Anita Mills (6 page)

March passed with no word from either Miss Plimly or her sister, and as April brought forth its interminable showers, Harriet worried that somehow her letter had been lost. She followed it with two more and waited, avoiding her unwanted betrothed whenever she dared. As for Edwin Thornton, he confined his displays of affection to an occasional pat on the arm and one brief kiss on the cheek. Edwin, as usual, appeared determined to be an utter pattern-card of propriety, and for that, at least, Harriet was grateful.

The news of their betrothal was accepted quietly throughout the neighborhood, for there did not seem to be much remarkable about the match, except for the fact that the bride had been thought to be securely on the shelf. Several social events, all small and subdued, were hosted by the vicar, Harriet’s father and stepmother, and various of the local gentry in honor of the occasion, but other than that, little changed for Harriet. Not quite true, she forced herself to admit as she allowed Edwin to assist her into his rather soberly appointed carriage one evening on their way to a pre-Season party at Squire March’s comfortable home. No, Hannah was almost pleasant for the first time since she’d discovered herself saddled with an unwanted stepdaughter fourteen years earlier. And as she adjusted the slim skirt of the new blue-figured muslin about her legs, Harriet had to admit her usually clutch-fisted stepmother had actually spent money to clothe her more suitably, if not actually fashionably.

Edwin, unfortunately, after having kept polite distance from his betrothed for a full month and more, took this particular evening to assert himself beyond mere opinion. Reaching across the seat to squeeze her hand, he allowed his fingers to linger on hers.

“You look uncommonly handsome tonight, my dear,” he murmured, moving forward until his knee touched hers. And, emboldened by her lack of response, he leaned even closer, until she was nearly overwhelmed by the heavy cologne he wore. She closed her eyes to quell the nausea that rose as the thick, overpowering, sweet smell engulfed her, and was startled by the feel of his rather flaccid, moist lips on hers. And within the instant he was across the seat, his arms sliding awkwardly about her shoulders, pulling her closer as he planted several wet kisses on her mouth and cheek.

Caught entirely off her guard, she stiffened briefly, fighting the revulsion she felt, and then she began to struggle, turning her head and trying to disentangle herself from his arms. His breath, still smelling of her father’s brandy, rushed against her face.

“Mr. Thornton … sir, please!” She wriggled free by delivering a sharp blow with her elbow into his arm and then ducking away. “Really, sir, but—”

“Dash it, Miss Rowe, but we are betrothed! ’Tis to be expected—”

“I do not believe I gave you leave to take liberties with my person, sir,” she reminded him acidly.

For a moment his eyes glittered in the faint evening light, almost frightening her, but then he recovered himself and slid back into his own seat. Readjusting his plain neckcloth, he managed to apologize, “Your pardon, my dear, but I have waited four years for the day when I can call you mine own.” Taking out his handkerchief, he wiped his mouth. “A few more months cannot be so long, I suppose,” he added grudgingly.

A few months. Panic assailed her at the thought. “Mr. Thornton, I—”

“I did not mean to overset you, my dear—I pray you will forgive the lapse. A gently bred female such as yourself cannot know how ’tis for a man.” He possessed one of her hands again, this time with his usual limp grasp. “Indeed, your maidenly reserve pleases me, Harriet, and I look forward to the time when I may instruct you as my wife. It must be the new dress,” he finished lamely, dropping her hand when she did not respond as he had hoped.

“Mr. Thornton—”

“You are not like the other females of my acquaintance—creatures more interested in fancy dresses, balls, and routs,” he continued, ignoring her attempts at interruption. “You are a sensible woman, devoid of silly romantical notions, and for that I should honor you.”

She wanted to scream out that she
wanted
fancy dresses, wanted to attend more than quiet neighborhood parties, wanted the fashionable life she’d only read of, and that she did indeed cherish romantical notions also, but she knew he was incapable of understanding anything beyond what he wished. Aloud she murmured, “Alas, but you cannot know me well if you think—”

“Nonsense. I have observed you these four years past and have discovered in you that which pleases me most—you are quiet and sensible and not overly given to levity.”

“And that is what you desire in a wife?” she asked incredulously.

