Anita Mills (10 page)

Choosing to eat in her room rather than endure any further harassment from either Hannah or her father, Harriet sat before the small fire she’d kindled and polished off the last of the cold mutton Thomas had slipped her. That she could not endure living at Rowe’s Hill for the rest of her life was abundantly clear to her. She had to escape, and soon. Why, oh why, had Plimly not answered? Surely the nurse who’d cared for her so lovingly in childhood cared for her still. But it was well over two months since she’d sent her first letter. And even if Hannah had intercepted it, it did not explain the others. She had Thomas’ word that he’d posted the last one in the village himself.

She was surely the most miserable of creatures, the most spineless, dejected female alive. And now she’d even lost the only relative she could call a friend, for it was not likely that he would wish to come to Rowe’s Hill again.

“Harriet! Harriet! Thomas, you will fetch Miss Rowe on the instant, if you please.”

It was Hannah, and from the sound of her voice, she was no longer angry, no longer angry at all. And then Harriet, who’d been so absorbed in her own dejection, realized that there was someone else there, for her ears picked up the buzz of conversation between her father and another man. She rose from her chair cautiously, laying aside the napkin that had covered her lap.

She paused in the doorway to listen, and the awful suspicion that it was Edwin washed over her. Her fears were confirmed when Thomas met her as she stepped into the hall.

“You have a caller, miss—’tis Mr. Thornton, just arrived from the village.”

Momentary panic assailed her. Surely he must have heard of her escapade … surely he must wish to cry off—he must. But Hannah did not sound vexed, and that did not augur well.

“Oh, dear.” Well, there was but one way to discover for certain, after all. She sucked in her breath, letting it out slowly to compose her disordered thoughts. Then, lifting her head and squaring her shoulders in preparation for the unpleasantness, she nodded. “You may tell Mr. Thornton I shall be down forthwith, Thomas.”

It was certain to be an unpleasant interview, yet when she entered the front saloon, she was not at all displeased to discover that her father and Hannah had deserted her. Instead, she faced Edwin Thornton alone, prepared to endure his censure as a small price to pay for an end to their betrothal. He was standing with his back to her when she entered the room, his attention focused on the Ormolu clock on the mantel.

“Well, you are prompt at least,” he observed, turning around. Then, without further preamble, he cleared his throat and began. “I came as soon as I was apprised of the situation, Harriet, and though I am sorely displeased by what you have done, I would not have you think I mean to desert you.” It was the second time within the space of seven hours that she had been completely stunned. “You mean you are not going to cry off?” she uttered faintly, blinking in shock. “Oh, but you must!”

It was as though she hadn’t spoken. He merely continued in the same vein, saying, “While I cannot condone that you have misled your parents or that you have been present at what I can only describe as a completely unfit place for a lady—”

“It was Newmarket,” she injected tiredly. “And I was far from the only female present. Moreover, I was in the company of my cousin, sir.”

“It was a horsetrack, Miss Rowe! A sporting place!”

“Yes,” she admitted mildly, “and I enjoyed it excessively.”

“Naturally, you cannot know of what you speak, Harriet. But I quite fault Sherborne as much as you, though I admit that before he explained it all to me, I was not certain I could excuse what I can only consider reprehensible behavior.”

“Sher … Richard spoke to you, sir?” she demanded incredulously.
“Why?”

“Well, naturally he expected some unpleasant gossip over the matter, I should think, and he wished me to know that the blame was not yours alone. And while I am still by no means pleased, I will own that you have not much experience before the world, Harriet.”

“He should not have come to you.”

“My dear, as your betrothed, I had the right to an explanation. But you must not think all is lost,” he added pompously, “for I mean to support you publicly in this. However, I take leave to tell you privately that I shall not tolerate any further misconduct. I shall not allow your name to be bandied about further, whatever the circumstances, and I think it best that you not be seen again with Sherborne ere we are wed.”

“I have no intention—”

“Moreover, I think it best that we understand each other completely, my dear. While I shall stand beside you through the unpleasant gossip, you will conduct yourself with the circumspection I should naturally expect in a wife. You have clearly shown that you are in need of my guidance in all things, and I should expect that upon our marriage, you will allow that I am to control your property as well as your person.”

“By that I collect you mean my mother’s portion?” she asked with deceptive sweetness.

“But of course.”

“Alas, but I cannot.”

“But two thousand pounds is too—”

“—much for a female?” she finished for him. “Well, it is mine, sir—mine.”

