Authors: Jeanne Savery
“Nor you, my dear.”
They held hands and closely scrutinized each other. Harriet decided that perhaps her friend
had
changed. The constant tension Joanna had betrayed when Harriet knew her in Portugal had gone. Her features were relaxed and happiness shown from her eyes.
“I was wrong, Jo. You have changed. There’s a new composure, a quiet happiness, and I believe you are more lovely than ever.”
Jo laughed, squeezing Harriet’s hands. “I know what you mean. I loved my Reggie, but one could never relax with him. All that energy! And his constant need for excitement and distraction! My life with Pierce is very different. I
am
happy, Harriet.”
“You once mentioned a man named Pierce. I believed you hated him.”
“There is an old saying that love and hate are two sides of the same coin. I hated him because I believed he’d betrayed my innocent feelings for him. A woman, pretending to be a friend, told me lies, and I believed them. Pierce and I straightened that out and my old love for him returned stronger than ever.”
“So—you are married. And children?”
Jo blushed. “We’ve been married less than a year, but yes. I believe so. I’ve told no one else, Harriet.”
Harriet squeezed the hands she still held. “Then your suspicions are very new.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll not tell. Oh, Jo, it is so good to see you!”
They talked and talked, telling each other what had happened in their lives. Jo felt guilty at her friend’s recent history. “If only I had known! We shouldn’t have lost touch when I left Portugal. After Reggie died at Waterloo I returned to chaperon Elizabeth for my brother, and I didn’t hear of your parent’s deaths. I would have had you come to me, Harri. I was so lonely, and your company would have been a boon.”
“I would have liked that, but if I
had
come to you, I would not have met Françoise. She is a delight, Jo. You will meet her tonight at the party, I believe.”
Jo glanced at the mantel clock. “Oh dear. It is
late.
I must go immediately if I’m to return, properly gowned, in time for dinner. We’ll meet often now that we can, will we not? Isn’t it wonderful?” She hugged Harriet, and they smiled at each other.
Harriet walked Her Grace into the foyer and then, the pleasure of meeting Jo past, she felt guilty that she’d forgotten her duties. She lifted her skirts and took the stairs at anything but a ladylike pace, going first to Madame’s room, where she found the old woman sleeping peacefully with one of her maids sewing by candlelight in one corner. Then she went to Françoise’s room, where she found her charge preparing to go down to the bathing room.
Harriet could not find it in herself to approve the arrangement. It was
not
comfortable, the idea a woman might run into a man while going to or from that bathing room! Only when Françoise had gone down, returned, and shut her door behind her did Harriet close her own door and begin preparing herself for the evening.
The maid came to do her hair and Harriet, her dress laid out on her bed, sat before her mirror, bemused by the softer style the girl achieved. Should she allow it? Françoise came in without asking permission. She glared at the dress on the bed before bundling it up any which-way. The moment the girl finished Harriet’s hair she thrust it at the maid. “See this is burned. It is old and, me, I have tired of it many ages ago. I will not have it, Harri. You have all those new things in your wardrobe, the things Elizabeth and I have chosen especially for you, yet you persist in donning the old. We are in England now.”
“Yes. Where the strictures of society are more rigid than anywhere else in the world. I must not embarrass you or Madame, Frani.”
“You embarrass me when you persist in playing a backward role,” scolded the girl. She opened the wardrobe and picked over the three new evening gowns. “This one, I think,” she said as she removed a silvery blue slip with an over dress of white lawn decorated with fine embroidery. “Elizabeth swore this would become you, and I believe she is correct. She has wonderful taste, has she not?”
“She forgets I am a companion and servant.”
“We’d all forget it, but
you
will not.” Françoise pouted. “I wish you will wear it.” She eyed Harriet and a sly look appeared. “You must obey me if you are, as you insist, a servant, my dear Harri, and, me, I say you are to wear it so you will,
non
?”
Harriet laughed. “You are a rogue. You cannot have it both ways, Frani. Either you order me around like a servant, which means I play that part, or I am your friend and you accept that I cannot step outside my place in life.”
“Wear the dress. Please?” begged Françoise, her eyes big and round and pleading.
Harriet sighed. The maid had obeyed Frani and gone off with her old gown. If she did not wear the dress Françoise had chosen, she must wear an older and rather badly trimmed gown which she detested. “All right,” she said slowly, “I believe none but friends will be at tonight’s party. Perhaps it will serve—just this once.”
