Chapter 3
Harriet had been working almost daily at Costille House, leaving early in the morning whilst the dew was still on the grass, happily tramping the three miles, arriving rosy-cheeked and ready to work. The daily walks were invigorating, and much easier now than when she’d first begun. No one at home had noticed her absence, which made Harriet realize the extent to which she was ignored. She wondered on the eighth day whether anyone would note it if she didn’t return home at all. Would her mother or father sound an alarm?
Her mother, seeing that she’d taken second helpings of Cook’s fine chicken and dumplings, cautioned her not to eat like a common washwoman. Harriet had tensed, fearing her mother would question why she was so hungry, but Clara at that moment asked about her next fitting in London and that was all it took to distract their mother.
Harriet had never experienced such a robust appetite in her life. The walks, the work, the supervising of the men, all combined to create an almost insatiable hunger.
Harriet chewed thoughtfully, realizing that she had never been happier in her entire life. She liked working. The men, who at first were reluctant to listen to her instructions, now did nothing without first checking with her. She walked around the house with a bundle of papers in her hand, checking on the progress, directing the men where to go, what to do, and they listened. More than that, they asked her opinion. It was heady stuff. No one had ever solicited her opinion about anything more important than what dress to wear or if a certain gentleman was appealing.
At first, the men had been occupied with tearing things down—a process that went remarkably quickly. Before the first two days were over, every wall that Lady Greenwich had ordered constructed, had been torn down. Quicker than she could have imagined, Costille House was reemerging. By the time Lord Berkley returned, the house would at least resemble what it had been before the renovations.
Outside, gaslights were removed, a fountain with a cherub moved to the back in the garden. Harriet couldn’t bring herself to destroy it, for it was such a charming bit of whimsy, but it was now burbling in the garden, out of sight of whomever approached the house. She was prepared to argue for the piece, should Lord Berkley want it removed.
The great hall was the greatest challenge because the entire roof there had been replaced with glass. The roof tiles must have been destroyed and carted off the property, for they were not in the rubble in the barn. Mr. Billings had ordered more, taking careful notes from Harriet as to their design, and Harriet was grateful for the man’s patience when she tried to draw what the tiles had looked like. More than once he grumbled that the house was fine as it was, better, in fact, than it had been, but in the end, he’d presented her rather begrudgingly with several examples and one of them matched precisely what had been on the roof.
Harriet was so lost in her thoughts about the renovations and the work to come she didn’t realize her mother had asked her a question until Clara kicked her lightly in the shin.
“Mother was asking if you wanted to go to London with me for the little season,” Clara said, her eyes filled with a mix of dread and hope. Dread of going to London, and hope that Harriet would suffer along with her.
“London?” Harriet asked.
“For new gowns. It’s been ages since you had a new gown and it will be so much more fun with you there.”
Harriet turned to her mother, who was looking at her with clear impatience. “You want me to get new gowns, Mother?”
“Clara insisted. I certainly cannot allow you to embarrass your sister by wearing any of your current dresses. Do you want to look like the poor relation during all the season’s events?”
Her mother had noticed her lack of dresses, then, a realization that was far more telling than Harriet’s prior belief that she wasn’t aware. Her mother had noticed, but hadn’t cared enough to remedy the situation.
“A season, Mother? That seems a bit…” Ambitious. “…adventurous,” she said, struggling to come up with the appropriate word for such an ill-conceived notion. Her family, while wealthy by St. Ives standards, would never be invited to any of London’s events; it would be a miracle, indeed, for them to set one foot into any fashionable gathering. No one would introduce two girls of such low birth; didn’t her mother realize this?
Her mother looked at her father, silently conveying her thoughts that their younger daughter was dense. “Of course a season. It’s past time we went to London. Everyone says so. Why, just last week the baron asked why he had never seen us in London.”
Dumbfounded, Harriet looked from her mother to her father, and finally to Clara. “One cannot simply show up and expect to be invited to the events,” she said cautiously. Harriet, through her friendship with Alice, was keenly aware of how the ton worked. It might be 1877, but society still relied on the same rules it always had, and families like the Andersons were not invited to the kinds of entertainments the members of the ton held. Surely her mother knew that.
Her mother gave her a level look. “Baron Longley has said he will sponsor Clara.”
Next to her, Clara stiffened, and Harriet resisted the urge to put her hand on her shoulder in comfort.
“Why would Baron—”
“Harriet, you cannot be so naïve,” her mother said, laughing lightly. “A girl who hopes to travel in the highest circles such as the baron inhabits must have a season before marrying, and that is what our Clara will have.”
A terrible thought occurred to her, that her mother had somehow finagled a proposal out of the baron. Given what Clara had said about the man, Harriet was horrified. “You don’t mean that Clara and the baron are engaged, do you?” she asked, trying to keep her tone measured. She looked to her sister for confirmation, but Clara simply stared at her plate of cooling food. She’d hardly touched a bite, and that made Harriet’s stomach twist in worry.
After pushing her scrod about her plate for a time, Hedra finally answered. “Not yet, but your father and I do have an understanding with the baron.”
Clara clutched her napkin in her lap, strangling it. “I do believe you read too much into his kindness,” she said calmly.
“Oh, posh. You were charming and beautiful, the baron said so himself. But he did note you lacked the social graces and experience a season will give you, and so you shall have one. Who knows, perhaps you will attract an even higher title.”
“Is that what you hope for me, Mother?” Harriet asked, simply to be contrary.
Her father let out a bark of laughter, then covered his mouth with his napkin. Harriet tried not to be hurt by this outburst, but wasn’t completely immune to the slights, constant though they were. “I hardly think you should start having silly thoughts of landing a peer, Harriet,” he said kindly, and somehow his kindness was worse.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Harriet had no such thoughts. Even with a sizeable dowry, it was unthinkable that either she or Clara could marry a peer, and that her parents held such lofty goals was embarrassing. Still, it rankled that her father fully believed Clara could attract a peer, but she could not. She imagined that her parents were counting on her to care for them in their dotage, or would foist her off on the first man who showed interest in her. But soon she’d be gone, living in her little cottage by the sea, on the other side of England. Alone.
“At any rate, I have no desire to go to London. I’m sorry, Clara, I do hope you understand.”
