“Do read to me,” said Aunt Rebecca. “My poor eyes are too weak.”
Harriet smiled and smoothed out one of the newspapers. “What do you wish to hear about, Aunt Rebecca? The war in the Peninsula? The new regent?”
“No. the social gossip. I want to hear all about the balls and parties and what everyone was wearing.”
“Very well. Good heavens! Here is intelligence of Cordelia. It says: ‘Lady Bentley still shines, although our great metropolis is thin of company. At the opera, she caused more eyes to turn in her direction than Catalini. That famous singer was quite eclipsed by our modish beauty, whose shining hair, dressed à la Titus, outshone the glory of the Bentley diamonds.’”
Harriet slowly lowered the paper. “Do you realize, Aunt,” she said in a thin, little voice, “that just one, just one tiny little Bentley diamond could keep us in modest comfort for quite a long time?”
“Dear, dear, haven’t I often thought so? But you know, Harriet, it does not do to be thinking of such things. That leads to self-pity, and self-pity is such an uncomfortable state of mind, rather like the colic. My delicate nervous system will not stand self-pity or bad thoughts. Is there any gossip?”
“Plenty. Oh, if I am not mistaken, here is Cordelia again, although it refers to her as Lady B. Can the M. of A. be the Marquess of Arden?”
Aunt Rebecca flicked through the pages of the peerage in her mind. “Bound to be,” she said at last. “Depends, of course, what the gossip is about. There is the Marquess of Anstruther, but he is in his dotage—not that that would deter Cordelia.”
“It is all rather nasty,” said Harriet. “No one will ever forgive Cordelia for selling the Bentley estates, and at such a profit. They would rather she had lost them at the gaming tables and then shot herself like a respectable member of the ton. It says here: ‘Can the famous estates of the M. of A. be at risk? As well as his notoriously flinty heart? Rumor hath it that our noble peer is enamored of the fair Lady B., who is well known for her agility in disposing of landed estates. Let us hope that the M. of A. loses only his bachelordom, and not his
shirt
as well.’”
“Oh, how cruel!”
“I cannot see Cordelia caring what anyone says of her … provided she gets what she wants. Do you think our marquess would be enamored of such as Cordelia?”
“Of course,” said Aunt Rebecca simply. “There was never a man who was not.”
Harriet scowled horribly.’ This one little party, this short intrusion of the fashionable world into her own life, had brought color and magic—and discontent. The long, empty days of cold and hunger stretched ahead. Cordelia had never known what it was to be hungry or cold. She had ruthlessly sold all the best items in Pringle House to supply herself with a wardrobe to dazzle Lord Bentley.
Aunt Rebecca and Harriet had to survive on a tiny annuity. Under the terms of the late Mrs. Clifton’s will. Pringle House could not be sold, or they would forfeit their annuity. Mrs. Clifton had gone to her grave convinced that everything would turn out splendidly for her daughters. Having never handled any money or bills herself, she was sure the annuity would be ample enough to keep the large house and large staff. The clause forbidding the sale of Pringle House had been put there for sentimental reasons. Mrs. Clifton had loved the mansion and wished it to stay in the Clifton family.
“When did we last write to Cordelia?” asked Harriet suddenly.
“On her birthday, last June. We always send her a little present on her birthday.”
“And she did not even bother to reply,” said Harriet grimly, “although that shawl you crocheted took months, and the silks cost us more than we could really afford.” Harriet took a sustaining gulp of port.
The kitchen fire crackled busily as the wind outside began to rise and snowflakes whispered against the windows.
Harriet took a deep breath. “I think, Aunt,” she said, “that we should pay Cordelia a visit.”
“Just what I was thinking,” said Aunt Rebecca calmly, much to Harriet’s surprise, since she had braced herself to face another bout of hysterics. “I was much taken with the Marquess of Arden,” went on Aunt Rebecca, knitting busily. “Such a fine man. And not at all old. About thirty, I should think. The gentlemen,
both
of them, were attracted to you, dear Harriet.”
“Mr. Hudson was in his altitudes, and the marquess did not favor me at all, although I must allow his manners were of the best,” added Harriet with feeling, remembering how carefully he had kept silent over having seen her naked.
