Stages of Desire (4 page)

“It's fine. You haven't changed a bit. You're exactly as I remembered you.”

He gave a toothy grin. “I just turned sixty. As a young man of thirty, I was already playing grandfathers and aging servants. Your father used to say I was born a character actor.”

Her heart stopped. “What do you mean, he ‘used to say'? Is father all right?”

“I haven't seen him in some time, but yes, he's alive.”

“Is it Freddie? What's happened?”

“It's not your brother, neither. Although Freddie's up and disappeared again, but I suppose I understand. With everything going on, I had to leave myself.”

“Adam.” Her voice crackled with impatience. “What's happened?”

“Your dad, he's in a bit of trouble. He's contracted to put on a production of
As You Like It
starring Mrs. Jordana Ivey in Birmingham.”

She couldn't help but grin. “But that's wonderful news. An actress of such stature. The company must be doing well.”

“It was, until four or five months ago. Until your dad began drinking too much.”

Several times in Harriet's youth, Freddie, who was five years older, had alluded to their father's baser proclivities, but she'd never seen him roaring drunk.

“I'm not sure what you're saying.”

“Your father and Freddie had a row and your dad doesn't seem to care anymore. The company is in shambles, folks scattered around. He owes actors money. And he'll owe a great sum if he doesn't get a show mounted in Birmingham.”

“Oh Adam. I'm so sorry. It doesn't sound like him. He was always so careful and businesslike.”

“I've only seen him like this once before.” Adam took a sip of ale and stared out at the rain. “After you were born and your mother passed away. But he pulled himself together and kept himself in check. Until now. Perhaps back then having two young children to take care of drew him out of his downward spiral.”

His downward spiral. She'd been too young to experience it firsthand, although she'd seen the strain on his face in later years when she'd complained of hunger or thirst. Although it had been her father's decision to pawn her off to the duke and duchess, Harriet had been unable to shake the feeling she should have insisted on remaining with her family.

By then she'd been invited in to play with Marianne, lured by her fancy dresses and expensive dolls. Yet no one had informed her of the consequences, that it was in effect a sort of banishment. A terrible surge of panic had swept through her when she'd realized the relocation was permanent, that she was never to see or hear from any of the troupe again. Until now.

“If I'd stayed with Father, I might have been able to help.”

“You were only a young girl, you had no control of what happened among the adults, nor could you know the reasons why they did what they did.”

Adam was right. Her father had made it clear she was no longer wanted by never answering her letters. He'd had nothing more to do with his daughter. Meanwhile, the troupe had continued without her, rehearsing and fighting and laughing and performing. And in return, she'd been given a proper education and opportunities for advancement. With Mr. Hopplehill.

Regardless, that was in the past.

She sat back in her chair and frowned. “Adam, perhaps this is the end of the company. It's been almost twenty years now, right? Maybe it's time to move on.”

“Oh, most have already. The only folks left from the old days are Mrs. Kembler and myself. We've got a good man named Toby for the comic roles and young kid called Martin, but not for long, most likely. They'll be snapped up by another company quick.”

“Why don't you move on as well? If father is going to drink himself into oblivion, I doubt there's much we can do about it. I know it's difficult, but you have to face the facts that the Farley Players may have played their last. I haven't seen my father in years. He may have kept my letters, but he never replied to them. I doubt I'd even recognize the man if I saw him in the street.”

“It's a more serious matter.” He shifted uneasily in his chair.

“How do you mean?”

“If the production doesn't go on as planned, and your father breaks his contract with the Theatre Royal in Birmingham, it'll be the end of him. The Theatre Royal is run by a fellow named Mr. Wilkinson. He's not one for nonsense and can be harsh when crossed.”

“The end of him? In what way?”

“Mr. Wilkinson's told your dad if he doesn't put on the production as promised within the week, he'll toss him into debtor's prison.”

Harriet sat back, stunned. She'd heard of these places, where men rotted in their own filth until someone paid their way out. The image of her high-spirited father locked in a dank, rodent-infested cell, bound with irons, made her stomach turn over.

“He won't last long there, he's fragile these days,” Adam continued. “He's not the man you remember. All I'm asking is you come to Birmingham, try to talk some sense into him. He might listen to you.”

The last time she'd seen her father, he'd dropped her off at the grand front entrance of the Duke of Dorset's estate. Harriet had been excited, not comprehending the finality of the moment. She'd given him a peck on the cheek and scampered into the house, where Marianne waited. She'd never even said goodbye.

