Chapter 13
The morning after the ball, Harriet opened her eyes slowly. They felt gritty and swollen, reminding her instantly what had happened the night before. Next to her, Clara slept on, oblivious to her sister’s misery, for Harriet had let the tears come only after Clara had fallen asleep. Harriet smiled fondly at her sister. When they were younger, before her parents had purchased this grand house, the sisters had shared a room and a tiny bed. It was thrilling to have their own rooms and their own beds when they’d first moved into their large home, but Harriet would sometimes miss their late-night talks, the feeling of someone warm sleeping next to her. Perhaps she was looking back on their childhood with a lens distorted by time, but it seemed their little family had been far happier before the tin mine their father bought had started producing.
Clara had fallen asleep and Harriet had let her stay. Now, though, she wished she were alone because she could feel hot tears threatening once again. It was too late to hide her misery when Clara opened her eyes, and Harriet was too foggy-brained to come up with an explanation for her swollen, tear-filled eyes, so she told her sister the truth.
“I’m in love with Lord Berkley and I’m fairly certain he feels the same way,” she said in a rush. “And now everything is ruined. It was insane of me to believe we could be happy, I know that, but I did hope and I thought he was actually going to ask me to m-m-marry him.”
Clara was looking at her as if Harriet had lost her mind. “What are you talking about? You only met him once.”
Harriet sniffed and shook her head. “I’ve been seeing him nearly every day for weeks. His home needed restoration and as I recalled every detail of the house, he enlisted my help.”
“When did all this happen? While we were away in London?”
“Yes, and before. All those walks when I’d be gone all day. No one even noticed my absence.” Clara looked a bit guilty at that. “It’s all right. At first the idea of earning my own money was thrilling, but then I started falling in love with him. I did try not to.”
“Oh, Harriet,” Clara said, her voice full of pity. “Has he given you any indication of his feelings?” Clara asked cautiously, and Harriet tried to stem a bit of irritation. Was it so far-fetched that Lord Berkley loved her?
“Yes, he has,” Harriet said. “I suppose he has. I think he has.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “But even if he were to fall on his knees and declare his undying love, it’s too late now.” Fresh tears escaped her eyes. “Mother and Father ruined everything. Did you see the look on everyone’s faces? I will not make Lord Berkley the subject of ridicule. He has been through enough.”
“What if he truly does love you?” Clara asked, dipping her head so she could better see Harriet’s expression.
“It matters not. Nearly every member of the ton was there last night. Do you think for one moment they could ever forgive or forget such vulgar behavior? And would I want to be part of the ton when they believe we are somehow less than they are?”
“Love can conquer all,” Clara said wistfully.
“No, Clara, it cannot. It would only lead to heartache.”
Harriet got out of bed and washed her face, praying the evidence of her tears would be diminished with the cold water. When she looked in her mirror, Harriet was pleased to see her swollen eyes would pass muster.
Just as she was turning toward her wardrobe to decide what to wear that day—something bleak and ugly to match her mood—her door was flung open and her mother rushed in, her face alight with excitement.
“Clara, Lord Berkley’s carriage is coming up the drive. Hurry, get dressed.”
Clara sat up in bed, first looking at Harriet, then her mother. “I believe his lordship is here to see Harriet,” she said calmly. “After all, Lord Berkley chose her for his first dance. And you will remember how he thought her eyes lovely.”
Hedra looked momentarily taken aback, and Harriet rolled her eyes. “Why don’t we both get ready to meet the earl,” Harriet said, her hand moving from her ugliest gown to a periwinkle blue one. Even as she chose her prettiest day dress, she chastised herself for the hope that bloomed in her chest. I will say no if he asks, she told herself firmly. But would she, when her heart was screaming at her to say yes, yes, yes.
Harriet could not stop the surge of joy that flew through her at that moment.
In short order, Clara was being helped into a gown by Jeanine, and Harriet had dressed herself. Clara, having dressed in record time, flew into her room, her eyes alight.
“Do you think he is here to propose?” she asked excitedly.
“Of course not,” Harriet said. “At least I pray not. Though truthfully, I cannot imagine another reason to bring him here so early.” Harriet pressed the heels of her hands hard against her eyes.
“I cannot imagine a one, can you?” Clara asked, giving Harriet a quick hug, oblivious to her sister’s misery.
“No, I cannot—” And then she did think of one, and her heart plummeted so quickly, she felt slightly ill. Lord Berkley owed her ten thousand pounds. One by one, other thoughts entered her head, each one making her feel foolish for thinking for just one moment that he was here to ask her to marry him. If he wanted to marry her, wouldn’t he have asked her last night? If he was planning to propose, would he have let her leave the ball?
