To Dream of Love (7 page)

She left Aunt Rebecca and Harriet together and ran to fetch her cloak and bonnet. Then she called for a hack and set out in the direction of the City, calling at first one newspaper office and then the other.

Agnes Hurlingham knew Cordelia was hoping that Harriet’s bravery would be quickly forgotten. And so Agnes was determined that the whole of London would know about the rescue of the duchess.

Meanwhile, as Harriet was enjoying a warm bath. Aunt Rebecca sat by the fire and turned over in her mind all Harriet had told her about the Marquess of Arden.

Aunt Rebecca felt ashamed of herself and what she considered her own abysmal lack of spirit. She should not have lurked in her room, frightened and depressed because Cordelia did not want them.

It was her God-given duty to see that Harriet found a husband. Mr. Bertram Hudson, for example, was certainly interested in Harriet. And perhaps the marquess himself would bear watching.

Taking advantage of the new deference of the servants, Aunt Rebecca rang for supper for herself and ordered a tray of delicacies to be offered to Harriet when she emerged from her bath.

As she had promised, Agnes returned in time to make sure Harriet was comfortably prepared for bed and had everything she needed.

Harriet smiled at her sleepily and said, “You are very kind to me, Mrs. Hurlingham. I cannot thank you enough.”

Agnes’s conscience smote her. She had only been kind to Harriet to spite Cordelia. “Call me Agnes,” she said gruffly. “You should not really be in these quarters, you know. I will speak to Lady Bentley on the subject.”

So it was that Cordelia, returning from the opera, found Agnes patiently waiting for her.

“Such devotion, Agnes,” she said nastily, “or do you want to say something to add to my already disastrous evening? Society, I would have you know, was quite shocked to see me this evening. Why was I not at home tending to my brave little sister? Pah!”

“That is what I wanted to talk to you about,” said Agnes Hurlingham. “You’re going to be in the suds unless you do something about her.” She jerked her thumb inelegantly in the direction of the ceiling.

“Do something about Harriet?” demanded Cordelia with dangerous sweetness. “What
do
you mean, Agnes? I have already
told
you what has to be done with her. Send her packing.”

“They’ll be calling you a sort of Lady Macbeth if you do that to London’s latest heroine,” said Agnes. “They’ll be calling in droves tomorrow just to get a look at her. And servants talk, you know. ‘Fore you know it, it’ll be ‘round the ton that she and her aunt are housed in the attic. That her clothes are monstrous shabby. Ain’t the conduct of a lady—
that’s
what they’ll say.”

“Pooh!” said Cordelia. “No one will call. Furthermore, Agnes, I do not like your tone. Remember your place, my good woman. Call Martha and tell her to make me ready for bed. You silly woman! As if saving that old miser of a duchess that society has detested this age will make the slightest bit of difference!”

Agnes hardly slept that night. She was out in the street in the morning as soon as she heard the news vendor’s horn, and, armed with all the papers, she retreated to her room. London in 1811 boasted eight morning papers. Agnes’s large mouth widened into a grin of pleasure as she saw that every paper had given prominent space to the bravery of Harriet Clifton.

She rang for the butler and told him to make sure Lady Bentley was given the newspapers with her morning chocolate and then took herself off to bed. Only a month ago, on her birthday, Agnes had given way to a hearty bout of tears on seeing a life of servitude stretching out before her to the grave. For the first time in ages she began to feel that life might hold some interesting surprises. She smiled to herself as she fell asleep.

Harriet awoke to find the maids bustling about her room, packing up her meager belongings.

“What is happening?” she demanded, struggling awake.

“Lady Bentley’s orders,” said the housekeeper from the doorway. “We are to move you and Miss Clifton into rooms on the floor below. Lady Bentley’s compliments and you are to present yourself in the drawing room, miss, at four o’clock. Her ladyship has supplied you with two gowns and begs you to pick whichever one you consider suitable.” The housekeeper suddenly smiled. “It is so exciting, miss. The house is like a flower garden. Everyone in London seems to have sent presents and bouquets and poems. And the newspapers, Miss Harriet! Every single one has written about your bravery.”

It was a bewildering day for Harriet. The new rooms allocated to her and Aunt Rebecca were elegantly furnished with a pretty, private sitting room between their two bedrooms.

Dressed in one of Cordelia’s oldest gowns, a plain taffeta dress in half-mourning colors of dove gray piped with black that Cordelia had worn shortly after the death of Lord Bentley, Harriet sat in the drawing room, telling her story over and over again for the benefit of the ton.

