Stages of Desire (5 page)

He guessed what she was alluding to. “I assure you, my brother's escapades are not mine. Your daughter's good name will be secure.”

“Yes, yes, of course. I appreciate that. And there's one other item.” She fiddled with one of her rings. “It's rather awkward and I'm not sure how to begin.”

The reason for her discomfort came to him in a flash. “Your Grace, I'm not interested in discussing a dowry, if that's your concern. My only objective is to secure a wife who is decent and kind and willing to help me uphold the family's name and line.”

She beamed up at him. “Of course. My late husband and I bred our daughter to understand and obey the dictates of society. With your assurance, I will gladly encourage you to ask for Marianne's hand in marriage. And I wish you both the best.”

Before he could reply, she had excused herself and left the room and Lady Marianne stepped into the parlor. Her blonde tresses shone and the pale pink of her lips perfectly matched the rose hue of her gown. She was the embodiment of feminine loveliness and attention to aesthetic detail, something his father had said repeatedly was essential in the fairer sex.

“You wished to see me, my lord?”

“Indeed, I did.” The room was suddenly quite warm. He couldn't simply launch into a marriage proposal, could he? He needed to say something first, some sort of introduction, but his mind went blank. If only he'd had a tutor for this kind of thing at Oxford, he might have a chance to excel in the art of charm and flattery. But it wasn't his natural inclination. Oliver, who'd easily gained admittance to the bawdiest houses in London, had introduced William to the baser proclivities as a university student, but after Claire had gotten sick, William had preferred his research to the wooing of ladies.

“How is Lady Claire?” Marianne asked, filling the silence.

“She's fine for now. Not as well as I would have liked.”

“I'm so sorry.” Marianne sat on the sofa in one fluid movement.

He lowered himself beside her, relieved to have found a subject dear to his heart. “Yes. You see, the current treatment, I feel, is insufficient. Right now the best we seem to be able to do for the ague is a tea made from Peruvian bark, derived from the cinchona tree.”

“I don't think I've ever seen a cinchona tree.” Marianne wrinkled up her forehead.

For a moment, he was confused. “You wouldn't have, as it's indigenous to South America.”

“Ah.”

“Yes. And I believe we can do something more with the bark, perhaps extract from it the specific substances to help with the fevers and chills of the disease. The extractions would be many times more powerful than a weak tea.”

“An extraction. Like a sum?”

“No, that's an equation.”

“Right.”

Silence filled the room once more. He ought not to ramble on so.

“Lady Marianne, please forgive me. I'm not here to discuss medicine. I'm here to discuss our future together.”

Her eyes shone brightly. “Yes?”

He shifted closer to her on the sofa. Marianne was so petite she had to crane her neck to look up at him. For some reason he found it unsettling.

Raised voices in the hallway caught his attention. Marianne waved her hand. “It's nothing, only the servants. Go on.”

One voice became louder and more insistent. William instantly recognized the timbre and his heart beat faster. He didn't want to see Miss Farley. Not if he was going to keep his wits about him. She sounded upset and her exclamations were followed by the low murmurings of the duchess.

As the noise grew in volume, William rose and opened the door. Miss Farley and the duchess faced each other near the bottom of the stairs. Neither of them noticed him at first. In contrast with Marianne's careful outward presentation, Miss Farley's dark hair tumbled wildly down her back, free of its pins, and her cheeks blazed red. In one hand, she held a well-worn book.

“I must leave right away, Your Grace,” Miss Farley said. “I assure you I'll be fine. I'll bring a footman to keep an eye on me.”

“Now is not the time to discuss this, Harriet. Lord Abingdon is with Marianne.”

“I must leave at once.”

The duchess grabbed her ward by the arm. “Enough of this screeching. Come with me.”

“I will not.”

William spoke up. “Is there something amiss?”

Miss Farley spun around. The raw emotion in her face momentarily stunned him.

“I have to go to my father. He needs my help.”

“Your father? From what I understood last night, you are under the guardianship of Her Grace.”

“I am, my lord. But today I had word my father is”—she paused—“sickly, and I need to go to him.”

The duchess appeared confused. “You didn't receive any correspondence today, Harriet. What on earth are you talking about?”

The young woman took a deep breath. “While running errands this morning, I ran into a friend, an actor from the company.” A lock of her hair fell forward, grazing her cheek, and William had the strangest urge to reach out and tuck it behind her ear. “I'd like permission to visit my father in Birmingham. I'll stop in Chipping Norton and collect my friend.”

The duchess gasped but the words kept tumbling out of Miss Farley's mouth. “If you can't spare a footman, I'll pay for coach fare with my pocket money. Please. It's important.”