The firmness in her voice surprised and irritated him. “I think you mistake the matter, Harriet, for the choice is no longer yours. If you would have my support—”

“No, sir, I would not.”

“But—”

“And Richard had no right to explain anything to you. In short, Mr. Thornton, I find myself unable to continue this sham of a betrothal between us.”

It was his turn to stare blankly, and then his face reddened as he perceived she meant it. She faced him determinedly, her face set, her hands clenched.

“You cannot mean it.”

It surprised her that she’d actually said it, but the relief she felt more than compensated for anything that Hannah could do to her. “Yes,” she answered quite simply, “I do. We should not suit.”

“Then you must be prepared for the sort of gossip that will come from this,” he told her nastily, “for ’twill be said that I am discarding you, you know.”

“As I do not go about much, I should not expect that to weigh heavily.”

“And do not be expecting Sherborne to come up to scratch.”

“I assure you I do not.”

He stared at her as though seeing her for the first time, not so much as he had thought her, but rather as she was. Clearly she was not worthy of the honor he’d once thought to bestow on her.

“Very well, then,” he managed stiffly. “I can quite see I was mistaken in you, and I can only thank fate that ’twas discovered before I came to regret my regard more bitterly than I do now.”

“I am sorry.”

“Sorry? Well, I am not! I can quite see that I have been deceived in you, Miss Rowe!” Having for once run out of words, he cast about for his hat, retrieving it from a side table. “You may tell your father I have withdrawn my offer!” Jamming the beaver on his head, he made a hasty exit.

As the front door banged shut after him, her father appeared from around the corner. “Damme, girl! What the devil do you think you are about, anyway? You have made yourself the laughingstock of the neighborhood!”

“I don’t care, Papa—I don’t care! Do you hear that? I’m not wedding Edwin Thornton, and I am glad of it!”

“Here now, missy! You’ll not talk to your papa like that! Not in this house, you won’t!” But she’d already brushed past him and was halfway up the stairs. “You come back here, missy! Hannah! Hannah! The silly chit’s whistled Thornton down the wind!”

Upstairs, she could hear him calling, his voice growing angrier each time he shouted her name. She shut the door and leaned against it, shaking from the realization of what she’d just done. And for once Hannah did not come up to read a peal over her. Slowly her racing pulse quieted, and with that came the realization that she’d not only broken her betrothal to Edwin but also openly defied her father.

She sank into the chair before the remnants of her cold food and contemplated what must be done. And once again she acutely missed the comfort of her cat. If Athena had been there, she’d have fussed and purred to lighten her mistress’s mood. But Hannah had taken her cats as surely as if she had actually drowned them. No, the only comfort she could expect was her own. And hopefully Miss Plimly’s.

Much later, she heard Richard’s carriage return, long after the household had retired, and she made up her mind. Slipping noiselessly down the back stairs, she met him as he came in. He paused at the sight of her.

“You had not the right to send Edwin over here.”

“He came? I was afraid he would not.”

“He came because he did not wish to part with his notion of me, and because he had hopes of my portion, if you want the truth of it.”

“Harry—”

“No. I know you think you did the right thing, but it would not serve. Wait—” She raised her hand to still him when he started to protest. “I did not come down to quarrel over him. I came to ask for my half of the money.”

“What I owe you for Two Harry?”

“No, no, of course not. I still want to think I own half of him, Richard, but I would like to have my portion of what he won today.”

Without hesitation he reached beneath his coat and drew out the leather folder swollen with banknotes. And in the dim light of the hall sconces he carefully counted out two hundred and fifty pounds. “There’s still the purse, but I have not collected it yet. If you need it, you may have the rest of what we won from Wilborn.”

“No.”

“Harry, you aren’t thinking to do anything foolish, are you?”

“No.”

“Well, ’tis yours, in any event.” He stood there surveying her awkwardly, thinking there ought to be something else he could do. Finally, when she said nothing more, he nodded. “I expect I shall be leaving tomorrow afternoon, but I will collect the purse first and bring your share back to you ere I go. Next week, I mean to register Two Harry for the overnights at Doncaster, and I’ll send you whatever is won there. Or if you prefer it, I can have it placed in your London account.”

“Send it to London.”

“Harry …” He tried to fathom her expression in the faint light, but her face was in deep shadows. “Harry, is aught amiss—other than Hannah and Thornton, I mean?”

“No, naught’s amiss, Richard. Just continue caring for my cats, I pray you.”

