The Unsuitable Secretary (A Ladies Unlaced Novel)

by Maggie Robinson

  Harriet knew she would never hear the end of it. Thomas had been quite tickled by her forwardness.

  “You did ask me first. Four or five times, if memory serves,” she reminded him. None of the proposals were any good, but who really was counting?

  “Yes. I might have had more success at the time if I’d said that I love you.”

  Harriet’s heart leaped. “You do?”

  “Of course I do. I wouldn’t marry you otherwise. I presume you love me, too?”

  Harriet nodded, too emotional to say anything.

  “Well, that’s all right then. Shall we go on in to dinner?”

  Chapter 48

  Saturday, January 14, 1905

  It was her wedding day. Harriet pinched herself. It really didn’t seem true, but it was. Minnie said Mr. Plimpton was already downstairs in the drawing room having a sherry. Very odd for a man of the cloth before ten o’clock in the morning. She hoped he wouldn’t be too drunk to read the wedding service. That would put the icing on the wedding cake.

  It had been less than a month since the pigeon. Why was Harriet thinking of pigeons when she should be fastening the double string of pearls Thomas had given her?

  She and Minnie had chosen a pale gray satin dress with short full sleeves that Thomas hadn’t seen. It was trimmed with seed pearls across its modestly cut bodice, and it fit her like a dream. The Dickins and Jones saleswoman had said it was a copy of a dress belonging to a famous Newport hostess.

  Harriet didn’t even know where Newport was—in England or America. She’d vetoed the feathered headband that had come with it and was relying on a single white rose that had been plucked from her bouquet for her hair. Trust Thomas to find roses in January.

  She looked well. Better than well. One would not suspect she’d almost died a week ago.

  “I can’t seem to do the catch,” Harriet said, dropping her arms.

  “I’ll do it, Miss Harriet. You’re shaking like a leaf.”

  Yes, she was. She couldn’t even get her gloves on by herself. Minnie went to help, but Harriet stopped her.

  “Never mind. I’ll only need to take them off for Thomas to put the wedding ring on.” She was wearing her ruby ring on her right hand. The nurse had made Thomas take it back while she was in hospital, claiming it was against the rules for patients to wear jewelry.

  Thomas had given the ring to her all over again last night, down on one knee again with a positively beatific smile on his face. Afterward, he’d invited the servants and her brothers into the drawing room for champagne to pre-celebrate. The boys had overindulged and had been a little green when she’d breakfasted with them earlier.

  They were giving her away. Thomas’s valet had been tasked with getting “the young gentlemen,” as he euphemistically called them, ready. Harriet had not been able to bring herself to ask her father to do the deed—she would forgive him one day, but not just yet. He had meant well, she supposed, but she couldn’t like his methods.

  Hitchborn was standing up for Thomas. Harriet thought that was rather sweet. The old butler had seemed near tears when Thomas had asked him last night in front of everyone.

  It was really happening. Harriet was surrounded by people who cared about her and didn’t think it was crack-brained that she would be Lady Featherstone before the morning was over. She wanted to prove them right, she really did.

  Announcements had already gone out to the papers. Thomas had taken care of that himself, and Harriet hoped the editors could read his handwriting. So there was nothing left to do but go downstairs and get married.

  The entire staff was turned out in the marble hall below. Harriet felt their eyes on her as she descended the stairs, Minnie trailing behind her holding up her train. Cressley, had come up with a fiddle and was playing a slightly off-key rendition of the “Bridal Chorus” from Lohengrin. Her eyes welled, and she almost missed a step.

  John and James met her at the bottom of the stairs. “Cor, you look a treat, Harry,” John said.

  “A real treat,” echoed James.

  “You both look very presentable as well.” Thomas had provided them with new clothes, which would probably be outgrown before spring. Their hair was tamed with brilliantine, and Harriet felt a lump in her throat. They were growing up. Her dreams for them would come true, thanks to Thomas.

  The Benson family had become one of his projects.

