Chapter 11
Everything was ruined. She would not be able to attend the ball, for what possible reason could she give her parents for being invited? It made no sense for the earl to invite a girl he supposedly had met only once to a ball. She would never wear her gown, never dance with him. Never be Princess Catalina.
“Harriet, we’re back,” Clara said, her face beaming as she hopped, unladylike, from their carriage. She hurried toward her, and then, as if suddenly realizing she was supposed to be sad about returning to St. Ives instead of staying in London catching some titled gentleman, she slowed her pace and ducked her head. But she was still smiling.
Widening her eyes, Harriet said, “Why have you returned?”
Clara looked behind her shoulder to make certain her parents, who were stepping from the carriage, wouldn’t be able to hear her. “Baron Longley rescinded his offer to sponsor me. It was horrible for poor Mother. He said the most awful things.”
“Like what?” Harriet wasn’t certain how she should react, because although the news seemed terrible, Clara was acting quite happy about it all.
“He called Mother a foolish upstart who would be best to learn her place.” She frowned. “It really was terrible and I felt sorry for Mother. I don’t know why he was so kind before, but when we saw him in London he was awful. I think he might have been in his cups when we were visiting Mrs. Gardner. Mother is crushed, of course, and was inconsolable. She demanded we return home even though we rented the townhouse for two months. Father was livid and they argued all the way home.”
Harriet gave her sister a crooked smile. “Then why do you seem so happy?”
“I’m a terrible daughter, I know. But I think Mother has finally realized that I will not marry some titled gentleman. I couldn’t be happier. I’m going to go in and change and go directly to the hothouse.”
Harriet laughed. “If I didn’t know you better, I would think you paid Lord Longley to say those awful things to Mother.”
Giving her a coquettish smile, Clara said, “You don’t know me at all, then.”
“Clara!”
Clara laughed, delighted with herself. “I am joking,” she said. “But if this ever happens again, you’ve given me a wonderful plan.”
Harriet hugged her sister quickly, feeling guilty for her selfish thoughts when she’d seen the carriage pull up. “I’m so glad you are back.”
“As am I. Come with me and I’ll tell you all about London,” Clara said, full of cheer. “I hated every moment of it.”
Stifling a laugh, for their mother was glaring at the sisters, Harriet hooked her arm in Clara’s and the two walked into the house, pretending to be subdued. But the moment they reached Clara’s room, Clara ran to her bed and threw herself on it, giggling. “It’s finally over,” she said, rolling to her back and looking up at the ceiling.
“I would not be too certain; you know how Mother is.” Harriet lay down next to her sister.
“No, Harriet. I do believe she finally understands how impossible it is to find a titled gentleman for me. As happy as I am, I fully recognize that Mother has been completely humiliated. It was awful, Harriet. I do wish she had come to the conclusion on her own without having the baron be so dreadful. It was almost as if he were a different person altogether. The way he looked down his nose at us when we visited his townhouse. You might have thought we were a couple of scullery maids walking into the parlor and demanding introductions.” She was silent for a time. “I hate them all, you know. They are only who they are through luck of birth. Have you ever thought of that? You and I are lucky to have such a clever father, else we’d be living in a house like Grandmother, feeding chickens and pigs. I find most of the aristocracy incredibly dull and stupid. What intelligence is needed to prance around all day looking down at people who are the backbone of England, the ones who work to create all the beautiful things they buy without a thought as to where they come from?”
Harriet was taken aback by her sister’s progressive fervor. “You sound like one of those radicals.”
“Perhaps I am one of those radicals,” Clara said almost dreamily. “I do believe it takes far more intelligence to run a pig farm like Granny than to be a baron who does nothing but titter about feeling important.”
“I like feeding chickens and pigs,” Harriet said, and Clara laughed.
“That’s not what I mean, as well you know. Granny is the proudest woman I know, far prouder than Mother.” Their grandmother made no secret of her disdain for her daughter’s ambitions. After visiting their grand house once, she’d never set foot in it again. Granny had been horrified by her daughter’s extravagance and wastefulness. The two were as far apart as Harriet and her own mother. Clara sighed. “All that money, wasted. Years and years. I think Mother must be thinking the same thing, about how foolish she’s been to think we would ever be accepted in society. I don’t know what she was thinking.”
Her sister’s words only increased Harriet’s resolve to stop thinking her own foolish thoughts about the earl. “Why did you go along with Mother’s plans for so long?”
“I did not want to hurt her. She means well, you know. I think she truly only wanted what was best. And if I had fallen in love with a titled gentleman, then all would have ended well. It so happens, though, that my affections were never engaged. Mother thought I was the road to full acceptance.”
“She thought having a pretty daughter and funds were enough,” Harriet added.
“It was never enough, and now I believe she finally realizes that.” Clara pressed her lips together, deep in thought. “Perhaps now we can marry whom we like.”
“That, dear, is wishful thinking. You know Mother will simply turn her sights on other suitors.”
“Oh, those poor men,” Clara said, letting out a laugh. “But I do believe I shall choose my own husband. I never had a doubt of that, you know. I was simply biding my time until Mother realized the truth.”
“Oh? Do you have anyone in mind?” Clara had never looked twice at any man, as far as Harriet knew, so she didn’t expect her sister to answer.
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
Harriet spun around and grabbed her sister’s shoulder, giving it a playful shake. “Who?”
“You shall find out soon enough,” Clara said enigmatically.
“John Sullivan,” Harriet guessed, naming a young local man.
Clara wrinkled her nose. “He has a weak chin and he’s a child.”
Furrowing her brow, Harriet said, “He’s older than either of us. I know, Harold Marshall.”
Clara snorted. “He smells like sausage.”
“My, you are particular.”
“What of you, Harriet? Do you have your sights set on anyone?”
Harriet was so tempted to tell her sister her secret, but decided against it. How foolish she would sound, claiming to love an earl, when they’d just been discussing how completely unrealistic such a match would be. “No one. But I do have a plan.”
Clara widened her eyes in excitement. “Do you?”
With a soft smile, Harriet said, “I want to live as an independent woman in my very own cottage.”
“Alone?”
Ignoring the stab of uncertainty, Harriet nodded her head. “It’s been my dream for as long as I can remember.”
“And you would work? Mother would die of shame.”
“I said I have a plan, silly,” Harriet said, tweaking her sister’s nose.
“So you are to become a highwayman? Or woman, rather. Mother will not give you your dowry unless you marry, you know.”
“I’ll tell you what. If you tell me who you want to marry, I will tell you how I will manage to purchase my little cottage.”
Clara screwed up her lips, then sat up. “I think I’ll go help Jeanine unpack.”
Harriet burst out laughing. “I knew you didn’t have anyone in mind.”
“And you have no way of procuring the funds necessary to buy more than a new bonnet,” Clara said with a toss of her head. She stepped out of her room, but spun around, a mischievous look on her face. “Except I do have a beau and I’m not telling.” With that, Harriet made chase and Clara squealed with delight, tearing down the hall, stopping abruptly when she spied their mother walking up the stairs.