The idea was ridiculous. And indecent.

“What is your father ill with?” William asked.

She gave him a vague look. “They're not sure.”

“It's out of the question.” The duchess's face was stern. “It would be a scandal. Doing so will jeopardize your alliance with Mr. Hopplehill. Never mind you were gallivanting without a chaperone on the streets of London already once today.”

“But I must.”

“Your father's not been heard from since the day he dropped you off to us. Why must you rush to him now?”

“He stayed away because he believed it to be best, not because he didn't wish to. I didn't realize until now.”

Miss Farley was obviously quite mad, which surprised William, as her conversation last night had been lucid. She stood tall and strong and exuded a magnetic intensity he'd never seen before. She was an intriguing woman, but if he was going to marry into this family, her behavior would not do. She needed reining in, as the Duke of Dorset would do if he were still alive.

“You won't go,” William said.

Miss Farley's eyes grew wide and fierce. “You can't tell me what I can and cannot do.”

“Harriet!” Her guardian's tone was deadly.

“I apologize. You cannot tell me what I can and cannot do, my lord.”

Her boldness incensed William. “If I am to marry into this family, I must insist on propriety.”

“Harriet, think of me,” Marianne pleaded. “You're going to ruin everything.”

Miss Farley stared at Marianne, then back at William. She stifled a sob, briefly regained her composure, and charged up the stairs. The duchess followed and he took the opportunity to take his leave of Marianne. He was glad he'd been there to assist the duchess with her disobedient ward.

In any event, it was getting late, and he still had work to do. As he stepped out into street, he realized he had not completed the task he'd set out to accomplish. He had already arranged to travel to Poundridge tomorrow, but would ask Marianne to marry him upon his return, after the duchess's household settled down. He found himself surprisingly relieved by the reprieve.

Yet knew he wouldn't soon forget the sound of Miss Farley's cry, with its animal-like intensity, nor the look of pain in her eyes.

Chapter 4

“Can we help you then, miss?”

Harriet whirled round, holding her valise in one hand, and clutching her reticule to her chest with the other. The coach had hurried off as soon as she'd stepped onto the dusty streets of Chipping Norton, and after a full day of journeying, she was happy to see it go. Her head pounded from the bumpy ride and she'd spent the final hour trying to ignore the hunger gnawing in her belly. The late afternoon sun bounced off the whitewashed walls of the inn in front of her. Its timbers curved slightly outward, as if it were stuffed with patrons and about to burst.

In front of it stood two men. They swayed slightly and eyed her up and down.

“Ya new here, my love? Didja come for the fair?”

Her mouth was dry from thirst and exhaustion, and she wasn't sure how to respond. Earlier that morning, Harriet had dressed in her drabbest gown, bonnet, and pelisse. Each were varying hues of gray, and with her hair tucked back in a tight knot, she'd hoped to create an impression of a serious woman not to be trifled with as she'd slipped out of the townhouse on Brook Street.

She'd purchased her seat on the coach with the little money she'd saved and was relieved to find the other occupants paid her little attention. But now, with these two strangers ogling her, a sense of dread overcame her. The coach had disappeared and the street was empty of other inhabitants, whom she assumed were off at the fair.

“I have no need for assistance. Thank you.” She weighed her options. She could ask for directions inside the inn, but that would require getting past these oafs. Instead, she strode in the opposite direction. With luck, she'd spot someone respectable and obtain directions to Adam's cottage. The town was quite small, so it couldn't be far.

A rough hand on Harriet's arm stopped her in her tracks. The taller of the two men pulled her to him. “Why don't we go back into the pub? I'll buy you a pint, and we can have a chat.” Harriet struggled to release herself from his embrace and was surprised at his strength.

His friend grinned, unveiling several missing teeth in his macabre smile. “Yeah, then maybe we'll take you upstairs and give you a right welcome.”

After six years of being shielded from rough folk, Harriet had forgotten how ill-mannered certain men could be. In London, out walking with the duchess or Marianne, their silk gowns might as well have been coats of armor. The working classes rarely met her eye, and certainly never stared at her as brazenly as these two.

She gave the man a cold, hard look. She'd been through scrapes as a child, and could certainly get herself out of this one.

“Piss off, ya sot,” she said.

The man's eyes grew wide. Harriet sized him up. She had a couple of inches on him, and he'd been drinking for some time. She could either run down the road, screaming like a ninny, or stand firm.

She stepped closer and raised her chin. “If you don't get out of my way, you'll regret it.”

The other man shifted uneasily from one leg to another. “Har, she's a lively lass.”