Wrapped in her numerous shawls and scarves, Aunt Rebecca listened each time with the same enthusiasm with which she had heard the first account. Although Mr. Hudson was very much present, hanging onto Harriet’s every word, the Marquess of Arden was not, and Aunt Rebecca felt a little pang of disappointment.

Cordelia smiled and smiled, feeling her face beginning to ache. She could not get rid of Harriet so long as this adulation lasted, and, worse, she was quite clearly expected to take Harriet with her to all the fashionable events of the Season.

Agnes Hurlingham’s conscience troubled her. Her loyalty surely lay with the mistress who paid her wages, and not with these newcomers. She alone knew what it was costing Cordelia to smile and smile as tribute to her sister followed tribute.

But Agnes’s pity for Cordelia was to be short-lived.

A soberly dressed gentleman introduced himself as Mr. Arthur Prenderbury and claimed to be a distant relation of the Cliftons. He was a scholarly-looking gentleman in his forties with a long, rather serious face and steady gray eyes. After having paid his compliments to Harriet, Cordelia, and Aunt Rebecca, Mr. Prenderbury seated himself next to Agnes and engaged her in conversation. Had she seen Mrs. Jordan in
Country Girl?
For his part he thought it a shocking mélange of absurdities.

Agnes began to talk about the theater, flattered by her companion’s steady attention. He made her feel feminine and witty, and he laughed appreciatively at several of her sallies.

And then, “Mr. Prenderbury!” Cordelia sailed up, a vision in pale pink muslin embroidered with tiny rosebuds and a garland of silk rosebuds in her hair. “I have been sadly neglecting you. I see you have been keeping my poor old companion amused. Too kind. Do come and meet Lady Jenkins. She is quite a bluestocking and makes my poor head ache, since I have not the faintest notion of what she is talking about. But a scholar like you will be more than a match for her.”

Mr. Prenderbury had risen to his feet as Cordelia had begun to speak. He hesitated, looking down at Agnes. But Cordelia tucked her hand confidingly in his arm and gave him a blinding smile as he turned to say something to her. He blinked a little, like a man dazzled, and then moved away with her.

Agnes Hurlingham sat clenching and unclenching her fists. Greedy Cordelia! Mr. Prenderbury was the first man to appear in Cordelia’s drawing room who had paid her, Agnes, the slightest bit of attention. But Cordelia had to have it all. Agnes longed to be able to walk out of the house in Hill Street and keep on walking, and to never see Cordelia again.

But Cordelia had made her sign a seven-year contract, a most odd arrangement for a lady’s companion. If the contract was broken, then Agnes felt perfectly sure that Cordelia would enjoy taking her to court and ruining her.

She found herself joined by Aunt Rebecca. That lady plumped down amid a welter of scarves and shawls and trailing threads.

“I am so proud of Harriet,” said Aunt Rebecca. “Her bravery has quite melted Cordelia’s heart.”

Agnes gave a grunt. Mr. Prenderbury was listening to Lady Jenkins. He did not laugh or smile at anything she was saying, and that gave Agnes an odd feeling of comfort.

“And to find a relative, too,” enthused Aunt Rebecca, following Agnes’s gaze. “Mr. Prenderbury
is
distantly related to us. The Prenderburys live in Suffolk. I remember hearing about Mr. Arthur Prenderbury from my late brother. He distinguished himself at Oxford as a young man. He is studying some manuscripts at the British Museum. He read all about Harriet in the newspapers.”

“Indeed,” said Agnes in a toneless voice. She took a deep breath and turned to Aunt Rebecca. “It is a pity the Marquess of Arden did not call. He appeared to be much taken with Miss Harriet.”

She had the satisfaction of seeing that she had Aunt Rebecca’s full attention.

“But I was under the impression that Lord Arden was courting Cordelia.”

“No, no,” said Agnes. “Lady Bentley is the fashion, that is all. Most of the gentlemen call regularly to pay court to her. It was fortunate that Lord Arden was on hand to assist Miss Harriet in her rescue of the duchess. That sort of adventure forms, er, a
bond
, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I should imagine so,” said Aunt Rebecca eagerly. “But Harriet has no dowry.”

“The Marquess of Arden is rich,
very
rich, and also very strong-willed. I do not think the little matter of an absence of dowry would deter him were his affections seriously engaged.”