Harriet waited for her parents to insist she accompany them, but they remained silent, her father no doubt calculating the money he would save by not outfitting two daughters for a season. As it was, they had very little time to prepare and it would cost dearly to have dresses made so quickly. Dresses, Harriet reasoned, that would likely never be seen by anyone of importance. Clara, of course, let out a small gasp of dismay when Harriet made her pronouncement, but remained otherwise silent.
Later that night, Harriet tapped on her sister’s door and let herself in when Clara bid her enter. Clara sat in bed, a thick volume on botany on her lap, her brow furrowed. Most people thought Clara a bit of a featherhead, and on many subjects she was, but she had a profound and deep interest in all things related to plants and flowers and was quite an authority on the subject.
“I am sorry about London,” Harriet said, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Clara put the book aside, closing it with an audible thump. “It’s so embarrassing, Harriet. The baron was only being kind when he suggested a season. You should have seen the look on Mrs. Gardener’s face when he mentioned it. She looked as if she’d just swallowed a toad because of course she knows it is impossible. Do you want to know the true reason we were invited to the Gardeners’?”
“What?”
“She is looking for a companion for her mother, someone to read and entertain, I suppose. I didn’t tell Mother, of course. She would have been incensed, particularly when she thought the invitation was made because of the baron’s visit.” Clara worried her blanket with her fingers. “The truth is, I like the old lady. She was very pleasant and had the most beautiful garden. It would be far more pleasant to be her companion than to be married to some fat old baron with a hundred children in need of mothering.”
Harriet let out a burst of laughter and Clara joined in.
“I had no idea you were so opposed, Clara. You always seem so complacent when Mother thrusts you in front of men.”
“It was just a game before,” she said quietly. “An easy way to make Mother and Father happy without really doing anything except dance and flirt a bit. Mother actually believes doors will be opened to me, and no matter how many times I tell her I am perfectly content, she will not relent.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Go to London for the little season, of course. Mother will not be swayed, but perhaps when she realizes Father cannot gain entry into Whites and I cannot attend a royal ball, she will finally give up and let me stay home.” Clara let out a puff of air that made the curls on her forehead fly up. “You are so lucky, Harriet. I wish they would ignore me as they do you.” It took a moment before Clara realized what she had said, and then her hand flew to her face, her expression one of horror that she’d said such a thing.
Harriet laughed. “Please, do not worry about me. I am the lucky one and I know it.” She was tempted just then to tell Clara about her secret, about Costille House and all that money coming her way, but she didn’t want her sister to have the burden of keeping such a secret.
Clara propped her chin on her hand. “Mother is going to be terribly hurt by all this, but I don’t know what else to do.”
“Clara, you are the kindest girl in the world to think of Mother’s feelings.”
Clara looked surprised that she would say such a thing. “Mother only wants the best for me. She’s blinded by it. I don’t know how she got it in her head that I should marry so far above myself. It’s almost as if she’s lost all common sense. How could she possibly believe even Baron Longley would be interested in me?”
“Perhaps he is.”
Clara wrinkled her nose adorably. “And perhaps I’m interested in something else entirely.”
“Like roses?”
Her sister grinned. “Precisely.”
* * * *
Augustus had never felt truly comfortable in London. As a boy, it had been his father’s domain, and it seemed everyone he met sized him up and found him lacking. Born Augustus Nathaniel Lawton III, his father had gone by his middle name to avoid confusion, and kept the tradition of naming his firstborn son after him. He had been a force to be reckoned with, a man who most people respected and more than a few feared. Augustus was neither, a pale shadow, a n’er do well—at least when held up in comparison to his father. In his youth, Augustus had been a trial to his father. He’d been expelled from two schools and once had even ended up in jail for public drunkenness. It had not been his finest hour, but he’d pretended not to care when his father had sent his secretary to bring him home and had not come himself. Now he realized all his antics had been a sad attempt to get attention from a man who hardly spoke to him.
He remembered feeling hotly envious of one of his classmates, who had talked of fishing and hunting with his father with obvious pleasure. That same lad had bounded out the school door and was embraced heartily by his father for Christmas break. Augustus, on the other hand, had stayed at school that year and spent Christmas with one of the teachers who had taken pity on him. He was not the only lad who had not gone home, and like the others, he’d pretended not to care. But they all had.
Alas, now that he held the title, he was forced to venture into the city more than he liked, to discuss matters with land agents and solicitors, to resolve issues involving property and employees. He had already been in London two weeks and planned to visit his grandmother in Bristol before heading home to St. Ives and Costille House. For some reason he couldn’t explain, thoughts of Miss Anderson—her vivid blue eyes, her thin face, her shapeless form—visited him again and again. She hardly seemed the type to stand up to Mr. Billings, and the more he thought on it, the more he felt he had made a grave mistake.
Spontaneity had always been a flaw of his. It was how he’d ended up in America the first time, how he’d agreed to marry Lenore, how he’d returned to America soon after their disastrous wedding night. He acted without thinking, something his father, with much disgust, would comment on during their rare conversations. Now, he’d put his beloved home into the hands of a tin miner’s daughter.
On the evening before he departed for Bristol, Augustus forced himself to visit White’s, that old-fashioned haven for men of power and a place he’d loathed as a younger man. It was filled with old men who remembered his father, who looked at him with the false expectation that somehow Augustus would become the man his father had been. With a mix of joviality and restraint, depending upon the dealings the men had had with his father, they greeted Augustus as he entered the main room.
Augustus made the rounds, shaking hands and accepting banal offers of condolence and questions as to when he would take his father’s seat in the House of Lords, an institution, Augustus thought, that had outlived its usefulness. He would never say so here, of course, in a room of men full of their own self-importance. Though he was born to this world, he had never felt a part of it and had few friends who were members of the ton. His closest friend, Henderson Southwell, was the bastard son of a squire’s daughter, a nobody, but a man Augustus would die for if asked. His only other friend on this side of the Atlantic was Charles Greene, Lord Lansdowne, whom he hadn’t seen since Lenore’s funeral. Charles was another one of those lads left behind at Christmastime. Now whom should he see but Charles, sitting alone, looking into a fire, a glass of port untouched on the table in front of him. The last he’d heard, Lansdowne had been banished to Singapore to oversee his family’s holdings there.
