A Ravishing Beauty in Disguise: A Historical Regency Romance Book

by Emily Honeyfield

  Now, she shook her head, making her curls quake. It was nearly time for tea, meaning she had to hang up reading of her philosophical texts for the afternoon and return to the humdrum conversation her mother offered. It wasn’t her mother’s fault, Harriet knew.

  Rather, the woman hadn’t been forced to think outside the bounds of her own existence, well, ever, and thus she found it difficult to dive into any sort of conversation that made Harriet’s brain sizzle with excitement. She promised herself she could take a ride after tea, to reinvigorate the inner caverns of her mind. Surely, that would help.

  Harriet reached for her jewellery box and sprung it open. Inside glowed the old locket, passed down from her grandmother after her death. Harriet swept the locket over her chest and pressed at it, wishing with all her might she could pry it open to see the photos within. As it stood, no one had been able to open the locket since her grandmother’s death. It was assumed that within the locket were photos of her grandmother and grandfather, in their prime. But no one was sure.

  Now, Harriet brought the golden strings around the back of her neck, drew the latch back, and tried to hook the parts together. But in the midst of the process, she heard a cling—then felt a jagged piece of gold flick down her back. Her eyes grew into saucers.

  She’d broken it.

  Harriet swept the necklace back around and blinked at the space where the latch had once hung. Now, it was just a jagged, claw-like piece, without its latch. She shivered, feeling as though she’d tainted a piece of her own personal history.

  When Harriet found her mother in the tea room, she held the locket tightly in her right hand. She sat softly at the edge of her chair, peering across the little table at her mother. Her mother’s long lashes swept up. In the previous years, Lady Marie Arnold had aged considerably, casting grey locks down her ears. Wrinkles cut themselves around her eyes. She pursed her lips for a moment and then said, “I can tell something’s wrong, Harriet. Are you going to tell me, or are you going to make me guess?”

  Harriet was the Arnolds’ only child. They generally doted on her, thought her to be a most remarkable child, one deserving of all the love and freedmen in the world. Yet of course, when she made minor mistakes, this meant that their reaction was all the worse, as they expected her to be continually perfect. Harriet stretched out her palm to reveal the broken locket, allowing her shoulders to sag.

  “I’m terribly sorry, Mother,” she murmured. “I really am.”

  Lady Arnold was terribly sensitive about the items her mother had left behind. She, herself, had only a few bracelets, rings, and necklaces from the woman, ones she rarely wore, as she wanted to ensure they kept.

  “What did you do?” Her mother sighed, ticking her tongue against the top of her mouth.

  Harriet muddled her words. “It was an accident.”

  “I should think you wouldn’t do something like this on purpose,” her mother said wearily.

  “What should we do?” Harriet whispered.

  Just then, Lord Arnold appeared in the doorway of the tea room. He beamed at them, his face heavy with beard and his eyes just as bright green as Harriet’s. He’d been away for several days on business, yet his face reflected back youth and vitality, despite the travel.

  “Darlings!” he said. He pounded a fist against the side of the door. “I’ve travelled long and far and wide to see you.”

  For a moment, Harriet allowed herself to tear from the current necklace-debacle reality. She jumped from her chair and rushed for her father, wrapping him in an enormous hug. She felt momentarily like a much younger girl, rather than the woman who’d enraged her mother—and hadn’t yet found a husband to call her own.

  “What’s gotten into your mother, then?” her father asked, his voice conspiratorial. He spoke loud enough for Lady Arnold to hear.

  “Oh,” Harriet sighed. “It’s really just—“

  “Your daughter has broken her grandmother’s necklace,” her mother said, using a sharp tongue. “I can’t imagine how she was so clumsy with something that means so much …”

  “Now, now,” Lord Arnold tried. “Let me see.”

  Harriet’s father analysed the necklace for only a moment before scoffing and saying, “Mother, this is but a tiny repair. Why don’t we go to Bond Street immediately and get it fixed? Truth be told, I’ve missed London quite a bit in my days away, and a walk outside the house would do us all a bit of good.”

  Harriet was grateful for her father’s occasional bouts of optimism. They were difficult to predict, yet always felt like a fresh wind on a hot day or a bit of sun in the winter.

  Harriet raced to her bedroom to find her spring coat. She whirled it over her shoulders, hearing the echoes of her parents’ voices downstairs. Still, it seemed her mother was in a sort of tizzy regarding the locket. Yet she knew the moment they arrived in Bond Street, she would grow lost in the grandeur of vintage jewellery, new leather purses, grand gowns, and conversation and gossip with other passers-by.