“We are in mourning,” Hedra announced dramatically.
“Yes, Mother,” Clara said solemnly.
When Hedra reached the top of the stairs, she gave Harriet a long, hard look. “You were correct, Harriet. It was foolish to believe Clara could find happiness. I suppose you are happy,” she said, and Harriet was taken aback by the bitterness in her mother’s voice.
“I am only glad that you finally realize our family will never be accepted by the aristocracy. It was only leading to heartache for everyone. I find no pleasure at all in your disappointment, Mother.”
Hedra let out a sigh. “I should have listened to you, it seems.” Looking at Clara, she said, her voice tinged with frustration, “I just don’t understand. Clara is so very beautiful.”
Harriet closed her eyes briefly, wondering how her mother could still be confused about the family’s rejection. She supposed she and her mother were more alike than she’d thought, allowing themselves to believe in dreams that were foolish. It was an epiphany of sorts, that she and her mother had far more in common than she’d thought.
“You knew, didn’t you, all along. You knew but you refused to accept it.”
Sudden tears filled her mother’s eyes, and Harriet knew she was right about her mother. “I just cannot seem to help myself,” Hedra said, sounding so lost, Harriet’s heart ached for her. She knew exactly how her mother felt.
Hedra walked past her hurriedly, no doubt hoping her daughters had not seen her tears. Harriet let her pass as she and Clara exchanged worried looks.
“Now I feel dreadful for being so happy,” Clara whispered, looking after their mother.
“Don’t. Mother has her dreams and we have ours. It just so happens they don’t match,” Harriet said.
Clara went off to find their maid and Harriet walked slowly to her room. Upon entering, she immediately went to her small desk and pulled out a slip of stationery.
Dear Lord Berkley:
My parents have returned unexpectedly. I will be unable to assist you at your ball.
Harriet nibbled the tip of her pen, wondering if she should add more to the note. After some thought, she decided to leave it as it was. This, she realized, was good-bye. His grandmother was arriving tomorrow and it would be impossible for Harriet to continue to visit Costille House with her there, the threat of discovery being far too great. If only she had known today would be the last day with him, she would have said good-bye. Harriet signed it simply “H,” a small smile on her lips as she thought of those passionate letters penned by their mysterious “C,” and wondered if Augustus would see the connection.
Walking down to the kitchen, she looked for the young lad who tended the fire. She found Alan sweeping the kitchen step.
“Alan, would you mind very much bringing this note to Costille House? Please make certain you hand it only to Lord Berkley, no one else.”
Alan grinned, happy to have a chore that would take him away from his normal duties. “Of course, miss. Do I wait for a reply?”
For just a moment, she was tempted, but she shook her head. She’d already taken far too many chances. It was time to end their idyll. “No reply is needed.”
That night, dinner was a somber affair. Just before the meal, Harriet had gone back down to the kitchen on the pretense of asking Alan if he’d been successful in delivering his note; secretly she’d hoped he would have a reply or some sort of response even though she’d asked him not to wait for one.
“Yes, miss. He took the note, read it, and handed me a sovereign. Right nice toff.”
Harriet was tempted to grill the lad about Augustus’s mannerisms, his expression. Even though she’d told him not to wait for a reply, she was severely disappointed that Augustus had not insisted he carry one back. She tortured herself with images of Augustus tossing the note into the fire without a care, perhaps even feeling relief that he would not have to worry about her slipping up at the ball and revealing herself as a person of no consequence. It didn’t matter that they’d spent a wonderful afternoon together, laughing, making love. She’d heard enough tales of women who’d thought a bloke loved them only to find it was all a ploy to get in their bloomers. But Augustus wasn’t like that. He wasn’t.
As she sat with her family, her mother and father truly desolate and Clara pretending to be, Harriet could not stop herself from getting angry with Augustus. He couldn’t spare thirty seconds to write a note? Had Alan thrown the note at him and then run off? Hardly. The boy had more than likely tarried and would have been easy to stop if Augustus had wanted to reply.
Apparently, he hadn’t wanted to.
“You haven’t touched your dinner, Harriet.” Her mother’s voice drew her out of her miserable thoughts. “You’re far too thin. Men do not care for thin women, you know. They like a little meat on a girl’s bones, don’t they, Mr. Anderson.” She didn’t wait for an answer; indeed, her father didn’t even seem to have heard his wife. “I’ve been putting all my eggs into one basket. It’s time you started thinking seriously about finding a husband.”
Harriet looked up, unable to school her look of surprise.
“Don’t look at me as if I’ve grown another head. You are twenty-two years old and haven’t had a single prospect. When I was just a little older than Clara, I’d been married for seven years and had three children.”
“Three?” Harriet looked at Clara, who seemed just as baffled as she was.
“You had a brother,” her father said gruffly.
“We did?” Clara asked. “Why did you not ever tell us?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Hedra said quickly. “He died when you were both too young to remember.”
“It matters,” her father said, throwing down his napkin and rising from the table. “Don’t ever say he didn’t matter.” Harriet would never forget her father’s expression, one of pure anguish, before he turned and left the room.
Harriet stared after her father, years of isolation and surliness clarifying in her head. “How could you both have kept this from us? Clara, do you remember a brother?”
Clara screwed up her face. “I’m not certain. I remember a noisy little boy running about, a vague sort of memory, but I thought it must have been a neighbor boy. I must have been very young when he died.”
“You were two and Harriet was just born. We thought it best not to discuss him, too upsetting. You can see how distressing it is for your father even now.”
“What was his name?” Clara asked softly.
“Arthur. He died of scarlet fever.”
“Arthur,” Clara said, smiling gently, as if storing that name away. “How old was he?”
“Six. He was your father’s little shadow,” Hedra said blithely.
Later, when the girls were getting ready for bed, Clara said, “The first of us to have a son must name him Arthur. I don’t want him forgotten. It’s heartbreaking; it’s as if he never existed. Promise.”
“I promise, although it’s very likely your son will be named Arthur. Poor Father. I always wondered what had made him the way he is, and now we know.”
That night, Harriet found it almost impossible to fall asleep. Her mind kept running through the events of the day. She hadn’t realized how much she’d been looking forward to assuming the role of Princess Catalina. And now she’d be missing when Augustus revealed who the murderer was and would likely have to read about it in the local newspaper unless she could find a way to see him.
Hugging a pillow against herself, she stared out at a half moon and wondered what Augustus was doing at that very moment. With the ball only a few days away, he was likely going over last minute details with his housekeeper and butler. The last ball held at Costille House had been the night his wife had been murdered. How different all their lives would be if Augustus hadn’t returned home that fateful night. Harriet might not have even spoken a word to him in all her life.
