by Emily Larkin
Chapter Twenty-Five
Isabella thought she understood why Harriet had changed her mind about marrying Major Reynolds. Her grandfather had disowned her, her aunt had emigrated, and her last communication with Mr. Fernyhough had been a letter of farewell.
Harriet was afraid of the major, but she was even more afraid of earning her living.
Isabella remembered the list the girl had given her yesterday: Invalid’s Companion, Seamstress, Trimming Hats, Lady’s Maid. A daunting future for a gently reared girl.
Viewed dispassionately, marriage to Major Reynolds was a sensible choice. He might be an ogre, but he was an ogre who would take care of her. Isabella couldn’t despise the girl for her change of heart. Many women in England had made similar decisions.
Harriet was in her bedchamber. One glance at the girl’s face told Isabella that she’d been crying.
“Harriet? May I come in?”
Isabella had been afraid that Harriet might have cast her in the rôle of villain, but the girl appeared to have taken that mantle for herself. “What must you think of me?” she whispered, wringing her hands.
“I think that you’re very afraid of your future,” Isabella said. “But you have no reason to be, my dear. You have a home here until I see you safely established somewhere.”
“You can’t want me in your house!” the girl cried, mortification suffusing her face. “Not now!”
“Why ever not?” Isabella said, smiling at her. “Because I’m marrying Nicholas?”
Harriet gripped her hands even more tightly together, the knuckles whitening. “You must hate me.”
Isabella laughed. “Quite the contrary. If not for you I would never have met Nicholas—or fallen in love with him.”
“You love him?” Harriet said, her expression somewhere between disbelief and awe.
“I do.” Far more than she had ever loved Roland. “So I’m very grateful to you, and I hope to return the favor and see you united with Mr. Fernyhough.”
Harriet’s eyes filled with tears. She looked away. “Malcolm and I can never marry,” she whispered. “My grandfather—”
“I have every reason to believe that Mr. Fernyhough will come into possession of another living before long,” Isabella told her.
“He has no connections,” Harriet said, hunting for her handkerchief.
“He has me,” Isabella said. “And through me, my brother—and he’s a duke, you know. Between us we’ll find Mr. Fernyhough a new living.”
But this statement didn’t have the effect she’d hoped for. More tears gathered in the girl’s eyes. “I’m sorry to be such a burden, ma’am.”
“You’re not a burden,” Isabella said. “Any more than the kittens are! Do you think I’d cast them out onto the street when they needed me? Of course not. And I shan’t cast you out, either.” She stroked a strand of hair back from the girl’s flushed, tear-stained cheek. “Come now, my dear. Don’t lose hope. Everything will sort itself out.”
Harriet dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief and gave a wan, valiant smile.
Next, Isabella broke the news of her betrothal to Mrs. Westin. “I can’t deny that I’ve longed for this moment,” her cousin said, laying down her knitting. “It’s troubled me to see you live your life alone.”
“I’ve been perfectly happy,” Isabella said, taken aback.
“You’ll be much happier with a husband to guide and protect you.”
Isabella opened her mouth to tell her cousin that she wasn’t marrying Major Reynolds for either of those reasons—and decided it would be a futile argument. She changed the subject instead. “You may stay in this house once I’m married. It’s yours for as long as you like.”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Westin said, picking up her knitting again. “But if you no longer require a chaperone I shall move to Bath. I prefer it to London.”
“Oh,” Isabella said, even more taken aback. “You never said so.”
“Of course not,” Mrs. Westin said, smiling gently. “Why would I?”
Isabella had no answer to this question. She listened to the brisk click-click-click of the knitting needles and plucked at a fold of her gown, pleating the muslin between her fingers, then said, “About Harriet . . .”
The knitting needles stilled.
“I know you’ve disliked the secrecy, Elinor.”
Mrs. Westin gave a nod.
Isabella twisted the muslin between her fingers. “Once I’m married there’s no reason for us to keep Harriet’s presence hidden, only . . . I’m afraid it would invite gossip if she were to live with Nicholas and me, given her history with him.”
