It is the custom in our island to hunt each bird in its season. In the autumn months and into the early winter, shooters tramp our woodlands and moors in search of grouse, partridge, and pheasant. Naturally, the husband hunter imagines that there is a “Season” for the hunting of husbands. If, however, we consider the parish registry of each church as a sort of game book, we will find writ there in every season the names of husbands bagged by enterprising young ladies. Indeed, it is only in times of mourning or great distress that a single woman chooses not to hunt.
—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London
A heavy fog darkened the sky, obscuring the park and the tops of buildings, when the ladies descended from Lady Luxborough’s carriage in Piccadilly to enter the arcade. Shoppers escaping the gloom crowded the long, narrow passage bright with lamps and light cast from shop windows. Camille, Anne, and Octavia linked arms and led the way, stopping at each shop window to exclaim over piles of pale macaroons and displays of delicate ivory fans and gloves of every shade.
Harriet could see no danger in the situation. Though ladies and a few gentlemen crowded the long covered passageway between the shops, the presence of the uniformed beadles in their stately blue frock coats and top hats insured order. No whistling or singing was permitted in the arcade, to discourage pickpockets and prostitutes from signaling to one another when a victim had been spotted.
A lively discussion was in progress about the nature of the hat Octavia meant to buy. Octavia quoted her guidebook about the importance of a young lady’s being noticed and described the ribbons and feathers she had admired on the marchioness’s bronze silk bonnet. Anne and Camille were quick to offer contrary opinions.
“Oh, but you don’t want people to notice your hat. You want them to notice you,” said Anne.
“Besides,” said Camille, “your eyes are your best feature, so you don’t want a hat that distracts from your face.”
Octavia looked doubtful, but she said no more.
“Don’t worry,” said Anne. “There will be lots of hats to choose from. Oh, look, Harriet, shawls. Your favorite.”
Harriet turned to the window Anne indicated. Shawls were truly her weakness. She kept to plain colors and fabrics for her gowns—dove grays, dark blues, and nut browns—but handwoven shawls from the distant East, with their vivid colors and formal designs, drew her. In the window, lying across a yellow damask sofa, was a stunning shawl of the deepest blue with a border of the curved buta design of the Mughal rulers of India embroidered in rich reds and golds.
“You should buy it, Harriet. It’s just what you love,” said Camille.
And there it was—the little reminder that she and her girls lived quite different lives. They could purchase whatever took their fancy and forget it in a week. She could not.
“I think I shall just admire it a moment longer,” Harriet said.
“We’ll take Octavia to Duddell’s,” said Camille. “They have the best prices.”
“And we won’t let her buy an ugly bonnet,” added Anne.
Harriet nodded, still looking at the shawl. It was the deep cerulean blue that painters had once reserved only for the robes of saints, the blue of the heavens on a bright winter day, the blue of distances.
She did not know how long she had stood when a male voice at her side said, “Miss Swanley?”
She turned to find Captain Simon Mudge, a retired naval officer with a limp and brown military whiskers that curved along his jaw from his ears to his chin. She had met him occasionally after Sunday services through her friend Margaret Leach, companion to Lady Eliza Fawkener. It was Margaret who had helped Harriet grow accustomed to the daily slights endured by women who chose the role of governess or companion.
Captain Mudge was a comfortable sort of gentleman, part of a group of avid novel readers who exchanged books and called themselves, as a sort of joke, the Back Bench Lending Library.
“Admiring the India shawls?” he asked.
“That blue one, very much,” she said.
“Ah,” he said. “Did you know that the pattern is the unfurling of the cone of a male date palm tree, the source of life and fertility?”
“I did not know,” Harriet said, wondering if men saw beauty at all.
“I brought one much like that to my sister when I came back from the Indies,” he added.
“She must treasure it,” Harriet answered.
He nodded. “It is surely one of the wonders of the East that such beauty comes from the underbellies of shaggy, long-haired goats.”
Harriet laughed. “I had not thought of the goats, only of the artist at her loom.”
“His loom more like,” said the captain. “Are you here alone?”
“Oh,” said Harriet, looking down the arcade. She did not see the girls. “Please excuse me, Captain. I must return to my charges, who are on their own in a bonnet shop.”
He bowed, and she stepped into the crowd. All she could see down the line of the arcade were hats and bonnets. Duddell’s was near the garden end of the long passage. She told herself not to worry. Octavia would try on at least a half dozen bonnets, and Anne and Camille would not hesitate to share their opinions, so it was unlikely Octavia would purchase anything truly dreadful. Harriet meant to live by her principles of letting her charges make and learn from their mistakes. If Octavia bought an ugly bonnet, Harriet would let her wear it and judge its effect for herself.
She was halfway down the arcade when a hand gripped her arm and she was spun around to face Wynford. “Where is she?” he demanded.
Harriet looked up into his frowning face and willed herself to be calm. “She’s gone ahead with Anne and Camille to the hat shop,” Harriet said. “We’re not thirty steps away.”
