The Affairs of Harriet Walters, Spinster

by Cathy Spencer

  Harriet smiled in amusement. “Thank you, Miss Pope. While I do not think of myself as ‘fashionable,’ I have learned a trick or two from my dressmakers. I should be happy to.”

  Abigail rose. “Good. Let us see to it right away.”

  When Harriet was shown into Abigail’s room, she looked around in surprise. She had expected Abigail’s decorating taste to be simple, and even a little austere, but the room had a soft, feminine feeling to it. The walls were papered in a cheerful yellow floral, the furniture was dainty, and there was a pretty painted screen covering the empty hearth. A pair of framed watercolours hanging over the mantle displayed a deft hand and a harmonious use of colour.

  Abigail noted her surprise. “The room was my mother’s,” she said.

  “What a lovely place,” Harriet said, wondering if there was more to her friend than she had supposed. Did Abigail harbour a sentimental streak, preserving her mother’s room as a way of honouring her memory, or did she hide a soft, feminine side that was not apparent in her masculine manner and opinions?

  “Yes, Mother had excellent taste – unlike her daughter. But come and sit here while I pull some things from my wardrobe.”

  Harriet sat down on the bench Abigail indicated, and examined the gowns her friend proceeded to lay out on the bed. Not surprisingly, they were simple and dark in colour, the kind of wardrobe that a woman more concerned with functionality than style would prefer. Actually, they were just the sort of gowns that Harriet had worn while living at Willoway. There were two muslin dresses that Harriet has seen Abigail wear to Diane’s home, but nothing was particularly becoming or elegant enough for a ball.

  “Well, that’s all there is,” Abigail said, gesturing to the heap upon the bed. “I don’t see anything likely. Do you?”

  “I’m afraid not. But what did you wear for your season? Do you have anything left over from then?”

  “It was four years ago. If there’s anything, it will be in that trunk.” Abigail knelt down before a sturdy trunk and removed two white muslin garments. She shook them out and held them up for Harriet’s inspection. Harriet was dismayed; the gowns were plain and unremarkable.

  “My mother’s friend would have liked me to wear something fancier, but I saw no reason to waste good money on something that would have made me look ridiculous. The gloves are still serviceable, though,” she said, pulling out a pair of elbow-length, white gloves.

  Harriet smiled. “Well, at least you have gloves.”

  “Wait,” Abigail said, digging down through some undergarments, “I think there must be shoes, too.” She drew out a pair of white kid pumps with pink rosettes.

  “Very nice,” Harriet said with a nod. Abigail smiled at her. “But gloves and shoes are not enough, and I don’t think that either of the white gowns will do.” Abigail sighed and sank down upon the floor. “Let me think,” Harriet continued. “There are still four days left before the ball. I’m afraid that I don’t see anything here for you to wear, unless something can be altered. Show me that top gown again.” Abigail drew the dress from the pile and passed it to Harriet, who studied it doubtfully.

  “I’m not sure. Perhaps if we took this to Diane’s dressmaker, she could suggest something? If we leave right now, we could reach the shop before it closes.”

  “Do you really think that Diane’s dressmaker will want to bother with me when she has so many other clients?” Abigail asked.

  “Of course. I’ve been to the shop on more than one occasion, and all sorts of women patronize it. Young and old, thin and plump, fashionable and . . . not quite so fashionable. A well-made dress can go a long way toward disguising a woman’s flaws, believe me.” She stood and helped Abigail up off the floor.

  “Fortunately, money is not a problem. Father is always encouraging me to expand my wardrobe. Very well then, Miss Walters, I will put myself in the dressmaker’s hands. Let us see if she is up to the challenge.”

  On the evening of the ball, Abigail arrived at the Fitzwilliams’ house early to take advantage of the hair-dressing talents of Diane’s maid. Harriet was already dressed, and hovered in the background while the maid worked on Abigail. She swept the young woman’s hair up onto her head, adding curls and a fullness which softened the square contours of her face. As a final touch, she pinned a sweet little bonnet on top of Abigail’s hair that Harriet had chosen from the milliner’s. When Abigail was finally dressed, Harriet called Diane in to see the results.

