The Earl Most Likely

by Jane Goodger

  Walking with her head down, morosely reviewing how miserable she would be when her little adventure was over, she didn’t see a carriage coming up the drive. The noise of the wheels on gravel finally drew her attention away from her own misery and she looked up as she walked around to the front of the house. Then stopped dead.

  Her parents and Clara had returned.

  Chapter 11

  Everything was ruined. She would not be able to attend the ball, for what possible reason could she give her parents for being invited? It made no sense for the earl to invite a girl he supposedly had met only once to a ball. She would never wear her gown, never dance with him. Never be Princess Catalina.

  “Harriet, we’re back,” Clara said, her face beaming as she hopped, unladylike, from their carriage. She hurried toward her, and then, as if suddenly realizing she was supposed to be sad about returning to St. Ives instead of staying in London catching some titled gentleman, she slowed her pace and ducked her head. But she was still smiling.

  Widening her eyes, Harriet said, “Why have you returned?”

  Clara looked behind her shoulder to make certain her parents, who were stepping from the carriage, wouldn’t be able to hear her. “Baron Longley rescinded his offer to sponsor me. It was horrible for poor Mother. He said the most awful things.”

  “Like what?” Harriet wasn’t certain how she should react, because although the news seemed terrible, Clara was acting quite happy about it all.

  “He called Mother a foolish upstart who would be best to learn her place.” She frowned. “It really was terrible and I felt sorry for Mother. I don’t know why he was so kind before, but when we saw him in London he was awful. I think he might have been in his cups when we were visiting Mrs. Gardner. Mother is crushed, of course, and was inconsolable. She demanded we return home even though we rented the townhouse for two months. Father was livid and they argued all the way home.”

  Harriet gave her sister a crooked smile. “Then why do you seem so happy?”

  “I’m a terrible daughter, I know. But I think Mother has finally realized that I will not marry some titled gentleman. I couldn’t be happier. I’m going to go in and change and go directly to the hothouse.”

  Harriet laughed. “If I didn’t know you better, I would think you paid Lord Longley to say those awful things to Mother.”

  Giving her a coquettish smile, Clara said, “You don’t know me at all, then.”

  “Clara!”

  Clara laughed, delighted with herself. “I am joking,” she said. “But if this ever happens again, you’ve given me a wonderful plan.”

  Harriet hugged her sister quickly, feeling guilty for her selfish thoughts when she’d seen the carriage pull up. “I’m so glad you are back.”

  “As am I. Come with me and I’ll tell you all about London,” Clara said, full of cheer. “I hated every moment of it.”

  Stifling a laugh, for their mother was glaring at the sisters, Harriet hooked her arm in Clara’s and the two walked into the house, pretending to be subdued. But the moment they reached Clara’s room, Clara ran to her bed and threw herself on it, giggling. “It’s finally over,” she said, rolling to her back and looking up at the ceiling.

  “I would not be too certain; you know how Mother is.” Harriet lay down next to her sister.

  “No, Harriet. I do believe she finally understands how impossible it is to find a titled gentleman for me. As happy as I am, I fully recognize that Mother has been completely humiliated. It was awful, Harriet. I do wish she had come to the conclusion on her own without having the baron be so dreadful. It was almost as if he were a different person altogether. The way he looked down his nose at us when we visited his townhouse. You might have thought we were a couple of scullery maids walking into the parlor and demanding introductions.” She was silent for a time. “I hate them all, you know. They are only who they are through luck of birth. Have you ever thought of that? You and I are lucky to have such a clever father, else we’d be living in a house like Grandmother, feeding chickens and pigs. I find most of the aristocracy incredibly dull and stupid. What intelligence is needed to prance around all day looking down at people who are the backbone of England, the ones who work to create all the beautiful things they buy without a thought as to where they come from?”

  Harriet was taken aback by her sister’s progressive fervor. “You sound like one of those radicals.”