Harriet reached out and clutched Clara’s arm. “Let’s not get our hopes up, Clara. Please. Even if by some miracle that is why he is here, I cannot accept.”
Clara looked at her worriedly, then nodded. “I do love Mother, but she has managed to nearly ruin both of our lives with her folly. All this time, shoving me in front of every title who still has breath, and here you are, capturing an earl’s heart, and she has ruined it for you.”
Clara gave Harriet another quick hug; then the sisters made their way down the stairs, arm in arm. When they walked into the parlor, Lord Berkley was there sitting with her mother and father, looking exceedingly out of place amidst the flamboyantly extravagant furnishings. He wore the uniform of a country gentleman, brown tweed with worn riding boots, the sort of understated clothes that the aristocracy could wear and still look aristocratic. He stood immediately and sketched a quick bow toward the sisters. “Good morning,” he said, his dark blue eyes on Harriet. She found herself so full of nerves, Harriet could not meet his gaze or even begin to form a smile.
“It was a lovely ball, Lord Berkley,” Hedra said effusively. Harriet felt a sick twist at her mother’s seeming amnesia. Augustus seemed taken aback by the comment, but smiled politely.
“It was, thank you.”
Gathering her courage, she looked up and studied his beloved face, noting the purple beneath his eyes that bespoke a sleepless night. Had the ball gone on into the wee hours of the morning? The thought of everyone gossiping about them, tsking and shaking their perfectly coiffed heads, was nearly unbearable. Worse was the thought of Augustus smiling politely through all the comments and questions surrounding their inclusion on the guest list. She thought back on what Augustus’s grandmother had said about not disappointing her and realized the Anderson family had performed precisely as expected. She’d been a disappointment, after all.
“Such a lovely ball,” Hedra repeated, smiling uncertainly. During his last visit, Augustus had led the conversation, but on this day, he sat pensively, almost as if he wished he were anywhere else on Earth but in their overly decorated pink and gold parlor.
Augustus tapped a loose fist on his thigh, a gesture of impatience. After an awkward silence, he blurted, “I’d like to take a walk in the garden with your daughter.” When Hedra’s eyes immediately went to Clara, he said forcefully, “Harriet.”
After her momentary paralysis left her, Harriet stood.
“Oh. Yes, of course, my lord,” Hedra said, unable to hide her surprise. “Have one of the maids fetch your coat, Harriet.”
Harriet could tell her mother was on the verge of hysteria at the thought of the earl asking to take a walk in the garden with her. “I am fine without a coat,” Harriet said, not wanting to prolong this visit any longer than necessary.
“No need, she can wear mine,” Augustus said, and it was only then that Harriet realized he still wore his overcoat. Striding toward her, he pulled it off, then placed it over her shoulders and led her toward the door, as if in a terrible haste to get away from her parents. The feel of his strong hands on her shoulders was wonderful, and his scent, his warmth, immediately surrounded her as she clutched his coat.
Once they were outside and a few steps from the back door, he turned her and stepped back. “Last night…”
“Was a disaster,” she finished.
“Yes,” he said, looking down. He pulled at his hair for a moment, as if trying to drag his thoughts from his head. “My grandmother…”
“Was horrified.” Harriet’s throat hurt from the emotions welling up inside.
“Yes.” He looked to the east, where the sun was just now topping the trees. “We talked, she and I. It was a difficult interview. She’s quite set in her ways and extremely protective of me. If only your parents hadn’t been quite so…” When he looked back at her, his eyes were filled with a despair that made Harriet go cold.
“I understand,” she said, and she truly, truly did. She swallowed heavily, her eyes trained on his cravat, noting absently that it was slightly askew. “I don’t know why you felt the need to come here, my lord. We agreed, did we not, that there would be no emotional scene, no embarrassing declarations. I do appreciate your coming today, but it was entirely unnecessary. Do you have my cheque?”
He looked at her as if she were speaking a foreign language. “Cheque?”
She was quite proud of herself. No tears, no emotion. “I believe we agreed to the sum of ten thousand pounds, did we not?”
His brow furrowed. “Yes, of course. I thought we might discuss another matter. I know we agreed that our arrangement would end, but I was thinking that perhaps it would not.”
Harriet pressed her lips together because she had the terrible urge to laugh aloud. She’d actually believed he’d come to propose, but he’d come to ask her again to be his mistress. My God, could she have been more misguided? “I have no interest whatsoever in continuing our association. I believe our original agreement was quite adequate. Thank you, my lord.”
He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it, acting as if he were surprised by her reaction. How could he be so obtuse? All this time, she’d actually thought he’d been about to propose marriage at the ball, and he’d been about to ask her to continue as his mistress. At that moment, Harriet hated herself far more than she hated Augustus.
“Ah.” So, he understood at last.