  When Diane caught sight of her cousin, she smiled with delight. “Why, Abigail, you look charming!” she said. “What a pretty dress you’re wearing.” The dressmaker had used Abigail’s white muslin as an under-dress, topping it with a tailored overskirt and jacket that had a slenderizing effect upon her figure. Lace at the wrists and throat, and the delicate pink of the overlaying fabric, helped to feminize the outfit and complemented the soft rose in Abigail’s cheeks.

  Abigail stared back at her admirers. “I don’t look foolish?” she asked.

  Harriet said, “Absolutely not. You look wonderful. Come and see for yourself,” drawing her friend to the full-length mirror. Abigail gazed at herself, turning this way and that before finally smiling at her reflection.

  “I do look pretty,” she said over her shoulder. Diane nodded while Harriet beamed at her friend.

  “It just takes a little more effort, my dear,” Diane said. “You could always look this attractive, if you wanted to.”

  Ignoring her remark, Abigail said, “Hadn’t we better be going? Where is Steven?”

  “He’s been waiting in the salon for the last thirty minutes,” Diane said. “Gather your things together and hurry down. The carriage is waiting by the front door.”

  Sweeping down the stairs to the salon, the young ladies paused in the doorway to collect Steven. He put down the book he had been reading and sprang up from his chair, a delighted grin upon his face.

  “Cousin, is that you? You look beautiful,” he said, winning another smile from Abigail. “Give me a twirl so that I can have the full effect.” Abigail obliged, and when she had stopped, he said, “You’re like a beautiful butterfly emerging from her cocoon.” He took her hand and kissed it, causing Abigail to blush. “Do you remember the last time I kissed you, Cousin? You pushed me off my chair onto the floor for my trespass.”

  Abigail laughed – a rare, joyful sound. “I certainly do. You were four years old, and you had asked me to marry you because I was the only girl you knew. Then you kissed me right on the mouth! I was furious at your impudence.”

  He held her hand and laughed with her before noticing that Harriet was waiting in the doorway. Steven bowed and said, “Miss Walters, you look lovely, too, if I may say so.” Harriet was wearing one of the new confections from Diane’s dressmaker.

  “Thank you, Mr. Fitzwilliam. You look very well yourself. I find myself actually looking forward to a ball, for once.”

  “Excellent ‒ so am I. Shall we go?” Tucking his cousin’s hand into his arm and offering the other to Harriet, the three young people departed into the soft summer evening.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The ball was very well attended that evening, and Harriet, Abigail, and Steven waited to greet their hosts in the press of people pushing their way into the ballroom. The guests were either friends of the Warners’ children or political allies of Mr. Warner’s in attendance with their stylish wives. The air was already close, and the more mature guests had claimed the cooler side of the room beside the tall, open windows. The gentlemen debated the government’s latest increase in the spice tariff, their bickering adding to the overall din, while their wives gossiped about their families. The young ladies making their debuts that season were grouped in knots that formed and reformed as newcomers arrived, all the while keeping watch on the unattached bachelors who leaned against the walls.

  Steven found chairs for Harriet and Abigail near the dance floor, and was immediately hailed by Meredith Warner and her three giggling companions. Meredith intr
oduced him to her friends, and Steven reciprocated by presenting them to his companions.

  “Of course you’ve met Miss Walters, Miss Warner. I presume that you also know my cousin, Miss Pope?”

  Miss Warner smiled brightly at each of them in turn, but Harriet knew from the girl’s immediate dismissal that she was not considered a contender for Steven’s attentions. Harriet was not offended; she supposed that she seemed very mature in comparison to Miss Warner’s tender eighteen years.

  “Miss Pope, it has been some time since last we met,” Miss Warner said. You are looking very well. I visited your father at his office only last week.”

  Abigail gazed back at her. “Did you? I hope that you are not ill, Miss Warner?”

  “Me? No, I am always in excellent health.”

  “But you said that you were visiting my father at his office.”

  “Oh, not for myself. I was helping Mother with my younger brother, Percy. He has his annual spring cold.”