And he hadn't warned her what was in store, that the duke and duchess would refuse to answer her questions about when she'd be going home, and she'd never hear from him again.

“I'm sorry, Adam. I can't be of any help to you.” She covered his hand. “I haven't any way to get to Birmingham, and my guardian would never allow me to leave London unaccompanied.”

He gave her a beseeching look. “I've thought about that. I'll be your chaperone. I have my cart and horse stabled here in the city, so we'll make good time. We'll stop first at my cottage in Chipping Norton and collect Mrs. Kembler and the rest, and then wind our way up north. Here's what I figure: If we all show up together in Birmingham, your dad will be so surprised it will shake off his melancholy.”

His plan was so silly and out of the question, she almost laughed. “No, Adam. I can't. It wouldn't be proper.”

“Oh, right.” He reddened and tugged self-consciously at the collar of his coat.

She hated to see him so disappointed and embarrassed. “I live in a different world now,” she said softly. “If I had the money, I'd give it to you. But I don't. For the moment, my new family must take precedence over my old. It's too late for me to come to his rescue now.”

“Of course, Harriet. Of course.” The creases in Adam's forehead and around his eyes seemed deeper than ever.

The church clock struck the hour and she leaped up. “I'm so sorry, but I must go. They'll be wondering where I am.”

She kissed Adam on the cheek. “Good luck, Adam. And I'm sorry.”

“No, you have no reason to be sorry. Your father's a stubborn man, always has been. He's gotten himself into this mess. Best you stay clear.” He placed a wrinkled hand on her arm. “I'm proud of you, what you've made of yourself.”

She smiled at his words, but inside she felt cold as stone.

Chapter 3

In her room on the third floor of the townhouse, Harriet laid Marianne's ball gown out on her bed. She pinned the lace along the bottom hem and added another row an inch above it. After three rows, she stood back and surveyed the effect, pleased. She'd begin with the skirt and then tackle the sleeves.

She carried the gown to her escritoire near the window to do the stitching. Her bedchamber was spare, but she preferred it that way. The quilt on her bed was warm and her pillow soft, which was all she needed to be happy. She supposed it was a reaction to having been thrust into such grandeur. In the other rooms, she was constantly nervous about knocking over a vase or accidentally dropping the china. The simplicity of her sleeping quarters made her feel safe.

Had she done the right thing by sending Adam away without even a note to her father? If she'd been a man, she'd be able to leave at once for Birmingham. Then again, if she'd been born a son, she might not have been given away. A male would have been considered a valuable asset to the theater troupe instead of a burden. Harriet missed a stitch and the needle pricked her skin. She put aside her sewing and stared out the window, sucking on her index finger.

So many “ifs” to consider. If her mother had lived, maybe Harriet wouldn't have been handed over. Yet how could she complain? She lived in a grand home, wore beautiful clothes, and dined three times a day. She'd learned more about history and philosophy and literature than she could ever have picked up on the road with a group of barely educated actors. No, her life would have been much more difficult if she'd stayed with her kin. She might even have died from cholera or some other dread disease by now and never made it to eighteen.

The bell rang for luncheon. In the dining room, Marianne and the duchess sat in front of a simple repast of cold meats, bread, and cheese.

“Boiled beef again?” Marianne sniffed.

“Now Marianne, you can't dine like you did last night here at home with me. You know my constitution can't handle it.” The duchess smiled as she spoke, vestiges of last night's triumph between her daughter and Lord Abingdon still evident in her upbeat mood.

“Of course, Mama. Still, it would be nice to have a little variation.”

“It smells delicious.” Harriet was relieved her disappearance earlier that day hadn't drawn notice. She took a bite of cheddar and murmured her appreciation.

“Did you hear the news, Harriet?” Marianne said. “Lord Abingdon is paying me a call this afternoon.”

The food tasted like dust all of a sudden. “How exciting.”

“It is. He's going to ask me to marry him. It's clear as day. Oh, I'm so nervous, I don't think I can eat a thing.”

The duchess waved her hand toward the array of dishes. “Do have something, I don't want you fainting on the poor man.” She turned to Harriet. “And how was your morning? Did you visit Mrs. MacDonald's shop?”

“I did. In fact, I've already begun work on the gown.”

“Well done, my dear.” She carefully wiped her mouth with her serviette. “I wish His Grace were here to see how you two have grown into such comely ladies.”

Marianne reached over and put her hand over her mother's. “Do stop, you'll make me cry.”

