Harriet gave him a shaky smile. They
had
been like brother and sister. The marquess seemed like an ancient lecher compared to this affectionate, naive youth.
“Yes, I would like to get away for a little,” said Harnet. “I shall not even tell Aunt Rebecca. I will merely say I am going to my dressmaker and wish to see her alone.”
“Better still,” said Bertram buoyantly. “I will call for you at nine in the morning. No one will be awake.”
“Does your mother live very far away?”
“No, only a matter of an hour or two’s drive.”
“Then I will go with you,” said Harriet, “and perhaps I will be able to decide on the drive what I must do.”
At two in the afternoon, the marquess called and demanded to see his fiancée in private. He did not know he was jealous of Bertram; Harriet did not know he was jealous of Bertram—and so the haughty, angry man who berated her on her lack of dignity, morals, and social sense seemed very much the monster of Bertram’s fiction.
“It was all very innocent,” said Harriet wearily. “Bertram is so young, so carefree, so much like a brother, I was not aware I was doing anything wrong.”
“And yet,” grated the marquess, “when I wished to take you aside from the crowd at Vauxhall, ah,
then
you remembered the proprieties and said we should be chaperoned. I thought you were a lady of breeding and good manners. Miss Harriet, despite your unorthodox upbringing. Did not Miss Clifton warn you of the dangers of such behavior?”
“Because Bertram is your relative, she saw nothing amiss,” said Harriet.
“Your relationship with my cousin has progressed rapidly in my absence. You call him Bertram, and yet you address me as my lord.”
“Perhaps you are regretting your decision to wed me,” said Harriet eagerly. “After all, you were rather coerced into it. I will gladly release you from—”
“Release me.
Me!”
The marquess looked at her in amazement. How could she even suggest such a thing, after all his magnaminity and generosity?
Then he noticed her pallor and the shadows under her eyes. “Forgive me,” he said gently, “I had forgotten the strain you have been under since you came to London. You are bewildered and distressed and do not quite know what you are saying. Please cancel your social engagements for today and get some rest. We will talk more of this tomorrow.”
He bestowed a chaste kiss on her cheek and left.
His pride is so great, thought Harriet miserably, that he will not even listen to me.
But the marquess had received a severe shock. He walked for a long time, thinking about Harriet’s behavior and his own.
Then he struck his brow with a dramatic gesture worthy of Bertram and exclaimed out loud, much to the alarm of an elderly couple who were passing at the time, “I have been dishonest!”
He did not want to marry Harriet because it was a fine and generous thing to do. He wanted to marry her because, quite simply, he wanted her. Life without her would be dreary and empty. He had never once said that he loved her. And now he had barked at her and lectured her. Was it not natural she should prefer the company of a youth like Bertram? Did she know how sulky and difficult and cruel Bertram could be when he wasn’t getting his own way? Damn Bertram! To be jealous of such a whelp.
She did not have any jewelry. His face brightened. He would buy her a fine necklace, call on her tomorrow, and tell her of his love. She
must
love him. Such a love as his could not go unreciprocated.
Two young belles sighed as they watched his long, lean, athletic figure stride by. They were very young and very pretty, but the marquess did not even notice their existence.
He felt his behavior toward Harriet Clifton had been that of the veriest coxcomb.
While the Marquess of Arden was walking about the streets of London discovering his love for Harriet, Agnes was entertaining Mr. Prenderbury.
When he was with her, she managed to forget the terrible lies she had told Harriet. They talked of so many things, books and plays and operas.
Cordelia flounced about the drawing room, listening to them in a bored sort of way and, at last, seeing that Mr. Prenderbury was oblivious to her charms, she decided to leave them alone. After all, it was not as if an old maid like Agnes needed a chaperone.
No sooner had she left than Mr. Prenderbury took a clean handkerchief out of the pocket in his tails and spread it on the carpet, rather in the fussy manner of that well-known dramatic actor Romeo Coates, preparing for a Shakespearean death scene, and then got down on one knee.