  Soon, the three Arnolds ambled up the steps of the carriage. April sunlight filtered through the occasional spits of rain. Harriet’s mother continued to clench the locket in her hand, but her face had loosened a bit, and she’d even allowed a small smile towards Harriet. Harriet breathed a sigh of relief. She sensed it was all due to the fact of her father’s arrival back from his trip to Bristol—but she would take her wins when she could.

  Bond Street on that particular April afternoon was awash with activity. Women Harriet recognised from society frequently met there to walk and gossip, pausing at the various jewellery stalls and casting eyes towards the available bachelors, who tipped their hats.

  The whole thing felt like an animal game, one Harriet often found herself participating in. Her cousins Renata and Zelda had frequently demanded why she hadn’t decided to settle down with one of her potential suitors. “You’re terribly beautiful, you know,” Zelda had said once, in that bored tone of hers. “I don’t know why you put such terror on your life. You could be happy.”

  “I don’t believe the end-all hope of my life is to settle down with just any husband,” Harriet had returned. Although, admittedly, she was growing a bit frightened of her own obstinate decisions to uphold her inner values. Why was she so different than her parents, her cousins? Why couldn’t she just agree on happiness, whenever and wherever it came from?

  Harriet walked a bit behind her parents, who seemed to dote on one another in a manner suited for much younger couples. Her father laced his hand around her mother’s lower back, tucking her close against him. Her mother giggled softly, whispering something into his ear. Harriet beamed, stitching her hands across her belly. How did she get so lucky, her parents still in love with one another?

  Ordinarily, she found herself with friends’ parents—or even her aunt and uncle—who looked at one another as though they were looking at blank and barren walls. The Duke, Lord Adam Arnold, had found in Lady Marie Arnold a supreme soul mate, a woman who would uphold him over everything. “Till death do we part,” didn’t even fully cover it.

  “Here we are.” Lady Arnold sighed, drawing toward the jewellery stand.

  Harriet ambled up to the long, wooden table, watching as her mother splayed the golden chain across the velvet. Her mother eyed the jewellery maker with her harsh blue ones, saying, “It really is quite a tragedy. This belonged to my mother. It’s older even than that—passed down from her grandmother before her.”

  “It’s just the latch, My Lady,” the jeweler said. He scratched the inside of his nostrils and drew the chain skyward, analysing it. “This shouldn’t be a difficult fix at all.”

  “Oh? My daughter, she’s so careless …” Lady Arnold continued.

  “Darling, don’t worry him with the story,” Lord Arnold said. He glanced towards Harriet and winked. “Besides, it’s clear that that thing was going to break regardless. It’s not like Harriet did anything wrong. All she wanted to do was wear it. Didn’t you, honey?”

&nbs
p; Harriet nodded.

  “I’ll have it fixed within the hour,” the jeweler said, his voice lazy, his words long.

  “Splendid,” Lord Arnold said. “We’ll have a look around and return shortly.”

  Harriet whirled back from the jewellery stand, feeling the eyes of her parents on her back. She took a step in the direction of the leather-maker, knowing that her mother would be pleased to peruse the purses and wallets. Her father placed his hand upon her shoulder, perhaps as an assurance that everything would be all right.

  “It really is lovely to be out here in the afternoon,” her mother said as they walked, ambling alongside people they’d met, people they were to one day meet. Skirts shuddered around them in various colours of pink and yellow and blue, a sign of the spring. Harriet was entirely grateful they’d left the estate, if only to break from the fight that her mother might have picked with her otherwise. Although they generally got along, it was becoming increasingly clear that her mother was worried about her only child—wondering if she’d ever break out of the bounds of the estate and make her own family.

  Harriet spread her finger across the stitching of a leather bag at the table, listening as her mother asked various questions regarding the make and quality of a few items. Her mother turned a rueful eye towards several of the designs, muttering, “This really isn’t the sort of thing I’m accustomed to …” in a way that was meant to show the leather-maker her disapproval.

  Of course, both Harriet and her father knew that this was a game she kept up, to ensure that she felt superior to everyone around her. Harriet and her father exchanged glances, unbeknownst to her mother, then smiled. Harriet’s inner-belly glowed with happiness. Perhaps it was because she knew she wouldn’t have many more days like this with her parents. She couldn’t be sure.

  At the following stall, her mother pored over various lotions and creams, several that purported themselves as “anti-ageing.” Her father was inclined to spout that she “didn’t need such things,” to which her mother sighed and said, “That’s sweet, darling.” Harriet herself didn’t care much for such things as of yet, and cast her eyes away from the table, behind the stalls.

  A tired beggar woman sat perched on the steps of a church. She clutched her knees and shifted back and forth. The only things she owned in the world were aligned next to her: a bag filled with items from the street, and a little leather purse, in which, Harriet assumed, she kept the only money she had in the world.