“Gossip? Yes.” Mrs. Westin pursed her lips in distaste.
“So, I was wondering . . . may Harriet stay with you as your companion? It wouldn’t be for long,” she said hastily. “Only until we find Mr. Fernyhough a new living.”
The knitting needles began clicking again. “Of course she may stay with me.”
“Thank you,” Isabella said, relieved.
Sunday passed as Sundays generally did: quietly. Isabella attended church in a happy glow. Gussie cornered her after the service. “Well?” she asked.
“Well, what?”
“Are you all right? You left the Griffiths’ so suddenly, and you weren’t at the Fothergills’ last night.”
“I’m perfectly well,” Isabella assured her. She bit the tip of her tongue, wishing she could tell Gussie her news. “Gussie, would you and Lucas like to come into Derbyshire next week?”
Gussie’s eyebrows lifted in astonishment. “Derbyshire?”
“I know it’s the middle of the Season, but . . . I thought you might like to.”
Gussie subjected her to a quizzical stare. “We might? Why?”
“There might be a . . . a small celebration you’d like to attend,” Isabella said, and felt herself blush betrayingly.
Gussie’s eyes grew wide. Her mouth opened.
“You mustn’t say anything!” Isabella said hurriedly. “I have to tell Julian first.”
Gussie visibly swallowed whatever words she’d been about to utter. After a moment she said, “We’ll come to Derbyshire. I promise.” And then she grinned, looking as if she’d like to burst with excitement. “Hurry up and write to your brother!”
Isabella obeyed this dictate. Once home, she sat down and penned a letter to Julian. Nicholas and I are coming to Derbyshire to marry. Look for us next week. There’s still the problem of Harriet’s future to be dealt with, but she can live as Elinor’s companion until a living is found for Mr. Fernyhough. Next, she wrote to her sisters and to her brother, addressing Simon’s letter to Naples and wondering when he would receive it.
As an afterthought, she sent a note around to Gussie, asking whether Lucas had a vacant living in his gift, and received the reply half an hour later: No.
She didn’t tell Harriet. The girl had been extremely subdued all day.
Isabella went in search of her, and found her weeping over the newspapers. “Come now,” she said gently. “There’s no need for tears. Everything will work out.”
Harriet made a heroic attempt to halt her sobs. “I’m sorry to be such a nuisance, ma’am. You must wish me gone. Especially after yesterday.”
“Don’t worry about yesterday,” Isabella said. “The major wasn’t upset by it, and neither was I. Now, come help me with the kittens. The little rascals need feeding again. Did I tell you I’ve decided on a name for the gray? She’s to be Mimi.”
On Monday morning, Nicholas sat down at his desk and studied the list of things that needed to be done. Applying for a marriage license at the Archbishop of Canterbury’s office at Doctors’ Commons was the most important item on the list, but there was also the journey into Derbyshire to be arranged, and a multitude of other things, too. His marriage to Lady Isabella might be somewhat hasty, but it would be done well.
He lifted his head at the sound of voices in the corridor. “Don’t bother to announce me,” someone said cheerful
ly.
A tap sounded on the door, and his nephew strode into the study, grinning. “Sir! I have something to tell you!”
“You’ve joined the Rifle Brigade,” Nicholas said, putting the list to one side. “Yes, I know.”
Harry’s grin widened. He pulled up a chair in front of Nicholas’s desk and sat, leaning forward, words tumbling from his mouth as he explained with eager detail his decision to become a soldier. Nicholas watched his face, youthful, alight with enthusiasm, and felt a faint stirring of apprehension. This could make a man of him, or kill him.
“Did Mayhew put you up to this?” he asked, in the first pause that was offered.
Harry looked affronted. “No one put me up to it! I decided myself.”
Nicholas stroked his ruined cheek with a finger. “It’s not a game. You know that?”
“Of course I do,” Harry said, looking even more affronted. “I’m not a child, sir.”
A month ago you were a sullen boy. But the Harry seated in front of him bore little resemblance to the Harry of last month.