He looked at her then, his eyes searching hers, until a subtle change came over him, a coldness she’d never seen. Letting out a short, humorless laugh, he looked behind her. “I do believe your mother got the wrong impression about my visit today,” he said, his voice unusually gruff. He cleared his throat, and Harriet turned to see her mother’s face pressed against the window, her expression filled with hope. “I don’t have my cheques with me. I’ll have my footman come by later today.”
“Thank you,” she said, taking off his coat and handing it back.
He gave her another long look, before shaking his head in a self-deprecating manner. “You have surprised me again, Miss Anderson,” he said, then sketched a bow that was just shy of mocking, before walking away.
Harriet hesitated a long moment before she turned to go back inside. How could he be surprised by her rejection when she’d made her feelings about becoming his mistress quite clear? Then again, semantics aside, she had been his mistress for nearly a month, so she should probably get off her high horse and accept that he was treating her as she deserved to be treated.
Her mother was still at the window when she returned to the house, even though Lord Berkley had long since disappeared around the corner and out of sight.
“Where is Lord Berkley?” she asked, turning toward Harriet. “Did he say anything…of interest?”
“No, Mother,” Harriet said, and made to go up to her room, where she planned to wallow in self-pity for the rest of her life.
“I thought certain… The way he was looking at you, Harriet. I actually thought he was going to propose. But it would have been highly improper not to go to your father first. What did he want to talk to you about?” Her words acted like spikes to her already aching heart.
“Nothing of note.” Harriet felt oddly detached from herself. The house could have erupted into flames at that very moment and she was unsure if she’d be able to bring herself to care. She continued to walk toward her room, until her mother’s words stopped her again.
“Did he speak of Clara?”
Harriet stopped and stared for a long moment at the floor in front of her. “No, Mother, he did not.” She kept walking then, even when her mother huffed out her frustration with Harriet’s answers.
Long after Lord Berkley had left, Clara came to see her, wearing a worried expression.
“He didn’t propose?”
Harriet had been sitting at her vanity, dulling staring, dry-eyed, at her reflection. “He did not.”
“Oh, Harriet, I’m so sorry,” she said, coming up behind Harriet and resting her chin on her shoulder.
“I don’t know why I ever thought he would,” she said dully. “Even if he thought of it, last night ruined everything. I can hardly blame him. I keep going over and over it, but all I see is those horrid people at the ball, the way they looked at us. I never wish to feel that way again.”
Clara stared at her sister through the mirror. “Lord Berkley is a fool to let you go.”
Letting out a bitter laugh, Harriet shook her head. “I just feel so idiotic. I hate this feeling but it seems I cannot escape it. Worse, I think he loved me, I do.”
“Not enough. If he loved you enough…”
Harriet sniffed. “It would have been impossible. Sometimes love isn’t enough.”
Clara stood up then and gave Harriet the oddest smile. “Love is the only thing that matters. And if he does not know that, then he is not the man meant for you,” she said softly. Clara hugged her from behind before leaving her alone.
“It was for the best,” she told her reflection as tears coursed down her cheeks.
Two weeks later, Harriet was still struggling to get out of bed each day. In front of her family, she put on an air of contentment, but inside she felt as if she’d been hollowed out, as if nothing of her was left except a terrible emptiness.
At breakfast, her mother was enthusiastically telling Clara and Harriet of her plans to build a folly in the far corner of their property. “Every estate of note has one, you know,” she said with a nod.
Having accepted her daughters’ failure to capture husbands, Hedra had set her sights on improving their estate. “I have a crew arriving tomorrow to begin work. Then I thought we could have a lake installed. What do you think, Mr. Anderson?”
Her father grunted, which Hedra took as an affirmation of her plans.
After breakfast, Harriet headed to the kitchens to ask cook to prepare some light fare she might take on a walk. It had been days since she’d ventured off their land and she’d missed her walks. Perhaps fresh air would revive her soul. On the way there, a footman stopped her and inquired as to the whereabouts of her mother.
“I have a note from Mr. Billings outlining the materials he requires for the folly,” he said.
“I’ll bring it to her, Sam. Thank you.” The footman smiled his thanks and handed over the paper.
Curious, Harriet looked at the neatly written and intricately detailed list Mr. Billings had prepared. And then, as she read the list, her hand began to shake. The writing was terrifyingly familiar, a precise match to the letters she’d found in Lady Greenwich’s journal.
Furrowing her brow, she tried to reject such a notion. Mr. Billings and Lady Greenwich? It made no sense; she must be wrong.
“Sam, before you go, do you happen to know Mr. Billings’ given name? I’ve known him all my life, but I cannot recall it.”
“He lives next to my parents,” Sam said. “His name is Clive. Clive Billings.”