What would they do if they met on the streets of St. Ives? Would they pretend to be mere acquaintances? Would they exchange a polite nod, then go on their way? Just the thought of seeing him made her heart ache, which was why it had become vital to her that she use her funds to move away. How could she remain when Augustus would be choosing a wife, when she might see them together, walking with their children…
Hot tears pressed against her eyes. Why had she not thought about all this when she’d made her rash decision to become his lover? Nothing was simple anymore, not even her dreams of her little cottage. If she moved away, she would miss her sister and friends terribly. How could she leave when everything she knew was here in St. Ives? The fierce desire to get away that had driven her not so long ago was now waning as the time to leave approached. Even thinking of saying good-bye to her mother and father made her cry. Granny was getting old; what if she fell ill and needed her?
“I cannot leave,” she whispered. Pain bloomed in her chest as she thought of living in St. Ives, of seeing Augustus with a wife, with children. Her little cottage was such a foolish, childish dream. As large a sum as ten thousand pounds was, it would not be enough to live on forever, even if she lived frugally. All along she’d known that, deep down in that place where reality lived, a reality that she managed to mask so often with her dreams.
Gloom continued to permeate the Anderson house the next day. Breakfast was a solemn affair, and her mother, who usually had an unladylike appetite in the mornings, picked listlessly at her food. Harriet pushed down a stab of annoyance that her mother was acting as if she were in mourning. Her father was silent, but for some reason this morning his silence seemed somehow heavier. Perhaps she noted this only because Harriet believed she now knew the reason behind his silence. Clara, on the other hand, had rushed into her room, fully dressed, just after dawn, her sun bonnet and garden gloves already on. At breakfast, she ran into the room, her cheeks flushed from the chilly air, and had to school her features when Harriet looked up and subtly shook her head as a reminder that she wasn’t supposed to be feeling quite so happy.
“How is Mr. Tower faring?” Harriet asked her father simply to break the silence. Mr. Tower was one of her father’s foremen who had been injured in the mine.
“Well enough. Broke his arm, but he’s back today. ‘e’s a tough bas—”
“Silas,” Hedra said sharply.
Her father gave Hedra a level look, then sighed. “Well enough.” Then he went back to his breakfast.
“What are your plans today?” her mother asked, taking Harriet by surprise.
“I have no idea.”
“I thought you might come with me to Mrs. Pittsfield’s luncheon.”
Dread filled Harriet. “I’d rather not, Mother.”
Hedra pressed her lips together. “You cannot continue to hide away, Harriet. Shyness is no longer charming as it was when you were a child.”
She felt a familiar sick twist in her stomach and was about to explain why she didn’t care to spend an interminably dull afternoon with Mrs. Pittsfield and her petulant son (the real reason she’d suddenly been asked to accompany her mother), when their butler entered the room carrying a thick, cream-colored envelope.
Her mother took it, examining it curiously before breaking the large, red seal. “Oh. Oh!” Harriet could not immediately tell if this was an ‘oh’ of excitement or one of shock.
“What is it, Mother?”
When Hedra beamed a smile, Harriet knew it must be something very, very good. She smiled back at her mother, glad that something had made her so happy.
“Lord Berkley,” she said, holding her hand against her heart. “He sends his apologies for sending this so late, but he has invited us to the ball. The ball at which he will look for a bride.”
Harriet fought the urge to smile, and instead grabbed the napkin from her lap and pretended to wipe something from her face. Hedra immediately looked at Clara, who sat there stunned, her mouth open slightly, her expression that of one who is bracing for terrible news. “We’ve been invited to the earl’s ball,” Hedra gushed. “Mr. Anderson, do you hear? The earl’s ball! The very same ball that we would never have been invited to if not for our luncheon. I knew he was interested in our Clara, I just knew it.” Hedra read the invitation again as if to be certain she wasn’t seeing things.
“Mother,” Clara said, with the sort of accepting horror of someone who was about to face the executioner.
Hedra either didn’t recognize her daughter’s distress or she didn’t care. Harriet hadn’t seen her mother so happy since they’d returned from London. How tempted she was to tell everyone sitting at the table that the only reason any of them were invited was because Augustus, her lover, her love, wanted her there.
“Am I invited too, Mother?” Harriet said, as her heart rejoiced. She almost wanted her mother to say she was not, she was feeling just that contrary.
“Of course,” Hedra said, beaming. “We’re all invited. To the most exclusive ball in all of England. Oh, dear, I think I shall faint.” In dramatic fashion, she used the invitation as a fan. “Oh, thank goodness we have gowns for you to wear, Clara. It’s fate shining down on us, it is. All those lovely dresses and now you have a place to wear them.”
“Surely, Clara cannot wear more than one dress, Mother,” Harriet said, and she felt Clara kick her beneath the table.
Her mother’s smile faltered slightly; then she waved a dismissive hand at Harriet. “Don’t be a ninny,” she said good-naturedly. Harriet felt she could say just about anything to her mother at that moment, and Hedra wouldn’t care. Anything, that was, but the truth of why they’d all been invited.
As her mother prattled on about which dress Clara should wear, Harriet went back to her breakfast, relishing the wonderful feelings coursing through her. How on earth would he be able to explain their presence at his ball to his grandmother? Everything he’d said about that lady made her seem rather formidable. He’d admitted, with a fair amount of amusement, that his grandmother was a stickler for propriety. So much so that Harriet had been more nervous about meeting her than trying to fool an entire ballroom of aristocrats that she was a princess from some obscure European country.
And now all of them would be there.
Oh, Lord.
* * * *
“I have an addition to our guest list,” Augustus said that evening, having received the Andersons’ response a mere two hours after he’d sent one of his footmen to deliver the invitation. He’d smiled, imagining Harriet’s surprise, as he was fairly certain she’d decided that attending the ball would now be impossible.
At first, he’d agreed with her. She couldn’t possibly attend the ball now. What was she to do, sneak out wearing a ball gown and walk to Costille? He couldn’t send a carriage, not without everyone in her household knowing about it. It was a shame—he had wanted her with him when he revealed Lenore’s murderer, but he would tell her about it—after making love all afternoon. And then he had a terrible thought: They had agreed to continue their affair only until the night of the ball. And if she was not attending the ball…
He’d crumpled that note and thrown it in the fire, then taken out his stationery and written a quick invitation. It was impossible for him not to see her again, never to hear her laugh or hold her. Or beat her at checkers. She would be out of his life forever and he’d never get a chance to say a proper good-bye, to let her know just how much he…
Well, it was impossible. He had to see her again. She must attend the ball, and that meant he would have to invite her embarrassing family. And that meant he’d have to warn his grandmother, because she sure as hell would see something was amiss with the Andersons. He cringed, just thinking of what might happen—particularly if Mrs. Anderson fortified herself with a bit of whisky, as Harriet said she was wont to do.
He had to warn his grandmother of the additional guests and perhaps hint that they were not quite the type of guests he usually invited.
“You’ve added to the guest list?” his grandmother said, as if he’d said he’d hired a troupe of gypsies to perform at his ball. Her spoonful of consommé paused and she glared at him before taking a delicate sip.