Then, before he realized she meant to leave him standing there, she was up the back stairs. Her footsteps sounded softly on the carpet above him, and then her door closed quietly. It must have been far worse than he’d expected even, and she had no wish to tell him of it. The exhilaration of winning was gone completely, lost somewhere in her dark eyes. Well, she would come about, he decided finally. She was, after all, not a child anymore.

In the quiet of her room, she began packing her two new dresses into her mother’s old portmanteau, stopping only once to listen to him close the door at the other end of the hall. Everything was amiss, she thought rebelliously, but she’d get over it. She’d leave Rowe’s Hill and her foolish passion for Richard Standen behind. Lack of invitation notwithstanding, she was going to Bath.

Harriet debated as to the wisdom of hiring a hackney, but the posting-house attendant had assured her that ’twas not far to the address Plimly had given her. Besides, after suffering the unwelcome attentions of two rather inebriated fellows (for she could not call them gentlemen) on the first leg of her journey and then the rather overwhelming odor of a stout lout and his toothless mother for the last portion, she was ready for the open air. She stopped on the street corner and tried to remember the directions she’d been given.

It must surely be up there, but the narrow lane did not look the least promising, for the lodgings were cramped and close, one upon the other, and the area was quite noisy compared to the quiet of Rowe’s Hill. She drew Plimly’s last letter, a missive almost a year old, from her reticule and looked at it again.

“Lost, miss?”

She turned around gratefully to discover a man who was by his clothing a gentleman and by his manner not. His eyes traveled insolently over her, taking in the battered bag she’d set down beside her, giving her pause. Resolutely she folded the letter and straightened her shoulders.

“No. I am but visiting an old friend up there.”

His eyebrows rose, and he looked at her again, this time with considerably more curiosity. “Up there? Betsy’s perhaps?”

“Who?”

“Do not be coming the innocent with me, my dear,” he answered, reaching to touch her shoulder with encroaching familiarity as he spoke. When she flinched, his hand slid down her arm, closing roughly on her wrist.

“I assure you you are mistaken, sir,” she managed coldly, her pulses racing with sudden fear.

“Oh? I see no abigail or maid,” he gibed, tightening his grip.

“You will unhand me this instant.” Her voice was even, but her throat was tight. “Otherwise, I shall scream.”

His laugh was unpleasant, frightening her even more, and his other hand came up as though he meant to cover her mouth. She bobbed her head, sinking her teeth hard into the fleshy part between his thumb and first finger.

“Ouch, you little vixen!”

“I am being abducted! I am being abducted!” she shouted loudly, pulling away. “I pray someone will help me!”

A door flew open behind her, and a woman with a broom came out in full fury, swinging at Harriet’s tormentor, catching him hard in the back of the head. And those who’d been ignoring her before rushed to her aid, abusing him with language she’d never heard in her life. He turned her loose and beat a hasty retreat toward a phaeton at the end of the street, followed by several men all too ready to attack one whose clothes were finer than theirs.

“Well, now, dearie, ain’t yer a fine one,” the woman observed as she stood staring at Harriet with her elbows akimbo and her hands and broom on her hips. “Betsy’s gettin’ ’em greener every day, by the looks o’ yer.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Ye was goin’ up there, wasn’t yer?”

“I am looking for Miss Plimly—Miss Violet Plimly—my old nurse from home, and that gentleman—”

“Nurse! Ain’t no nurses there!” the woman snorted.

“Then I was given the wrong direction, for I was told—”

“Must’ve turned wrong if yer don’t belong over here. Nurse!” she exploded derisively.

“Please …” Harriet took out the letter again and then looked up at the name written on the side of the corner house. “Yes—’tis the wrong street. Nonetheless, I thank you for your prompt assistance.”

“Even talk like the Quality, don’t yer? Well, be off with yer ere he comes around again, ‘cause Old Peg ain’t comin’ out but once, yer hear? Aye, wouldn’t have then,” she grumbled, “but even a whore ought to choose her business.”

“A what? Oh, I assure you—”

“That you ain’t one o’ them? It don’t matter anyways. But if ye don’t want ter be fondled, yer ought not be alone, yer hear?”

With that bit of advice the woman backed into the narrow house and slammed the door. Harriet stood there feeling like the greenest female on earth, while the sounds of the crowd faded into the next street. She retraced her steps nervously, walking as fast as the portmanteau would allow, until she reached the posting house from whence she’d come, vowing to hire a hackney or a sedan chair after all.

But the results, while not nearly so dramatic, were little better. As she was set down in front of a tall, narrow house quite away from any of the fashionable crescents, or so the driver had told her with a sniff, it appeared the place was deserted. The upper windows were shuttered despite the mildness of the spring day, and the curtains were closed below. With real trepidation she knocked, timidly at first, then with both hands balled into fists.