  “Do you mean that he has a cold every spring?”

  “Why, yes, for the past three years, as I recall.”

  “Was he feverish?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “What about his cough?”

  “Yes, he had one.”

  “No. I mean, was his cough wet or dry?”

  Miss Warner took a step backward at this barrage of questions, while her young friends stared at Abigail. “I really have no idea, Miss Pope.”

  “Very interesting,” Abigail said. “It is possible that your brother’s colds are caused by an ambient irritant, although his repeated illnesses may be indicative of a weak chest. Well, I’m sure that Father has it all in hand.” She looked about the room. “I see that the other couples are gathering for the first dance. Shall we join them, Steven?”

  Steven smiled and offered her his arm. “Of course, Abigail. Please excuse us, Miss Walters. Ladies.” He nodded at Miss Warner and her friends and led his cousin out onto the floor.

  Miss Warner, looking bewildered, only had time to say, “What odd questions,” before she was claimed by her dance partner. Harriet, amused by the exchange, was left alone in her chair.

  She watched Abigail and Steven as they danced, curious to see how they would conduct themselves on the floor. Her friend’s lack of enthusiasm for Steven prior to the ball was all the more puzzling because the two cousins seemed to get along so well.

  Steven was an accomplished dancer, and he guided his partner easily around the floor while calling greetings to his friends. Dancing was obviously not one of Abigail’s strengths, however. If pressed, Harriet would have had to describe her friend’s dancing as energetic rather than graceful, but Abigail shrugged off her mistakes and seemed to be enjoying herself. Harriet shook her head; there was no understanding Abigail’s earlier reaction.

  When they had finished, Steven fetched some glasses of punch before escorting Abigail back to Harriet. Harriet drank hers quickly because she was engaged to Steven for the next dance. As she drank, an athletic-looking young man with startlingly bright red hair approached them. He greeted Steven with a rollicking, “What are you doing in polite society, Fitzwilliam?”

  “Avoiding you, Gwinn,” Steven answered with a grin, slapping the man on the back. Turning to Abigail and Harriet, he added, “Ladies, this scoundrel is a friend of mine from Oxford, Harold Gwinn. I have the misfortune of possessing the rooms next to his. Harold, this is Miss Walters, and my cousin, Miss Pope.”

  “Your cousin? How could someone as unfortunate-looking as you have such an attractive relative, Fitzwilliam? Charmed, ladies,” he added, bowing to each in turn.

  “You think my cousin’s appearance unfortunate, sir?” Abigail asked indignantly.

  “Truly, I do. Just look at him, ladies. Such a puny specimen of a man. He has to put rocks in his pockets whenever there’s a stout wind blowing to avoid being swept away. Besides, his moustaches make me weep.” Indeed, Stephen’s moustaches were blonde and thin while Harold’s were lush and full.

  Harold continued, “Miss Pope, I was just chatting with the daughter of our hosts, and she had some fascinating things to say about you. When I saw that you were part of Fitzwilliam’s party, I hurried over in hope of an introduction.”

  Abigail frowned. “What did Miss Warner say about me, sir?”

  “She said that not only are you the daughter of her family physician, but that you personally take an inordinate interest in medical matters.”

  “Indeed? Well, it’s true. There is no point in hiding it. I am studying medicine. Do you think that improper?” Abigail’s voice rose at the end of her question and her face flushed. Harriet took a step closer to her friend to show her support.

  “Improper? Heavens, no. I am studying to be a physician myself. That a handsome young woman such as yourself should have the intelligence and character to be interested in medicine is commendable. Shall we discuss our mutual interest on the dance floor?”

  Abigail hesitated, speechless for once, and glanced at her cousin. “Oh, he’s not particularly dangerous, my dear. I can vouch for your safety,” Steven said. Mr. Gwinn crooked his arm at Abigail, who took it after a moment’s hesitation and was swept away.

  “Come, Miss Walters, it’s our turn to dance,” Steven said, leading her onto the floor. They began the dance in silence, Steven smiling to himself.

  Harriet said, “You look very pleased, Mr. Fitzwilliam.”