“And you do not put yourself forward—you have been well-schooled to respect those above you.” He leaned back, his sober face made even more so by the shadows that played across it. “There is, however, the matter of your two thousand pounds, of course. I’ve been meaning to broach that subject for some time.” When she did not respond, he quickly pursued the matter. “I cannot credit that your father has allowed you a free hand with so much money, my dear, and I cannot think it wise of him, when—”

“My father had little choice—the money is and shall remain mine, Mr. Thornton,” she interrupted with dampening finality.

“But it must needs to be invested, my dear—you should have the wise counsel of a man, that it may grow and perhaps provide a settlement for your children one day.”

“It
is
invested.”

Too obtuse to note the decided edge to her voice, Edwin Thornton dismissed the notion that she could possibly know what she was about. “Even so, I should like … that is to say, I should
expect
even to manage the sum for you, my dear, and—”

“Edwin, you sound much like a gazetted fortune-hunter—which I should not like to think you,” she retorted. “The money I have is my mother’s portion to me, and as she saw fit to leave it under chancery law for my ‘sole and separate use,’ there’s naught you or my father has to say in the matter, is there?” she added firmly.

“Well, I am sure …” He drew back even further, stung, his chagrin evident. “Far be it from me to attempt to profit from your mother’s portion, Harriet. I did but wish to guide you for the sake of our children.”

“We have no children.”

“But in the course of time …”

By the stiffness of his speech and manner, she knew he was deeply affronted, but she didn’t care in the least. He was encroaching in the extreme, and had she been able to think of one, she’d have given him a sharp set-down. Instead, she turned her attention to the carriage window.

“I shall hope that in the course of our marriage, you will come to accept my guidance in all things, Harriet,” he said finally, sighing heavily.

She closed her eyes and prayed that Plimly would answer soon. Surely three letters could not have all gone astray.

Conversation at the Marches was dull, insipid, and boring for the most part, with the females of the neighborhood collecting in one room whilst their male counterparts disputed Liverpool’s tax plan for the country’s recovery from the Napoleonic wars in another. And as expected, Miss Emma March spent the better part of the evening regaling the younger girls with her accounts of the previous London Season. Since only Harriet, Mrs. March, and Mrs. Wickstead were old enough to be out of the schoolroom, the others hung avidly on every word, gazing with a mixture of admiration and envy at one who’d actually completed a Season. That Emma had not taken did not matter—she’d been
there.
Besides, she was to accompany her younger sister, Faith, again this year, and Mrs. March had hinted rather broadly that there was a particular gentleman …

Harriet was heartily sick of the self-centered silliness of Emma’s conversation, and her mind wandered inattentively until she realized that the younger girl now spoke of Richard. And her heart sank as she discovered that the insipidly lovely Miss March thought to bring her step-cousin up to scratch this time.

“La, but I shall never forget standing up at Almack’s with Sherborne, you may be sure,” Emma recalled, her pale blue eyes taking on a faraway expression. “He is quite the best dancer, you know, and exceedingly handsome. I recall that he stood up with me a full three times in one evening, and Mama—” She stopped, casting a surreptitious look at Mrs. March, and then went on. “Mama thought he meant to fix his interest with me then. I tried to tell her he was but a prodigious flirt, but she reminded me that gentlemen—even the rakish ones—do not demonstrate such a particularity without reason, after all.”

“Still, he did not offer,” her sister, Faith, reminded her, gaining a glare from Miss March.

“He was called away to the sickbed of a dear friend, I believe,” Emma explained blithely. “A Mr. Hawleigh, it was.”

“And you heard Papa: ‘Sherborne is naught but an outrageous flirt,’ he told you and Mama,” Faith persisted.

“He stood up with me three times. That signifies—”

“What fustian! You and Mama should listen to Papa,” the younger girl snorted. “He said ten to one it was but—”

“You were not there,” Emma retorted haughtily. “You cannot know how it was.”

“Well, I should not refine so much on an evening at Almack’s, you may be sure,” Faith sniffed.

