is he?’
Mrs Rowlands grabbed at Harriet’s sleeve. ‘Sit down. He is not here. He came yesterday in the early evening.’
‘What did he say? How did he seem?’ She studied her mother’s expression. ‘You did tell him I was here?’ There was a beat of silence, during which Harriet drew her own conclusion. ‘Oh, Mama! How could you? Where did he go?’
‘I did not tell him you were here because I had no way of knowing whether or not you would wish to see him,’ Mrs Rowlands said, her exasperation clear. ‘What was I supposed to think? You arrived here without warning, exhausted, distraught and nigh on incoherent. The words you did say made no sense. The only information I could glean was that, once again, Benedict Poole appeared to be the cause of your distress. Of course I told him you weren’t here.’
‘I’m sorry, Mama.’ She recalled the nightmare of a journey on the stagecoach. She hadn’t expected to feel so vulnerable, or so unworldly, when she’d made that spur of the moment decision to come to Whitstable. A sleepless night...over seven hours crammed into an airless coach...no food to speak of...no wonder she could barely recall her arrival. ‘I can see you were trying to protect me.’
She squirmed under Mrs Rowlands’ penetrating gaze.
‘You still carry a torch for him, don’t you, Harriet?’
‘I cannot help it, even though I know...at least, I thought I knew...how badly he treated me before. Now I am confused, and I want—’
‘Now you want the truth?’
‘Yes. Did Papa lie to me?’ She waited for the answer to the question, not knowing what she wanted to hear, not knowing which option would be the most painful to endure.
‘Yes, but Sir Malcolm left him no choice.’ She took Harriet’s hands in hers, holding her gaze. ‘We both lived to regret our decision, but by then it was too late to change anything. Once you had married that...that...’ A deep sigh, seemingly torn from the depths of her mother’s soul, accompanied a shake of her head. ‘Sir Malcolm was adamant he would never permit you and Benedict to wed. We were frantic. You were disgraced, and your baby would be...’
Her mother fell silent and Harriet felt her chest swell with pain at the memory of her tiny, tiny daughter, held once in her arms before being taken from her.
‘It was unthinkable to your papa...to us...that your child, our grandchild, should grow up with the stigma of being born out of wedlock. Sir Malcolm offered a solution. The only solution, as far as we could see, but only on condition we backed his story that Benedict had rejected marrying you. He even offered to settle money on you—
we had nothing to offer as a dowry—and he threatened...he threatened...’ Mama’s voice cracked and her eyes filled. Harriet squeezed her hands. ‘You must believe me, darling... If we had known, no threat to take Papa’s living from him would have made us agree. But...but...’
She hauled in a shaky breath.
‘I thank God you have another chance. Go to him, Harriet. Go to Benedict and try to put right that dreadful decision Papa and I made all those years ago.’
* * *
Harriet gazed from the window of the chaise and four, eager for her first sighting of Tenterfield Court. She hoped and prayed Benedict would still be there, for what if he had tired of waiting and was even now on his way to London? She picked at her soft kid gloves, impatient to be doing and not just sitting and yet dreading the conversation to come. If she—if they—were to sort out this mess and ever find happiness, she knew she must find the courage to tell Benedict the whole truth.
Her mother’s words rang in her head. He said to tell you that, in his eyes, your betrothal still stands.
That message gave Harriet hope—and yet she didn’t dare to hope too much—that Benedict might still harbour some tender feelings for her, apart from his obvious lust. But if that was so, why had he not offered for her after the masquerade ball? It made no sense and yet, during that journey, she gradually realised she still did not know the whole story. She now knew why Papa had lied to her, but she still had no idea what Benedict had been told to explain her marriage to Brierley. Was that the key?
The chaise jolted to a halt in front of Tenterfield Court. Harriet gazed up at the imposing red-brick mansion and her heart flipped before climbing into her throat. Her entire future would be decided in the next few minutes. A footman opened the carriage door for her and handed her down.
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