“But he is only
one
man,” said Aunt Rebecca dreamily. “When the Season comes, London will be full of them just waiting to be picked up, like pebbles.”
“I was not thinking of marriage,” said Harriet. “I was thinking of warmth and comfort and food. If Cordelia thought she did not have to show me to her friends, but simply feed me, I do not think she would mind so much.”
“Our yearly allowance is due next week,” said Aunt Rebecca. “It is not much, and we cannot possibly spend it all or we would have no money for our return. But perhaps we might have enough to purchase two outside seats on the stage.”
“I could sell the hens to Farmer Pennyfeather,” said Harriet, “and leave the keys of the house with the church for safekeeping. It is not as if we have to worry about being robbed. We have nothing left to steal.” She giggled. “Won’t Cordelia be furious!”
“No, no. I am sure her natural good feelings, which have long lain dormant, will come to the surface,” said Aunt Rebecca. “I will write to her tomorrow and apprise her of our coming.”
“No, don’t do that,” said Harriet slowly. “We’ll surprise her.”
“Oh, yes,” said Aunt Rebecca, smiling through a rosy, port-induced mist. “That
will
be fun!”
When the next morning dawned, cold and sleety, Aunt Rebecca had become nervous and anxious again. The idea of packing up and journeying to London to throw themselves on Cordelia’s hospitality seemed a terrifying idea in the sober light of day.
Aunt Rebecca pottered miserably and uselessly about the kitchen and then announced she was taking to her bed for the rest of the morning because all the excitement of the day before had badly damaged her nerves.
Harriet was forced to confess to herself that she did not feel very courageous either, but there were the seemingly endless household chores induced by poverty and lack of servants to keep her busy.
It was only when she found herself looking for an old pair of cotton gloves to cover her hands, which she had just anointed in a mixture of bacon grease and lemon juice to reduce their redness, that she realized she was still determined to go to London, and repairing her damaged hands was one little step in that direction.
By early afternoon, wails and shuffling sounds from Aunt Rebecca’s bedroom, which was in the old study off the hall, heralded her second appearance of the day.
Then came the clamor of the door knocker.
Harriet ran to answer the door, her heart beating hard.
A liveried servant stood on the steps. “The Marquess of Arden’s compliments,” he said. “Will you deliver this package to Miss Harriet Clifton direct? His lordship said it was most important.”
Harriet realized he took her for the maid, but did not correct him. She could hardly wait until she had regained the kitchen so that she could open the small parcel.
Aunt Rebecca came in as she was tearing off the paper.
“Was that someone at the door, my love?” she asked.
“A servant with this package from the Marquess of Arden,” Harriet told her.
Harriet ripped off the last piece of paper and looked in dismay at a small, square morocco jewel box. He could not possibly be sending her jewelry. Gentlemen did not send jewelry to young misses unless they were members of the Fashionable Impure. Perhaps he thought she was!
She opened the box and lifted out a letter that was lying on top. Underneath, embedded in silk, were ten golden sovereigns.
“Dear Miss Clifton,” she read. “Pray accept this small payment to compensate for the murder of your birds. On behalf of myself and my cousin. I wish to thank you and your aunt for a most pleasant impromptu visit. Yr. Humble Servant, Arden.”
She read it again, aloud.
“Ten sovereigns!” exclaimed Aunt Rebecca. “And presented with such tact.” She sat down in a chair and rested her chin on her hand and thought hard.
The Marquess of Arden was unmarried. He had gone to extraordinary lengths to be kind to them. Correction. To be kind to
Harriet
. Therefore, it followed he had been struck by her beauty. Aunt Rebecca adored romances. Gentlemen were always being “struck” by beauty. It would be wicked—it would be flying in the face of providence—not to take Harriet to London.
Aunt Rebecca wandered off into a comfortable dream where Harriet was the Marchioness of Arden, and she herself, dressed in the finest silk and covered with a Norfolk shawl, held court in the fashionable West End of London.
“What are you thinking?” asked Harriet.
“I am thinking,” said Aunt Rebecca slowly, “that we have a great deal to do before we go to London.”
Harriet gave her a quick hug. “So we
are
going! What
will
Cordelia say, I wonder?”
