"What a gloomy day it is; upon my word, I never saw so few familiar faces in the shops of London than I did this morning," complained Mrs. Fitzwilliam.
Seated in Evering's morning room, she was fiddling impatiently with the fringe on her shawl. Today was not her day for paying calls, but since the streets were far too damp for comfortable travel, she had chosen to visit her nieces instead.
"I suppose with only the same items to tempt them as always, more patrons would prefer to find themselves at home," Flora answered. Her seat was at her mother's desk, where it was her weekly chore to ferret out the housekeeping expenses based upon necessity and economy.
In the grate was a dull fire, more ashes than fuel. The necessities of economy rendered this a practical decision, if an uncomfortable one, for the female inhabitants of the house who sat there after breakfast.
"I don't know why everyone is so afraid of a little rain. I think puddles are great fun for splashing when one is in the proper shoes," said Marianne. Her needlework was forgotten in the interest of a set of toy soldiers she had made from bits of painted paper.
"Turn your attention to the subject of embroidery, if you please," Flora said. "I do not think the battle campaigns of Cromwell versus the Crown will have any future reference for you."
With a sigh, Marianne swept the soldiers into a box of "treasures" she kept hidden beneath the sofa and carried them out of the room.
"Well, upon my soul; here is Lady Easton's carriage!" declared Mrs. Fitzwilliam. She was poised at the window, having drawn aside the drapes.
Flora's pen fumbled and fell onto her pages. "It cannot be, surely," she answered. "She would not call so soon after Roger dined here." She rose and joined her aunt at the window. The Easton's carriage had stopped before their house, where two passengers alighted under the shelter of the footman's umbrella.
It was not Lady Easton and her daughter, however; it was Mrs. Harwick and Hetta.
"Now, what on earth could they be doing, escorted by the Easton's carriage?" Mrs. Fitzwilliam said. "You don't suppose the Harwicks have found favor with them–especially the pretty Miss Harwick?" Gleeful speculation was evident in Mrs. Fitzwilliam's voice.
"Never mind that, since they are almost upon us," Flora answered, making haste to remove her household apron and dispose of the notes on household economy. She reached for a needle and hoop just as the servant announced the Harwicks.
"Miss Stuart–and Mrs. Fitzwilliam. Your being here shall save us another call this morning," declared Mrs. Harwick, with a genteel bow.
"Mrs. Harwick, Miss Harwick–what a pleasant surprise," said Flora. Her guest's manner of greeting was slightly more cordial and considerably more cheerful than the last time.
"I hope you are all well?" asked Mrs. Harwick. "We have not seen you, nor your father recently. Not even at the concert last Wednesday."
"I'm afraid my father has been much engaged with his solicitor," Flora answered. As for herself, she had called and left her card for the Harwicks on a day in which the family was apparently absent due to a sudden engagement. "Even the society of London's season cannot keep him from the affairs with which he is involved presently."
"Of course," said Mrs. Harwick. Now that she was seated, Flora could better see the expense of her gown's fabric, the elaborate feathers trimming her bonnet. "But you have been in public often, I'm sure? We have merely missed meeting you in some crowd or other."
Hetta had seated herself on the sofa beside Flora. Her position placed her across from Mrs. Fitzwilliam, who was studying her with interest.
"I suppose that this is a busy season for you, Miss Harwick," she declared. "No doubt you have carried off the hearts of half of London with your pretty face."
A smile of malice spread briefly across Hetta's face. "Hardly, I assure you," she answered. "For there are so many pretty girls–like Miss Stuart here–that it is impossible for any young lady to stand out in public."
Flora forced herself to be silent, even as she felt the condescension in the young lady's remark. Hetta, who obviously considered her less than worthy of being her rival in London society. "I must thank you for the compliment," she ventured to say, "although I confess I cannot believe it true."
"Lady Easton sends her compliments." Mrs. Harwick changed the subject abruptly. "I'm sure you saw us alighting from her carriage. Delightful, charming woman; she met us in Bond Street and we spent quite a morning examining the new shawls and parasols."
"She offered us a ride in her carriage, as we were paying morning calls here," said Hetta. "Was that not kind of her? It was quite out of her way, I feel, since an engagement with her friends carries her near the Park."
"What a kind offer indeed," said Flora. "Especially given the heavy rain which seems to afflict our fair city today." She pulled her needle too hard, causing its threads to tangle.
Why had they called here today? Was it to triumph over her, the daughter of a gentleman whose means forced her to spend more time directing servants and stitches than shopping for expensive ornaments? They surely considered her beneath them, given their fashions and manner of speaking.
"You must take care, Flora," said Mrs. Fitzwilliam. "You are quite pale this morning. With such faded color I would suspect a young man had a hand in it if I did not know better."
It was all Flora could do to hide any trace of blush in her cheeks. "I do not know what you mean," she laughed. "I have spent all yesterday afternoon walking in the garden. Surely that would give health to my appearance if nothing else."
Digging in the dirt was a more accurate description of yesterday's activity, but Flora knew better than to let her gardening habits be known to the Harwicks.
"Such paleness is always the sign of love in young people," Mrs. Fitzwilliam observed. "Unless it be a broken attachment, in which case the pining of the heart pales the cheek."