“I have. A local family.”
Lady Porter wrinkled her brow. “I cannot imagine who. The Hubbards perhaps?”
Augustus’s lips curved up slightly, more of a grimace, really, than a smile. “No. The Andersons.”
His grandmother thought for a moment. “Who is their family?”
“His father was a tin miner and hers was a pig farmer.” He almost enjoyed the look of horror on his grandmother’s face. She stared at him, sucking in her cheeks and narrowing her eyes as was her habit when she saw or heard something disagreeable and wasn’t certain how to react to it.
Then her face cleared. “You are joking.” She seemed to relax, dismissing from her mind any talk about tin miners and pig farmers, and took another spoonful of soup. “Please give your cook my compliments. This soup is excellent.”
“I will.” While Augustus agreed that the soup was excellent, he put his own spoon down. “I am not joking, Grandmamma. I have invited the young woman who helped me restore Costille House. And her family.”
“The one with the memory. You are paying her, are you not? Surely that is enough compensation.”
Augustus drummed his fingers against the linen table cloth, ignoring his grandmother’s censorious glance at his tapping. “Here’s the rub.” Lady Porter’s mouth tightened at his use of slang. “I rather like the girl. She’s worked hard and I enjoy her company—”
His grandmother waved a dismissive had. “Very well, invite the family. Invite anyone you please. Invite the entire village. What do I know about propriety?”
“Excellent,” Augustus said, pretending his grandmother had given her whole-hearted approval.
Guests began arriving the next day, among them Lansdowne, looking more drawn than he remembered. And even though it was only ten in the morning, Augustus distinctly smelled alcohol on his friend’s breath.
“Good to see you, Lansdowne,” Augustus said, greeting his old friend as he stepped from the carriage. “Wait ’til you see what I’ve done with the old place.”
As they entered, Lansdowne stopped cold. “It’s all gone,” he said softly. “Every bit of her.”
Augustus gave his friend a confused look. “Well, yes. Lenore ruined the old girl and I’ve brought her back. I take it you’re disappointed.” Oddly, Lansdowne seemed more than disappointed. As he watched his friend step further into Costille House, his expression one of pure desolation, Augustus fought back the suspicion that had been eating at him for weeks. Could Lansdowne be the C of his wife’s letters? When Lansdowne turned toward him, his eyes red and slightly damp, Augustus very nearly felt the urge to cry himself.
“You loved her, didn’t you?” he said softly, praying his old friend would revert to the man he knew, that jovial chap who had made his youth so much fun.
“I did.” Lansdowne continue to walk through the entry, lifting his hand to touch the suit of armor lightly as he did. “She hated this thing,” he said absently.
Admitting he’d loved Lenore did not necessarily mean Lansdowne was the killer, but Augustus dreaded the coming interview. “Tell you what, let’s go into my study and have a drink. It’s not too early, is it?”
This suggestion seemed to brighten Lansdowne’s mood a bit, and the two men headed toward the study, Augustus feeling uncertain in his friend’s company for the first time. A man who had murdered a woman would have no compunction murdering him. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise up as Lansdowne followed him to his study. When they entered, Lansdowne laughed, a bitter, humorless sound.
“You’ve undone her entirely,” he said, looking around the room with unmasked anger.
“She destroyed this house,” Augustus said evenly, cautiously, as he went to his sideboard and poured two drinks. Turning, relieved that Lansdowne was across the room and not standing behind him bearing a weapon, he studied his friend, who continued to look around the room with unveiled dislike.
Handing Lansdowne the drink, he said, as casually as he could, given the circumstances, “Were you her lover?”
Lansdowne’s reaction, unschooled and unrehearsed, was gratifying. “Good God, no. What sort of man do you take me for?”
“You did just admit that you loved her.”
“I did. Everyone did. Except for you, it seems. She was your wife, Augustus. You are like a brother to me. Why do you think I went to Singapore? I could not bear to see you, to have you suspect what was in my heart. I was ashamed, but I hated you as much as I loved her. It was intolerable.” Lansdowne’s eyes filled again and he looked away as if ashamed by his emotions. “When she died… I was here, you know.”
“In England?”
He let out a laugh. “At Costille House. She called it her last hurrah ball, for she knew you were returning.” He took a thoughtful sip of his brandy, closing his eyes briefly to savor the drink. “As always, the finest brandy.”
Augustus studied him, unsure whether to believe him or not. How could it have been that more than one man had loved Lenore?
“She was happy, you know. Glad of your return. I think, despite her anger over the marriage and what your father had done, that she actually liked you, that she was glad the two of you would try to do your duty. It killed me, knowing you were returning, knowing I would have to witness you falling in love with her. You would have, you know.”
Augustus remained silent, allowing Lansdowne to continue to speak, praying he would say something that would reveal himself as the murderer—and praying he would not.
“That night, she’d never looked more beautiful. Well, you saw her. We didn’t expect you so soon, you know, and when I heard you’d arrived, I left. I couldn’t bear to see you, to have you suspect how I felt. And that night, she killed herself.” He shook his head. “I’ve always thought that odd. She seemed, if not happy about your return, then at least resigned to it. I’ve gone over that night a hundred times, trying to recall something, anything, that would have told me she was planning to do such a horrid thing.”
Perhaps Augustus was a blind fool, but he believed Lansdowne. For a moment, he weighed telling him how he believed Lenore had died, then thought better of it. Instead, he went to his desk and retrieved a pen and ink and piece of paper, laying it atop his desk.
“Did you ever believe that I had killed her?” Augustus asked.
“No, never.”
“Suspicion continues to dog me,” Augustus said. “Would you mind very much putting that in writing?”
“Truly? I am sorry, Augustus, that you came under suspicion. I thought that matter had been quickly resolved. If I had known you continued to be suspected, I would have come forward immediately. Certainly, I will write whatever you’d like.”
Augustus stepped aside and allowed Lansdowne access to the desk. Lansdowne took up the pen, then glanced at him. “Something formal, you think? Such as ‘I, Charles Green, Viscount Lansdowne, do not believe Augustus Lawton, etcetera, etcetera.’”
Augustus smiled grimly. “That will do.” And then he watched as Lansdowne wrote down those words, holding his breath for a long moment. Lansdowne wrote in a bold, looping manner, and Augustus let out his breath slowly, fighting a smile, his relief so immediate, he felt nearly giddy. His friend’s handwriting was so different from that of the letters, it was obvious they could not have been penned by the same person.
“Thank you,” Augustus said, slapping his friend heartily on the back. “You have no idea what that means to me.”
“Of course.” Lansdowne looked down, still clearly distressed. “And thank you for not pummeling me for falling in love with Lenore. I didn’t mean to, you know.”
“Of course, I know that. I have found that love cannot be stopped, even when you most fervently wish for it.”
“No, it cannot.” Lansdowne took up his drink, then placed it down again. “I think I may be done killing myself over this. You have no idea how it has weighed on my mind.”