“No, you’re not, are you?” Nicholas stood and offered Harry his hand. “I wish you all the best.”
Harry grinned. The excitement lit his eyes again. “Thank you, sir.” His grip was firm.
Nicholas resumed his seat. “How did you purchase your commission? I understood your pockets were to let.”
Harry flushed and laughed. “It was a horse, sir, at the races.” His flush deepened and his expression became half-embarrassed, half-defiant. “Its name was Ogre’s Luck.”
Nicholas grunted a laugh.
Harry looked relieved. “You don’t mind, sir?”
“Ogre?” Nicholas shook his head. It was a connection he had with Lady Isabella, one that no one knew about. She named me. He touched two fingers to his scar. “Half of London calls me that now.” But with no malice, no hint of ridicule. It was a nickname, nothing more. He shrugged. “It doesn’t bother me.”
Another ten minutes passed before Harry stood to leave. “You must be busy, sir.”
Nicholas looked down at the list on his desk. He read the first item. Obtain marriage license. “I’m getting married.”
“Lady Isabella Knox? Lord, as if we hadn’t all guessed that! The pair of you smelling of April and May.”
Nicholas felt himself blush faintly. “That obvious, was it?”
“Blindingly,” Harry said. “Congratulations, sir.” He shook Nicholas’s hand enthusiastically and then took his leave. His footsteps, as he crossed the study, were brisk and eager.
A thought occurred to Nicholas as his nephew opened the door. “Harry?”
Harry halted. “Sir?”
“Do me a favor. Tell your father that your decision to join the Rifles wasn’t at my persuasion.”
Harry pulled a face. “He’s in a foul mood.”
“He’s afraid for you.”
Harry made a scoffing sound and looked away.
“He’s your father and he loves you, and he’s afraid of you dying on a battlefield.”
Harry’s gaze came back to him. He was silent for a long moment, and then he nodded. “I’ll talk with him, sir.” He raised his hand in a gesture that was vaguely like a salute, and closed the door behind him.
Nicholas listened to the sound of his footsteps fade, and then looked down at the list again. Obtain marriage license. He’d get started on that this morning, make his application at the archbishop’s office.
Isabella saw Major Reynolds three times on Monday, once to give him her full name and her father’s full name for the marriage license, once to drive in Hyde Park, and lastly when he escorted her and Mrs. Westin to the opera. He didn’t steal a kiss in the shadows at the back of the box this time, but he did discreetly hold her hand during the performance, and it was magical: sitting alongside the major, listening to the music, holding his hand.
On Tuesday morning Harriet didn’t join them for breakfast. Isabella eyed the empty seat. Was the girl upstairs crying? I must find a way to cheer her up. But how?
Isabella set that problem aside to ponder later, poured herself a cup of tea, and allowed herself to think of Major Reynolds. She ate her eggs without noticing, drank her tea without noticing. She jerked back to reality when Mrs. Early entered the breakfast parlor. The housekeeper’s plump face was flushed, her manner flustered. “Ma’am,” she said to Isabella. “Miss Durham isn’t in her bedchamber.”
“Not? Have you checked the morning room? The kittens—”
“She left these,” Mrs. Early said, laying two letters on the breakfast table. “One for you, ma’am, and one for Mrs. Westin.”
Isabella met her cousin’s eyes. She snatched up the letter addressed to her, tore it open, and read swiftly and with a growing sense of shock. You are too kind to say it, but I know I am a burden and an affliction, Harriet wrote in a looping, childish hand. Tear stains blotched the ink. I cannot repay your generosity and your many kindnesses by remaining in your house.
“Harriet says that she’s borrowed some money from my reticule,” Mrs. Westin said in an astonished voice. “She promises to repay me.” She looked up at Isabella. “Wherever can she have gone? And why?”
“She’s gone because she thinks she’s a burden.” Isabella pushed up from her chair. “Mrs. Early, who’s been waiting on Miss Durham? I wish to speak with her.”
The new housemaid, Molly, had been attending to Harriet’s needs. Miss Durham, she said with wide and anxious eyes, had asked her to run two errands for her.