Harriet couldn't help noticing her eyes were perfectly dry.

The duchess turned to face Harriet. “I have good news for you as well.”

“Indeed?”

“I've learned Mr. Hopplehill was quite taken with you last night. He's told his mother he'd like to know you better.”

She stifled a shudder. “I see.”

The duchess studied her closely, with a looked of concern bordering on suspicion. “You're a lucky girl. Of course, it helps the baroness is a good friend of mine who trusts my judgment. And he's the sixth of six boys. The others have done well for themselves, and I think the baron and baroness are eager to get him out of the nest at last.” She added quickly, “Of course, I wouldn't agree to it if he weren't a gentleman.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. I understand the circumstances of the match.” Harriet cleared her throat. “May I ask a question?”

“Of course.”

“What happened the day my father made me your ward?”

The duchess stiffened. “I barely remember, it was so long ago. Are you unhappy he did so?”

“Of course not. I don't remember much.”

“We spoke of this last night,” interjected Marianne. “I told Lord Abingdon all about Harriet's introduction into the family.”

“What occurred between His Grace and my father?” Harriet spoke with an unexpected urgency. Otherwise Marianne would start mooning over her suitor again.

The duchess sat back, deep in memory. “His Grace suggested you and your father meet with us. You visited Marianne in her room. She giggled and her color returned and I thought, ‘This is exactly what she needs, someone her own age to entertain her.' She'd been sickly for so long, and suffered so.”

“So His Grace approached my father?”

“We promised to educate you and treat you as our own, and provide a small dowry for when you wed.”

“Did my father receive anything in return?”

“It had been a terrible season, full of rains and wind and the traveling had become quite difficult for the actors. I gather times were rather hard.”

The indirect reply was answer enough.

The duchess leaned forward and put her hand on Harriet's. “Your father could see it was the best thing. For all of us. Within a month, Marianne was running around and as strong as any girl her age. And here you are, living in London and about to be married. It's quite exciting. It wouldn't have happened if you'd stayed, you know. You would never have been introduced to a man like Hopplehill.”

The irony wasn't lost on Harriet. She steered the conversation away from the man. “Did my father say anything to you, after he'd dropped me off? Or did he send any letters?”

The duchess sat back in her chair. “You are like a dog with a bone today. But letters? No.” She shook her head. “I would have made sure you received them. Quite possibly he preferred you adjust to your new life without interference from the old.”

Or he'd wanted to forget his daughter, the reason for his wife's death.

“But there was one thing, if I remember.”

“What was that?” Harriet held her breath.

The duchess squinted her eyes, as if forcing the memory to the fore. “He gave me a small book, before he left, and asked I give it to you. Do you remember?”

“A book? No.”

“Marianne, do you remember anything about a book?”

Marianne gave her mother a blank look. “No, nothing I can recall.”

“It must've been mislaid, or perhaps my memory is incorrect. It was several years ago, after all.”

“Six years,” Harriet corrected.

“Yes, six years. What was I talking about? Oh yes, Mr. Hopplehill. He asked to pay a call on you tomorrow afternoon.”

It was all moving awfully fast. She had only recently met the man, after all.

“Don't look so distressed. It's a good sign.”

Marianne tossed back her head. “As long as I'm married first.”

The subject turned back to Lord Abingdon and the impending engagement, with no further talk of Harriet's father or the circumstances of her guardianship.

Later, when Harriet was in her room, a knock sounded on the door. One of the servants popped her head in. “Lady Marianne wishes to see you in her bedchamber.”

Marianne's room was in a state of utter disarray. The doors to her armoire had been flung open and gowns were haphazardly arranged upon the bed in heaping piles of crepe and velvet.

“It looks as if a strong wind blew through here, Marianne. Either that, or a burglar has made his way into the house.”

“Don't tease. My abigail will clean it up. I was trying to find something and now I have, and I'm going to give it to you, but first you have to promise not to be angry.”

Harriet pushed aside a pea-green muslin robe and sat on the end of the chaise. “All right. I promise.”

“Your father did give you something when he dropped you off. And Papa gave it to me to give to you. But I loved it so much I kept it for myself. I shouldn't have done so, but I was only a young girl. I didn't know better.”

Her mouth went dry. “What was it?”

Marianne reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, worn book.

She recognized it immediately. The edges of the pages were painted gold and the title had faded into the leather cover.

Marianne handed it over and then thumped down on the bed like a child about to be chastened.