And the awful suspicion that she’d run away to Bath for naught crept into her mind. She was alone in Bath with no maid and no acquaintance. But she did have nearly two hundred and fifty pounds, she reminded herself in an effort to lift her flagging spirits. And she could not go back—no matter what she did, she could not go back. ’Twould be easier to hire a maid and set up some sort of shop than face Hannah again.

Just as she’d quite given up, the inner latch was lifted and the door opened a crack, revealing quite an elderly lady in a mobcap and apron. “Here, now, there’s no need to bring the house down on my ears just because they are not what they used to be, is there?”

“I am seeking Miss Plimly—Miss Violet Plimly,” Harriet announced loudly.

“Eh? Oh, you are come to see Letty?” The door opened a little wider. “She’s gone.”

“Gone? Oh, no! Oh, dear. Where?”

“Heart quit, or so ’twas thought by Dr. Wilkes.”

“Her heart quit?” Harriet had to lean against the wall for support, managing feebly, “You mean … ?”

“It came on her so quickly.” The old woman’s voice quavered as she spoke. “We’d just come from church when she said she did not feel quite the thing, you see. I went to brew her a cup of tea, and when I came back, she was lying on the floor.” She dabbed at her eyes with a corner of her apron. “Oh, dear, how I do go on.”

Harriet’s throat constricted as she felt the very real pain of loss. Plimly had died, and Harriet had not even known of it. And the lowering thought that she had made her plans long after the old nurse was gone somehow made it worse. She ought to have been there, she ought to have known. “Oh. I wrote to her,” she said lamely.

“And I meant to answer, my dear, but these eyes fail me, and I could not bring myself to ask a stranger to do it. I do miss her terribly.” Dabbing at pale, rheumy eyes, she shook her head. “But I daresay we shall meet again, do you not think?” Then, peering more closely at Harriet, she decided, “Oh, but you must be Letty’s Miss Rowe?”

“Yes. And you must be Miss Agnes.”

The white cap bobbed in acknowledgement. “I was the elder, you know. Well, she would have liked to see you, I know. Spoke of you often, she did.” Then, recalling her manners, she moved back from the door. “Guess you’d wish to come in, wouldn’t you? Might as well have some tea with me ere you go back, after all. Just wish I’d written, but I was waiting for Philip to come—I thought perhaps he would tend to the matter for me.”

Motioning Harriet in after her, she gestured to a small room. “It ain’t much, is it? But I hate to leave it, you know. Always thought she’d outlive me, being younger and all, and I’d not have to do this. Daresay there’s not much to count on in this world, is there?”

There were packing boxes piled neatly along one wall, and two trunks stood at the end of a thread-worn settee. The small woman fretted about the room, searching in one of the crates for something. “Do sit down, Miss Rowe. I shall find the good napkins directly.” Then, straightening in triumph, she smoothed two white linen squares with her wrinkled hands.

“Philip’s coming—Friday, he said.” The pale eyes rested on the younger woman’s face. “ ’Tis Thursday today, isn’t it? Well, I’m going to live with him. Daresay I won’t like it, but I do not mean to be found here one day, gone like Letty. A person wants relations around when it happens, you know.”

“Yes, of course, and you should,” Harriet assured her, taking a seat on the faded settee. But even as she sat down, she realized she was truly at point nonplus. “I do not suppose you would wish to stay here, would you?” she asked, trying not to sound desperate. “I mean, I could remain for a while if you should wish it.”

“Of course I would stay! But I have accepted that I cannot, and Philip’s my blood—got no other now. Besides, I got no money left either.” Agnes Plimly’s veined hands shook as she took out two china cups. “Letty must’ve told you of him, I should think. Only nephew, you know, and since his Rose is gone also, ’tis best for both of us.”

The old woman rattled on, heedless of Harriet’s distress, but Harriet was no longer attending fully. Her beloved Miss Plimly was gone, she’d run away for naught, and now she truly had nowhere to go. There was George, of course, but she had not the least notion of where to look for him, and it was doubtful that he’d wish to be burdened with a spinster sister, after all.

“You are welcome to stay with me until he comes,” she heard Agnes Plimly tell her. “There’s still Letty’s bed, and I should be grateful of the company. ’Tis tedious, being alone before the world, my dear, and Letty did speak so often of you that I quite feel I know you. But of course if you’ve no wish to be burdened with a crotchety old woman, I could quite understand.”

