The Indomitable Miss Harris (22 page)

“I’m right sorry, Miss Gillian.”

There were tears in Ellen’s eyes, and it took some time to coax her into a sunnier temper. Gillian was upset, too. Landover was ill-using her and his power over her. Well, it would do him little good. She would not give in.

She ordered a bath and washed her hair, which effectively disposed of the morning. But by noon, she was certain she would swoon if she did not soon have a decent meal. Mrs. Periwinkle came in scolding and extracted an apple from her flowered knitting bag.

“I am a very foolish, fond old woman,” she twittered fretfully, smiling a moment later, however, at Gillian’s pleasure. “You are being very naughty, my dear. Landover did not confine you to your room, after all, and he is most displeased by your stubbornness.”

“It’s good for him,” Gillian replied, munching her apple. “Perhaps he will learn that the sun does not rise and shine by his rule.”

Mrs. Periwinkle shook her head. “I think you will only vex him further, which will make us all uncomfortable. But we shall not harp upon that string,” she added, rallying herself. “I have brought two new magazines for us to examine. I know you must be bored, and it will cheer you no end to argue the merits and demerits of the latest fashions. We had not made any particular plans for this afternoon or evening, you know, so we are not missing a thing, and I know you will prefer my company to your own.”

Gillian could only agree with her, and the long afternoon ahead began to look a good deal brighter. No sooner had they gotten their heads together with
La Belle Assemblée
spread out before them, however, than the door opened unceremoniously and Sir Avery stood upon the threshold. His expression was grim.

“Cousin Amelia, will you excuse us, please? I want to speak privately with Gillian.”

“Of course,” she agreed, rising at once. “I shall be in my own sitting room when you want me, dear.”

As Mrs. Periwinkle passed by him, Gillian watched her brother appraisingly. He seemed irritated but not really in a temper. She relaxed. “What is it, Avery?”

He shut the door carefully and stepped nearer. “What game are you playing now, Gillian?”

“Game! ’Tis no game, sir. ’Tis merely that I have no mood for company.”

“You refuse to eat.”

“That is not the way of it at all. Landover refuses to feed me.”

“Don’t quibble.” He paused, pushing agitated fingers through the windblown look he had striven so hard earlier to achieve. “Dash it, Gillian, you have set up his back just when I need to have him in good spirits!”

“You need!” Her eyes widened. “What has happened, Avery? Are you in the briars again?”

He shook his head, pulling out a straight chair and straddling it backward, folding his arms across the back. “Nothing like that. My slate is a good deal cleaner than yours, my girl. Why, I’ve scarcely touched this quarter’s allowance, and we’re nearly ten days into the month!”

“Then, what is it?”

He seemed hesitant to explain but then, gathering himself, took his fence in a rush of words. “I want to marry Sybilla.”

She grinned at him. “An admirable ambition.”

“You think so?” He seemed boyishly grateful for her approval.

“Of course I do. But I cannot see what it’s got to do with me.”

“Well, it’s because of Landover, of course. We can scarcely afford to set up housekeeping on the pittance he allows me, and if you continue to keep him at odds, what chance have I got to convince him to loosen the purse strings?”

“Have you discussed it with him?”

He nodded. “As soon as he got back from Sussex. He said I must show I can behave myself responsibly for six months before he will consent to a betrothal. But, dash it, Gillian, I don’t even care about behaving any other way, and I know I could persuade him to allow me to make an offer if only you weren’t so intent upon putting him in a temper.”

Gillian knew he couldn’t make a valid offer of marriage without knowing what sort of income Landover would allow him. And in a good temper, Landover might eventually consent to a reduction of the six-month time period. But even if Avery could convince him to change his mind, Gillian didn’t think her behavior would influence the marquis one way or another. And certainly the next day or so shouldn’t prove to be particularly crucial. She said as much, but it merely served to set Sir Avery off again.

“Dash it, it ain’t just the two days! It’s the way you have of constantly plaguing him. It’s as though he has only to say the sky is blue for you to attempt to refute it. It wouldn’t hurt you to behave in a civilized manner for once, my girl!”