  They each took an elbow and she was propelled over the black-and-white tiled floor to the open double doors of the drawing room. She nearly stumbled over her skirts when she saw the room filled with more white roses. They were everywhere—in a rope on the mantel; in crystal vases on the tables and piano; in big baskets in front of the fireplace, where Thomas stood with the vicar, watching her.

  She tried to smile. Her teeth were her best feature, correct? But the momentousness of the occasion swamped her, and every fear she had flooded back. Harriet wobbled in her oversized silk mules, and her brothers gripped her harder.

  “Steady on, Harry. You can do this,” James whispered. James, who never contributed all that much to any conversation.

  “Too late, anyway,” John said, squeezing her arm.

  It was never too late to correct a mistake, but this marriage was no mistake.

  She’d send someone to Hatchard’s for etiquette books. Crates of them. Hitchborn, bless him, had volunteered to tutor her. She’d mastered her vowels, but she would always be a girl from Shoreditch. If her mother had lived, she might have hammered more civilization into Harriet, but one couldn’t change the past.

  One could only look to the future. If Thomas’s kiss at the end of the remarkably quick ceremony was indicative of the years ahead, she could get very used to being Lady Featherstone. The kiss was . . . splendid. And so long that the servants were clapping and hooting with uncommon abandon.

  “Thomas!” she scolded when she got free. He only laughed and kissed her again.

  Everyone around her was happy at her change of fortune. Her brothers—even her father, who had come to the wedding at her invitation. He’d been so wrong to hold her back. Wouldn’t he be shocked to know she had done the proposing and been accepted? It was a new day.

  The wedding breakfast passed in a blur. She still didn’t have much appetite, so most of Cook’s effort was wasted on her. Harriet knew she needed to keep up her strength, so she forced herself to eat half of her cheese soufflé. Thomas would expect to bed her, probably before it got dark, and it would not do to faint in his arms. He was even now encouraging people to leave the table and go home, in his friendly way.

  What if she became pregnant? How could she raise a little Featherstone in the proper manner? A child might be ashamed of her lowly origins. Despite the new century, the United Kingdom was as class-conscious as ever.

  Piffle. It was as if she heard Hitchborn over her shoulder as she left the dining room on Thomas’s arm. Harriet was borrowing trouble, something she’d avoided doing all her life. Oh, she knew trouble was ever-present; she was a realist. But she’d bettered herself when the opportunity presented itself, and could better herself still. Thomas would have no reason to question his generous impulse to marry her. She would be the most ladylike Lady Featherstone the world had ever seen.

  She lifted her chin a little higher. Straightened her shoulders. Stiffened her spine. Because she was so tall, she’d spent most of her life slumping and stooping, but no more. She would be the goddess Thomas and that silly artist Conyers saw, even if she didn’t quite believe it herself.

  Harriet adjusted her glasses and looked down her nose. Her lips twitched. She’d have to practice in a mirror. She’d bagged a bloody baronet. The girls in the typing pool must be dead jealous.

  Chapter 49

  Sunday, January 15, 1905

  The bells were ringing all over London. Thomas fancied they were tolling for his new marriage.

  A newly married man could be fanciful, couldn’t he? He glanced at his wife, who frowned in her sleep.

  Th
ey had moved into his suite last evening and had ordered dinner to be brought upstairs. No more sneaking around. Harriet had disappeared for a bit to be scrubbed, her hair braided by Minnie, a fresh nightgown, this one far more alluring than her old hospital one, found for the occasion. After dinner, Thomas had done his best to undo her, with very satisfactory results. Harriet was naked, her mahogany hair rippling over a pillow. He’d like to do something about the wrinkle between her brows, but he would let her sleep.

  They hadn’t done much of that last night. By God, marriage was the most marvelous institution. But how right he’d been to avoid it before, because then Harriet wouldn’t be lying here next to him looking so peevish.

  His own dreams had been delightful, mostly involving a naked Harriet in one pose or another. In fact, he might not have been dreaming for some of the activities.

  Should he try to replicate them now? No, let the poor girl sleep. There were many more hours in the day, many more days, weeks, months, years! Thomas bounded out of bed with the enthusiasm of a Labrador, belted his robe and went into his sitting room.

