A Midsummer Bride Page 6

  “Thornton has her in hand,” whispered the dowager in response. “He is reserved but not cruel and the only one of my grandson’s acquaintances I credit as capable of intelligent thought. Let us see what he does.”

  Thornton paused for a moment, surveying the scene, then directed Harriet to the comtesse. Though Penelope could not hear the interaction, she noted that Harriet made a passable curtsy and she was introduced.

  “Now that witch cannot deny Harriet her acquaintance. Nicely done, lad,” commented the dowager in an undertone.

  “It will not stop her mouth,” muttered Penelope.

  “Only the grave could do that,” said the dowager. “Look, now he’s taking her on to Sir Antony.” They watched as Lord Thornton introduced Harriet to several notable personages in the room, keeping the conversations quite brief, and then left her with Lady Devine, known for her kind character and enjoyment of any individual she would classify as an “original.”

  Thornton retreated past them to attend to his other duties as the host. The dowager rapped her cane on the floor to get his attention over the din of the crowd. He stopped before them with a solemn bow.

  “Well played, my lad,” the dowager praised. “I appreciate your efforts for our little prodigy.”

  “I am, as always, in yer service, Yer Grace.” His attention was diverted by his mother, in monstrous ostrich plumes, entering the parlor. “I wish ye both a good afternoon.” Thornton bowed and disappeared into the crowd in the opposite direction of his parent.

  “He is even more glum than usual,” noted Penelope.

  “He has been beggared by his mother’s extravagance and now will have to face the necessity of marrying into money before his creditors take the shirt off his back,” said the dowager.

  “You think Lady Thornton has matrimonial plans for him?”

  “Yes, of course, I would be shocked if she did not. Note all these unmarried ladies. Their parents may have brought them for Marchford, but once he is claimed, a Scottish lord will have to do.”

  ***

  Harriet did not care if she was accepted in society, yet she did not wish to become a pariah either. She was relieved to face the gauntlet with Lord Thornton by her side. She knew he was someone she could trust. Whatever else he might be, he was a friend when she needed one.

  The room was a minefield. One wrong step, one wrong word, and her debut into society would be ruined forever. Many pairs of eyes were leveled at her—so many that she almost felt the need to do something extraordinary to amuse them all. Of course, if she randomly broke into song, she might find herself locked in the attic for the duration of the house party. She was, after all, the daughter of a madwoman who ran away with an American.

  After a kind conversation with Lady Devine, Harriet felt confident enough to accept a small biscuit and look to find friends of her own. In one group of seats, several young women were engaged in conversation.

  “Hello,” said Harriet, boldly sitting in an open chair.

  The girls all stared at her then turned their heads to a pretty creature in a white muslin day dress, with a smart ivy-green spencer. Her features were striking, with gleaming black hair, gray eyes, and rose lips. Her pale skin appeared never to have seen the sun. To Harriet, she looked like someone who needed a romp in the sunshine and a good beefsteak to feed the blood.

  “Good afternoon,” said the girl, her voice even. “Have you come from India?”

  “N-no,” said Harriet, slightly taken aback from the question. “I am recently from America.”

  “Oh, I see. I have heard about you.” One side of her mouth slid up into a half smile, though not a particularly nice one. “I only thought you were an Indian because your skin is so very brown.”

  “I do enjoy being outdoors, and of course, during the crossing on board one is always out in the sunshine as often as one can be.”

  “How odd you do not have bonnets in America,” said the girl with a smirk. Her friends began to giggle, some hiding their faces behind their fans. Harriet tried to ignore them.

  “I am happy to meet some young people my own age,” said Harriet. “I am Harriet Redgrave. It’s nice to make your acquaintance.” She stuck out her hand, determined to be friendly.

  “Oh my! Is this how Americans introduce themselves? Shall I try it, ladies? Hello. My name is Priscilla Crawley. Nice to make your acquaintance.” Priscilla mimicked Harriet’s voice and actions to more giggles from her friends.

  “Thank you so much for making me feel welcome,” said Harriet without trying to hide the sarcasm and removed herself from their presence. She only made it five steps before she heard the girls break into raucous laughter. So much for trying to make friends.

  From her vantage point at the tea table, Harriet watched as Lord Thornton and his mother approached Miss Crawley, and introductions were made. Priscilla smiled divinely and Thornton bowed in return. She said something, leaning close to him, and he smiled.