At that moment, Mr. Prenderbury looked across the room and, catching Agnes’s eye, smiled.

“I happen to know,” Agnes went on smoothly after returning the smile, “that Lord Arden has sent invitations to a ball he is to give next week, one for you and one for Miss Harriet. They arrived early yesterday evening by hand.”

“How splendid!” said Aunt Rebecca. Then her face dropped. “But Cordelia did not mention any invitations. Perhaps she may not tell us.”

“Oh, now that she is so proud of Miss Harriet, I am sure she will. But, to be diplomatic, one of Lord Arden’s closest friends, Mr. Tommy Gresham, is here. Come with me and I will introduce you. That way you can tell Lady Bentley you learned of the invitations from
him
. That will jog her memory. She receives so many invitations, it would be quite like her to forget to pass on yours to you.”

Mr. Gresham was a large, fat, jovial man. With the ease of long practice in social situations, Agnes deftly separated him from a group of friends and introduced him to Aunt Rebecca.

“I was just telling Miss Clifton about Lord Arden sending invitations to his ball to her and Miss Harriet,” said Agnes. “I know Lord Arden is most anxious that Miss Harriet should attend. What is troubling Miss Clifton is that Lady Bentley has obviously forgotten to give her the invitations and she feels it would be rude to accuse her of a lapse of memory.”

His small blue eyes twinkling shrewdly in his large face, Mr. Tommy Gresham smiled. “Oh, I’ll remind her,” he said cheerfully. “Leave it to me. I’ll say Arden told me to make sure Miss Harriet was coming.”

One fat eyelid drooped briefly in a wink before Mr. Gresham sailed off to talk to Cordelia.

Agnes saw Cordelia’s face turn a delicate pink, and for a brief moment her expression was hard and ugly. Then she said something to Mr. Gresham, laughing and putting her hand on his sleeve.

Harriet was enjoying herself immensely. It was wonderful to be praised and admired. It was marvelous to be surrounded by people after having spent so much of her young life with only Aunt Rebecca for company.

She was relieved the Marquess of Arden was not present, or so she told herself. He was an uncomfortable sort of man.

For Harriet’, the calls were over all too soon, and Cordelia was dismissing Aunt Rebecca and Agnes and demanding to see her
alone
.

“Well, sister,” said Cordelia, leaning back in her chair and swinging one dainty foot, “it appears you are the latest rage.” She gave a delicate, catlike yawn. “Of course, it won’t last. Next week it will be some actor or jockey or tattooed lady to take your place. But while it does it seems I must take you about with me. How fatiguing! I detest ingenues. Fortunately, I do not need to worry about your appearance outshining mine.” Cordelia surveyed the demure figure in the gray and black gown opposite, failing to notice the beauty of her sister’s eyes and hair. “Perhaps it will not be such a bad thing after all. Agnes is beginning to bore me. She can stay at home until all the furor about you dies down. You will need some gowns. Nothing too extravagant. I am not made of money. Martha can alter some of my old ones for you. There is just one little thing….”

“Yes?” To her horror, Harriet felt that she was positively beginning to hate her own sister.

“There is the matter of Arden,” said Cordelia. “I am hopeful of becoming a marchioness. You have drawn his attention to you in a way that displeases me. Make sure you do not do so again.”

“On each occasion I met Lord Arden, it was by accident,” said Harriet stiffly. “He called at Pringle House by chance and, also by chance, happened to be in Hanover Square at the time of the fire.”

“Just make sure there are no other
chances,”
said Cordelia. “
I
did not invite you or Aunt Rebecca, but I am prepared to tolerate you for a short length of time, provided you both behave yourselves.”

“I am your sister,” cried Harriet. “Surely there should be some natural spring of affection between us.”

“Vastly touching, dear sis, but none on my side, I can assure you. I had to look after myself, and I suggest you learn to do the same.”

“Marry some old man for his money?”

“Don’t be impertinent, Harriet, or I shall slap your face. Just behave prettily and modestly, keep yourself in the background, and keep your eyes away from Arden, and we will rub along very well together. You will go to the marquess’s ball. Should he ask you to dance, then you must refuse.”

“But if I refuse Lord Arden,” said Harriet, aghast, “then that means I cannot dance
at all.”

“Exactly. You and Aunt Rebecca may have the joy of watching the dancers. You expect too much for a little girl so recently come from the country. No, Harriet. You will do as you are bidden or I will send you home immediately.”