  “I am indeed. Delighted with myself, in fact.”

  “Why are you so pleased? Is it concerning Miss Pope and Mr. Gwinn?”

  “You have hit the nail on the head, Miss Walters. I have always thought how well-suited the two of them were for each other. As a matter of fact, I’ve gone so far as to speak of Abigail to Harold – priming the pump, as it were. He evidently liked what he saw tonight, and used his conversation with Miss Warner as an excuse for speaking to my cousin. And she was so ready to start an argument that I’m sure she will be more talkative than usual.”

  Harriet was impressed. “Bravo. You’ve done well with your matchmaking so far.”

  “Oh, do call me ‘Steven’. After all, we’re living in the same house together.”

  “Very well, Steven. And you may call me Harriet.”

  He made a little bow.

  “You know Miss Pope very well, don’t you,” she said.

  “Of course. She is like a sister to me. She has always been so independent, but I think that she uses that to disguise her loneliness. Gwinn has the personality to draw her out of her shell, and he is a good man. I would be thrilled if a romance developed between them.”

  Harriet thought of her friend's plans to marry a missionary. “Do you think Miss Pope open to the possibility of a romance?” she asked.

  “I have seen the opinions of young ladies change direction like a weather vane in the wind." Steven winked. “It all depends on who is doing the persuading.”

  Harriet smiled and managed to wink back at him. “I hope you’re proved right. Every woman deserves a romance or two before she settles into the yoke of marriage.”

  Steven pretended to be shocked. “Harriet, how risqué of you.” This time Harriet’s wink had a more polished look as she danced with the handsome young man.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Despite Diane’s plan, Harriet spent much of the ball alone. Mr. Gwinn danced two sets in a row with Abigail before they disappeared into the garden, and Steven was kept busy squiring young ladies around the dance floor, although he promised to return to Harriet in time for supper. Bored, Harriet left her chair to walk in the garden.

  It was a lovely June evening. Rain had fallen earlier in the day, and the air was moist and sweet. There was no moon, but the garden path was amply illuminated by flickering torches. Harriet strayed from the path to bury her face in a raised patch of sweat pea, only to hear a feminine giggle somewhere close by. She peered across the path and spotted a gentleman and a lady occupying a secluded bench sheltered between two trees. The m
an embraced the woman, attempting to steal a kiss. The lady protested, but none too vigorously. Harriet tiptoed back to the path, but not before her foot slipped and dislodged a stone. The woman heard the sound and averted her face, but the man turned toward Harriet. She stiffened. The man was Augustus Bell. They stared at each other for a moment, and then Augustus deliberately winked at her. It was a very different wink from the kind that she and Steven had exchanged earlier that evening. Harriet gasped, and scurried back to the house.

  Once inside, she ventured into the refreshment room, but recognized no one she could join. She accepted a cup of fruit punch from one of the liveried servants and drifted back into the ballroom. Steven was dancing with one of Miss Warner’s giggling friends, and Harriet was amused by the fixed smile upon his face. Steven was too much of a gentleman to let the world see how much he suffered from the shrill voice pitched at his ear.

  “What do you find so amusing, Miss Walters?” inquired a voice right beside her own ear. Harriet started, turned, and discovered Mr. Bell standing directly behind her.

  “I-I didn’t know that you were here tonight, sir,” she stammered.

  Raising one eyebrow, the gentleman replied, “We both know that that is untrue.” Harriet blushed and did not know what to say. “Feeling shy again, Miss Prim?” Bell asked.

  “Please do not call me that.”

  “I shall never call you that again if you will honour me with the next dance.” He stood too close for Harriet’s comfort, an impertinent smile upon his face. Harriet took exception to his expression; obviously, he thought her too afraid to dance with him.

  “Thank you. That would be very pleasant,” she responded icily.

  “Well, it could be,” Bell said, considering her for a moment before turning on his heel and walking away. Confused, Harriet watched him approach the musicians. Bending over one of the seated players, Bell said something in the man’s ear and handed him a coin. The violinist nodded, and Bell headed back toward her.