  “Perhaps I am one of those radicals,” Clara said almost dreamily. “I do believe it takes far more intelligence to run a pig farm like Granny than to be a baron who does nothing but titter about feeling important.”

  “I like feeding chickens and pigs,” Harriet said, and Clara laughed.

  “That’s not what I mean, as well you know. Granny is the proudest woman I know, far prouder than Mother.” Their grandmother made no secret of her disdain for her daughter’s ambitions. After visiting their grand house once, she’d never set foot in it again. Granny had been horrified by her daughter’s extravagance and wastefulness. The two were as far apart as Harriet and her own mother. Clara sighed. “All that money, wasted. Years and years. I think Mother must be thinking the same thing, about how foolish she’s been to think we would ever be accepted in society. I don’t know what she was thinking.”

  Her sister’s words only increased Harriet’s resolve to stop thinking her own foolish thoughts about the earl. “Why did you go along with Mother’s plans for so long?”

  “I did not want to hurt her. She means well, you know. I think she truly only wanted what was best. And if I had fallen in love with a titled gentleman, then all would have ended well. It so happens, though, that my affections were never engaged. Mother thought I was the road to full acceptance.”

  “She thought having a pretty daughter and funds were enough,” Harriet added.

  “It was never enough, and now I believe she finally realizes that.” Clara pressed her lips together, deep in thought. “Perhaps now we can marry whom we like.”

  “That, dear, is wishful thinking. You know Mother will simply turn her sights on other suitors.”

  “Oh, those poor men,” Clara said, letting out a laugh. “But I do believe I shall choose my own husband. I never had a doubt of that, you know. I was simply biding my time until Mother realized the truth.”

  “Oh? Do you have anyone in mind?” Clara had never looked twice at any man, as far as Harriet knew, so she didn’t expect her sister to answer.

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  Harriet spun around and grabbed her sister’s shoulder, giving it a playful shake. “Who?”

  “You shall find out soon enough,” Clara said enigmatically.

  “John Sullivan,” Harriet guessed, naming a young local man.

  Clara wrinkled her nose. “He has a weak chin and he’s a child.”

  Furrowing her brow, Harriet said, “He’s older than either of us. I know, Harold Marshall.”

  Clara snorted. “He smells like sausage.”

  “My, you are particular.”

  “What of you, Harriet? Do you have your sights set on anyone?”

  Harriet was so tempted to tell her sister her secret, but decided against it. How foolish she would sound, claiming to love an earl, when they’d just been discussing how completely unrealistic such a match would be. “No one. But I do have a plan.”

  Clara widened her eyes in excitement. “Do you?”

  With a soft smile, Harriet said, “I want to live as an independent woman in my very own cottage.”

  “Alone?”

  Ignoring the stab of uncertainty, Harriet nodded her head. “It’s been my dream for as long as I can remember.”

  “And you would work? Mother would die of shame.”

  “I said I have a plan, silly,” Harriet said, tweaking her sister’s nose.

  “So you are to become a highwayman?
Or woman, rather. Mother will not give you your dowry unless you marry, you know.”

  “I’ll tell you what. If you tell me who you want to marry, I will tell you how I will manage to purchase my little cottage.”

  Clara screwed up her lips, then sat up. “I think I’ll go help Jeanine unpack.”

  Harriet burst out laughing. “I knew you didn’t have anyone in mind.”

  “And you have no way of procuring the funds necessary to buy more than a new bonnet,” Clara said with a toss of her head. She stepped out of her room, but spun around, a mischievous look on her face. “Except I do have a beau and I’m not telling.” With that, Harriet made chase and Clara squealed with delight, tearing down the hall, stopping abruptly when she spied their mother walking up the stairs.

  “We are in mourning,” Hedra announced dramatically.

  “Yes, Mother,” Clara said solemnly.