“My God, Lansdowne, I cannot believe my eyes. You’ve aged terribly.”
Lansdowne looked up, his expression changing from brooding lord to grinning young man. He stood immediately, unfolding his long, lean body. Augustus had forgotten how tall his friend was, and he was thin to the point of gauntness. “Last I heard, you’d joined one of those savage tribes in the Wild West.”
“I was tempted. But, alas, I returned not two years ago to do my duty. How long have you been back from Singapore, and why the hell haven’t you contacted me?”
Lansdowne laughed and motioned for Augustus to join him at his table. “I’ve just returned, in fact, not two weeks ago, and by God, I hope never to go back. So, I heard you’re the earl now.”
“I am.”
“I don’t know if I should offer condolences or not.”
Augustus shrugged. “As you like. So how have you been? It’s been ages.” Now that he was sitting closer to his old friend, he could see his eyes were bloodshot and deep lines bracketed his mouth. He had, Augustus realized, the look of a man who’d led a difficult life. Of all the men he knew, he would not wish Lansdowne to have suffered, for he’d never been particularly robust. He wondered if he’d been ill and that was why he’d returned to England. “Are you back for good, then?”
“God willing. My father has sent my younger brother to replace me at the consulate. Perhaps John will like that hellish place better than I. And what of you?”
“I’m still in St. Ives, though I spend far more time in London than I care to. I never did thank you for watching over Lenore when I was in America.” Before he’d left for America, he’d asked Lansdowne to make certain Lenore had what she needed, for he was certain his father would not.
Lansdowne shook his head. “No need.”
“These last two years have been particularly difficult, with my wife and then my father dying.” A waiter filled a snifter of brandy from the decanter on the table and Augustus took a thoughtful sip. “I’m getting old, Lansdowne. It’s time I got a wife and started a family.”
Drawing back in disbelief, Lansdowne said, “But she’s just died.”
“It’s been two years. You must know there was no love between us. It’s time for me to produce an heir. I cannot believe I’m about to say this, but the responsibility of the title is surprisingly weighty. I’ve come to realize that I do not want to be the Earl of Berkley who let it all fade away.”
Lansdowne chuckled humorlessly. “Death has a way of changing one’s life. I pray my father stays hale and hearty for many years. I’ve no wish for that sort of responsibility.” He took a long draw from his snifter and swallowed it as if it were water. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, you old mother hen.”
“Was I looking at you in a particular way?”
“Yes, you cur. As if you haven’t imbibed until you were blind.”
Augustus laughed, for in his youth, he had done just that. “Just not lately. I haven’t really had a drink since Lenore…”
Lansdowne looked down at his glass, as if he found such maudlin thoughts embarrassing. “Perhaps you had stronger feelings for her than you realized,” he said softly.
“I didn’t. But I was returning to do my duty, to make amends, I suppose. To sire an heir. Obviously, she didn’t care for that plan.” He took a long breath. “What of you? Are you married?”
“God, no. And no desire to, either. My mother has been hinting that it’s time, though.”
“Just hinting?”
“Very well. More than hinting, but she’s not quite at the hysterical bit yet. I think I have at least three or four years before she starts making demands.” He scrubbed his face. “Hate that it’s looming, though.”
Augustus gave him a quizzical look. “Surely the thought of marrying a pretty girl isn’t so bad.”
“Marriage,” he said, as if it were a foreign word that did not easily roll off his tongue. “I just don’t have the heart for it.”
“What does the heart have to do with anything? Marry a girl from a good family, beget your children, and move on to better things. Your heart need never be engaged.”
Lansdowne let out a bitter laugh. “You can say that only because your heart has never been engaged.”
Raising one brow, Augustus said, “Someone back in Singapore?”
Lansdowne shook his head slightly. “Someone from a long time ago.”
“Young man, America has turned you into a heathen. Sit up straight.”
Augustus grinned at his grandmother, which only made her scowl. Still, he sat up straight as she asked, for she would not relent until he did, and he rather liked the old girl. Lady Porter was his grandmother on his mother’s side, the only relation he actually did like, not that there were many to pick from. His father’s brothers had all died years ago, before Augustus had been born, and though he had cousins living somewhere in England, he had no real memory of them.
Grandmamma, on the other hand, had made it her mission to be part of his life. Even those years in America, her letters, great volumes of them, would reach him. It kept him tethered to his homeland, gave him a sense that he belonged to someone other than a father whom he rarely saw, even as a boy.
She lived in a modest home, considering that she was a dowager countess; Grandmother never had been one to put too much stock in possessions. She was one of those old aristocrats who believed showing one’s wealth was the height of vulgarity. Her needs were few: a warm house, loyal servants, good food, and the occasional snifter of brandy—her secret delight, one she’d shared with her late husband. She set great store on the intangible: honor, duty, tradition. She had been horrified when Augustus had gone off to America, fearing he would never return and do his duty. Though Lenore had been from a good family, Grandmamma had found her pedigree lacking; she was the daughter of a lowly knight, hardly worth notice. As snobbish as his grandmother was, when he was with her, Augustus felt he was home, and he could ignore her stalwart insistence that he take his place in society he was born to. As a boy raised by tutors and servants, those rare summers in Bristol had been special indeed. Without them, he would never have experienced being loved and worried over. He never would have seen a husband and wife happy together. His grandfather and grandmother adored one another and were unapologetically in love—a rarity indeed for a marriage arranged by their parents before they’d even met. “I don’t know what I would have done if I had disliked him,” his grandmother would often say. “My duty, I suppose. As you must do yours.” This last was said with a pointed look.
Though it was not overly chilly, he found Lady Porter sitting by a fire, stuffed in a chair surrounded by thick blankets. She wore a cap upon her head and her hands were shoved into a mink muff. She looked, to his great dismay, quite ill, and he wondered why she was not abed. The last time he’d seen her it had been summertime, and she’d been in her garden, a large hat perched upon her head, and had looked robust and happy. Now, seeing her pale, with deep circles beneath her eyes, he realized she would not live forever. Indeed, she might be dying.
“You are looking more beautiful than ever,” he lied, bringing her hand out of her muff and kissing it.
