Chapter Three

 

 

“So Letitia tells me you are to be her maid?” Lady Rosaline Ridlington surveyed Harriet with a cautious gaze.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“You must understand, Rosaline,” said Letitia. “It’s a necessity.”

Rosaline’s glance of puzzlement embraced both of them. “For whom?”

“Well me, for a start. You know how scatterbrained I can be. Why just last night I forgot that I still had my boots on and came in to dinner trailing mud.”

Rosaline grinned. “Seeing as the carpet in the dining room is of such a dismal shade that mud would improve it, I see no issues there, but I take your point.” She nodded.

“There, you see?” Letitia grinned at Harriet who was looking somewhat apprehensive.

“And you find this arrangement acceptable, Miss Harry?”

Harriet glanced at Letitia. “May I explain it to Lady Ridlington?”

Letitia nodded. “Of course. You may trust Rosaline as I do.”

Rosaline looked intrigued. “Trust me with what?”

Harriet straightened her back as she sat on a small side chair. “I have left London recently to seek sanctuary in the country, my Lady. My life had become untenable, and the choices I faced would lead to my ruination. They were presented to me by the two remaining members of my family who insist they have my best interests at heart.” She looked Rosaline in the eye. “They don’t. The only interests they have at heart are their own financial ones. To be blunt, my Lady, they have attempted to sell me twice. For money.”

“Good God.” Rosaline’s expression accurately relayed both horror and disgust. “You poor girl. No wonder you fled.”

“I was afraid they would find me. But as luck would have it, I stopped at the Ridlington Vale inn this morning. And that is where Miss Letitia proved my saviour.”

“And came up with this harebrained plan to make you her maid?”

“It’s not harebrained,” interrupted Letitia. “I’m offended. I think it’s quite a clever plan.”

“Of course you would,” answered Rosaline. “It’s yours.”

“I am very happy with it, Ma’am, truly,” soothed Harriet. “I believe I can be of assistance to Miss Letitia, and having a place of security, anonymity, will suit me well for a time. I need no other recompense.”

Rosaline’s mouth turned up into a wry smile. “Well that’s good news. Because, my dear, not to put too fine a point on it, we’re rather at our wits’ end as far as offering wages, at the moment.”

“I explained all that,” said Letitia impatiently. “I did think this through, Rosaline. Honestly. Sometimes I do have quite good ideas.

“I know, my love. You do indeed.” She looked at Harriet again. “And I believe this one—instigated by your warm heart rather than considered thought—will be another of your good ideas.” She grinned. “Welcome to Ridlington, Miss Harry. I hope you’re prepared for what you may be getting into.”

Harriet curtseyed. “Thank you, my Lady. As far as I can tell I am getting into exactly what I could only dream about up until now. A place where I am safe.”

Rosaline’s face softened. “You will always be safe here. As safe as we can make it. That’s my promise. Now, Letitia…” She turned to her sister-in-law. “Making Miss Harry comfortable is your obligation. If I recall, there is a maid’s room near yours. If it still has a roof and the windows work, then perhaps that will suit?” She waved her hand at them. “I must go and tend our newest resident.”

Letitia smiled. “And how is our poppet today?”

Rosaline smiled back. “For a baby, he’s just perfect. Which means he let us sleep through the night.”

“How lovely, Ma’am. And congratulations.” Harriet smiled warmly. “How blessed you are.”

“Blessed indeed.” Rosaline stood. “And I’ll be cursed shortly if I don’t provide my son with his afternoon meal. So please do whatever you need to do, both of you. I’ll tell Edmund when he returns from the farms, and Letitia, I’m relying on you to make all right for Miss Harry.” She levelled a pointed gaze at her sister-in-law.

“Trust me, my dear. I have everything well in hand.” Letitia nodded complacently.

“I wonder why that unnerves me,” muttered Rosaline to herself as she left the room.

 

*~~*~~*

 

James FitzArden stood on the steps of his almost-complete mansion and watched his neighbor, Baron Edmund Ridlington, mount his horse and ride away with a brief wave.

This simple act reassured him yet again that he had made the right decision in buying the land upon which his new home now stood. He had the privacy that London could never afford any but the most high and mighty, but had not sacrificed the pleasure of friendship, since it was but a fifteen-minute ride by lane from here to the Chase, and probably less than ten if one took the direct route and ignored things like sheep, cows and hedges.

He wondered which way Edmund would take, but then decided that to know would diminish the delight in thinking about it. So he merely turned away and walked back into his foyer.