“You never acted on your love?” Lansdowne may have said he had not, but Augustus needed to hear it again.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I swear to you. But I wished a thousand times that I had. I wished you would never return, that you would be scalped and killed by Indians, that you would drown at sea.” Augustus laughed, and his friend looked at him as if surprised by his laughter. “Thank you, Augustus.”
Augustus shook off his thanks. “No need. Just help me get through this evening. Can you believe I have done something as foolish as to invite every eligible lady in all of England to a ball in hopes of finding a bride?”
“I did think you’d gone mad,” Lansdowne said.
“And the worst part is I do not plan to marry a single one of them.”
* * * *
Of course, Harriet had already seen herself in the gown, but now that she had her hair done and her eyes were glowing with excitement, she couldn’t help but think she looked at least a little bit like someone named Catalina. The beadwork was stunning, the lace exquisite, and Harriet knew trying to convince her mother that she was wearing one of Clara’s altered gowns would be a challenge, if not impossible. The Anderson girls had never owned such an extravagant gown, and the fact that Harriet had accepted it without a smidgeon of guilt made her realize how far removed she was from the girl who’d stared shyly at Lord Berkley the first time they’d met.
“That is not my gown,” Clara said, startling Harriet, who was staring at herself in their full-length mirror. “Where did it come from?”
“Alice,” Harriet said quickly, proud and a bit shocked that she’d come up with a lie so quickly and said it so smoothly. “Don’t tell Mother; she would be mortified that I am wearing her cast-off. Alice insisted.” Harriet made a mental note to tell Alice her tale—just in case.
Clara laughed. “Mother will know, silly. I don’t think she’ll mind very much.” Clara walked to her and examined the gown more closely. “It is lovely, isn’t it? You look like a fairy princess. And the color makes your eyes stunning. How lucky Alice had it.”
“It only needed a bit of alteration,” Harriet said, feeling a sudden rush of guilt for lying to her sister.
“What needed a bit of…” Hedra’s voice trailed off as she entered the room, her eyes on Harriet.
“Alice said she would never wear it again and it’s so beautiful, Mother, I couldn’t resist, especially since I don’t really have anything appropriate for such an important event,” Harriet said quickly.
“Oh, Harriet,” Hedra said, “you’ve never looked more beautiful. Even with your hair so…” She looked with a critical eye at the intricate coiffure that allowed her curls to show in all their glory. “…wild.”
Harriet laughed at this last. “You never can give me a complete compliment, can you, Mother?”
“Pride goeth before a fall,” Hedra quoted, then took a closer look at the gown. “This bead work is a wonder. Do you know the dressmaker?”
“I have no idea.”
“So it is not Worth?”
“As I said, I do not know, but I could find out if you would like me to. Worth embroiders his signature on the gown, does he not?”
“And it says ‘Paris’ too,” Clara said distractedly.
“Still, even if it is not Worth, it is lovely.” Hedra sighed. “I fear this dress would be too dear for us but as long as no one knows it’s a hand-me-down I suppose it’s fine. Oh, you should have seen the way women dress in London. Each time I go there I am stunned by the fashions. But you two look lovely for a country ball.”
“Thank you, Mother,” Clara said. “You are looking quite handsome yourself.”
Hedra waved a dismissive hand. “It doesn’t matter how I look, dears. I already have a husband.” This last was said pointedly and directed at Clara, who apparently chose to ignore her and instead smiled. Ever since their return from London, Hedra had eased up a bit on the husband hunt, but Harriet feared being invited to the earl’s ball would only give her mother hope.
Once the Andersons were all in their finery, they headed to their new carriage, purchased especially for their time in London. No one mentioned what a terrible waste of money it had been. Hedra had dreamed of driving in Hyde Park and attracting all sorts of attention for Clara. Harriet had little doubt their ornate and flashy carriage did draw attention, simply not the attention her mother had hoped.
The carriage looked like something royalty would ride in, with decorative gilded adornment along the top and doors that Harriet thought made it look like fancy pastry. Her father had even commissioned a crest, although where it came from she had no idea. It featured some sort of mythical creature that Harriet had never seen before and was no doubt a figment of the artist’s imagination. It was, in a word, embarrassing, and it was almost heartbreaking how very proud her parents were of it.
Unlike other balls they had attended, there was only a short queue of carriages, most guests having arrived at Costille House two days prior. Her mother was in good spirits; as they’d waited to get into the carriage, Clara had whispered that she smelled no sign of alcohol on her mother’s breath and for that both girls were grateful. This outing was fraught with enough danger without the threat of her mother becoming tipsy.
“Oh, goodness,” Hedra said, looking out the window warily. For all her outward confidence, Harriet knew her mother was exceedingly nervous because she kept adjusting her gloves. “I’ve heard the castle is haunted.”
“It’s not,” Harriet said, then immediately wished she’d said nothing.
“And how would you know that?”
“I toured it twice, Mother. Once with Cousin Emmy and once with my friends. We didn’t see a single ghost,” Harriet said, suppressing a smile.
“You can make fun if you want, missy, but Cornwall is full of spirits and I wouldn’t be surprised if this old castle hosted a few unwanted guests. I never did have much use for ghosts.”
“No such thing as ghosts,” her father said gruffly, startling the women in the carriage. Her father so rarely spoke, it was nearly always surprising when he did.
The carriage pulled up in front of the main entrance, and Harriet couldn’t help but smile to see flaming torches lighting the way. How proud Augustus was of his home now, and Harriet felt like an intimate part of the old place. They could hear the general noise of people, murmurs and laughter, subdued and not at all like the John Knill ball that had drawn mostly locals. She hadn’t even set foot inside, and already Harriet was feeling conspicuous.
“Remember, girls, we were invited,” Hedra said, and Harriet knew her mother was reminding herself of this fact. Hedra had talked about meeting a baron for weeks; how would meeting dukes and viscounts and marquesses affect her?
Clara and Harriet, walking arm-in-arm, trailed behind their parents. “I think I’m going to be ill,” Harriet said, and Clara gave her arm a squeeze.
Mr. Pearson greeted them, and Harriet could not have been more relieved when he pretended as if he had never seen her before. But just as they were passing, he gave her a subtle wink, and Harriet smiled, grateful to have a friend here. “The ball is being held in the Great Room to the left,” he said.
“I have an invitation,” Hedra said, sounding nervous.
“No need, madam. The Andersons are on the guest list.”
As they walked toward the Great Room, Harriet heard her mother say in awe, “He knew who we were,” and her heart ached for her mother just a bit.
The orchestra had not yet begun to play, but all had gathered in the Great Room, a large crush of people facing toward the front of the room where Harriet knew Augustus planned to announce the poetry contest. Never before had Harriet seen such a gathering of the ton and she almost wished she could have pretended to be Princess Catalina rather than simple Miss Harriet Anderson. The air was filled with soft murmurs and expensive perfume, mingling with cigar smoke that clung to many of the gentlemen’s evening suits. A sea of colorful and expensive gowns interspersed with the black and white of men’s formal wear made Harriet glad she was wearing such a beautiful creation and not one of her sister’s ill-fitting cast-offs.