“I like 'em lively.” The taller one's breath reeked of ale.

Harriet swung her valise hard and clocked him in the side of the head. He didn't expect the blow and crumpled to the ground, where she finished him off with a good kick. The other man ran back inside the pub, yelling at the top of his lungs.

To her relief, an elderly man in an apron popped out. “What's going on out here?”

“This man attacked me.” Harriet pointed to the one on the ground. “You'd best take him inside before I finish him off.”

The publican motioned for him to get up. The man groggily swore at Harriet.

“Better watch your manners, Peter.” The publican spat on the ground. “She's a strong lass. Get inside. And if you don't keep your mouth shut I'll send her in after you.”

Once the two attackers had retreated, the publican considered Harriet. “You might not want to be standing around here much longer. Folks are celebrating. The streets aren't safe today.”

Harriet's legs were weak and her heart beat fast. She hadn't done anything so physical since she'd hauled sets around as a young girl, and she was spent from the journey. “I need to find Adam Rousby's cottage. Is it nearby?”

The man nodded. “Adam Rousby. Good man. Head down the high street and turn right at the mill. Rousby's cottage is over the bridge. You'll see the big red barn in back.”

Harriet gave him a grateful look. “Thank you.”

“Are you kin?”

“Might as well be,” she replied. “We worked together.”

“I see. Off you go, and I'll keep these two louts here until you're out of sight. No need for more trouble.”

“No need, right. Thanks.”

Harriet clipped down the road at a brisk pace. She was amazed at how quickly her old accent came back, with its flattened vowels and missing consonants. The same voice the duchess spent months correcting when she'd first joined the family. Although Harriet had proven a canny mimic, she was pleased to find she hadn't forgotten her roots.

She felt a kind of freedom in her bones. Not that she had been kept against her will in London. Far from it. But she'd aspired to be dutiful and feminine, like Marianne, and had almost forgotten she was the type of girl who could pound a man with a valise when threatened. What would Mr. Hopplehill say if he saw her now? Best not think about that.

Adam's cottage was ramshackle, the home of a man who toured the counties much of the year. The thatched roof was rotting around the chimney, and cracks scarred the glass in two windows. The barn behind the house loomed large but looked as if it were about to crash down at any moment. Poor Adam. He'd devoted his life to performing, but had received little, other than adulation, in return. Where most men with his talent might have made it to the London stage and retired to a life of ease, he'd stayed true to her father, even when the company was falling apart.

Overgrown weeds and wildflowers overwhelmed the pathway to the front door. She knocked on the door and a shrill woman called out, “Coming!”

The door opened and there stood Mrs. Kembler. Although she was probably in her late fifties, her hair was a brassy blonde color Harriet couldn't quite find a name for, her lips a bright red that matched the slashes of color on her cheeks. She screeched and grabbed Harriet hard to her.

“My girl. You up and came. I said you would, and Adam didn't believe me. He said you were a London girl now. But I knew different, I did!” She turned and screamed loud enough to wake the dead. “Adam, Harry's here. Come quick.”

Harriet smiled. No one had called her that for years. Yet at the moment it fit her better than the more proper Harriet. Adam came through the back door. He smiled and took Harriet's hand in his. His eyes brimmed with tears. “You came.”

“Don't let the old man get maudlin on you, my girl,” Mrs. Kembler said. “He'll be bawling all night long if we don't stop him now. Come in and let me make you some tea. Are you hungry?”

Harriet was famished, but she didn't want to impose. “I brought some bread and cheese with me for the journey and I haven't finished it yet. We can dine on that.”

“No you don't, my girl,” said Adam. “We were given a load of provisions when we last played Stourport, so partake of our feast.”

“It was Stourport-on-Severn, old man.” Mrs. Kemble let out a harsh cackle. “And we were paid in sausages and ale.”

“Sausages and ale would be lovely,” said Harriet.

They sat around the fire, eating and drinking, and Harriet found herself laughing loudly, listening to the stories of the past and happy to be somewhere safe for the night with friends she had dearly missed.

Mrs. Kembler drained her glass. “I'll have you know I played Juliet earlier in the season. Your father said I'm too old but I had to go on when the silly local girl he'd hired dropped out. And I awed the crowd. They were awed, right old man?”

Adam nodded solemnly, but when Mrs. Kembler turned to pour more ale he winked at Harriet. She imagined Mrs. Kembler dashing madly about the stage like a young girl. No wonder her father had turned to drink.

“Where is the rest of the company?” Harriet asked.