She didn’t want to make him any angrier, but Gillian could not feel that her brother had made much of an attempt to see things from her point of view. In his opinion, it was “dashed unfeminine” to refuse to let herself be “guided” by the two men—namely, himself and Landover—who cared only for her best interests, and “damned foolish” to be always insisting upon making her own decisions. Gillian sighed. She could make him no promises, she said at last, though she would agree to think matters over. With that, Sir Avery had to be content, but his attitude when he left her was not that of a man who thinks he has won any great victory.

Gillian did try to think. At least, she thumbed through the pages of
La Belle Assemblée
without paying much heed to the fashion illustrations. She knew she was being stubborn, and aside from showing Landover that he could not command her every move to his liking, she didn’t know exactly what she meant to prove. The notion that she was merely sulking passed through her mind and was summarily dismissed, but its memory lingered, and Mrs. Periwinkle, returning a half hour later, was no help. Her attitude showed quite plainly that she was merely bearing Gillian company, not supporting her stand.

At six o’clock, when the elderly lady had departed to change for dinner, Ellen entered, bearing a folded sheet of notepaper which she handed to her mistress with hesitant hand and downcast eye. Gillian unfolded it curiously, experiencing a sudden nervous tremor somewhere in the region of her stomach when she recognized the firm black copperplate hand:

I have warned you before that I shall deal with childishness as it deserves. You will dine with us this evening or be prepared to answer to me.

Landover

There was no way to mistake his meaning. Gillian sighed, folding the note again slowly. “Fetch my green silk, Ellen. The one with the white sash and embroidery ’round the hem.”

“Yes, Miss Gillian,” Ellen replied with heartfelt relief. It was clear that she had dreaded another sort of response to the message.

Promptly at eight, Gillian descended the stairs to the dining room. Her breathing was regal, her manner calm. She behaved herself prettily, responding warmly whenever Mrs. Periwinkle or Sir Avery spoke to her, but replying to the marquis in polite monosyllables. She took great care not to be rude to him, to give him no valid cause for rebuke, and as soon as the port decanter was placed at his elbow, she excused herself and returned to her room. She learned later that the marquis, after scarcely half a glass of port, had flung himself from the table, muttering oaths and an intention to spend the rest of the evening at Brook’s Club.

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING, GILLIAN
awoke to a sense of freedom. Today she could do as she pleased. The morning disappeared quickly in a series of visitors, and after a hasty luncheon, she ordered a carriage to take her to Warwick House.

When she arrived, there seemed to be some hesitation on the part of Charlotte’s servants as to admitting her, but this was soon set right, and Miss Knight herself came to conduct Gillian into the royal presence. The princess was sitting quite alone at a writing table, quill in hand, obviously in a state of agitation.

“Miss Harris!” she cried. “How wonderful to see you today! You may leave us,” she added firmly to her companion.

“Very well, madam,” replied Miss Knight, clearly reluctant, “but pray remember that the letter must be delivered today.”

“Yes, yes, Notti! Am I not doing my best?” Charlotte gestured almost angrily at the scattered sheets of notepaper on the table before her. She turned with a rueful smile to Gillian when they were alone. “They have given me an impossible task, as you see.”

“May I inquire, your highness, what it is you are attempting to write?”

The princess chuckled. “’Tis a letter to my father.” Gillian blinked. “Yes, already you perceive the difficulty. He has been prodigiously angry ever since I returned that stupid invitation list to him, and now it seems that I must submit to him. He has said so.”

Gillian’s eyes began to twinkle in response to the princess’s infectious grin. “Must you, madam? Your mood does not seem compatible with such a task.”

“It is not. Oh, I have written much that is submissive—all about a daughter’s duty to her father and such stuff as that—but I cannot and will not submit to his ridiculous demand that I marry the Prince of Orange in September.”

“Oh dear.” The princess’s mood matched her own feelings so exactly that Gillian could only commiserate.

“Indeed. I asked to see the marriage contract, you know, and my dear father refused—said it was no business of mine! Or William’s either,” she added conscientiously. “It is between Papa and the King of Holland, he says, and I am merely to submit. Submit! I detest that word! Particularly since I have it on excellent authority that I am meant to
live
in Holland, not merely to visit the place.” Her skirts moved, and she bent to pat the little white greyhound as it emerged from under her chair. The dog looked curiously at Gillian, but then moved off to find a quieter spot to sleep. Charlotte went on bitterly, “They even say my firstborn son will be returned to England at the age of three to be raised as crown prince, whilst my second will be raised as future monarch of Holland. Can you imagine? All this decided without a word to me. Heiress to the throne of England, and not only must
I
submit, but I am to have nothing to say to the future of my own children!”

