Seventeen

“You are keeping something from us,” Charlotte said to Harriet as the three friends went down to dinner at Winstead Hall that evening.

“I do not share every little detail of my day,” Harriet replied. She hadn’t told them about the note from Ferrington, not knowing how the meeting would go. How wonderfully it would turn out. She hugged that knowledge to her for now.

“You do seem especially cheerful,” said Sarah.

“Suspiciously cheerful,” said Charlotte.

“What can you mean by that?” Harriet couldn’t resist teasing Charlotte a little after the way her friend had twitted her during this visit.

“Something’s happened,” said Sarah.

“How was today’s solitary walk?” Charlotte asked.

They were on the scent. But they’d reached the dining room now, and Harriet was not required to answer.

As usual, Harriet’s grandfather dominated the dinner table conversation. He was full of the final plans for the ball, having crushed the vendor who’d sent the wilted greenery. “He will not palm off shoddy goods on anyone again,” he gloated. “Ha! Palm off potted palms.”

Harriet was in such a good mood that she laughed at his feeble jest.

Her grandfather swung around to look at her, looking more surprised than gratified. It was true that Harriet didn’t usually appreciate his witticisms. “Have the ball gowns arrived?” he asked.

“Yes, Grandfather.” He’d insisted all the young ladies have new dresses for his ball, ordered from the fashionable modiste who’d made Harriet’s clothes for the season, and that he pay for them.

“Yours must be the finest at the ball,” he’d told Harriet. He’d tried to dictate the design, urging Harriet to demand lavish decoration. It had taken all her efforts to persuade him the seamstress knew best about these things.

“They’re lovely,” said Harriet’s mother.

“Huh.” He consumed most of a slice of roast beef in one bite, and silence reigned while he chewed. “Ferrington’s procured the license,” he said then. “So that’s all right and tight.”

“Oh,” said Charlotte. “Is the earl… You have heard from him?”

“That’s what I said.”

Charlotte and Sarah turned to look at Harriet. She concentrated on her dinner.

Naturally, they pounced on her as soon as the meal was over, congregating around the pianoforte in the drawing room again to put their heads together. Fortunately her grandfather had not joined them this evening.

“Tell,” demanded Charlotte in a sibilant whisper.

“You saw Ferrington on your walk, didn’t you?” asked Sarah.

“And you didn’t break it off,” said Charlotte.

“No. We decided we…may as well marry.”

“May as well?” Sarah’s voice rang out.

“What is it?” asked Harriet’s mother from the sofa across the room.

“Nothing, Mama,” said Harriet. “We are looking for music to play.”

“May as well?” muttered Sarah.

“As we are so much in love,” Harriet answered with a radiant smile.

“Oh, Harriet.” Sarah hugged her.

“And that is what you want,” said Charlotte.

“With all my heart.”

“Then I’m happy for you.”

“Harriet?” said her mother, clearly sensing more was going on than she was being told.

“Yes, Mama.” Harriet handed Charlotte a sheet of music and went to sit beside her mother. “I wanted to speak to you,” she told her.

“Is something wrong?”

This was always her mother’s first assumption, Harriet thought sadly. “No. It is just a new idea. Or a possibility really. For you to consider.”

“Me?”

Was she asked so seldom to choose? That should not be. “I was talking to Ferrington today, and he told me of your conversation about Tunbridge Wells.”

Her mother blinked. Had she been anxious all Harriet’s life? Perhaps so, but not to this extent.

“He said… He got the idea you were quite happy living there. After I’d gone off to school.”

“I missed you very much, of course,” replied her mother, as if this had been an accusation.

She’d had little reason to miss such an oblivious daughter, Harriet thought. Well, she would not be that way anymore. “And he thought…wondered if you might like to return. Our old house is…available. And he would be glad to procure it for you.” She did not say he had already done so. They’d agreed that arrangements were to be all up to her mother. If she didn’t want the house, it could be let. She was to be where she wished to be.

“Tunbridge Wells?” she said.

To Harriet’s horror, Mama’s eyes filled with tears. “You are most welcome at Ferrington Hall, of course. Indeed, we want you there. Absolutely. Both of us. Ferrington only thought…”

“But how could I return?” her mother interrupted. “I’ve been so foolish about our money.” Her hands clasped convulsively.

“He would like to settle an income on you. A permanent one that could never be withdrawn.”

“Oh, Harriet!” The tears spilled over. “So generous.”

“So that is what you would like?” Harriet still wasn’t certain.

“More than anything. Oh, Harriet, can it really be true?”

“Quite true.”

Her mother’s breath caught on a sob. “I never dared dream… I would visit you, of course. It is not too far away. But to have my own… You say our old house can be taken?”

“Ferrington has bought it,” Harriet replied.

“Bought!” Her mouth fell open. “Bought?”

“Yes, Mama. For you.”

She stared, astounded, wordless.

“What has happened?” asked Charlotte, coming over to join them. Sarah trailed along behind.

“Harriet is marrying the most wonderful man in the world,” said her mother.

“Really?” Charlotte rested her satirical dark eyes on Harriet.

“I think perhaps I am,” she agreed.

***

The Winstead ball took place on a balmy summer evening when a full moon made nighttime travel easy for the neighbors. And notables from miles around made it their business to attend, drawn by the promise of meeting a duke and duchess and the affianced wife of their local earl. Not to mention Ferrington himself, who had not yet made the acquaintance of many of them. The guests flowed into the just-constructed ballroom, greeted by Harriet, her mother, and her grandfather at the door. From there, they fanned out to examine every nook and cranny of this ambitious addition to Winstead Hall. Jack circulated among them, supported by the Terefords. The duchess had made a list of all those invited and their positions, and Jack had done his best to memorize it. All was going smoothly, and Jack was confident his own plans were firmly in place, when he heard the butler announce an unexpected name.