The maid returned carrying two delicate bouquets. One she handed to Françoise who reached anxiously for the card. The other the maid took to Harriet who stared from one bouquet to the other.
“Did Lord Halford send them, Frani?”
Her charge blushed rosily, holding a tightly bunched nosegay of bluish-purple petals. “This is from Monsieur de Bartigues. He says he believes the blue of the violets is dimmed by the blue of my eyes. Is that not pretty?”
“How kind of Monsieur de Bartigues. And, as you say, very prettily said. They would look well in your hair, Françoise, if you wish to wear them.” She caught and held Françoise’s gaze. “Just remember, Frani, that, if you do so, you are encouraging the young man to hope his feelings for you are returned.”
Françoise frowned, glancing from Harriet to the bouquet in her hand. She stared at the card, at Harriet and, thoughtfully, left the room. Harriet, wishing the maid had also gone, turned her back and opened her own card.
Firm black script wavered before her eyes as she noted the signature. She moved closer to the lamp and bent her head over the note:
My friend,
he wrote,
I know you too well to believe you will wear any offering of mine for fear I will misinterpret your meaning. Believe me, I will not do so. These poor flowers are only a token of my esteem, and if you will wear them, I will count it no more than an indication that you have accepted my friendship. Your servant in all things, Frederick.
The scent rising from the white freesia filled her senses. Friendship. Only in friendship. If only she could believe him, could stop worrying about his motives, his secret concerns. She stared at the flowers, stared at the lamp and then walked toward the mirror. Friendship. She had agreed to that, had she not? If she did
not
wear his flowers, would he believe she had changed her mind? And if
she
changed her mind, would he? She
had
to wear them, she decided. While she and Sir Frederick were friends, he would not harm Françoise!
Harriet smiled grimly as she watched the maid set several stems of the flowers into her coiffure. How easily she had managed to rationalize her situation so that she could do as she wished to do! Friendship? Bah. She did not wish to be friends with Sir Frederick. She knew that.
He
knew that. He
must
know it, his long experience with women making it impossible he not read her mind and emotions. If Françoise were not in danger, did not need her, Harriet wondered if she would casually throw her bonnet over the moon and enjoy succumbing to Sir Frederick’s charm.
Charm. Yes. He’d make a charming lover. Harriet sighed. She waited until the maid left the room before unlocking the box in which she kept her papers. She read the note again, and quickly thrust it in on top of the rest. It wasn’t exactly a love letter, but it was as close as she’d ever received. When she was old and alone she would take it out and read it again ... and smile over her memories of this period of her life! Ah, if only those memories could include more ... more intimate ... Her thoughts were interrupted.
Françoise asked, “Harriet?”
Harriet closed the wooden lid and locked it. She shoved the box back into the corner of the wardrobe before turning to Françoise. “Yes, love?”
“Will this do?” Françoise turned so Harriet could see the back of her head. Nestled into her curls were two white flowers from a bouquet on a table in the girl’s room and woven in with them a few tiny bunches of violets.
“You are asking how Monsieur de Bartigues will interpret your use of his offering?” asked Harriet.
“Yes.”
“That you don’t know your own mind, I suspect,” responded Harriet with such promptitude it made Françoise turn toward her.
Frani’s face glowed with a smile of amusement. “That is how
you
interpret it. I asked how
he
might do so.”
Harriet’s smile faded. “I think he will understand, Frani. But do not tease the man. I think he has become seriously enamored of you. It would not be kind to give him hope if there is none.”
“I understand. Were your flowers from Sir Frederick?”
“Yes, my innocent, but Sir Frederick is a man of the world. His note makes it possible for me to wear them without giving him one jot of hope.”
“Hmm. I think Monsieur de Bartigues should take lessons. Oh, Harriet, I do
not
know what I feel for him. He amuses me and,” she turned her eyes sideways to look at Harriet from under her lashes, “he makes my blood beat faster, and when he touches me, my heart thumps. I do not know what that means.”
“It means you do not find him unattractive, but that is not love, Françoise. Attraction is important in a marriage, but friendship and companionship are equally as important—perhaps more so.” Friendship and companionship ... which Frederick offered?
“I will think about it.”
“Yes, you do that.” And so will I, thought Harriet, as she followed her charge into Madame’s room. Friendship. It was
important,
but was not
enough.
Not for her. Love. That was what she wanted. What she’d always wanted.
She forced her thoughts from Frederick to Madame whom they discovered was awake and looking much more the thing, far better than one might have expected given her exciting and tiring morning.
“You both look charming,” said the recuperating woman.