“Admit it. You’ve lost her.”
A gentleman pushed past Harriet, casting a glare at the two of them for impeding the walkway.
Harriet steadied herself. “Not at all. The Luxborough girls are with her. I gave them permission to go ahead while I looked at a shawl.”
“Looked at a shawl, or met a man?” he asked.
Harriet gasped. He had both misread her conduct and assumed the right to censure her for it. “You have been spying, haven’t you?”
“My sister’s safety is at stake.” His mouth was a tight line.
“Are you mad?” she asked. Maybe he was. He wore another absurd waistcoat, a pink-and-green flowered monstrosity. Maybe in the ten years since she’d first met him something had happened to unhinge his mind. Maybe being the brother of a much younger sister had encouraged the autocratic tendency of his nature. “Your sister is with friends. The beadles are on duty everywhere.”
“You don’t know that she’s safe. You weren’t watching her.” He grabbed her by the hand and hauled her after him. There was no clear path forward, so they moved in jerks, with Wynford forcing his way through the crowd.
Harriet begged pardon of people who exclaimed at their rude progress. No harm was going to come to Octavia. Lord Wynford was going to feel very foolish when Octavia appeared with her friends and a new bonnet. Harriet hoped he would feel embarrassed from his lordly ears to his toes of his glossy, polished boots.
When the way was blocked for a moment, he turned to her. “Which shop were they headed for?”
“Duddell’s,” she said.
He nodded and pulled her forward again.
When they reached the shop, Harriet prepared to be vindicated, but the girls were not there. In a flash Harriet knew where they had gone.
“Try Parson’s,” she said. “Number twenty-six.” Parson’s sold Paris-made hats for a guinea apiece.
Back they went against the tide of shoppers.
At Parson’s, Octavia sat on a cushioned bench, turning her head this way and that to see the effect of a close-fitting silk bonnet of the deepest rose with a delicate pink lining. Looking over her shoulder was the marchioness, and behind her stood Anne and Camille, looking anxious and guilty.
“Charles,” said Octavia, catching sight of her brother and coming to her feet. “Look who we met.”
Harriet felt the rapid alteration in him through their joined hands, a current of relief followed by guardedness.
“Marchioness,” he said. He dropped Harriet’s hand, but not before the other woman noted the connection.
“Your sister looks charming, does she not? How fortunate that I was able to intercept her before she made the fatal error of shopping somewhere dull and English. Do you go to Lady Throckmorton’s tonight?”
“I do.”
“I’ve invited your sister to come. Was that too forward of me?” She turned to Octavia.
“Oh Charles,” Octavia cried. “You must let me come. Cousin Isabelle says Lady Throckmorton has a daughter just my age, and I will meet more eligible gentlemen there in an evening than I ever will going to...” Octavia’s brow furrowed as some thought occurred to stop her speech. “Going elsewhere,” she finished.
Harriet did not need the touch of Wynford’s hand to know how wary he instantly became.
“Of course you may go,” he said. He turned to Harriet, and she could not mistake the appeal in his eyes. “Provided only that Miss Swanley is at liberty to accompany you.”
All the others turned her way. Harriet nodded. “Of course.” She could not fathom why a woman of the marchioness’s obvious worldliness wished to exercise her influence over a green girl like Octavia, but she did not like it.
“It is settled then. Au revoir, sweet cousin, until tonight.” The marchioness swept out of the little shop.
Octavia bounced with excitement, throwing her arms around her brother and thanking him.
“Let’s pay for your purchase, shall we?” he said.
Anne and Camille looked on helplessly. Harriet went and stood between them, taking their hands and drawing them out of the shop. “Thank you,” she said quietly, “for helping Octavia to find a becoming bonnet.”
“It does look well on her, doesn’t it?” said Anne.
Harriet nodded.
“But oh, Miss Swanley, we could not stop her from following her cousin to Parson’s shop,” said Camille.
“And we couldn’t tell her about Lady Throckmorton. Could we?” Anne took over. “Even if Mama says Lady Throckmorton is...well, is...not quite genteel. Don’t you always say to let people discredit themselves?”
“I do, and I’m proud of you both for staying with Octavia and for your tact and reserve. Do not worry about her tonight. I’ll be there with her.”
There was a moment of silence.
“But tonight you were going to begin this year’s Christmas ghost story for Jasper’s homecoming.”
“I forgot,” said Harriet. She had. Her ghost story had become an annual game played over four nights with the children drawing cards to create a ghost and Harriet bringing the spirit to life with clues. One year the ghost had been a headless coachman, another year, a terrible, red-eyed hound. For three days the ghost wandered Luxborough House, leaving clues to his or her identity, until his unveiling and laying to rest.
Octavia and Wynford emerged from the shop. Harriet’s gaze met his, and to her utter mortification, she knew what had made her forget the ghost game.
“Forgive me,” she said to Anne and Camille. “I promise we shall begin tomorrow night.”