Not one to accept false flattery, his grandmother raised an eyebrow skeptically. “I look like death.”
His stomach clenched at those words, not only the meaning but at how raspy her voice was. “You’ve been ill.”
“A bit under the weather, yes,” she said, breaking up that short sentence with a breath. Augustus forced a smile even as terror filled his heart. What would he do if the only person in the world who loved him no longer existed? “It’s been too long since you’ve been to Bristol, Augustus.” Her voice was unusually raspy and speaking seemed a great effort. She was ill.
“Have you seen a physician?”
She pressed her lips together stubbornly. “Nothing to be done, he says.” She stifled a cough and Augustus grew ever more alarmed. “I am glad you are here, my boy.”
“I know, Grandmamma, and I am sorry. I’ve been restoring Costille House.”
“I thought that was a lost cause.”
Augustus grinned, thinking of Miss Anderson and her remarkable memory. “A local woman with a remarkable memory toured the house before Lenore made her changes and is directing the reconstruction at this very moment. When I return, I hope to see something that more resembles what the old place used to look like.”
His grandmother pulled a face. “Didn’t much care for the old castle in the first place. I daresay Lenore’s changes were probably an improvement.”
It was an oft repeated sentiment so Augustus ignored her. “It is important to me, Grandmamma.” She pressed her lips together but did not argue. “You will like the reason for the renovations, of that I am certain.” He smiled when she old lady perked up a bit. “I am throwing a ball the week before Christmas.”
Something passed through her eyes, and Augustus felt his world drop. She might not live that long. But she wasn’t so sick that she did not argue. “You are still in mourning. You cannot host a ball so soon after your father’s death,” she said, narrowing her eyes, which she did when she pretended to be stern.
“It’s been long enough, and I’ve always found it distasteful to pretend to mourn simply to keep up appearances.”
His grandmother shook her head as if his words were terrible, but her eyes twinkled with agreement. The old earl and Augustus’s grandmother had never gotten along, which was likely the reason his visits to Bristol as a boy had been so infrequent. His grandmother had never hidden her dislike for the old earl and Augustus knew she regretted allowing her daughter to marry him. “Your father dislikes joy,” Lady Porter had said to him once.
It was an apt description.
“No one will travel to St. Ives for a ball so close to Christmas, Augustus, not with the weather.” She paused to catch her breath and Augustus had to fight the urge to have the butler call for a physician. “It’s unheard of. Hold it in London. Surely your townhouse is large enough to accommodate such an event. I cannot fathom why you want to hold a ball in the first place.”
Augustus smiled, something that immediately gained his grandmother’s interest. “I am looking for a countess,” he said, and sat back to enjoy the emotions that crossed his dear grandmamma’s face. “This time, my bride will have the perfect pedigree you insist upon, Grandmamma. What better place to find her than at my own ball? I dislike the London season, as you well know, and I would like to avoid the marriage mart at all costs. Why not bring the brides to me?”
Lady Porter chuckled, sounding so much like her old self, Augustus felt a small amount of relief. “How cunning of you. I suppose you will make no secret as to the purpose of this ball?”
“I was hoping you might mention something to some of your friends,” he said, wiping a bit of lint from his jacket with exaggerated nonchalance.
“You devil,” Lady Porter said, very nearly cackling with delight, though when her laughs turned to chest-wracking coughs, Augustus stood. “I’m fine,” she said, and waved him to sit. “You shall have to hire guards to keep all the young ladies from sneaking in to the affair.”
Augustus grinned. “Do you think you are up to assisting me in creating an invitation list? It’s been so long since I’ve been in town, I hardly know who is who anymore.”
“My boy,” she said, giving him a satisfied smile, “your ball shall be the greatest crush in years. An earl, looking for a bride at a Christmas ball. The mamas will be in a tizzy.”
“I did think it rather a clever idea.”
Lady Porter clapped her hands and a footman stepped forward. “John, go fetch Miss Tillie and have her bring my stationery and writing tools.” Once the footman had left, his grandmother grew quiet. “Will Costille House be ready in time? I cannot imagine it will be, given what you said it looked like.”
“I have been assured that it will be. Either way, I am holding the ball and I will find my bride. Costille House needs a lady.”
“Hmm.”
No one could say more than his grandmother without saying anything, Augustus thought darkly. “Please say whatever is moving around that dusty attic of yours.”
“Insolent boy,” Lady Porter said mildly. “Costille does not need a lady, you do. You know, Augustus, I never truly thought Lenore was a good match for you. Though she was beautiful and intelligent, she thought far too much of herself. I never believed you could be happy together and I always felt you married far beneath yourself. You must promise me that your new bride will be worthy of the Berkley title.” She began coughing, a deep, frightening, rattling sound, but she waved him away again when he stood to assist her. When she recovered, she said, “This cough of mine, it’s been quite persistent this fall. As I was saying, I may not have liked your father overmuch, but he did his duty and his estates flourished. Perhaps your new bride will have a bit more care for you than your first.”
Augustus let out a laugh. “She loathed me.”
Shaking her head, she said, “She loathed your father. But that is water under the bridge. I want you to pick a bride who is worthy of you, of the title, and who makes you happy, Augustus. You were always such a lonely little boy, and now I suspect you are a lonely young man. There are worse things, you know. Feeling alone when you are married to someone you should not be married to. Your grandfather and I had something rare, we shared a common background, a deep understanding of our heritage, and I want that for you.”
Augustus shifted uncomfortably under his grandmother’s regard. Such talk of feelings made him ill at ease. He’d never thought to love his wife—such an idea was a complete abstraction—but he wanted a woman who was not disagreeable. He could easily settle for not disagreeable. To appease his grandmother, however, he said, “Of course. I promise I shall find a bride worthy of the earldom. And I shall begin my search for this perfect wife at my ball.”
His grandmother smiled. “It is my most fervent wish to see you well married before I die.”
Those words, more than the cough, more than his grandmother’s appearance, affected him. He would move mountains for her, and if she wanted him to marry well, he damn well would.