“You look lovely yourself, Madame,” said Harriet, smiling at the lacy cap tied in a bow under Madame’s chin. An equally lacy bed jacket showed above covers turned neatly over the thin body. “Are you expecting company?”
“No. I merely felt as if much of the weight of my responsibilities had been lifted from my shoulders and therefore felt like clothing them to match my mood. I think, much to my surprise, I will actually like your grandfather, Françoise.”
“I have not yet made up my mind.”
“That mulish look does not add to your beauty, my child.”
Françoise chuckled at her grandmother’s sharpness. “He is an odd man, is he not?”
“Odd? Perhaps one might describe him so.” Madame added, thoughtfully, “Eccentric is a kinder word, I think.”
“I reserve judgment, Grand-mere—if you will allow me to do so?”
“Allow you? He is your grandfather, Françoise. As long as you show him the respect his position deserves you may
feel
for him what you will.”
“Oh.
Respect
.” Françoise grimaced.
“Yes,” laughed Harriet. “Such a dull thing, is it not? We must go, Madame, or be late downstairs.”
“Run along and enjoy yourselves.” Rings flashed on the gnarled fingers waved them on their way, and Harriet noted the book laid to one side. If Madame felt well enough to read to herself she
was
improving. Harriet moved gracefully to the bedside and leaned down to kiss the wrinkled cheek. Françoise did likewise and the girls, both wondering what their first evening at a London entertainment would bring them, wished Madame good night before going down to join their host and hostess.
Nine
Harriet curtsied deeply to His Grace, Pierce Reston, Duke of Stornway. He reached for her hand and raised her. Lifting her wrist with his own, he bent gracefully to kiss her hand. “Your Grace?” she asked with something between a social smile and a frown of concentration.
“Miss Cole?”
Harriet turned to Joanna who held her husband’s free arm. “I think I understand.”
“I knew you would.” There was a humor-touched aura of smugness about Joanna. “And you, My Lord Duke?”
“I have always believed you an excellent judge of character, Jo. Your Harriet is exactly as you said she’d be.”
“A diplomat as well as all else?” Harriet smiled.
The duke smiled. “All else?” he asked.
“Oh no. I will not add to your consequence. You need none of
my
compliments, Your Grace.”
“Diplomat,” he mused. “Why did she say I am a diplomat?”
Joanna’s eyes met Harriet’s and the two women chuckled. “You, my beloved, may puzzle that out for yourself,” said Joanna. “Go away now.”
He bowed and moved to join Robert near the fireplace. Others arrived, several of whom Harriet had not met.
Beginning to worry that she’d chosen wrongly when deciding to wear a new gown, Harriet asked, “I thought this a small dinner for close friends?”
“Elizabeth has already become something of a society hostess, much to everyone’s surprise,” Jo responded. “Tonight she has leavened friendship with a few oddities to amuse your Mademoiselle Françoise.” Joanna nodded toward the grey-haired woman, a shocking turban balanced on her head, sitting stiffly on a straight-backed chair where an equally grey-haired man spoke in eloquently flowing periods. “They are an odd couple indeed. They’ve been courting, you see, for longer than you and I have been alive!
“Then,” Joanna continued softly, “she added a very few who will be useful to our program for introducing Mademoiselle Françoise to the
ton.
Lady Mary is a bore, but her mother is one of the nicest women anywhere. And I hope Elizabeth reminded your charge that Lady Cowper,” Joanna discreetly pointed to where that best-loved of the Almacks’ patronesses talked to Lord Crawford, “must be pleased. Not,” added Joanna when Harriet frowned, “that that will be difficult. Lady Cowper remembers Françoise’s mother and will wish to do what she can for the girl.”
“How will she overcome the fact Françoise’s mother was believed to have died, drowned, I think, it was?”
“That is all arranged. Lord Crawford has just recently discovered,” said Joanna with just the proper degree of restrained drama, “that his daughter did
not
die. She did, however, lose her memory. So sad. Only recently, on her deathbed, actually, has the truth been discovered. All these years the poor man has mourned his daughter when he might have been enjoying both her and his granddaughter’s existence.”
“What an affecting history. Whose idea was that?” asked Harriet innocently.
Joanna chuckled. “Can you not guess?”
Harriet grimaced. “I presume you mean it was Sir Frederick’s. That man is the most devious of creatures, Jo,” she added and didn’t reveal that she herself had concocted that particular story while still in Italy.
“Actually, I believe he and Robert made it up between them. Robert told my Pierce it was just like old times when he and Frederick used their wits to trap a French spy.”