“Miss Hurlingham,” he said, having been assured that her title of Mrs. was merely adopted, “I would be very honored, would vow myself the happiest of men, if you could bring yourself to accept my hand in marriage. Only say the word and my lawyers will free you from your infamous contract to Lady Bentley.”
Agnes looked down at him, her heart heavy with guilt. She thought he was too fine, too noble, a man to be allied to such as she. Oh, if only she had stood out against Cordelia!
“I am honored,” she said sadly. “Please rise, Mr. Prenderbury. “I cannot accept your offer. There is that which stands between us.”
“Tell me,” said Mr. Prenderbury eagerly. “There is nothing I would not do for you.”
“I cannot,” said Agnes. “You must go.”
“But you must—”
“Please,”
begged Agnes in an anguished voice. “Please go.”
He tried to protest. He reiterated his undying love, but all Agnes would do was to beg him to leave, tears standing out in her eyes.
At last he left. Agnes ran to the window to watch him go.
He stood for a moment in the street below, the picture of dejection and misery.
Upstairs, Cordelia was berating her maid, and her voice polluted the very air.
No, thought Agnes suddenly. I will tell him the truth. This is my only chance of happiness.
She ran downstairs and out into the street, calling wildly after him.
He stopped and turned about, staring in amazement as Agnes, hatless, holding up her skirts, came running along the street.
“I must tell you about it,” she said, gasping. “You might never speak to me again, but at least you will know why I rejected your suit.”
“Quietly.” he said. “Let us go into the gardens of Berkeley Square. We can talk there.”
He courteously helped her across the street and into the gardens in the square. The little summerhouse in the center was empty of people.
Agnes and Mr. Prenderbury sat down on a rustic seat.
“Now, my dear Miss Hurlingham,” he said. “What is the matter?” Agnes took a deep breath and blurted out everything about her lies to Harriet and now Cordelia had threatened, to treat her like a slave if she did not obey her wishes.
“Monstrous!” he cried when Agnes had finished, and her heart sank. “To deceive, to ruin the life of her sister, and all out of spite and jealousy!”
“Lady Bentley said furthermore that if I did not obey her”—Agnes gulped—”then I would never see you again.”
“This is what I will do,” said Mr. Prenderbury. “I am to give Miss Harriet away at the wedding and so I am on calling terms with Arden. So I will call on him and tell him all.”
“Oh,
no.”
“Oh,
yes
. It is the only thing to do. As for you, Miss Hurlingham …”
Agnes cringed a little away, waiting for his wrath to descend on her head.
“As for you,” he went on in a softened tone, “you have been treated shamefully. You will not suffer again. That is what you must do. You must return to Hill Street while I fetch my carriage. Pack all of your things and simply leave. You will come with me to my sister who lives in Bloomsbury, and there you will reside until I arrange for a special license. My sister is much older than I, and a widow. She will be delighted to have your company and to learn that her old stick of a brother is to be wed at last.”
Agnes looked at him wonderingly. “You
still
wish to wed me?”
“Of course,” said Mr. Prenderbury. “I love you so.”
He leaned forward and, with great daring, deposited a chaste kiss on her mouth. But her mouth was warm and sweet, faintly salted from her tears. The touch of her mouth had an odd effect on him. He felt quite dizzy and breathless. So he kissed her again, quite fiercely. And then again.
He pulled her closer into his arms, reflecting that life was full of surprises. He thought he loved her because he admired her brain and her humor. But the throbbing, passionate woman in his arms was a delightful surprise.
“Can you really love me?” whispered Agnes when he at last freed her mouth.
“Of course, you ninny,” he said, and Agnes thought she had never heard anything move loverlike in her life.
He resumed kissing her with all the single-mindedness of a scholar who likes to do things thoroughly, only at last becoming aware of his surroundings when he noticed two round-eyed children with a hoop, standing solemnly to watch their performance.
“Come, my love,” he said, pulling Agnes to her feet. “We have a great deal to accomplish. “And Arden
must
be told.”
But Mr. Prenderbury had to order his little-used traveling carriage to be brought around to Hill Street, after spending valuable time trying to find his underworked coachman. Unknown to him, his coachman had rented his carriage and horses to a merchant and his wife, and it took him some hours to find them.