“Lady Wilton Cantrell,” the man intoned.

Jack spun around. It was true. His wizened great-grandmother stood in the doorway, frowning, of course, resplendent in lavender satin. Jack met Harriet’s stunned gaze. Clearly, she hadn’t known about this either.

“Did they invite Grandmama?” asked the duke at his shoulder.

“Not that I ever heard.” He would have vetoed the idea.

“Do you suppose she is crashing the party?” Tereford wondered. “I did not tell her of it.”

“I would guess Mr. Winstead asked her,” said the duchess, who had joined them. “He wanted as many nobles here as possible.”

“He said nothing of it,” Jack objected.

“He’s a sly old bird,” she pointed out.

“We’ll have to go and greet her,” said the duke.

Jack set his jaw. “I don’t have to do anything for her.”

“It’s more for Harriet, really,” the duchess responded. “To show she’s welcomed into the family.”

If one called it that. Which Jack did not. But he would do anything for Harriet, even this.

“We’ll stay with you,” said the duchess.

He’d like to see Lady Wilton be rude to her.

They walked across the ballroom. Lady Wilton waited for them, leaning on her cane. “Hello, Grandmama,” said the duke when they reached her. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

“I didn’t see your name on the guest list,” said Jack.

The old lady raked them all with her gaze. “Winstead invited me. Told me about the engagement as well, which none of you bothered to do.” Her bilious look settled on Jack. “If you think this match excuses your treatment of me, you are quite wrong.”

“His treatment of you?” murmured the duchess.

Jack waited for the fury Lady Wilton had roused in him before. It did not come. He remembered Harriet’s distinction. Lady Wilton was a relation but not his family. And he needn’t care what she thought.

“You might have done better if you’d waited for me to take a hand,” the old lady continued. “But the girl’s not bad, and a great deal of money washes off the stink of trade.”

Here was the anger. “Never speak of Harriet in that way again,” Jack replied, in the cut-glass accent of his father’s haughtiest moments.

“She is my friend, Lady Wilton,” said the duchess. “A splendid person.”

“Petty spite becomes no one, Grandmama,” added the duke.

A startled Lady Wilton faced their united front. “I only meant…”

“I don’t care,” Jack interrupted. “If you talk of Harriet with anything but respect and admiration, we shall never have anything to do with you. And I’ll do my best to make you regret it.”

The old lady snorted. “I don’t know what you think you could do.”

“No, you don’t. I have the manners of a barbarian, remember?” He gave her glare for glare, and after a long moment, Lady Wilton’s eyes dropped.

The duchess leaned closer to the small, wizened figure. “It seems foolish to deride one’s own family,” she murmured. “Malice is likely to reflect back on the speaker.”

“Will you allow them to speak to me this way, Tereford?” Lady Wilton asked the duke.

“I think you rather deserve it, Grandmama.”

“Well!”

Some of his relations qualified as family after all, Jack thought with warm gratitude. The Terefords, certainly.

He turned to find many in the crowd watching them, waiting for an opportunity to meet the most illustrious guests. Everyone seemed to have arrived. Or if they hadn’t, too bad. He didn’t care. This felt like the moment. “If I may have your attention,” he called. He had to repeat this before all the chatter died and everyone was looking at him. “Since you are all here, in your finery, we decided to make this ball even more momentous.”

As they’d planned, Harriet had come to stand at his side. Charlotte and Sarah had taken their cues and were approaching from the left with a particular guest.

“And be married here and now before you,” Jack added.

“What?” exclaimed Lady Wilton and Mr. Winstead in chorus.

Charlotte and Sarah pulled the vicar into place. He looked nervous, but he’d examined and approved the license two days ago and was primed for his role.

“Just one minute,” Mr. Winstead began. The duke went to take his arm and quell his objections. Only a duke could have, Jack thought.

“This is outrageous,” said Lady Wilton. “Out of the question.”

The duchess herded the old lady away from the central couple and metaphorically sat on her.

And so Jack and his love were married in a most unconventional way, which heralded the sort of life they intended to lead. People in the crowd were appalled, charmed, outraged, or amused according to their natures. Most agreed, however, that this ball would be unforgettable and that the celebrations following the ceremony were the liveliest the neighborhood had ever seen. The food was certainly splendid.

As the guests were tucking into the grand spread, Mr. Winstead and Lady Wilton came face-to-face over the lobster patties. “I hope you know I had nothing to do with this wedding,” he said.

“Most improper,” she declared.

“Yes, indeed. I suppose we will find many things to agree on now that our families are joined.”

She annihilated him with a glare that made those he gave his employees pale in comparison. “Joined,” she snorted and stomped away, punctuating each step with her cane.

Jack and Harriet twirled on the dance floor in a waltz. “We’ve scandalized the neighborhood,” she said.

“We have that.”

“When can we do it again?”

He threw back his head and laughed. “After the honeymoon,” he promised.

***

“Have the newlyweds gone?” the Duke of Tereford asked his wife over breakfast the following morning. Jack and Harriet were to sail for Boston, where Ferrington would wrap up his affairs and his countess would meet his American friends.

“Yes. They were up at dawn and off soon after.”

He nodded. “Shall we follow their example? Not at dawn, however.”

The duchess nodded. “I’ve told the servants to pack up our things and ready the carriage for tomorrow.”

“And so we’re off to Cornwall?”

“To Tresigan, yes. I’ve had word the house is buried in ivy.”

“When you say buried?”

“Completely smothered by a jungle of vines,” said the duchess.

“Of course it is.”