* * * *
By the sixteenth day of renovations, Harriet felt she’d become part of the army of laborers who came each day but Sunday to recreate Costille House. The men greeted her warmly, waving or calling out, and Harriet almost had the sense of being in a family—albeit a family of burly men, most of whom had a poor relationship with their razors. She’d missed only three days—two Sundays and one rainy day in which her claim of “going for a walk” would have been met with deep suspicion. Or perhaps not. Perhaps she could have announced she was going for a walk in a blizzard (not that St. Ives had seen a blizzard in a generation) and no one would have raised an eyebrow. She ought to test that theory out, she thought as she left the house one dreary morning more than two weeks after Lord Berkley had left.
His lordship was overdue to return, and Harriet was a bit nervous about his reaction to his house. While the walls were down and some of the more intricate renovations had begun, the house itself was a mess of plaster, dust, wood, and tools. The sounds of sawing, hammering, scraping, and men bellowing to each other over the noise of construction had become ordinary to Harriet, but someone walking into the worksite might see nothing but chaos.
“Miss Anderson, good morning to you,” one of the workers called. “His lordship returned last night.”
Her stomach did a small somersault, and she hurried to find Mr. Billings to determine whether he’d gotten the earl’s reaction to what he had seen thus far. Harriet found Mr. Billings helping to hoist a massive beam back into its rightful place. Though not a young man, Mr. Billings was all muscle, and resembled a bull, red-faced and straining, as he pulled on a thick rope with the help of five other men. Another man was high on a ladder, ready to guide the great slab of wood into its place. Opposite him, another worker waited on a second ladder.
None of the men saw her yet, and were letting out a stream of colorful curses, all directed at the beam. “A bit more, boys. Devil take it, this beam has got to be as heavy as your wife, Jimmy.” The comment produced rough laughter, and Jimmy’s response threatened to make the men too weak to continue their task. “I need a cock as big as this beam to make her happy. And she’s a happy woman, lads, let me tell you.”
Harriet had thought she’d gotten used to hearing off-color language, but this made her cheeks flush scarlet. She had no idea men said such things to one another, even in jest.
“Gentlemen, there is a lady present.” All the men turned, first to look at the man standing on the second ladder—Lord Berkley himself—and then to look at Harriet. The men instantly sobered and Harriet found herself blushing even more under the men’s scrutiny, particularly his lordship’s. She could not bring herself to look at him, and for some reason his presence in the room made the situation even more embarrassing.
Harriet waved a hand to let them know she had not been offended, even though she was rather mortified.
Soon the men went back to the task at hand and Harriet watched the delicate operation of setting the beam into place. Within minutes, the men let out a collective cheer as the beam slid home. Harriet tried not to look in Berkley’s direction, but it was nearly impossible not to. Unlike the workers, Berkley wore fine clothes, minus his jacket and vest, and it seemed to Harriet somehow wicked to view him so unclothed. In moments, he was gracefully descending the ladder, skipping the last three rungs, and landing with a bound on the marble floor.
Harriet couldn’t help thinking how very young he seemed, without the uniform of an aristocratic man.
“Mr. Billings has given me an account of the last sixteen days, Miss Anderson, and I must say I am pleased.” He was grinning widely, hands on hips, his forehead glistening with a fine sheen of sweat, his shirt clinging to his body in a most distracting way. She’d been around sweating men for sixteen days and had never felt so very disconcerted. Now she found herself looking at the work, the other men, anywhere but Lord Berkley. The way his damp shirt showed what lay beneath, hard, well-defined muscle of the sort she’d only seen on statues, was very nearly indecent. Deliciously indecent.
Harriet straightened as that errant thought flew through her mind, and she pressed her lips together in an effort to gather herself before dipping a quick curtsy. “Thank you, my lord. The men have been working extremely hard.”
“And so has Miss Anderson,” Mr. Billings put in, wiping his brow with a cloth. He offered the damp cloth to Lord Berkley and Harriet was surprised when he took it without hesitation, using it to wipe his own brow. “She’s been here nearly every day and never complaining nor growing short with the men. An angel, sir.”
Harriet felt her cheeks heat under Mr. Billing’s praise.
“Thank you, Mr. Billings,” Berkley said, handing the cloth back to the foreman. “I am beginning to think my impossible demands might actually be met.”
Mr. Billings nodded his head, then made his way back to the crew, shouting orders that were immediately followed, while Lord Berkley walked over to a saw horse and gathered up his vest and jacket.
“I do apologize for my appearance,” he said with a small bow. “I have no fear of heights and the man Mr. Billings was sending up was clearly terrified.”
“No need to apologize, my lord,” she said, still unable to look directly at him until he’d completed putting his clothes on. “I am happy you are pleased. I was concerned that when you arrived amidst such commotion, it would not be obvious how much work has actually been done. The staircase is my favorite discovery.”
“Staircase? I had to use makeshift steps last night to get to my room.”
Indeed, where his wife’s monstrosity of black and white tiled staircase with wrought iron railings had been was now a crude wooden staircase. Gone was the thick stone balustrade, the massive lions that had served as newel posts. The sight of the new staircase the night he returned had nearly driven him over the edge.
“I found the original in the barn and the men are gathering up all the pieces today to begin reconstructing it. It’s positively massive and I cannot believe our good fortune that it was saved. Indeed, it appears that very nearly everything but the roof in the great hall was saved. I think whoever was hired to remove the items took far greater care with them than we originally believed.”
His eyes widened. “The lions are still intact?”
“All three. The largest was buried a bit, but he’s there in all his ferocious glory from what I can see of him.” The staircase was shaped like an upside-down Y and at the center had been an immense statue of a lion, its great paw on a large gold-plated globe. Harriet remembered the first time she saw it, she’d been tempted to climb aboard. It had seemed such a majestic creature, and long after she’d completed the tour, she’d thought of him and imagined he came to life at night. She’d only been twelve years old and awed by the majesty of the castle. Even during her second tour, when she’d been sixteen, she’d had an urge to ride her old friend. Finding him amidst the debris was like finding a treasure, and clearly Lord Berkley felt much the same.
“When I was a boy, I use to climb on them, of course only when my father was not in residence.” He grinned. “He was rarely home so I climbed on them a great deal. I would imagine they were alive and we would have wonderful adventures.”