“Most are up in Birmingham, still,” said Adam. “But our young boy Martin and the man Toby are joining us tomorrow. I have to say I'm surprised to see you, Harry. What made you decide to leave London?”

She reached into her reticule and pulled out the book of sonnets. “My father left me this. I didn't know until yesterday. I'd always thought he was happy to be rid of me. He never returned any of my letters and eventually I didn't bother to write.” She opened the cover. “But here, in the inscription, he wrote, ‘
For Harriet, read Sonnet 37 and know my heart.
'”

Mrs. Kembler smiled and spoke, “‘As a decrepit father takes delight, to see his active child do deeds of youth, so I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite, take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.'”

Adam interrupted her recitation. “You only received the book yesterday?”

“Yes. You see, Marianne, the duke and duchess's daughter, kept it hidden from me. She didn't do it out of spite, it's simply the way she is.”

Adam took a swig of ale. “Your father wanted what was best in life for you.”

“I understand that now. This was the only way he could express why he sent me away. And I want to help him.”

Adam stared hard into the fire without responding. She continued. “We can head up to Birmingham and be there in two days at most. I'll talk some sense into father, persuade him to mount the production, and the Farley Players will carry on.”

“What does your guardian think of this?” asked Adam.

Harriet did her best to dodge the question. “I'll be back in a couple of weeks, no harm done. They don't understand our life. They look down on it.”

“As they should. This is no longer your life,” said Mrs. Kembler. “You oughtn't demean yourself like this. Adam should never have sent for you.”

“She's right.” Adam didn't meet Harriet's eyes. “I don't know what I was thinking. I was living in the past.”

“But it worked, I'm here now and we can take care of the mess father has created for himself, and the Farley Players.”

“I'm afraid it's too late.”

“What do you mean?”

Adam and Mrs. Kembler exchanged anxious glances and Adam cleared his throat. “We've heard from the others. No one wants anything to do with the Farley Players any longer. Your father has burnt his last bridge. Tomorrow we're going to head over to Swindon, to join Bibby's company.”

Harriet closed her eyes for a moment. She could still feel the sway of the carriage in her body. “You can't go to the competition. Thomas Bibby's always hated Father. And you know how he treats his actors. You'll be lucky to be paid at all. It will break father's heart.”

“His heart is already in pieces, there's naught we can do about it, my love,” said Adam kindly. “I wanted to give it a go, but no one else is willing. I'm sorry you came all this way. We'll put you on a coach back to London tomorrow.”

* * * *

“You have a letter from London.”

William lowered the fire on the burner. He'd been working in his laboratory for hours without realizing the time, and his back and shoulders were sore. The sight of his younger brother was a welcome one.

“Jasper. I thought you were off visiting your university chums.”

Jasper stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He held a letter in his hand. “I left early. I needed a break from the all the philosophic chatter. Why aren't you in London?”

“I seemed to have difficulty getting anything accomplished there.”

“Too many balls and dinner parties?”

Jasper had a lightness of spirit William had always admired. Claire liked to say the baby of the family was a perfect blend of Oliver and William: he possessed Oliver's good humor without his wantonness, and William's intelligence minus his seriousness. He was also better looking than all of them put together, with a head of blond curls and a youthful grin.

“I suppose so. I came here to try to get some work done.”

“The staff said you haven't been seen since breakfast.”

Earlier that morning, William had downed a cold repast and ensconced himself in his laboratory. He'd set it up years ago, in an abandoned tenant's cottage a half a mile from the main house and far away from his father's judgmental eye. Even with his father gone, he preferred to work away from any interruptions.

But Jasper was an exception. William embraced him, amazed at the way his baby brother had grown in height and muscle. “How long are you here for?”

“As long as you need me. I figured I'd see if I could redirect the drainage from the west pond, so the barley fields to the east are better served.”

“Of course, do what you like.”

“As long as I'm not interfering.”

William laughed. “Interfere away. Nothing would please me more.”

“Good Lord. Are you planning on sleeping here?” Jasper gestured toward the small cot at the far end of the room. “Is the goose down at the main house not to your liking?”

Ever since Oliver's death, William had been uneasy sleeping in the room designated for the Earl of Abingdon. The staff knew not be alarmed if he slept on the daybed here instead of retiring to his bedchamber. It only served as a painful reminder of his last conversation with his brother.

He shook off his dark ruminations and ran his fingers through his hair. “Did you say something about a letter?”

“Smythe was on his way to fetch you when I arrived.” Jasper held out a folded piece of paper. “This came from London and apparently it's urgent.”

“Is it Claire? Hand it over.”

“Don't worry, it's not from Claire. How is she?”