As the work had progressed, James had felt more at home than he’d ever done before. At this moment, he was surrounded by rich shades of oak and birch panelling, furniture that he had selected with great care, and a small stack of paintings resting on a table awaiting their placement.

They were mostly landscapes, and a few seascapes. There were FitzArden portraits, of course, and the one of his mother would take pride of place in the formal drawing room. But most of the others featured relatives he either didn’t know or didn’t like, so he turned to nature for his artistic inspiration.

Walking across the hall to a small passageway and then up a flight of stairs, James arrived at his study. He’d broken with tradition, preferring the view from this side of the Hall, to the one he’d have had if he’d selected to put the room on the ground floor.

The large bay window overlooked the countryside, patchwork fields, deep green forests that would start turning to autumn colours very soon, and when the day was exceptionally clear, a brief glimpse of the sea.

The hill upon which he’d had the house built was higher than much of the land around Ridlington Vale, including Ridlington Chase. But that estate lay off to the west, nestled into the woods and barely visible from his vantage point. Although he might see lights come winter when the trees were bare.

He wondered if one of those lights might be Miss Letitia Ridlington working late in her room.

Stifling a sigh, he turned to sort out the books that were arriving on a regular basis, putting them in piles and then moving to the wall of bookshelves to decide how he wished to arrange them to their best advantage.

It was enjoyable work; James loved his books, loved to read and unlike his peers, he retained most of the knowledge he found between the covers of his assorted tomes. He placed his classics neatly to one side, and the more modern volumes on the other side nearer the window. These he would read for the simple pleasure of their contents. He delighted in finding a new author, and he’d already devoured Waverley, recently published by Sir Walter Scott. Then there were a couple of books by someone who titled herself “A Lady”. He’d found her wit and humour delightful, and recognized the absurd behaviour of many of his London acquaintances in the sharply written characters created within Sense and Sensibility.

Poetry also had a place for itself, since he read Byron without apology to anyone. Florid and dramatic, but engrossing all the same. Shakespeare’s plays and sonnets were on those shelves, and there was even a copy of Debrett’s Peerage. Not that he spent any time at all perusing that particular volume, but one had to observe the niceties and not having a copy would have been unforgivable.

It was, he reflected, a typical country landowner’s study, with a few touches that only a substantial fortune could add. The muted shades of an antique rug from the Orient glowed in the light of the early afternoon, and a priceless Sèvres porcelain clock ticked happily between matching Empire style porcelain vases. An indulgence, but one he knew would only grow in value. Such a thought was a sop to his conscience; he would have bought them anyway because they were perfectly beautiful.

The fact that the lady depicted on these pieces bore a striking resemblance to a certain Ridlington—well that had nothing at all to do with their purchase.

James sighed. He was getting more than a little tired of lying to himself.

Sitting down behind his desk, he stared from his window, noting the clouds building in the west. It looked as if they might be in for rain soon. He should leave for London, where there was business to attend to. His holdings were vast, the organization that maintained them was sizable. But he was definitely the sort of man who liked to oversee such things. He knew what to do and when it needed to be done, and as yet there was no one capable of taking the reins from his hand.

Which was all well and good for the family coffers, and his fortune was growing steadily, secured by sensible investments, sound purchases—and the odd set of valuable porcelain treasures. He wasn’t going to be knocking at the door of the Fleet any time soon, if he could help it.

The door he wanted to knock at, however, belonged to Letitia Ridlington.

And, like most women, she was a complete puzzle to him.

Knowing he would get no work done here today, he stood and headed back downstairs in time to see the ornate mirror being affixed to the wall of the hall. He caught a glimpse of himself as he watched.

Yes, he did look rather like a country gentleman in his plain blue jacket and breeches. His boots were spotless, shining and made by a master, but unadorned by tassels or other such nonsense.

Of a good height, James knew himself to be passable in appearance. He rode, walked and had never been afraid of physical labour. He could swim too, as well as play croquet and battledore. There was little, if any, spare flesh on his body. Yet. But there was that damn sprinkling of grey hair over his ears, mixing with the darker shades of brown.

Every time he looked in a mirror, it was the first thing he saw, because it served as an unpleasant reminded.

He was old. He was nearing forty. Which was old when you were still in your twenties.

Letitia Ridlington was still in her twenties.

And that fact had been a thorn in James’s side from the first moment they’d met.

Sighing deeply, he turned away from the mirror and walked outside into the sunshine. Maybe a good ride would blow away the megrims. Or maybe it wouldn’t. Either way, James knew the time was coming when he had to actually do something about this situation.

Because it was slowly driving him mad.