“Why does Sir Frederick refuse to allow knowledge of his part in the war to circulate among the
ton?
Oh,” she added, hurriedly, “I know what he
says,
but I cannot believe he truly likes his black reputation. However perverse he may pretend to be, that goes too far.”
“Whatever his wishes,” soothed Jo, “it
is
becoming known, the part he played. Stories get around, you know. The men who were in the government during the war now sit in their clubs drinking and reminiscing and, more than once, Robert or Pierce has been asked if he can verify such and such a tale. The tales are then told to wives. Or mistresses. Servants overhear and word spreads that way. One can keep nothing from the servants, you know. Sir Frederick has not long been back in London, Harriet. He does not know, yet, to what extent his reputation has changed.”
“And when he does? When he begins to receive invitations from the matchmaking mamas and the chaperons urge their charges to be polite to him instead of fearing him?” Harriet spoke fiercely, frowning at the thought. “Ah,” she added, “
then
we’ll see!”
When she didn’t go on, the duchess frowned. “See what, Harriet?”
Harriet’s eyes met her friend’s, a startled look in them. “What? Oh.” She blushed. “I was thinking out loud. Please ignore me.”
Joanna would have probed, but just then Lady Cowper joined them, and the conversation shifted to more general topics, including the Patroness’s promise that vouchers for that pinnacle of social acceptability, Almacks, would be sent on the morrow for both Françoise and Harriet. “I remember your mama, Miss Cole. One dislikes speaking ill of the dead, but your grandfathers were fools. Because of the silly feud
their
fathers began, they broke with their own children when the two insisted on wedding. Will you be seeing your uncles while you are in England?”
“My uncles have ignored my existence all my life, Lady Cowper. My preference would be to ignore theirs, but I have sent polite notes of my return to London to those most closely related and, if they deign to acknowledge me, I will not be backward in showing them such respect as they deserve.”
Lady Cowper laughed. “I see much of your father in your wording, Miss Cole. He was a brave and charming man, but he had that same tendency to say exactly what he thought.” Lady Cowper smiled. “No, don’t poker up. I once had a tendre for him, long ago in my salad days. Do not fear to take your proper place in our world, my dear. I will do what I can to smooth the way.”
Harriet blushed and thanked Lady Cowper prettily. The lady flicked a finger against the younger woman’s cheek, smiled sweetly and moved on to join Elizabeth and the lady in the turban.
Lady Jo had impatiently awaited her moment. “See what?” she hissed, referring back to Harriet’s comment about Sir Frederick, but again they were interrupted, this time by Lord Crawford. Crawford had married Joanna’s longtime rival and taken the woman away from London. For that the duchess felt she must be polite to the man. “Good evening, my lord,” she said. “I hear we are to congratulate you on the birth of a son.”
Lord Crawford’s eyes narrowed, a sardonic twist to his lips. “Yes. A healthy boy with powerful lungs. I will pass on your words to my wife. Cressida will, of course, be delighted to hear from you.”
“Of course.” Joanna’s tone was colorless. “And how is Cressy?”
“In good health when I left her.”
“Will she be coming to London later for part of the season?”
“Probably not. The burden of motherhood...” He allowed the words to trail off. “I will write her concerning Françoise. She will, of course, be delighted to discover my daughter did not die as thought but lived many years happily married to de Beaupre.”
“Of course she will.” Again the colorless tone, but this time Joanna blushed as the sardonic expression on his lordship’s face deepened into disbelief. Joanna refused to comment further, however.
Harriet was glad when Marks announced dinner. Then she wished he hadn’t. It hadn’t occurred to her that Elizabeth, wishing to forward the growing relationship between them, had chosen Sir Frederick as Harriet’s dinner partner. Reluctantly, she placed the tips of her fingers on his offered arm and, finding the place toward the end of the procession protocol decreed was theirs, they followed the others. She searched for a conversational gambit to lighten the tension, but could think of nothing which was unprovocative.
“You are in great looks tonight, Harriet.”
“Thank you, Sir Frederick.”
“Biting your lip, again. Now stop that,” he whispered near her ear. “It makes them rosy and inviting, and it is wrong of you to tempt me under these circumstances!”
Harriet choked on a laugh, turned her eyes toward him briefly, but not so briefly she didn’t see his teasing look. “You are incorrigible. And wrong. Françoise forced me into this gown, Sir Frederick. I thought it would not be improper because I believed only very close friends were invited this evening. At some point the party grew far beyond Lady Elizabeth’s original plans.”