“Attention, all, attention.” Harriet smiled. She could not help herself, for it had been three days since she’d seen Augustus and just hearing his voice made her heart sing. Suddenly, she could see him above the crowd—he must have stepped onto a chair—and Harriet forced herself to look away, fearing her love would show too clearly to anyone who happened to look her way.
“Before the dancing begins,” he said, his voice booming over the crowd, “I have a special surprise. Because this ball is being held so close to Christmas, I would like each of you to write a Christmas poem. The winning poem will win this silver candlestick, which was forged from good English sterling one hundred years ago.”
The crowd murmured its approval, and Clara gave her a look that said, “Isn’t this exciting?”
At once, several servants began handing out small slips of paper and pencils, until each guest had the proper accoutrements for this ruse. Harriet started to make her way to the front of the room, but Clara stopped her with a hand to her upper arm.
“Where are you going?” she whispered. “You know I’m terrible at such things. I need your help.”
“I want to get closer to the front. Come along. I’ll write in my head as we go.”
“Don’t forget to sign your names,” Augustus called. “Please place your poem in the bowl next to me. Then, ladies, you may collect your dance cards for the evening.”
He stepped down and Harriet lost sight of him for a time, then spied him making his way through the crowd, stopping to chat now and then or be introduced to a young lady. She couldn’t bear to think that one of the young ladies here might one day be his wife, so she turned her back to him and made a pretense of talking to Clara. All this time, she’d tried to prepare herself, to distance herself from the true purpose of this ball. Now, faced with all these high born ladies, she found it nearly impossible to remain indifferent.
“Imagine, someone in this room will likely be the new countess,” Clara said, clearly excited by the possibility. Then she leaned forward and said, “And I cannot tell you how glad I am that it will not be me.”
Harriet laughed in spite of her heavy heart. “You never know, Clara. You were invited, after all.”
Clara furrowed her brow. “I don’t know why. You would have thought Eliza would have been invited before we, but she was not. Why us?”
Harriet shrugged. “Perhaps because Mother practically invited herself that day the earl came for luncheon?”
“Perhaps.”
All around them, guests were busily writing. If Harriet hadn’t known the cunning plan to expose a murderer, it might have been a fun way to open a ball. “Hurry, Harriet,” Clara said, looking pointedly at the still-blank piece of paper.
Harriet thought for a moment, then wrote:
As our Lord and Savior looks down on us
I pray that he is glad
To see us celebrate this birth
So a bride for the earl can be had
Harriet giggled, then showed it to Clara, who gasped. “Oh, you cannot. It is so…”
“Amusing?” Harriet asked. “I can sign my name to this one if you like.”
“Please do.”
“Very well.” She thought for a moment, then wrote another poem for Clara.
Christmas Season brings much joy
As we hark the angels sing
We celebrate the birth of Christ
And pray good tidings bring
Harriet wrinkled her nose, not liking it at all, but Clara snatched it out of her hand and proclaimed it perfect. “Don’t you think we have enough silver in our house as it is?” she asked, and Harriet laughed.
“It is terrible, is it not?”
Clara grinned. “Perfectly terrible.”
The two girls made their way to the front of the room and deposited their poems in a large bowl. Harriet, not knowing whether she should acknowledge Augustus, kept her eyes averted, though her senses were attuned to his proximity.
“Miss Anderson, I wonder if you might help me judge the contest.”
Harriet stilled until Clara nudged her and whispered, “The earl is talking to you.” Harriet looked at her sister, whose eyes were filled with excitement and perhaps a bit of relief that she had not been the Anderson sister to whom the earl was speaking.
“Oh. Yes, of course, my lord.” Augustus smiled at her and Harriet felt a small bit of panic in her heart; he was making no effort to hide the fact he was happy to see her. She turned to her sister, but Clara was already heading back to their parents. Torn between excitement and reluctance, Harriet moved to stand next to the earl, but he forestalled her by touching her arm briefly.
“Miss Anderson, may I present to you Lady Porter, my grandmother. Grandmamma, this is Harriet, the girl I told you about.”
Harriet realized to her horror that she hadn’t even seen the older woman standing next to Augustus, and she gave an inward grimace. Dipping a curtsy, Harriet said, “It is an honor to meet you, my lady.”
“Thank you for assisting my grandson in restoring Costille House,” Lady Porter said, her voice clipped.
“It was my pleasure,” Harriet said, giving a look around the room.
“My grandson has told me much about you. You are a clever girl, I believe.”
Harriet smiled uncertainly, not sure whether Lady Porter was complimenting her intelligence or somehow insulting her; she had little experience with the subtleties of the aristocracy.
“I told my grandmother the reason behind the poetry contest,” Augustus said quietly, but Harriet still wasn’t certain the old woman was praising her.
“I do hope you do not disappoint,” Lady Porter said, and when Augustus shot his grandmother a look of bemused irritation, Harriet suspected the old lady was not pleased that she and her family had been invited to the ball.
“As I am certain you have a low opinion of me, I believe it will be nearly impossible to disappoint, Lady Porter.”
The older woman’s eyes flashed some emotion, but Harriet wasn’t certain whether the woman was angry or showed grudging respect. It didn’t matter, for Harriet was quite certain she would never see the old lady again.
In short order, all the poems were collected and laid out on a long table. Augustus and Harriet eagerly looked them over, pulling a few out that were the closest to the penmanship in the letters. The writing on the letters was so distinctive, Harriet quickly ascertained that none of the poems was a match.
“All the Cs are here?” Harriet whispered.
“They are,” Augustus said, not bothering to hide his frustration as he looked over the poems. He surreptitiously withdrew one of the letters and laid it on the table so they could compare the few they’d separated out to C’s writing.
“This one,” Harriet said uncertainly. While the writing was diminutive, it did not match precisely, and when Harriet saw the author, she sighed. “Margaret Hatch.”
Augustus muttered a curse, then took up a random poem and proclaimed a winner.
“We have a winner,” he said, then looked down at the scrap of paper. “Lord Merritt.”
The crowd broke into applause, and began urging the elderly Lord Merritt to read aloud his winning effort.
“Was it even good?” Harriet whispered.
“I have no idea.”
With a glint in his eye, the old gent took up his poem and cleared his throat.
“There once was a maiden from Nazareth
a prettier girl than the rest
When an angel did see her
And left a babe in her
Joseph was put to the test”
Utter silence followed, until Augustus stepped up, clapping politely, and thanked Lord Merritt for his poem.
“Perhaps we should have actually read the thing,” Harriet said, trying not to smile.
“Indeed.” His gaze swept over her. “You are stunning this evening, Miss Anderson.”
Harriet felt her cheeks flush and she dipped her head.
“Dancing will begin shortly,” Augustus announced. “Ladies, you may now retrieve your dance cards.” Then he turned to Harriet. “You may come with me.”