  When Hedra reached the top of the stairs, she gave Harriet a long, hard look. “You were correct, Harriet. It was foolish to believe Clara could find happiness. I suppose you are happy,” she said, and Harriet was taken aback by the bitterness in her mother’s voice.

  “I am only glad that you finally realize our family will never be accepted by the aristocracy. It was only leading to heartache for everyone. I find no pleasure at all in your disappointment, Mother.”

  Hedra let out a sigh. “I should have listened to you, it seems.” Looking at Clara, she said, her voice tinged with frustration, “I just don’t understand. Clara is so very beautiful.”

  Harriet closed her eyes briefly, wondering how her mother could still be confused about the family’s rejection. She supposed she and her mother were more alike than she’d thought, allowing themselves to believe in dreams that were foolish. It was an epiphany of sorts, that she and her mother had far more in common than she’d thought.

  “You knew, didn’t you, all along. You knew but you refused to accept it.”

  Sudden tears filled her mother’s eyes, and Harriet knew she was right about her mother. “I just cannot seem to help myself,” Hedra said, sounding so lost, Harriet’s heart ached for her. She knew exactly how her mother felt.

  Hedra walked past her hurriedly, no doubt hoping her daughters had not seen her tears. Harriet let her pass as she and Clara exchanged worried looks.

  “Now I feel dreadful for being so happy,” Clara whispered, looking after their mother.

  “Don’t. Mother has her dreams and we have ours. It just so happens they don’t match,” Harriet said.

  Clara went off to find their maid and Harriet walked slowly to her room. Upon entering, she immediately went to her small desk and pulled out a slip of stationery.

  Dear Lord Berkley:

  My parents have returned unexpectedly. I will be unable to assist you at your ball.

  Harriet nibbled the tip of her pen, wondering if she should add more to the note. After some thought, she decided to leave it as it was. This, she realized, was good-bye. His grandmother was arriving tomorrow and it would be impossible for Harriet to continue to visit Costille House with her there, the threat of discovery being far too great. If only she had known today would be the last day with him, she would have said good-bye. Harriet signed it simply “H,” a small smile on her lips as she thought of those passionate letters penned by their mysterious “C,” and wondered if Augustus would see the connection.

  Walking down to the kitchen, she looked for the young lad who tended the fire. She found Alan sweeping the kitchen step.

  “Alan, would you mind very much bringing this note to Costille House? Please make certain you hand it only to Lord Berkley, no one else.”

  Alan grinned, happy to have a chore that would take him away from his normal duties. “Of course, miss. Do I wait for a reply?”

  For just a moment, she was tempted, but she shook her head. She’d already taken far too many chances. It was time to end their idyll. “No reply is needed.”

  That night, dinner was a somber affair. Just before the meal, Harriet had gone back down to the kitchen on the pretense of asking Alan if he’d been successful in delivering his note; secretly she’d hoped he would have a reply or some sort of response even though she’d asked him not to wait for one.

  “Yes, miss. He took the note, read it, and handed me a sovereign. Right nice toff.”

  Harriet was tempted to grill the lad about Augustus’s mannerisms, his expression. Even though she’d told him not to wait for a reply, she was severely disappointed that Augustus had not insisted he carry one back. She tortured herself with images of Augustus tossing the note into the fire without a care, perhaps even feeling relief that he would not have to worry about her slipping up at the ball and revealing herself as a person of no consequence. It didn’t matter that they’d spent a wonderful afternoon together, laughing, making love. She’d heard enough tales of women who’d thought a bloke loved them only to find it was all a ploy to get in their bloomers. But Augustus wasn’t like that. He wasn’t.

  As she sat with her family, her mother and father truly desolate and Clara pretending to be, Harriet could not stop herself from getting angry with Augustus. He couldn’t spare thirty seconds to write a note? Had Alan thrown the note at him and then run off? Hardly. The boy had more than likely tarried and would have been easy to stop if Augustus had wanted to reply.

  Apparently, he hadn’t wanted to.