“Improper? Harriet, I should spank you. Why do you feel you are improperly dressed? It is perfectly proper for you to wear the clothes chosen for you by your employers. If your employers are generous, then thank them prettily and enjoy what you are given. Will you be equally stubborn about wearing what your husband buys for you?”
“You spoiled it. I was much in charity with your argument until you added that last question.”
Frederick had seated her during their whispered conversation and now Harriet turned to her other dinner partner, another of the oddities pointed out by Joanna. If she remembered correctly, this one was called the Nabob. She introduced herself and asked his name since they had not been introduced earlier.
“Timothy Markem, Miss Cole, at your service.” The man grimaced. “ ’Twould seem I’m your relative, Missy. On your mother’s side of the family. Sorry to say I totally lost track of Tim and Trillium years ago. The war, you know. And my years in India.”
Harriet searched her memory but could recall no one named Markem. “Our relationship, sir?”
“Cousin of some sort, missy. Taught ol’ Timmy to hunt, you know, when I’d be visitin’ your mother’s family.” The man’s eyes showed a disturbing tendency to dampen at the memory. “The boy was the only one of that bunch up at the manor worthy of my interest, or so I always thought. And your mother a jewel beyond price, o’course. And here’s their little girl. Well, well. The years come and the years go and one never knows just what they’ll bring, does one?” He heaved a sigh. But his attention turned to the servant offering the soup and, his spoon in use, his interest in Harriet disappeared.
“Hurumph,” said Sir Frederick.
“Hurumph yourself,” muttered Harriet as she too pretended great interest in her soup. A soft chuckle from Frederick made her flick her eyes toward him. But he had turned, at a question, to Lady Cowper on his other side.
Course followed course and, finally, Timothy Markem heaved a sigh and patted his mouth. “Now that,” he said to Harriet, “is what I call a nice tidy English meal. Not so spicy as I like, o’course. Got used to the foods in India, you know, but find English cooking a nice change—once in
a while
, anyway.”
Why the man wasn’t as fat as a flawn, assuming he ate that way most days, Harriet couldn’t imagine. By taking very small portions she’d managed to eat her way through many of the offerings, but she was already feeling over full and there was still the sweet course and the cheese and fruit course. “Lady Elizabeth has a fine cook,” she offered.
“So she does. So she does.” Mr. Markem stared at her rather rudely she thought. “Ol’ Tim leave you well to do, Missy?”
“Why no.” Harriet was so startled by the rude question, she answered truthfully. “I thought everyone knew. I am companion to Mademoiselle Françoise.”
“Dressed up fit to kill, Missy.”
Harriet bit her lip, suppressing a desire to tell the man it was none of his business. “Madame la Comtesse is a most generous employer,” she said repressively.
“Hmm.” He was silent so long Harriet thought he’d finished but, just as she was turning toward Frederick, his hand caught hers, and she glanced from it to him. “Old man now. Not long for this world. Ol’ Tim was a good boy, and I liked him. M’godson, y’know. And Trillium. Pretty as a picture, your mother. I’m not a rich man, Missy, but I’ll do what I can for you. When I’m done with it all, you know.”
“Sir!” Harriet blushed rosily. “I’m not sure I understand you, and this is no place for a conversation like this in any case!”
“Now don’t go putting up your back. No one’s paying any attention to us. As private a place as one could wish, the dining table. People either intent on stuffing themselves or talking so loud they can’t hear anyone else talk anyway.” Which was true. The cloud of noise around the table was a loud buzz. “So. I’ll be visitin’ me solicitor tomorrow. Mind, I don’t intend to shuffle off soon jest to oblige you, but thought you might like to know my little bit will come your way when I do put my spoon in the wall. No gambler, me, so I’ll not be losin’ it at the tables or anything like that. No, you just be patient, missy. Someday you’ll be all right and tight.”
Markem turned to the footman who stepped up to his elbow just then and glanced over the tray of tarts, pointing to several, which the servant carefully transferred to his plate. For a long moment Harriet watched him, shaking her head when the footman asked if she wished a sweet. “Sir.”
“Hummm?” asked her boorish relative, his mouth full.
“I don’t know what to say to you.”
“Don’t need to say nothing. It’s all said.” He patted her hand, and his interest returned to his plate.
“You seemed to be having a disturbing conversation with the Nabob, Harriet,” Sir Frederick said.
“Why is he called Nabob?”
“You don’t know who he is?”