“You did not,” Harriet exclaimed. “I did the very same thing with the fellow in the center. Of course, I didn’t get to climb on him, but I wanted to. And I used to dream he’d come alive.” They grinned at one another until Lord Berkley looked away, his expression turning almost immediately serious. “I was only twelve,” Harriet added, aware his lordship’s mood had taken a decided turn.
“I’d like to see them, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course.” Harriet led the way. Since her arrival, a mist had begun to fall, layering all outside in a frost of tiny droplets. It was a cold, raw day, a typical mizzle, it was, and so dark it was almost as if the sun hadn’t quite made it up, but at least it was calm. As they walked through a landscape muted by the mist and gray skies, it seemed as if every sound were accentuated, from her footsteps to his soft breaths behind her. By the time they were in sight of the barn, Harriet’s skirts were damp and her hair coated with mist. Hair that had been held in a loose bun sprang free, and she could feel large pieces bouncing lightly around her head. She knew in minutes she would look a sight, and she silently cursed herself for not wearing her hooded jacket. As they reach the great, yawning opening of the barn, Harriet was mortified that her hair was a riot of corkscrew curls.
“Wait. Stop.”
Bracing herself to face him, knowing she had turned into some sort of blond medusa, Harriet turned, a forced smile on her face. “Yes, my lord.”
He stared at her as if she had, indeed, sprung a headful of live snakes. Silently, he walked up to her, his dark blue eyes pinned to her head, and it took a great effort not to try to tame or cover the nightmare of curling, springing tendrils.
When Lord Berkley reached her, he stopped, his eyes taking in the sight of her unruly curls, but the look on his face was anything but horrified. Instead, he looked fascinated. Harriet stood beneath his stare, silent, tense, waiting for him to say something. Instead, he reached out and gently tugged on one fat curl, then let it spring back into place.
“It is miraculous,” he said as if her hair was some sort of wonder. “Let it down, Miss Anderson.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t.”
“Then I will.” He maneuvered behind her so quickly, Harriet didn’t know what to do or say. She took a step away, then stilled when she felt his hands on her hair, working to release her hair pins. In seconds, she could feel the heavy weight of her hair on her back. “Will this curl as well?”
“Yes.” She choked out the word, feeling her cheeks heating. Already, the bits that had gotten wet were springing about her head.
“I should like to see that, Miss Anderson.”
He moved back in front of her, staring at her head as if she were a creature he’d never seen.
* * * *
Plain Miss Anderson of the straw-like hair and pinched expression had been transformed before his eyes. With her face surrounded by curls, she was softened somehow, the almost harsh plains of her face made appealing. More than appealing. Her eyes were bluer, her lush lips pinker. He wasn’t certain if he was going completely mad, but he simply could not believe how very lovely she was without her hair dragged back severely from her face.
“Why on earth would you wear your hair any other way, Miss Anderson?”
She lifted a self-conscious hand to the riot of curls now surrounding her head. “My mother says it’s unbecoming.”
“You mother is wrong. I forbid you to wear your hair any other way.” He was jesting, but he was also curious as to how she would react.
“Forbid me? That is hardly your place, my lord, even if I am an employee.” She seemed to be about to get all in a tizzy, when she snapped her mouth closed. “You are joking, of course.”
He sketched a small bow. “Of course. I cannot forbid you, but I would request that you wear your hair as God created it.”
Miss Anderson’s brow furrowed. “Why does it matter to you how I wear my hair?”
“I like pretty things.” The line between her eyes deepened. He’d never met a woman in his life who didn’t blush and smile when called pretty.
“May I have my hair pins back?” she asked, holding out her hand, palm up, refusing to look into his eyes. He dropped them into her hand with a regretful sigh, then watched as she expertly pulled back the two front sections, leaving the rest of her glorious locks loose. The effect was, frankly, stunning.
With a scowl of his own, Augustus turned and began heading for the barn.
“I can’t very well run around with my hair down entirely,” she called after him, misunderstanding the reason for his scowl. “It would be indecent.”
“What is indecent is doing whatever it is you do to make your hair look as if it’s dry, hard straw,” he said without breaking stride, and he smiled when he heard her let out a small grunt of anger. He could hear her behind him, hurrying her steps so she could keep up with him, and for some reason the sound of her boots on the graveled path behind him made him smile even more. A true gentleman would have slowed his steps, perhaps offered his arm, but he found it more amusing to irk the lady.
When he stopped at the barn door, she came up next to him, out of breath, her cheeks rosy and her eyes snapping with irritation. “You look thoroughly vexed, Miss Anderson.”
She forced a smile. “Not at all, my lord.”
He laughed and her look darkened. Augustus had no idea why he liked to bother Miss Anderson, but he did. “Let’s find my lions.” He pulled open the door, this time with anticipation. The first time he’d seen the pile, he’d wanted to weep, even though its discovery meant that at least some of Costille House had been saved. The only time he’d returned was to show Miss Anderson that first day. He’d felt sick looking at the pile of debris, believing it impossible that the old girl could ever be restored. Now, though, with his little female wonder, he finally began to believe Costille House could shine once again. Already he could see her coming back to life, could imagine what it would be like to have her back completely. By God, Costille House would be ready for his ball and his future bride. Whoever she might be.
Miss Anderson walked past him, lifting her skirts to step over a large metal rod that he dimly recalled having been hanging on the wall in the great hall. He hoped to get a glimpse of her trim ankle, but was disappointed when only a pair of sturdy boots was revealed. As she walked, her newly free and fascinating hair bounced up and down, lovely soft springs that he itched to touch. Or push out of the way so that he could press his lips against her pale, smooth neck.
Augustus stopped still as if he’d walked into a wall, shocked by where his thoughts had gone, how his body was reacting to those thoughts. Even with that splendid hair, she was not beautiful, so he could not fathom why he was thinking about anything other than finding his lions. He certainly did not want to begin to think of his employee as an object of lust. As Miss Anderson stepped gingerly around a bit of clutter, she reached up and balanced herself by touching the barn wall, lifting and tightening her dress, revealing suddenly the enticing curves that were normally well-hidden by the ill-fitting gown. It looked as if the dress had far too much fabric, so that Miss Anderson appeared to be drowning in a murky lake of brown wool. She very well could be quite lovely beneath that ugly dress, he realized. An image of her lying on his bed, naked and pale with that glorious hair spread about around her, looking up at him…
“Lord Berkley? Were you not listening?” By God, he could feel his cheeks redden, as if she knew what he’d just been thinking.