Mrs. March, her attention drawn away from the litany of Mrs. Wickstead’s humors of the liver, sought to end the matter quickly. “Faith,” she ordered sternly, “you must not overset your sister. It does not become you to dispute what you do not know.” Then, tittering as though she harbored some secret, she confided to the rest of the ladies present, “Sherborne
was
most particular in his attention, to be sure, and if poor Mr. Hawleigh—”

Harriet had heard enough. That Richard had known the Marches since Emma was but a skinny, pale child also seemed to lend a certain authenticity to the story. Her stomach churned at the thought that her dashing step-cousin could even consider an empty-headed widgeon—even a beautiful empty-headed widgeon—like Emma March. But stranger matches had been made, and there was no accounting for the tastes of men, when one viewed the matter dispassionately. Still, it looked to her as though Sherborne could have done better—he was, after all, a viscount, and Emma March merely the daughter of a wealthy country gentleman.

“La,” Mrs. March continued happily, “I should not be saying it, but Sherborne is to come here this very month.”

The ratafia Harriet had been sipping suddenly tasted like vinegar in her mouth, and she fought the urge to be sick. Richard must have written to Emma March also. And somehow the thought that he was not coming just to see Harriet was quite lowering. But it made sense: Richard would come to Rowe’s Hill to gain his inheritance, and then he would offer for Emma. And if he showed Two Harry to his step-cousin, well, it was but a courtesy to a business partner.

Pressing her temples and closing her eyes to shut out the thought of Richard’s becoming betrothed to Emma, Harriet leaned forward in her chair. Faith was the first to note her distress.

“Are you all right, Miss Rowe? Mama, I think dear Harriet is not feeling quite the thing just now.”

Opening her eyes, Harriet found herself the object of curiosity, and color flooded her face. “No … no, that is, I have the headache.”

“ ’Tis the abominable weather,” Mrs. March decided. To which Mrs. Wickstead nodded, launching into yet another catalog of her own megrims caused by the inclement weather. But Faith sat down on the small sofa beside Harriet and felt her forehead. “I think perhaps she is becoming ill—perhaps a fever.”

“Oh, dear.” Mrs. March came to peer at Harriet, her own forehead furrowed with a frown. “Yes, well, ’tis to be hoped ’tis not contagious. Emma, seek out Mr. Thornton and tell him his betrothed is not at all well. Yes, yes—tell him that he must needs escort her home.” That settled, she turned back to Mrs. Wickstead. “My dear, you suffer from the headache frequently? I simply must share with you the remedy Knighton prescribed for me when we were in London.”

Faith slid closer, murmuring, “Do not be telling Sir John and Lady Rowe about what Emma said, for I think it all hum anyway. From what Papa says, Sherborne is as like to offer for Em as the Prince Regent himself, but Mama refines too much on every smile. And Sherborne
is
said to be a shocking flirt, from all I have heard from Em’s friends—’tis why the ladies all have their caps set for him. I’d not have your parents know just how foolish Mama and Em are.”

“I do not refine much on gossip,” Harriet assured her gratefully.

“If you have something to say, Faith, I would that you came out and said it,” Mrs. March chided. “ ’Tis impolite to be forever mumbling.”

“ ’Twas nothing of import, Mama. I did but wish dear Harriet a quick recovery,” Faith answered glibly.

And in the carriage returning to Rowe’s Hill, Edwin Thornton was less than pleased to have been removed from the agreeable company of his neighbors, particularly since he’d considered that he’d been waxing especially eloquent on the shortcomings of Liverpool’s government. Instead of offering his betrothed comfort in her distress, he remarked rather peevishly, “You did not appear ill earlier, my dear.”

“It came on me suddenly.”

“Yes, well, I hope you do not let yourself be given to megrims. It bespeaks of a weakness of character to allow oneself to be governed by one’s humors.”

There was such self-sure conviction in Edwin Thornton’s tone that Harriet, who had in truth never been ill above a day or two in her life, could not resist injecting a little doubt into his mind. “Alas,” she sighed weakly, “but I fear I have not the strength of character you possess, dear Mr. Thornton, for I have been plagued with these distressful headaches all of my life. Indeed, there are times when I am forced to take to my bed for days until they leave.”

“Nonsense!” he responded briskly. “The cure for such things is to ignore them.”

“No, it does not serve. The only relief I get is to burn feathers and camphor pastilles in my chamber.”

Apparently daunted by thoughts of the terrible smell such a combination conjured up, her betrothed lapsed into silence. It was not until they reached the lane to Rowe’s Hill that he spoke again, and this time it was to note the elegant black lacquered carriage drawn up beneath the lamps at the front door.