Harriet stared at it, as forgotten memories came flooding back. “
Shakespeare's Sonnets
. It was my father's favorite. He carried it with him everywhere. He'd memorized them all.”

“I decided it was a nice book for my dolls. It's so teensy, you see. I didn't think it was anything important.”

“You shouldn't have kept it from me.” Harriet's every muscle quivered.

Marianne dashed over and knelt down. “I know, dear sister. I was selfish and silly and I took it and then completely forgot until Mama mentioned it this afternoon. I am awfully sorry. You will forgive me, won't you?”

Her face was so beautiful and her eyes so sad, Harriet couldn't help but smile. “Of course. Thank you for returning it to me now. I'm going to go upstairs and read every one.”

“And I'm going to prepare for Lord Abingdon.”

They hugged, and then Harriet ran back to her room, lifting her skirts high and taking the stairs two at a time.

* * * *

The bells of St. George's tolled three o'clock when William arrived at the Duchess of Dorset's residence. He checked his own timepiece and, satisfied, tucked it into his waistcoat. This betrothal business would only take an hour at the most, and by four-thirty he would be back in his study finishing up his calculations. He was close to success, at least on paper, with a promising treatment for malaria. He'd had to stifle his excitement when Claire stepped into his study to tell him it was time to leave. He didn't want to raise her spirits, in case he was wrong.

Of course, any normal man might be more excited at the prospect of proposing to a girl as agreeable as Lady Marianne, not figuring out a proper treatment for malaria. But William prided himself on his rational, collected personality. He hoped she'd appreciate his steadfastness.

The front door opened unexpectedly and William jumped. Perhaps he wasn't so calm after all. He was shown into the front parlor, a sunny room with sofas upholstered in bold green and beige stripes and matching drapes. One chair, set off in the darkest corner, was slightly worn on the arms and seat cushion, the only sign of the duchess's fallen fortunes.

“My lord, what a pleasure to see you.”

The duchess swept in and perched on the sofa, gesturing for William to take the seat opposite. “Would you care for tea?”

“Please, Your Grace.” William took a seat. “You're kind to see me this afternoon.”

“And you were kind enough to invite me and Lady Marianne to your home. It was a splendid evening, I must say.”

How interesting the duchess didn't mention Miss Farley, the strange woman who'd been raised by actors and then turned over to the gentry. The feral look in her blue eyes had revealed her background as a commoner after he'd scoffed at all things theatrical. Marianne would never give him such a glare.

“The ball? Yes. It was kind of you to attend.” He sounded like an idiot, and wished he could get right to the point instead of summoning up the required social niceties.

“You were a splendid host. In particular with regard to the close attention you paid my daughter.” Clearly, the duchess was as eager to get to the heart of the matter as he was.

“That's why I'm here, in fact. As you know, I'm quite fond of your daughter.”

“I am flattered to hear you speak so highly of her.”

“She is lovely, and it is my intention to provide her with a life of ease and happiness.” William leaned forward in his chair. “I would like to ask your permission for her hand in marriage.”

She gave no immediate reaction to William's request, her expression one of well-practiced opacity. Under any other circumstance, a proposal from an earl might be considered a step down for the daughter of a duke. William hoped he hadn't misjudged.

A maid carrying a tea tray entered into the room, and a brief, triumphant smile crossed the duchess's face before disappearing as she oversaw the business of pouring.

“May I ask you some questions?” the duchess said once they were alone again. “Formalities, of course.”

William nodded.

“What did you intend to do if you hadn't come into the title?

“At Oxford I studied to be a physician.”

The duchess's face froze, the same way his father's had when he'd announced his intended vocation. “A physician. Did you enjoy your studies?”

“Very much. I find the science of medicine an intriguing subject.”

Her mouth turned down. “But you don't plan on practicing, do you?”

If only. He'd love to spend his hours determining the cause of an infirmity and mining the body's responses to various remedies. But such work would be considered unseemly.

“I am quite occupied overseeing Poundridge Hall and my father's other holdings.”

She breathed out a sigh of relief and smiled. “I knew your mother, and she'd be impressed with how you've turned out, considering the hardships your family has faced.”

The unexpected sentiment tore into him. “You are too kind.”

“Let's speak candidly, shall we? I think you and Lady Marianne would make a delightful pair.” The duchess laughed. “It sounds as if I'm discussing carriage horses. I assure you, I'm not. Marianne's drawing room skills are excellent and she will assist you with your endeavors. My only worry...” She trailed off.