Augustus led her away from the noise and chaos of the ballroom, and as soon as they were shielded from prying eyes, he grabbed her hand and dragged her down a short hallway and around a corner. Once they were safe, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her like a man who has not kissed his woman for a very long time.
“Goodness,” she said softly, not wanting to draw the attention of anyone who might be nearby. “It appears you have missed me, my lord.”
He kissed her again, his arms tightening around her. “I have missed you,” he said, drawing back and looking intently into her eyes. “Dare I think you have missed me?”
Harriet couldn’t help but giggle, for she’d been absolutely bereft. The separation, even though it had only been for three days, had been nearly unbearable. “I tried to come up with some pretense to visit Costille House, but nothing I thought of was remotely believable. If your grandmother is as smart as you say she is, she would have seen right through me and thought me a common hussy.” She laughed again. “Which I suppose I am, given my recent behavior.”
“Do not say such things,” he said fiercely, his brow furrowing. “You are my Catalina and she is no hussy.”
Harriet grinned and kissed his chin. “I feel like Catalina in this gown. It is the most beautiful dress I have ever owned.”
“You are beautiful, not the gown,” he said huskily. He gave her another, long, drugging kiss, dragging a hand up her side to cup one breast and Harriet wished they were not steps away from a crowded ballroom. He let out a groan and stepped back to take her head gently in his hands. “I don’t believe I’ll be able to give you up,” he said, his hands on either side of her face, his thumb caressing her cheeks. It wasn’t his words that made her heart soar, but rather the way he said them, the way he looked at her, as if his words held an unspoken promise. She did not want to dream, to believe what she saw.
Harriet swallowed, searching his face. “What are you saying?”
He smiled gently down at her, then gave her a hard, swift kiss. “I want—”
“’arriet. Where are you, gel?”
Harriet gasped. “My mother!” she whispered, pulling away. The sound of footsteps and rustling skirts told Harriet that her mother would be upon them at any moment.
“Go.” He gave her another quick kiss, then pushed her into the hall, but not before she saw he was smiling, a smile that gave her hope that she wasn’t dreaming.
Harriet hurried to the corner, took a deep breath, then nearly ran into her mother. Taking her arm, Harriet led her back to the ballroom before she could see Augustus in the shadows. Her heart was beating madly in her chest—not because of nearly being caught with the earl, but because of what she believed Augustus had been about to say. He knew she would not be his mistress, so what else could he possibly be proposing but marriage? I don’t think I’ll be able to give you up. I want... It was maddening not to know how that sentence ended. But the way he’d looked at her, kissed her. …to marry you. Oh, God, to think such a thing, to even allow it to enter her mind was so very dangerous to her heart.
“Why aren’t you in the Great Room, Mother?” Harriet asked with forced cheerfulness, leading her mother to where nearly all the guests had gathered for the first dance.
“I was looking for you, luv,” she said, and stumbled a bit.
Harriet realized, with no small amount of horror, that her mother had obviously imbibed. With a sick feeling of foreboding, she slowed her steps. “Perhaps we should find you a place to rest,” Harriet said calmly.
“Rest? Rest! The men are already swarmin’ around Clara like caggle ona barn floor, arem? And the Lord Berkley is nowhere to be found.”
Oh, lord, Harriet thought, her mother was far more into her cups than she would have thought possible. They’d arrived not one hour prior, and she was already slipping heavily into her Cornish dialect. Harriet stopped and forced her mother to look at her. “Mother, it is very important that we present ourselves in the best possible light. For Clara’s sake.”
“Of course. What do you think I am, a great dobeck?”
Harriet winced. “No, I do not believe you are stupid, but using the word ‘dobeck’ is what I am speaking of. These fine people will not know what a dobeck is, Mother. You will reveal us.”
Hedra looked momentarily confused. “Of course, ’arriet. You’re a good girl, you are.” Then she repeated her name, over-pronouncing the ‘h’. At that moment, Harriet felt as sorry for her mother as she felt for herself. Attending the ball were the highest members of English aristocracy; it would take very little for the Andersons to be revealed as frauds. Oh, what had Augustus been thinking when he’d invited her family to the ball? It wasn’t so vital that she be present when the murderer was revealed. Augustus had handled the ruse with aplomb and to a person, they had all busily written their Christmas poems, hoping to win the prize—a lovely silver candlestick. And yet, had she not gone, she would have been at home wishing fervently that she’d attended, like some abandoned Cinderella without a fairy godmother to rescue her.
When they walked back into the Great Room, Harriet blinked against the light. Augustus had insisted that every chandelier, every candelabra, be lit. A thin cloud of smoke from the candles floated just below the ceiling, only adding to the magical effect of the candle-lit room. Dozens of girls, fans flapping even though it was not overly warm in the room, chattered like so many magpies, while small groups of matrons gossiped as they assessed each other’s chances of landing an earl. It was, by all appearances, precisely what Augustus had wanted when he’d approached her all those weeks ago with his plan—a room full of eligible debutantes and their hopeful mamas.
Except, if Harriet had been correct, they were all here for nothing. Could she be right? Could Augustus truly have been on the verge of offering for her? She fought to stop the excitement, the painful hope that bloomed in her heart. This night would be one she would remember forever, she thought, then found herself covering her mouth in a desperate attempt to stifle her laughter. A young lady to her right gave her an odd look, and Harriet moved away. Despite her giddiness, she still found herself fighting the urge to disappear into a corner behind a potted plant.
As she scanned the crowd, Clara spied her and waved her over in an almost frantic way. Harriet made her way to her sister, feeling her anxiety grow the closer she got. When she reached her sister’s side, Clara grabbed both her hands and whispered, “Mother is deep into her cups.”
“I know. She asked if I thought she was a great dobeck.” Harriet winced and Clara groaned.
“I hope you informed her that she is. Oh, goodness, this is going to be a disaster. It’s worse. Father is drinking too. I think the thought of being in the same room with all these lords and ladies was too much for them.”
Harriet’s mouth dropped open. “Father’s drinking?”
“I can claim to have a headache. Or some fatal disease.” Harriet knew her sister was only half-joking. Indeed, Harriet wished she would fall ill so they could avoid a calamity—that was how desperate the situation was becoming.
“There is Mother. Oh, Lord, she’s actually talking to someone. And pointing toward you.” The situation had, Harriet realized, taken a decided turn for the worse. “I think we should make our way over to her and…”
At that moment, the orchestra began to play a Strauss waltz, and there was a collective gasp as the young ladies realized the earl would soon be in the room to make his first choice in a dance partner. To a girl, each had all left her first dance open on the chance the earl would select her. A great shuffling took place as mamas thrust their daughters to the front to better attract the earl. It was no wonder there were so many hopeful looks. Though the night was young, more than one young lady had claimed to have nearly swooned at the sight of the handsome earl. Harriet would have been bothered by it all if not for the secret she held close to her heart.