By the time he arrived at Hill Street, Agnes was near to fainting with nerves, thinking he had changed his mind. Cordelia was gone from the house, and the servants helped her with her luggage, assuming she had been dismissed.
Then there were long explanations to be given to Mr. Prenderbury’s sister in Bloomsbury, and when he finally tore himself away from his beloved and presented himself at the marquess’s house, it was to be told that my lord was gone from home and not expected back until late.
Mr. Prenderbury decided to leave his interview with the marquess until the morning. Nothing so very dreadful could happen to Harriet before then.
Harriet drove out with Bertram Hudson the next day, relieved that she would be absent when the marquess called.
So relieved was she that she failed to comment on the heavy traveling carriage and the four powerful horses and the luggage strapped onto the back. She had noticed the luggage but had vaguely assumed that Bertram was taking home something to his mother. Nor did she notice that her companion’s lips were moving soundlessly. Bertram was rehearsing his great scene, the moment when he would take Harriet into his arms and tell her that her worries were over.
Harriet studied the moving scene outside of the carriage windows. London was so full of people that the main thoroughfares appeared to be a moving multitude or a daily fair.
Off to one side ran the meaner streets, not paved like the main road but with ankle-twisting cobbles and a kennel in the middle. Outside of the West End, London was not beautiful. Apart from the public buildings and the fine houses in Mayfair, the rest of its one hundred sixty thousand houses were not lovely to look upon. They were utilitarian to a degree—long rows of brick-built tenements, with oblong holes for windows. All of the houses were of the same pattern, varied only by the height of the rooms and the number of stories, which were mostly three and rarely exceeded four. There were the front parlor and the back parlor, a wretched narrow passage or hall with a flight of stairs leading to the drawing room. In the basement were the kitchen and scullery.
Harriet let down the glass and the raucous cries of the street vendors filled the carriage.
Chairs were mended in front of the houses, nursery and common chairs with seats of rushes. Repairs cost from one shilling and sixpence to two shillings. Door mats were hawked about, priced from sixpence to four shillings depending on the size.
Turnery was a good street trade, and hawkers were busy selling brooms, brushes, sieves, bowls, and clothes horses.
With a hideous noise, the knife grinder plied his trade, setting and grinding scissors for twopence; penknives, a penny a blade; table knives, two shillings a dozen. Then there was lavender, fish, baskets and bandboxes, hot apples, and cat’s and dog’s meat at twopence a pound.
The carriage slowed as a watering cart held up traffic, the water dripping from a perforated wooden box at the back.
Harriet grew weary of the moving, shifting scene and picked up a copy of the
Morning Post
. One advertisement caught her eyes.
MATRIMONY—To Noble Ladies or Gentlemen. Any Nobleman, Lady or Gentleman, having a female friend who has been unfortunate, whom they would like to see comfortably settled, and treated with delicacy and kindness, and that might, notwithstanding errors, have an opportunity of moving in superior life by an Union with a Gentleman holding rank in His Majesty’s service, who has been long in possession of a regular and handsome establishment, and whose age. manners, and person, are such as will not be objected to, may, by a few lines, post paid, to B. Price, Esq., to be left at the Bar of the Cambridge Coffee House, Newman Street, form a most Desirable Matrimonial union for their friend. If the lady is not naturally vicious, and candor is resorted to, the Gentleman will study by every means in his power to promote domestic felicity.
Harriet laughed. “Would you say I was naturally vicious, Bertram?”
“Not you,” said Bertram absentmindedly. He did not want her to speak, for the heroine Harriet in his head did not bear much relation to the real-life Harriet.
The morning wore on, and still they traveled.
Bertram knew that soon he should offer to stop for some refreshment. But he wanted to enjoy his food, so he had to have matters settled between Harriet and himself before then.
In case she enacted a scene, he thought, it would be best to find some private place where they would not be disturbed.
To this end, he finally called to the coachman to stop in the middle of a picturesque village. He told Harriet he was going to scout about on foot because he had heard there was a hostelry, famous for its food, in the vicinity.