“I posted a letter for her, ma’am,” the housemaid said, pleating her apron nervously between her fingers. “I didn’t know it was wrong.”
“It wasn’t wrong,” Isabella said, with a reassuring smile. “Do you remember the address?”
The housemaid shook her head, still looking frightened. “I don’t read that well, ma’am.”
“And the other errand?”
“I bought a ticket for her, on the stage. Had her name put on the waybill. Miss H. Durham. She wrote it down for me.”
“Do you remember where she was going?”
“Chippenham,” the housemaid said. “I’d never heard of it before.” And then she added helpfully, “The stage left this morning, quite early.”
“I see,” Isabella said, trying to keep her tone even. “Is there any reason why you didn’t inform Mrs. Early or myself that Miss Durham was leaving today?”
“I thought you knew, ma’am.” Molly’s eyes became even wider and more anxious. She twisted her hands in her apron. “Don’t turn me off, please.”
“I’m not going to turn you off.” Isabella managed to smile at the girl. “Thank you. You may go.”
When the maid and housekeeper had gone, Isabella looked at her cousin. “Chippenham? Why there?”
“I think I know,” Mrs. Westin said, in a quiet, worried voice. She rose and left the room, returning in a few minutes with a newspaper. “There was a position in Chippenham for a lady’s companion. Applications in person, it said.” But the page with the advertisement was gone.
“I have to go after her,” Isabella said, pushing to her feet. “She’s far too young to go to Chippenham by herself.” And too pretty, too innocent, too poor. The girl would be prey to all sorts of fiends.
She pulled the bell rope. “Have my carriage brought around,” she told the footman. “Immediately.” She halted in the doorway, looking back at her cousin. “Do you wish to come with me, Elinor?”
Mrs. Westin shook her head. “You’ll be faster without me.”
Isabella acknowledged this truth with a nod; Mrs. Westin was a poor traveler. She shut the door, picked up her skirts, and hurried upstairs. “Partridge! My carriage dress, quickly!”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Nicholas ran lightly up the steps to his front door, the marriage license in his pocket and a whistle on his lips.
“These were delivered while you were out, sir,” his butler told him, presenting two letters. “By hand.”
&nb
sp; Nicholas took them. He recognized the handwriting on one of them: Gerald.
He opened Gerald’s letter as he headed for his study, tearing the paper slightly, unfolding it one-handed as he reached for the brandy decanter.
He poured himself a glass and read the note, grunting when he reached the end. The living at Halvergate was his to dispose of if he wished. An apology, Gerald? If so, it was perfectly timed.
Nicholas put Gerald’s letter aside and opened the second one, taking slightly more care, managing not to rip it. He raised the brandy glass to his mouth and read the first lines.
Nicholas,
Harriet has run off to Chippenham to apply for a position as a lady’s companion.
Nicholas put the brandy glass down. He read swiftly. “Frye!” he shouted, striding from the study. “When was this letter delivered?” He thrust it at the man.
“About an hour ago, sir.”
An hour. Nicholas reread the final line. I’m departing London immediately and have hopes of catching her by Marlborough, Isabella had written.
“Have my curricle brought around,” Nicholas said, refolding the letter. “At once!”
By the time Isabella reached Hungerford, she was a mere half hour behind the Bristol stagecoach. One of the serving maids at the inn confirmed that Harriet had been aboard. “Little thing with brown hair?” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “Looked as if she’d been crying.” Harriet had purchased a glass of lemonade, but declined the ham sandwiches offered by the establishment.
Isabella glanced up at the sky. Clouds were gathering on the horizon. She wrapped her traveling cloak more tightly around her and climbed back into the carriage.
By Froxfield, they had gained further on the stage. The clouds had gained, too, massing darkly, their bellies almost resting on the ground.
“It left fifteen minutes ago?” Isabella asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” the ostler said.
A long blast on a horn sounded, signaling a traveler wanting a change of horses. “’Scuse me, ma’am,” the ostler said, and hurried off.