“I should like very much to stay,” Harriet answered sincerely. “If it does not distress you overmuch, I’d like to speak of her—she was so very dear to me.”

“Of course she was.” Agnes wiped a spilling tear from her eyes again, and began pouring tea. “I hope you do not mind too much, but these leaves are not fresh, although I have used them but once before. Economy, you know. When one gets old, one must be ever so careful of one’s small savings.”

Harriet remembered then that Plimly had told her that Agnes had not been so fortunate as she was, and had served as a dresser to one of Bath’s shabby genteel families for years. “But surely your employer pensioned you,” she suggested.

“Oh, she gave me what she could afford, I suppose, but ’twas not nearly enough. And I cannot say that Lady Rowe was particularly generous with Letty either—but I shall not speak of that.”

“My stepmother is not generous to any, I fear.” Harriet moved the reticule she’d set beside her and felt the roll of banknotes inside. Impulsively she leaned forward. “Actually, I am terribly sorry that I did not see Miss Plimly …. before …”

.. she passed on? Oh, I assure you that she did not fault you for it,” Agnes hastened to reassure her. “And she did treasure your letters. I have heard every one a dozen times, I vow.”

“Yes, but I have some money that belonged to her. I… I dared not send it lest Hannah—Lady Rowe—find out, and … well, of course, I can quite see that it must be yours now.”

“Letty left some money?” The old woman’s eyes brightened and her veined hands shook as she poured more of the pale tea. “Oh, I did not know … I had no notion …”

“ ’Twas not much,” Harriet invented, calculating rapidly just how much she could afford to spare. “ ’Twas but fifty pounds.”

“Fifty
pounds!” Agnes looked faint.

“Had it been more, I should have pushed to send it earlier.”

“More? Oh, my dear Miss Rowe, ’tis a year and more of what I was used to earn! Oh, my!” She repossessed the teacup from Harriet’s hand. “I should say fresh tea is in order for this. Fifty pounds! Oh, but then ’twas Letty’s, and I—”

“I am certain she would wish you to have it.”

“And you have traveled all this way to deliver it. Oh, my dear, but you are all Letty said of you.”

“Actually, I have run away from my home—I have not so much as a maid with me,” Harriet announced with a baldness that astounded even her. “And I thought to bring Plimly the money and ask if ’twere possible for me to live with her.”

“She would have welcomed you, but—”

“I know. When I was a child, we often spoke of setting up a house here,” Harriet admitted wistfully. “I’d hoped it were yet possible, but I can see …”

“Well, if Philip were not coming, I should welcome you, of course. But Philip is alone also, and I—”

“Oh, I should not expect it now. I can see ’twould not serve.”

The old woman sighed as she sat down again and began pouring the stronger tea. “Well, I could ask Philip,” she began irresolutely, “but his house is as small as this one.”

“No. No, I pray you will not.”

“But what will you do? A female cannot live alone, and you are scarce fit for dressing or being a lady’s maid—not one as gently bred as you, my dear. And you would not wish to be a lady’s companion, I can tell you, for you are not treated as any but poor relation. ’Tis a pity you did not marry.”

“I have my own competence.”

“But your papa—”

“My father has no control over it. The thing of the matter is,” Harriet admitted candidly, “I have not the least notion of what to do with it.”

“Well, I daresay we shall think of something,” Agnes murmured doubtfully.

A loud pounding sounded on the outer door, intensifying as the old woman gave a nervous start. “Oh, dear,” she gasped in consternation. “You do not suppose I misunderstood and he said Thursday, do you?” Setting her teacup aside, she rose to answer the door. “I am coming, Philip!” she called out.

Harriet’s back was to the door, but her heart gave a leap as she heard him ask, “Your pardon, but is there a Miss Harriet Rowe here?”

“Richard!” She spun around, oversetting the cup that had been balanced on her knee. “Oh, dear! That is … How did you ever find me?”

She did not know whether it was the rush of gratitude she felt on seeing him, or whether it was really so, but just then he was the handsomest man she’d ever seen—ever. He stepped through the door, filling it, removing his hat from his disordered, windblown black hair. But his face was grim, almost angry, when he faced her.

“ ’Tis a devil of a chase you’ve led me, Harry!” he complained. And then, seeing her pleasure fade to guilt, he reached to catch her hands in his gloved ones. “ ’Gad, Harry, but you gave me a fright, girl. When I returned with your share of the purse, Aunt Hannah greeted me with the news that you had fled. And nigh the breadth of England! Had she not recalled your Miss Plimly, I’d not have known where to look.”