“Apparently not,” he said, trying to make his tone neutral.
Miss Anderson pursed her lips and let out another irritated breath. “Your lions, sir, are in the very back of the pile, along with pieces of the staircase itself. They appear to be in fine shape, though one of the lions, the one who sat on the right, does have a large nick out of his mane.”
Augustus made his way to where Miss Anderson was standing, making a great effort not to look at her. For the first time in years, he was not certain he would be able to school his features and hide the unexpectedly searing rush of lust he was trying to tame. His pants were growing almost painfully tight, and he tugged down his jacket to make certain nothing of his physical reaction to her was showing.
Bloody hell, he was not a man who lusted after virgins or plain little commoners who were in his employ. What in God’s name was wrong with him?
The inside of the barn was gloomy, for no sun shined through the high windows this day, making it a bit difficult to traverse the refuse on the floor. Furniture, chandeliers, pikes, and shields seemed to have been tossed haphazardly into the room. Upon closer inspection, though the pile seemed to have been created by a careless hand, he could now see few of the articles had sustained any damage.
A tearing sound broke the silence, and then a cry of female dismay.
“I hope the damage isn’t too severe,” he called.
“Just the hem. Caught on a spear.” Then she muttered, “I wonder how many women have uttered those words.”
She was looking down at the damage, her curls hiding her face, when she suddenly lost her balance and landed on her rear, letting out a small oomph.
“Are you trying to impale yourself, Miss Anderson?”
She looked up, her beautiful eyes seeming to glow in the muted light. “You haven’t driven me to something as dire as that. Yet.”
Augustus was silent for a moment, letting her witty comment wash over him, as surprising as a rogue wave. He let out a bark of laughter and was gratified to see her smile. It took only a few steps until he was standing above her, looking down. Then he sat beside her on what appeared to be an overturned bench.
Ignoring her look of surprise, he said, “Why don’t we sit and chat a spell? As a gentleman, I can hardly continue to stand if you are sitting. Were you injured?”
“Only my pride and my dress,” she said, indicating the large rip in the hem of her dress. “I fear it’s ruined.”
“Certainly you cannot be heartbroken. It’s not a very pretty dress.”
Again, that throaty chuckle. “No, it’s not. But it is a perfect dress to wear on a damp day whilst tramping about a dusty old barn.”
Augustus rested his wrists on his knees and settled back a bit against the barn wall, then looked up at the great pile that had once graced his home. “They’re not just things, you know. They are my family’s history, our heritage. I can hardly imagine this will all be back in place in a matter of weeks.”
“It will, my lord, I assure you.”
“I do wish you would call me Gus.”
Her eyes widened as if he’d asked her to call him Beelzebub. “I could never be so forward. And even if I was…Gus?”
He let out a low chuckle. “It’s what everyone in America called me. There, I was just a man.”
“And here?”
“Here, I am something else entirely, aren’t I? My lord. Earl of Berkley. Sometimes, I think I would like to go back to America where I am simply Gus.”
Miss Anderson wrinkled her nose in distaste of the nickname.
“Come now, Gus isn’t so bad. What is your given name? I confess I have forgotten.”
“Harriet.”
“Good God,” he muttered. “I cannot call you that. It doesn’t suit, not at all. Harriet? Why on earth would your mother name you that?”
She didn’t seem offended by his comments, which was a relief. He did have a tendency to be callous. “My parents fervently wished for a boy and were convinced I was one. They picked out the name Harrison, and then out I came. I was a Disappointment. That’s with a capital D.” She let out a small laugh. “With Clara they had the perfect little girl and I supposed they wanted the perfect little boy.”
Augustus could detect no self-pity in her words, but rather resignation. “Your sister is lovely, but I’m not at all attracted to her.”
Miss Anderson shot him a look of complete disbelief. “You seemed rather taken by her at the John Knill ball. One look and you were drawn to her like a moth to a flame. I didn’t even get a chance to give you a proper curtsy.”
He remembered well that night, except for the part about meeting the woman sitting next to him. Clara Anderson was one of the most beautiful woman he’d ever met, and yet he’d been telling the truth when he’d told Miss Anderson he was not attracted to her. “Your sister is beautiful, so I cannot really say why I am indifferent to her charms. She wasn’t cold by any means, but there was something in her demeanor…” Then it came to him and he lifted his finger like a professor about to make an important point. “I’ve got it. She behaved like a woman whose heart has already been taken. It was clear that though she was surrounded by men who were interested in her, she had no interest in them.”
Miss Anderson gave him a quizzical look. “That can’t be right. You must have misunderstood. Clara’s heart is not engaged. She’s turned down more men than I can think of, and when she’d not traveling with my parents in search of a husband, she is in her garden. I think instead of a man, she might have been thinking about the best way to cross-pollinate some plant.”
They were silent for a spell and for some reason, Augustus had no desire to move. He took a moment to study her profile. Her nose had the smallest bump midway down and was perhaps a tad too large for her delicate features. Her mouth was clearly defined, sculpted on top and soft and pillowy on the bottom, and a tiny mole sat just above the corner. Hers was an interesting profile, not perfect by any means, but it seemed to fit her with its unexpectedly lush mouth and too-large nose. She was far lovelier than he’d realized, and he found he liked that small bump and that tiny mole. Thoughts of seeing his beloved lions had disappeared and he realized he was enjoying himself more than he had in a long time. “I shall call you…Catalina.”
“Catalina?”
“I met a cowboy from Argentina and his wife’s name was Catalina. She was exotic and dark and had the most mysterious smile.”
Miss Anderson let out an unladylike snort. “She sounds like my twin.”
He grinned at her and shrugged. “It means ‘pure’ and I think it suits you.” He let his gaze sweep across her curls. “You are mysterious, Miss Anderson.”
Her cheeks instantly reddened and she looked away. Reaching down, she fiddled with the long, thin strip of cloth that had been torn from her dress, a gesture that for some reason affected him in a strange, unidentifiable way.