  “You haven’t touched your dinner, Harriet.” Her mother’s voice drew her out of her miserable thoughts. “You’re far too thin. Men do not care for thin women, you know. They like a little meat on a girl’s bones, don’t they, Mr. Anderson.” She didn’t wait for an answer; indeed, her father didn’t even seem to have heard his wife. “I’ve been putting all my eggs into one basket. It’s time you started thinking seriously about finding a husband.”

  Harriet looked up, unable to school her look of surprise.

  “Don’t look at me as if I’ve grown another head. You are twenty-two years old and haven’t had a single prospect. When I was just a little older than Clara, I’d been married for seven years and had three children.”

  “Three?” Harriet looked at Clara, who seemed just as baffled as she was.

  “You had a brother,” her father said gruffly.

  “We did?” Clara asked. “Why did you not ever tell us?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Hedra said quickly. “He died when you were both too young to remember.”

  “It matters,” her father said, throwing down his napkin and rising from the table. “Don’t ever say he didn’t matter.” Harriet would never forget her father’s expression, one of pure anguish, before he turned and left the room.

  Harriet stared after her father, years of isolation and surliness clarifying in her head. “How could you both have kept this from us? Clara, do you remember a brother?”

  Clara screwed up her face. “I’m not certain. I remember a noisy little boy running about, a vague sort of memory, but I thought it must have been a neighbor boy. I must have been very young when he died.”

  “You were two and Harriet was just born. We thought it best not to discuss him, too upsetting. You can see how distressing it is for your father even now.”

  “What was his name?” Clara asked softly.

  “Arthur. He died of scarlet fever.”

  “Arthur,” Clara said, smiling gently, as if storing that name away. “How old was he?”

  “Six. He was your father’s little shadow,” Hedra said blithely.

  Later, when the girls were getting ready for bed, Clara said, “The first of us to have a son must name him Arthur. I don’t want him forgotten. It’s heartbreaking; it’s as if he never existed. Promise.”

  “I promise, although it’s very likely your son will be named Arthur. Poor Father. I always wondered what had made him the way he is, and now we know.”

  That
night, Harriet found it almost impossible to fall asleep. Her mind kept running through the events of the day. She hadn’t realized how much she’d been looking forward to assuming the role of Princess Catalina. And now she’d be missing when Augustus revealed who the murderer was and would likely have to read about it in the local newspaper unless she could find a way to see him.

  Hugging a pillow against herself, she stared out at a half moon and wondered what Augustus was doing at that very moment. With the ball only a few days away, he was likely going over last minute details with his housekeeper and butler. The last ball held at Costille House had been the night his wife had been murdered. How different all their lives would be if Augustus hadn’t returned home that fateful night. Harriet might not have even spoken a word to him in all her life.

  What would they do if they met on the streets of St. Ives? Would they pretend to be mere acquaintances? Would they exchange a polite nod, then go on their way? Just the thought of seeing him made her heart ache, which was why it had become vital to her that she use her funds to move away. How could she remain when Augustus would be choosing a wife, when she might see them together, walking with their children…

  Hot tears pressed against her eyes. Why had she not thought about all this when she’d made her rash decision to become his lover? Nothing was simple anymore, not even her dreams of her little cottage. If she moved away, she would miss her sister and friends terribly. How could she leave when everything she knew was here in St. Ives? The fierce desire to get away that had driven her not so long ago was now waning as the time to leave approached. Even thinking of saying good-bye to her mother and father made her cry. Granny was getting old; what if she fell ill and needed her?

  “I cannot leave,” she whispered. Pain bloomed in her chest as she thought of living in St. Ives, of seeing Augustus with a wife, with children. Her little cottage was such a foolish, childish dream. As large a sum as ten thousand pounds was, it would not be enough to live on forever, even if she lived frugally. All along she’d known that, deep down in that place where reality lived, a reality that she managed to mask so often with her dreams.