“She cannot turn us away,” said Aunt Rebecca stoutly.
Cordelia Bentley had a strong and healthy constitution, which was just as well since the latest fashions were causing the fair sex to drop like flies from pneumonia and influenza.
Despite the chill spring, Cordelia was dressed to receive visitors in a gown of thinnest pink India muslin, long pink gloves, heel less slippers, a white slip, and nothing else.
Her golden hair was cut fashionably short and formed a tight cap of curls on her small head.
She had wide blue eyes, a neat, straight nose, and a small, full-lipped, pouting mouth. By keeping to a rigorous diet prescribed by that leader of fashion Beau Brummell—vinegar and boiled potatoes—she had managed to combat a tendency to run to fat.
She had shrewdly invested the money she had gained from the sale of the Bentley estates in the Funds and was therefore able to keep a smart house on Hill Street in Mayfair, and a staff of well-trained servants and to look about for a new husband at her leisure.
She had had two discreet affairs since the death of her husband, both of which had augmented her bank balance. But fear of losing respectability and therefore spoiling her chances of a successful marriage had rendered her celibate. She was determined to become the Marchioness of Arden, although she feared Lord Arden did not have marriage in mind. Still, she was confident of bringing him to heel and dragging him to the altar. The power of her beauty had grown, and at twenty-five, she knew she outshone any of the new and younger beauties on the London scene.
Her house was furnished in the latest fashion. Everything was in gold and red stripes. In her drawing room was a very fine portrait of herself and Harriet when they were children, painted by Sir Thomas Lawrence. She had told Aunt Rebecca and Harriet that she had sold it, but, in fact, she had decided to keep it to provide herself with evidence of an aristocratic background.
Guests admired it greatly and listened with rapt attention when she told the sad story of her baby sister, Harriet, who had died in her arms on the riverbank after she, Cordelia, had bravely tried to rescue her from drowning. Cordelia had told the story so many times she had quite come to believe it herself.
She was sure it had impressed the Marquess of Arden. Certainly, his surly cousin, Mr. Hudson, had looked upon her with rare enthusiasm and, the last time he had called, had asked her to repeat the story.
Cordelia was expecting the marquess to call. She hoped he would come alone instead of bringing that awful cousin with him as he usually did.
She rang the bell and told the butler to tell Mrs. Hurlingham to present herself in the drawing room.
Cordelia did not like Mrs. Hurlingham, but she paid her nonetheless for her services as a companion.
She had found that a young widow needed the company of a respectable female to give her ton. She had placed a discreet advertisement in the
Morning Post
and had hired a hotel room for the day in which to interview the applicants, not wishing to cope with a line of dull females in her own home.
Agnes Hurlingham proved to be exactly the sort of female Cordelia felt she required. Mrs. Hurlingham had never been married but had simply adopted the title of a married woman when she had reached the great age of thirty. She was now thirty-one. She was a short, heavy-set woman with a heavy, sallow face from which two small bright blue eyes burned with the grim light of sexual frustration, combined with all the other frustrations imposed on a highly intelligent, passionate woman of insufficient education who had been confined in a narrow cell of country life and genteel poverty.
She was a bishop’s daughter, and the one thing she had in common with Cordelia was that her father had been a spendthrift during his lifetime and had died leaving his only daughter in straitened circumstances.
But she hailed from the untitled aristocracy, and every dowdy line of her breathed gentility, respectability, and breeding. Agnes Hurlingham did not like Cordelia, but she was grateful to her for all the comforts of a home in the West End, and of the two of them she was the one who enjoyed the plays and operas—unlike Cordelia, who judged the evening by the notables in the audience.
Agnes’s duties were to act as companion and chaperone. With her present, Cordelia felt that she had license to flirt outrageously. No one could accuse her of being
fast
with such a dragon beside her.
Agnes walked into the drawing room and slumped down in her usual chair well away from the fire. She was wearing a dowdy gown of some repellent brown stuff that seemed to be held together at the neck by a large mourning brooch.
“Who have we today. Lady Bentley?” she asked. “Arden, I suppose.”
“Yes, Arden, and let us hope he leaves his cousin behind. It is very hard to indulge in dalliance with that young man glooming and dooming around the place.”