  Cressley had been busy but discreet. A breakfast tray lay on the table, the coffee- and teapots swaddled with cozies. There were raisin-studded buns and fruit and slices of ham under silver domes. Thomas could get a proper breakfast downstairs later, if he could drag Harriet out of bed.

  Why would he want to? They could stay up here for days if they chose to. Have a honeymoon. The weather really was too inclement to go to the country, and Featherstone Park was a drafty old pile. Thomas had preferred Town since he came into his title, and had neglected the country estate. Harriet could help make it a proper retreat. Look what she’d done with the Mount Street house: everything tasteful, even on a budget. There would be no limitations on what she could spend on his country estate.

  She might even—he grinned—replace the wallpaper.

  A batch of newspapers lay on the table, ironed, of course. Thomas had no real objection to newsprint on his fingers, but his staff was old-fashioned.

  He skimmed them as he tucked in to his ham and bun. No brazen headlines about him today, thank God, just the tersely worded notice he’d sent in yesterday morning. He wondered if that would assuage the reporters who’d hung about yesterday waiting for a few crumbs of scandal.

  It was not scandalous to marry the woman you loved, no matter what anyone might say. Harriet’s origins might be modest, but her other attributes were exceedingly wife-worthy.

  “Why didn’t you wake me?”

  Harriet stood in the doorway, her robe slipping from a bare shoulder. She’d tried to tame her hair in a loose braid, and he wanted to get up to unravel it.

  “You were sleeping so soundly I didn’t want to disturb you. Come have some tea. Or do you prefer coffee first thing in the morning? I should know that.”

  “I’m meant to be serving you, aren’t I? Isn’t that what a good wife does?” Harriet stifled a yawn and walked barefoot across the carpet. She sat down, raised a lid and lifted a peach from the plate.

  “You’re in training yet. Plenty of time to serve me.” He took the peach from her hand and carved it with a fruit knife, placing equal slices before her.

  “Hm. Wife-in-training. What if I never learn?”

  “You, not learn? Don’t be silly. You’re brilliant. It won’t take more than a day to wrap me around your little finger.” In fact, she already had.

  “Peaches in January. It’s almost criminal.” Harriet took a bite, closing her eyes in bliss.

  “Not against the law yet as far as I know. Although I never question Cook’s connections. She might be buying fruit from an underground syndicate, and the coppers could come calling any minute.”

  Thomas lived a charmed life. His wealth opened many closed doors, and he felt an obligation to use it for good if he could. It would give him great pleasure to open those doors with Harriet.

  “Will this do for breakfast, or do you want to go downstairs?”

  She unwrapped the silver coffeepot. “This is perfect. Coffee, one lump of sugar, a little cream, right?”

  “How observant you’ve been. I had no choice but to marry you.” He stole a peach slice from her plate and popped the whole of it in his mouth.

  “An efficient secretary is always aware of her employer’s preferences.” She said it lightly, but something about her words annoyed him.

  “You’re not my employee anymore. In fact, I suppose I’ll need a new secretary.”

  Harriet looked up from pouring her tea. “Why?”

  “What do you mean, why? You’re my wife now. You’ll be much too busy with me to keep those artist fellows under control. We have that fellow Leavitt now anyhow. Imagine you sitting in the vestibule on Mount Street typing away and addressing envelopes.” He smiled at the very thought of it. His Harry at a cramped little desk under the staircase, a pencil stuck behind her ear? Absurd.

  “But I want to work, Thomas. I don’t have to be there—I can be in here the library addressing envelopes. What will I do if I don’t? Your servants don’t need me to tell them their jobs. They’d laugh me out of the house.”

  Drat. She’d set the teapot down and was staring at him through her spectacles, her brown eyes magnified to the size of chocolate bonbons.

  “But you’re Lady Featherstone now. Be reasonable. Lady Featherstone doesn’t hang about with immoral sculptors or pimply-faced pianists. She doesn’t wear brown suits and ugly hats and unstick typewriter keys and get ink on her fingers.”