For perhaps the hundredth time, Augustus took out the note from Harriet and put it beside Mr. Billings’ list and a letter from the journal. It was unmistakable and still just as unbelievable. For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine Lenore developing a passion for a work-worn man like Mr. Billings. Perhaps she had not. Perhaps Mr. Billings had simply created a fantasy in which Lenore loved him as much as he loved her. She had become his obsession, an obsession that had ultimately driven him quite mad.
“Mr. Southwell is here, my lord,” his butler said from the door.
Augustus had invited his friend over so that he might discuss with him his course of action. When Henderson had become enmeshed in his own mystery not six months earlier, Augustus had offered his guidance, which resulted in a killer being exposed. Now, he was asking Henderson to return the favor.
When Henderson entered, Augustus was lost in thought, staring at the delicate handwriting of the woman he loved. He still was baffled by her coldness. He’d gone over every meeting, every conversation in his head dozens of times and he still found it difficult to believe she could so easily say good-bye to him. Yes, they had agreed to such, but he’d thought their feelings had transcended that agreement.
His heart had suffered a devastating blow, and he was still recovering, making him wonder if he would ever again feel right.
“Good afternoon, Augustus,” Henderson said, walking into his study, a grin on his face. It seemed ever since Alice had agreed to marry him, Henderson’s mood had been insufferably buoyant, while his own had never seen such depths. “All right, then, it’s not a good afternoon,” he said, obviously noting his friend’s scowl.
“Have a seat.” He waited until Henderson was seated before saying, “You recall my suspicion that someone murdered my wife.”
“You found the letters. Yes, I recall.”
“I’ve found a penmanship match, and it is from an unlikely source.”
“Oh?” Henderson leaned forward, his interest piqued. “I thought I was here to convince you that you’re not a complete cad. Do go on.”
Henderson had an irritating way of making such statements that could not be ignored. “What are you talking about?”
“Harriet Anderson. She confided in Alice, who confided with me, making me promise upon my death not to say anything to you, which I am dutifully ignoring, that her heart has been broken by one Augustus Lawton, Earl of Berkley.” He raised one eyebrow and waited.
“If anyone’s heart was broken, it was mine. By her. And if you tell your wife, I will kill you.” He snapped his mouth shut as his mind whirled with what Henderson had just told him. “How in hell could she possibly say her heart has been broken? I proposed and she rejected me!”
All discussion of murder was long forgotten. “You proposed? To Harriet Anderson? And she said no?”
“Yes,” Augustus snapped. Then he leaned back in his chair. “Well, not precisely.”
“What, precisely?” Henderson said, and Augustus glared at him because it looked as if his friend was trying not to laugh.
He furrowed his brow, recalling their terrible conversation, the one during which Harriet reminded him of their bloody agreement.
“Tell me what was said,” Henderson demanded. “I find it difficult to believe Harriet would have forgotten that you proposed. I believe that is a detail she would have related to Alice, despite her hysterical tears.”
“She was crying?” Augustus asked, feeling his gut twist.
“I have no idea. Go on, tell me what you said to the poor girl.”
Not wanting to discuss his rather sordid agreement with Harriet, Augustus hesitated. “I must have your word you will not say anything to Alice.”
All humor left Henderson’s face. “My word,” he said solemnly.
“We had an affair, she and I. She refused to become my mistress, as you are well aware. Instead, she proposed a short-term arrangement, one in which we would part as friends. And I…”
“Fell in love,” Henderson finished for him.
“Yes, I did.”
Henderson smiled gently. “And did you ever tell her?”
“Of course not,” he said. “It would have violated our agreement.” Augustus ignored his friend’s snort. “The night of the ball, her parents were, let us say, unpleasant.”
“We heard. One of Alice’s friends was there. She didn’t realize Alice was good friends with Harriet. The description was painful.”
Augustus nodded. “It was worse than that. Harriet was humiliated and there was nothing I could do to prevent it. The next day, I went to tell her all was well and to ask her to be my wife.”
“What did you say?”
Augustus stared blindly at the desk in front of him. “We talked briefly about the prior evening, my grandmother’s reaction. We agreed it was unfortunate. And then I told her it didn’t matter, that I wanted us to continue … Oh, Christ.”
“What?”
“I told her I wanted to continue as we’d been. I was so tired, I hadn’t slept in more than twenty-four hours. I meant it to come out romantic, that I couldn’t bear to live without her, but I now believe she thought I was asking her again to be my mistress.” Then he let out a foul curse.
“That can be remedied,” Henderson said. “Just tell her you were mistaken.”
“Yes,” Augustus said, drawing out the word, deep in thought. “I can do that.”
“Now that your romantic difficulties are solved, how can I help you solve your murder?” Henderson asked blithely.