Such careless comments should be more uncomfortable for Hetta than anyone else present. But she seemed unaffected, her gloved fingers busy opening a small package beside her.
"I have made a purchase today which might interest Miss Stuart," she said. "Whom, I believe, is quite an admirer of its powers." In her hand was a new volume of Advice for Young Ladies.
"The shop was full of them," Mrs. Harwick said. "I could not half-move for the young ladies requesting a copy. I thought it quite ill-bred of them to be so eager."
"I hope you will enjoy it," Flora said. Despite Mrs. Harwick's complaints, it stirred her imagination, the thought of a crowd of eager readers clamoring for the little volume.
Hetta laughed. "It isn't for me," she said. "I have no need of such aid. I am sending it to a cousin of mine. A rather plain, awkward girl who spends most of her time with her stitchwork."
There was a moment of silence before Flora found the power to reply. "What a kind thought," she murmured. "I hope it brings her good fortune in her pursuit."
Insufferable conceit! What rudeness and petty revenge to take upon someone in their own home! Flora's mind burned with these feelings, even as she knew them to be equally inappropriate.
"I am afraid the book shall only succeed as far as amusement," said Hetta, tucking it away again. "For both you and I know it is quite out of the question, procuring a gentleman's interest from some very silly rules."
Mrs. Fitzwilliam laughed loudly. "Ah, the confidence of youth! Many a lovely young lady has declared such a thing before now, Miss Harwick." Hetta's lips curved slowly into a smile as she listened.
"We really must be going, my dear," said Mrs. Harwick. "Shall we see you both at Lady Easton's party on the twenty-fifth?"
She offered a pitying smile as Flora did not respond. "Well, then, I am sure we shall meet again soon," she concluded. "Come, Hetta." With that, they were gone.
"I see Mrs. Harwick has developed no manners since the last time we met," observed Mrs. Fitzwilliam, twitching her bonnet strings angrily. "Upon my word, to mention a fixed engagement to another–is the woman without any sense of propriety?"
"She meant to be rude." Flora moved to the window, watching as the Harwicks made their way across the street, sheltered from the cool drizzle by their umbrella. "It was her best means of snubbing us. She wishes me to think that Lady Easton cares less for me as a friend than she does their own family."
"Nonsense," Mrs. Fitzwilliam replied. "Why should she care so much what Lady Easton thinks of you? Or whether she thinks of you at all, for that matter."
After a moment's reflection, she added, "Unless Mrs. Harwick considers you a rival for her daughter's chances with young Lord Easton?" She cast a curious glance in her niece's direction.
"It is not that, Aunt," Flora replied. Half-fearing her aunt might guess the truth if she pondered it any longer. "It is because of something between me and Miss Harwick from a very long time ago."
She moved away from the window and returned to the desk, hoping her aunt would allow the subject to drop. That was not the case, however.
"Surely this is not about that hint of scandal from her youth," Mrs. Fitzwilliam said. "How could she blame you? It was not from your lips that the story spread through the village. She should blame her family's servants for implying there was something amiss in the household." Mrs. Fitzwilliam herself had the whole story from an upstairs maid the Harwicks employed that fall, now married to a cobbler.
"I knew of Hetta's attachment before the others did," Flora answered, choosing her words carefully to avoid mentioning any details. "Hetta was aware that I knew and assumed I was connected to the discovery of her impetuous mistake."
"That is hardly a reason to persecute you," Mrs. Fitzwilliam scoffed. "As if Hetta Harwick regrets getting caught. Such a spoiled and silly girl would have been unhappy if she had run away with a village boy. She's far too proud of her pretty feathers and young gentlemen of fortune to regret the outcome."
"Perhaps so," Flora said, turning to the household accounts again. Relieved that the theory about herself and Roger Easton had vanished.
Was Hetta truly happy? She found it hard to believe, given the young girl's situation. Shallow in character, lacking in personal faith, Hetta was but a shell destined to be filled with the fortune of whatever husband she chose. Her life was simply a quest to keep her family afloat financially; there was no love or charity to brighten her future.
Whatever she may be, Flora penned in her journal, Hetta is to be pitied. For if she continues this way, she must be a hungry creature never to be filled. Always in search of something new to entertain her, to keep from thinking about her life. She repulsed even friendship from those who would offer better counsel–no doubt because there was no better example set for her by her parents.
Had we been friends in the past, would things have been different between us now? Had we been true confidents and not just forced playmates, would she still have believed that I betrayed her that afternoon? Perhaps so; but perhaps past memories would have caused her to forgive me more quickly.
For all that I resent in her attempts to toy with Roger's heart as she has toyed with others, I feel something else besides. For what if Hetta once, indeed, did love–and was thwarted in that love?
Such a question would never be answered in Hetta's eyes. For their depths were inscrutable, Flora had discovered, except where the hunger for fortune and amusement was concerned.
Was it possible that such an unhappy young girl would learn to love Roger? It was impossible for her to believe, even when viewing her in the best possible light. For how could someone who treated young Lord Nighton with such contempt for having too little fortune show true kindness to young Lord Easton for having too much?
Such a question, Flora decided, she intended to make sure would never be answered.