“It is vastly unfair, your highness,” Gillian agreed sincerely.

“More than that, it is intolerable,” said her highness flatly. “I won’t do it.”

Gillian felt a tremor of fear. Surely the princess meant to stir up a wasps’ nest! A maidservant brought refreshments, and Gillian, hungry again despite her large luncheon, helped herself to a date bun, nibbling daintily as she watched the princess frown over her task. At last, Charlotte sat back with a sigh and laid her quill aside. Scattering silver sand across the paper, then blowing it clear, she picked up the result of her labors for a final appraisal.

“There,” she said with satisfaction. “That will do.” Handing the paper to Gillian, she grinned. “See what you think.”

Rapidly, Gillian scanned the letter. Its tone was as submissive as could be. The princess declared herself the Regent’s obedient subject and affectionate daughter whose only wish was to serve and obey. There was a great deal more to the same effect, but not by the longest stretch of imagination could her words be construed as an agreement to wed the Prince of Orange.

“Your highness,” Gillian said hesitantly once she had done reading, “does not the Regent expect something a trifle more specific?”

Charlotte chuckled. “I daresay he does, but he’ll not get it from me. I have quite made up my mind. I will never wed William of Orange. I might have succumbed to Papa’s wishes earlier, particularly if he had not been so adamant about my going to live in Holland. But now … now that I have met dear Leopold, no matter what concessions Papa might make, I could not agree to marry Orange.”

“I think the Regent will be displeased.”

Charlotte’s bubbling laughter filled the room. “I think you must be a mistress of understatement, Miss Harris.” Her laughter faded soon enough, though. “He will be apoplectic. Nevertheless, I know of no way by which he can force me to wed where I wish not to do so. They tried to tell me otherwise, you know.”

“Otherwise?”

“Indeed.” Charlotte nodded. “Some minion of Papa’s said I must obey, said it was the law. But when I asked him to put the notion in writing that I might show it to Lord Broughham and others amongst my advisers, he refused, so it came to naught.”

“I am glad of that, your highness, but in point of fact, if your father orders you to marry, will you not have to obey?”

“I suppose I would, if he were truly to force the issue. But,” she added, shrewdly, “I daresay he will not, for he greatly fears the scandal. Our subjects tend to support me against him anyway, you know, and on an issue like this one, there is no doubt but that they’d rally to my banner.”

Gillian could only agree. There was no comparison between the princess’s popularity and Prinny’s lack of it. “But I still think you are very brave to stir his temper like this, madam, because he is bound to fly into a pelter when he receives this letter.”

Charlotte sighed. “I know,” she said, “but I must defy him. I cannot consider any other man for my husband—not since meeting Leopold.” She clasped her hands, and there was a hint of girlish rapture in her voice. “Ah, Miss Harris, if only you might meet him, you would see for yourself!”

Miss Harris agreed that Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg must be very handsome and a pearl among gentlemen, but by the time she left Warwick House, she could only be worried about the princess’s future. She did not have Charlotte’s confidence in her ability to flout the Regent’s wishes, and she very much feared that her highness was riding for a fall. So great was her worry, in fact, that she herself braved Landover’s potential displeasure in order to raise the subject at the dinner table that evening.

She did not plunge straight into the heart of the matter, of course, for she was uncertain what his attitude toward her might be. She had not seen him at all since the previous night’s dinner and had half expected him to dine out tonight. But he had not, and her spirits lifted when she and Mrs. Periwinkle descended to find that he was waiting to escort them into the dining room.

Gillian was at pains to show him that she was no longer angry with him, and Landover was not so tactless as to make reference to her behavior of the past two days, so by the time they had finished off the vermicelli soup, tender veal cutlets, and mushrooms in béchamel sauce, Gillian was in perfect charity with him again. The footmen began laying the second course, and she wrinkled her nose at a side dish of potted lampreys but brightened at the sight of the strawberry tarts.