“I wonder what you would do if I kissed you right now,” he said, his words coming out far more intense than he’d meant, as if kissing this woman had become vital to him.
She shot him a quick look, panic in her light blue eyes, before turning her gaze once again to the tear. “I would slap you, my lord.”
“Gus.”
She pressed her pretty lips together and he wondered if she were angry or trying not to smile. He hoped the latter. “I would slap you. Gus.”
Letting out a low chuckle, he moved his hand, very nearly touching her shoulder, then softly pulled on one of her curls. “I would expect nothing less, Miss Anderson.” Then he abruptly stood, startling her, and held out a hand for her to take.
With the smallest hesitation, she laid her hand in his and allowed him to help her up. “Now, where are my lions?”
* * * *
He wanted to know where his lions were. Harriet could hardly manage to point, so shaken was she by his question. Kiss her? Why would he say such a thing? Just to see her reaction, no doubt. Lord Berkley did seem to take perverse pleasure in ruffling her feathers, which was why she tried so hard to hide how he was affecting her.
Perhaps the worst realization was that she didn’t know what she would have done had he actually kissed her. Would she have slapped him? Part of her, a very large part of her, said no. The idea that he might was possibly the most exciting thing to have happened to her in ages.
No one had ever kissed her, nor seemed as if they’d wanted to. It was excruciating to recall the terrible crushes she’d allowed herself to have on men who were so far beyond her it was laughable. And here she was, developing a crush on an earl. He, of all the men she’d held a tendre for, was the most unlikely of all.
Yet, as they stood there, side by side, as she pointed out one of the lions, she felt his presence, as if she were somehow connected to him. It was ridiculous, so she said a silent reminder over and over, “It is impossible. It is impossible.”
Because it was impossible, for so many different reasons, not even taking into consideration that he was a peer and she was the daughter of a commoner. Lord Berkley, tall, masculine, handsome in a way that made women sigh as he walked by, was about as attainable to her as the moon or the stars. Harriet Anderson, who was pragmatic in nearly all things, had the soul of a romantic and a heart given away far too easily.
“There they are,” he said, then easily stepped over a large chair before pushing aside a carpet no doubt woven two centuries ago, to reveal the great head of the center lion. “Hello.”
And with that gentle little hello meant for a carved lion, Harriet found her heart warming. It is impossible. She thought that fervently, but the sight of this great man laying a gentle hand atop his old friend was quite endearing. When he looked back at her and grinned, her heart gave a painful little flip.
Oh, no.
Later that day, after Lord Berkley had departed, Harriet was able to relax and get back to the job at hand. It was nearly impossible for her to work with him nearby; her awareness of him was a terrible distraction. What made matters worse, she was quite certain she was the last thing on his mind, while he was all she could think of.
So when he told Mr. Billings he was leaving and likely would not return before the end of the day, Harriet sagged with relief. Construction would be completed within three weeks, and then the finer details—returning everything to its proper place—would begin. Lord Berkley’s study, now that the floral wallpaper was removed from the thick, dark paneling, was looking much more as it had. One panel contained a mural, which he’d feared had been ruined, but which was uncovered and easily restored. It was almost, she thought, as if whoever had done the changes had meant them to be temporary. Yes, the alterations had been extensive, but much of what had been removed had been stored away, and the more permanent changes had been done in a way that was fairly easy to reverse. A thought had occurred to Harriet as she watched a worker tear out an ornately carved bit of paneling to reveal the original, still intact and gleaming, that none of this had been meant to last. That perhaps Lord Berkley’s wife had been conducting some sort of elaborate prank.
Or punishment.
His study was nearly complete, the large, masculine desk and rich leather furnishings some of the first items put back into place. Such a satisfying feeling to have nearly everything again as it should be.
As she studied the room, her eyes kept returning to a particular shelf where thick old volumes had been stored. Here, there had been no change that she could note, but still, she went back, stepping closer to see if she could find what was bothering her so. Then she saw it, a thick volume, but smaller than the rest, jammed in between two books on husbandry. Closing her eyes, she looked at the pictures in her mind and realized that smaller book had not been there before.
Curious, she got on her tip-toes and reached for the book, nearly dropping it in the process. She realized almost immediately what she held—the former lady’s journal, the very item that had helped exonerate Lord Berkley during the inquiry into the lady’s death. Feeling only a niggling of guilt, Harriet opened the book to the last written page.
I realize I cannot live this way any longer. I am so deeply unhappy and I fear that if I continue in this way, I will face a lifetime of misery and regret. I have prayed nightly for an answer. Alas, I see only one.
Harriet felt a shiver go down her spine. That poor, poor woman. She could not imagine being so desperate as to take one’s own life. Had Lord Berkley been such a terrible husband that death had been her only option? The man she knew didn’t seem awful, but clearly Lady Greenwich had been so distraught over his return that she’d felt death had been her only option. Fighting tears, Harriet put the book back in its place and walked from the room, heading toward Costille House’s medieval tower, the very one Lady Greenwich had thrown herself from the night her husband had returned. The farther she walked, the more silent the house became, until she only heard her own footsteps on the wide-planked floor beneath her feet. During the tours, the tower had not been open to visitors. Nothing had been done to this part of the house. The original stone steps, worn in spots from countless footsteps, led up to the top of the tower, where arrow slits remained to tell of another age.
A brisk breeze hit her as she opened the thick, plank door that led to the top of the tower.
Outside, the sky was still overcast, but a milky sun was struggling to push past the clouds, and mist was no longer falling. Harriet walked to the edge and peered out of one of the arrow slits, then stepped back and looked up at the wall, still damp from the earlier rain. This was the very spot from which Lady Greenwich had jumped to her death on the cobblestones below, but it was rather curious. The wall was quite high, and Harriet wondered how on earth the lady had managed it, dressed in a ball gown such as she was. Harriet walked to the wall, which was as high as her nose. It wouldn’t have been impossible to get to the top, particularly if Lady Greenwich was an athletic woman, but it would not have been easy. Placing her hands atop the wall, Harriet gave a small jump just to see if she could shimmy up, but quickly realized she didn’t have the height nor strength to haul herself to the top. Perhaps, she thought, there had been a bench Lady Greenwich had used.
Or perhaps, as the police commissioner had initially thought, she had been pushed.