  “What does Lady Featherstone do?” Harriet asked very quietly. Too quietly.

  Was she angry with him? Did she honestly think things would be like they were now that they were married? His wife couldn’t work—that would be a true scandal.

  “Well, household things. You’ll meet with Cook about menus. Go shopping. Arrange flowers. We’ll go out and about in society, of course, when you’re ready. Plays. Concerts. Um, museums.”

  She stared. Thomas had the feeling an electric torch was shining straight inside him. “Whatever you want to do,” he added, suddenly nervous. “Charity work. You can get a dog!”

  Harriet’s lips thinned. “I see.”

  “I hope you do. You’ll not have to worry about anything ever again.” Thomas felt wrong-footed, but why? He was practically Prince Charming here, taking Cinderella’s broom away and encouraging her to put her feet up and live a life of luxury.

  “And, of course, there are your brothers. Until we have our own children, they should keep you busy enough.”

  “Umm.” She picked up the teapot again.

  “Is it still hot? We can ring for more.”

  “I’m sure it’s fine,” Harriet said. She put an extraordinary amount of sugar in her cup and took a sip. “This is much nicer tea than at my father’s.”

  “I should bloody well hope so. Nobody is drugging you here.”

  A pained look crossed her face. “I can’t believe my father did such a thing. All those months, when I thought I was so ill. I—I thought there was something wrong with me.”

  “Look at it this way. If you weren’t looking for a part-time job, you never would have come to me. I suppose we owe the old blighter a thank-you. In his own warped way, he’s responsible for this.” He patted the news sheets. “It’s official. The announcement is in all the papers. We’re really married.”

  “And I’m unemployed. The obeying part is just getting started.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You know. ‘To love, honor, and obey.’ I cannot work now because you forbid it.”

  Just like her father had. No wonder she was giving him the evil eye. But it wasn’t proper for her to work.

  Proper? Why did that word keep popping up? Thomas was damned sick of proper. Proper had been a headache for him for years. Even when he was establishing his rakish reputation, he’d done it because it was the “proper” thing to do for a young gentleman.

  She set the teacup down. “You wouldn’t have to pay me, Thomas. I�
��d like to see the project through.”

  “You know money’s not the issue. And it will never be through,” Thomas said patiently. “Once this first lot attains success, there will be others to take their places. You know how important the foundation is to me. Why, I’d like it to continue even after my death.”

  She looked a little ready to kill him now. “So you want me to have nothing more to do with it?”

  “You’ll come to the receptions, surely. They were your idea.”

  “And stand by your side.”

  Thomas nodded. “Exactly. You’ll be a patroness of the arts.”

  Maybe he should change the name to the Sir Thomas and Lady Featherstone Foundation. Harriet really did deserve a great deal of credit—she’d helped him pick out the candidates, found the Mount Street house, furnished it. He was truly grateful. “You know I couldn’t have done this without you. Thurston was no use at all.” He reached across the table for her hand and brought it to his lips.

  “Better than Thurston. I suppose that’s something,” Harriet grumbled.

  “Much better. I wouldn’t like to see him in his dressing gown, I assure you. The man’s whiskers make him look like a walrus. Come, sweetheart. I think we’re fighting, but I’m not sure why.”

  Oh, yes he was. Why shouldn’t she work for him? No, with him. The outside world could go hang if they didn’t like it. Sir Thomas and his Lady Featherstone were already an unconventional couple. And he was a modern man, wasn’t he? In for a penny, in for a pound.

  “All right.”

  Her brows knit. “All right what?”

  “You’re hired again. If you’ll take the job. I understand the boss is a very generous employer. There might even be some unexpected benefits.”

  Harriet lifted an eyebrow. “Long afternoon meetings behind closed doors, for example?”

  “They might even run into the evenings,” Thomas affirmed. “Long, long into the night. Overtime might be involved.”

  He knew he’d made her happy as she rounded the table and kissed him with impressive thoroughness. That’s all he ever wanted to do. This first morning of marriage had been a bit bumpy, but Thomas had a solution. He was full of good ideas today.