Augustus appeared at the back of the room, furthest from where the orchestra played, and the debutantes lifted their chins while their mothers held their breath. Nothing as exciting as this had happened in years. He was so handsome, Harriet found that she was holding her breath too.
Without hesitation, Augustus walked across the ballroom floor. Toward her. She pulled in her lips in a valiant attempt not to smile too broadly, to continue to act like a lady, but it was no use. By the time he stood before her, she was smiling broadly.
“Miss Anderson,” he said in his lovely baritone. “May I have the honor of this dance?”
Dipping a deep curtsy, she said, “I would be honored, Lord Berkley.” She held up her gloved hand and he took it, but not before she heard someone whisper, “Who is she? She’s a nobody as far as I know.”
Harriet ignored the woman. She could have ignored a hundred women at that moment, for her love was leading her out onto the floor for the first dance, telling all the world that he had chosen her above every other girl at the ball.
“Is my grandmother shooting daggers at me?” he asked, as if he didn’t have a care whether the dowager was pointing a gun at him. “She’s near the coat of arms.”
Harriet surreptitiously looked around until she saw the old dame staring at them, indeed with daggers. “Oh, goodness, she does look displeased. Are you certain you want to anger her?”
Augustus only laughed. “She will have to get used to the idea of seeing us dancing together,” he said. “She’ll come ’round.” His eyes dipped down to her lips and for a long burning moment, she thought he would be bold enough to kiss her, right there on the ballroom floor.
Harriet could not remember a happier moment in her life. She was not the wallflower, but the woman Augustus had chosen from among all these others, these high born ladies with their perfect pedigrees and hair that didn’t burst to life when it rained. At that moment, despite all her misgivings about how nearly everyone would scorn such a union, if he asked her to marry him, she would agree without hesitation. All would work out. Eventually, the ton would accept her, and her family and the villagers would get used to seeing one of their own as mistress of Costille House. Countess Harriet. She nearly laughed aloud at the thought of possessing such a lofty title and such a perfect husband.
And then she heard her mother.
“’e must be cakey not to have chosen our Clara.” A lady behind her said something softly and her mother whirled about, clearly outraged. “’ow dare you! You think you’re all so fitty. You’re no better’n me.”
Clara stood next to their mother, clearly pleading in soft tones for Hedra to calm down. As Harriet spun away from her family, she saw their father, puffed up with importance, step into the fray to defend his wife. His gestures and posture didn’t bode well. “Oh, no,” she said, craning her neck to watch what was happening.
“What is it, love?”
“My parents. They’re about to—”
Her sentence was interrupted by the resounding smack of a female hand hitting her father’s face. Dead silence filled the room as even the orchestra realized there was something more exciting happening than dancing.
In that moment, Augustus dropped his hands, was clearly intent on attempting to calm the situation. Harriet knew from experience it was impossible, and she stayed him with a hand to his chest. Even in that moment, that terrible moment, she was aware of his strength, his beauty.
Her mother looked around, her face beet red, whether from drink or humiliation, Harriet did not know. “We two ’as just as much right to be here as the rest of you. We were invited by ’is…his…lordship himself.”
“Mother.” Clara attempted to gently take Hedra’s arm but she would have none of it.
“I’m not the vellan ’ere. This ager lady insulted me, she did. My ’usband was protecting me, ’e was. All is allycompooster now, though.” She smiled broadly, drunkenly. “Start the music. Everyone should be dancing, ar ’em?” She stepped onto the dancing area, swirling her arms in an attempt to get the dancers going again. Then, noting everyone was staring at her without moving, she muttered, “Bunch of agerevers, thinkin’ they’re better n’ my own with all the fancy.”
“What in God’s name is she saying? Who let her in here?” one man said, and Harriet knew in that moment whatever it was Augustus had been about to ask her not ten minutes before would never be repeated. It could not have been made more clear how different she was from every other person in this room. They all stared, each one of them, as if her mother were a dirty dog let into their midst.
“She’s a local,” a woman responded, in the same tone one might say, “She’s a prostitute.”
Augustus’s grandmother marched over to the orchestra and commanded that they begin playing. Within moments, those who were on the floor began dancing again, though the tension in the room was palpable.
“I must see to my grandmother,” Augustus said. “Why don’t you see to your parents?” He forced a smile, and something flickered in his eyes—an awareness, regret, embarrassment. To Harriet, who felt her world crumbling around her, it was impossible to read what that brief flicker meant, but she was fairly certain it was good-bye.
Harriet looked around at those who were still staring at her parents, and hated them with a fierceness she hadn’t felt possible. She hated that they stared, that they judged and yes, that she was not and never would be one of them. Walking directly to her mother, she put her arm around her protectively. At that moment, none of the animosity between them mattered. Later, she could dwell on how her mother had managed to ruin her life, but for now, she simply wanted to get out of Costille House and away from disapproving eyes. Perhaps she should thank her mother for making it so clear why there could never be a match between her and Augustus. They had been fooling themselves, safe in the private world they had built, a world where no one was harsh or cruel or judging. The fact was, the world was harsh and cruel and judging. Somehow, Harriet had forgotten that, had allowed herself to dream things she had no right to dream.
While Clara led her now-subdued parents out of Costille House and to their carriage, Harriet sought out Augustus, finding him still with his grandmother, who had calmed down considerably. When Harriet approached, the older woman gave her a decidedly cold glare, but Harriet ignored that look and pretended all was well.
“Thank you so much for inviting us, my lord, my lady, but it appears my mother is under the weather and I fear we must depart early.”
“Let them go if you must. But please stay, Miss Anderson,” Augustus said.
Harriet smiled even though she felt like weeping. “You and I both know that it is better that I leave. Good-bye, Lord Berkley. This has been an edifying experience.”
“At least the daughter has sense,” Lady Porter muttered.
Harriet turned to walk away, trying with all her strength not to cry until she reached the Anderson carriage, that ridiculous conveyance her mother took so much pride in.
“Wait, Miss Anderson. Let me walk you out.”
“Augustus,” Lady Porter called, clearly dismayed that Augustus would take the time to accompany her.
Harriet walked quickly, eyes straight ahead, swallowing thickly.
“What did you mean when you said this experience has been edifying?”
Stopping, she turned and forced herself to look into his eyes. “Gus, it’s impossible. We agreed to say good-bye. No tears. No regrets. Remember?”
“No. Please, Harriet.”
She shook her head, her eyes burning, and her heart hurt, a physical pain that she dimly realized meant it was breaking. “No emotional scene.” Somehow she smiled. “Good-bye.” She walked away then, her feet leaden, her head screaming: Don’t let me go.
When a footman handed her up to their carriage, Harriet was unsurprised to see her mother and father pressed against one corner, sleeping. What she was surprised to see was Clara, smiling broadly, almost giddy.
“Do you realize what this means?” she asked, clutching Harriet’s arm. “It’s over. No one will ever receive us.” She let out a long, happy breath. “I’m finally free.”