  Harriet analysed the woman’s face for perhaps too long. The woman was in her late 30s, her cheeks drawn over large hollows that showed her exhaustion. She shook a bit, her shoulders jiggling back and forth. Her eyes were hazy and blue, seemingly looking at another dimension, one that Harriet and her parents couldn’t see. Harriet wondered how many people had walked past the woman that day, only to ignore her and immediately forget her existence.

  As she stood, a man of similar station to Harriet herself approached the beggar woman. He was muscular, his shoulders thick, his top hat shining beneath the soft glow of the sun. With a strange, frenetic motion, he reared his foot back and slammed it against one of her bags, casting the items across the steps of the church. Then, he ambled forward and began to collect the items, stacking them in his arms.

  The beggar woman bungled to her feet and stretched her hands over her chest. She let out a strange, animal noise, one that showed her intense fear. The man stuck his tongue out at her and wagged it before reaching for her leather wallet and slipping that on top of the pile. Harriet couldn’t quite make out what he said yet felt the energy emanating off of him lined with evil.

  Suddenly, Harriet rushed towards them. She felt guided by an unseen force. She raised her knees skyward, thrust her arms back and forth, racing. But just before she cut out from the market completely, she felt a hand on her shoulder. It pulled her back with a ferocity she couldn’t explain. She nearly tumbled to her knees, yet caught herself at the last moment. Then, she blinked back into the eyes of her father.

  “You’re going to let him get away!” she cried, feeling that the sound of her voice was entirely childlike. “You can’t possibly—”

  But her father had none of his ordinary kindness. He shook his head with volatility and helped her to her feet. Harriet drew her eyes back to the scene of the crime, watching as the man ambled away from the beggar woman with everything valuable she might have owned. Just now, the beggar woman stretched herself out on the steps of the church, curving her face into her hands. Tears made her slim body shake.

  “You don’t understand, Father! Maybe you didn’t see. That man! He just stole from the woman …”

  “It’s not that I didn’t see it, Harriet,” her father said, his voice low. “It’s only that I know better than to chase after things I can’t change.”

  Harriet nearly spit with anger. She whirled back towards her father, tears filling her eyes. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “You’re too young to understand,” her father returned.

  “I’m 23 years old,” Harriet said.

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t be too young, then. Perhaps too idealistic,” her father said. Again, he tugged on her elbow. “It’s time for us to go.”

  Harriet turned towards her mother, thinking that surely, if anyone would understand, it would be her. But her mother diverted her eyes, returned her fingers to the leather bag before her. Harriet felt the chaotic market spinning without rhyme or reason, as though time ticked away without her.

  “Come along, Harriet,” her mother said, her voice coming from somewhere far within her throat. “I need your opinion about this bag. Do you think it would be suitable for overnight occasions?”

  “Mother, I really don’t think …” Harriet began, flustered. Breath burst in and out of her lungs. “I really don’t think we should be discussing the validity of a bag when …”

  Her mother’s blue eyes flashed towards her. She clucked her tongue. “Darling, you’ve been on this planet for 23 years. Shouldn’t this discussion be for a much younger girl?”

  Harriet baulked. She slipped her hands across the flatness of her stomach, a chill overtaking her shoulders. Her father ambled back toward the jeweller, sweeping his hand around her mother’s back. They cut through the crowd, leaving Harriet behind. Again, she blinked towards the beggar woman, wondering at the wretched darkness in the world. What could that man possibly do with the items he’d stolen? Had he no conscience? And how could her parents just allow it to go on like this?

  Harriet didn’t speak over the next thirty minutes. She watched as her mother collected the repaired locket and paid the jeweller, watched as she slipped it into a small cinched leather purse and slipped it into her bag. It seemed clear to Harriet that she wouldn’t be receiving the locket back any time soon; she’d lost privileges.

  The Arnolds boarded the carriage once more, with Lady Arnold muttering something about hoping dinner had already been thought about back at home. Lord Arnold gave Harriet a little smile, seemingly trying to bridge beyond her inner torment.

  But Harriet turned her eyes towards the window, watching as the carriage moved away from Bond Street and scuttled across the cobblestones. Soon, they would be home—but where would the old beggar woman be? Shivering on the streets, without a penny to her name. How could Harriet possibly deal with such a thing?

  Chapter 3

  “You should have seen his face,” Lord Arnold said, slipping his spoon into his mashed potatoes and drumming it into goopy gravy. “When I demanded the deal. It was as though he’d expected he could walk all over me. As though me—a Duke, no less—would simply grin and take whatever offer he gave.”

  “That’s simply not your nature, darling,” Lady Arnold returned. She seemed captivated with him, her eyes swallowing his entire image. She’d hardly touched her meal, and leaned toward her husband, her hands slotted beneath her chin.