  Harriet reached for a second biscuit only to be intercepted by the dowager duchess and Penelope. They could not have come too soon.

  Seven

  Harriet Redgrave spent a tedious afternoon in the company of the dowager and Miss Rose. She had hardly had a sip of tea and had only eaten one small biscuit before the two women whisked her back to their room with whispered warnings of the irreparable damage to her reputation the eating of more than one biscuit could produce.

  The remainder of the afternoon was spent getting a lesson in etiquette. The dowager helped at first, but soon claimed a headache and lay down on the daybed, leaving Harriet in the kind and capable hands of Penelope. Harriet preferred Penelope, as she was gentler and more patient. Yet Penelope was also blunt in her critique, and after several hours of having her manners under review, Harriet wished Penelope would be less honest.

  “I have been walking since the age of one and in the twenty-two years that have followed I was not aware I was doing it wrong.” Harriet sank into a chair.

  Penelope followed her lead and sat on the settee, her posture rigid and correct. “I acknowledge my suggestions may seem petty, but so is society I fear. I wish for you to avoid malicious gossip.”

  “No chance of that, is there? I mean even if my manners were impeccable, I would still be the daughter of Lady Beatrice, Lord Langley’s insane daughter. Why is it so difficult to believe my mother left because she fell in love?”

  “People assume one is mad if they make a choice different from what society generally condones. Running away to America does seem rather…” Penelope searched for a word. “Unusual.”

  “Perhaps it is, but my mother has been quite happy. My father was successful at sea, and I have lacked for nothing, though we do not hold to as strict an adherence to etiquette as does London society.”

  “It sounds like you have enjoyed your life in America.”

  “I have and I do. I plan to return next month. I can only imagine how my parents must be worried. I sent them word as soon as I arrived, but of course it takes a while for mail to cross the Atlantic.”

  “So you plan to return to America?” asked Penelope.

  “Yes, which leads me to another question.” Harriet decided to ask Penelope directly. “Did my grandfather arrange with you to find me a husband?”

  Penelope paused for a moment, searching her with discerning eyes. Harriet did not look away. She wanted the truth.

  “Yes,” said Penelope at length. “That is, he arranged with us to contact Madame X, a known matchmaker to London society, to arrange a marriage for you with a titled gentleman.”

  “Titled?” Harriet slouched back further in her chair. “So now I am to be pawned off on not just a gentleman but one with a title as well. He is only doing this to restore his reputation since my mother left.”

  “Yes, I think he did mention something of that nature.”

  “Well I don’t care a scrap for it. I have no intention of being married off so that my grandfather can restore some sense of injured pride. Pleas
e relate my feelings to this Madame X and let her know her services are quite unnecessary.”

  Far from being offended or shocked, Penelope accepted her words with composure. “I shall relay your sentiment.”

  “It won’t stop them, will it? Perhaps I should remain in my room for the remainder of the party. I should hate to get compromised or trapped into marriage.”

  “Rest assured Madame X does not employ such trickery. You are safe from her, at least. If you do not care for the man she chooses for you, you can always refuse.”

  “Yes, well, I suppose you are right. I do fear my dowry may pose a temptation that will lead people to doing something rash.”

  “Your dowry?”

  “Yes, fifty thousand pounds is a considerable amount.”

  “I should say it is!” declared the dowager, suddenly sitting upright.

  “Yes. My mother put away money in some London bank and over time it added up. She told me she wanted me to have the option of joining London society someday if I wished it, but of course I had not thought to ever do so.”

  Harriet rose and walked to the window. She did not care to discuss her dowry. She had already run into problems with men who would not scruple to do anything to get their hands on the capital. “I would prefer the size of the dowry not to become known.”

  “Yes, yes, of course I understand your sentiments. Madame Leclair?” The dowager called her lady’s maid, who emerged from a side room. “Did you hear about Miss Redgrave’s dowry? I hope you know what to do with that information.”

  “Oui, Your Grace.”

  “Please go downstairs and ask if our trunks have arrived,” said the dowager, whose wardrobe and sundry traveling accoutrements required a separate coach.

  “Plagued by fortune hunters?” Penelope crossed the room to the window and they sat in the window box.

  “Yes, you understand.”

  “Not from personal experience. I did not become the companion to the Duchess of Marchford due to my great fortune.”

  “You became my companion because you have more sense than anyone else in my acquaintance,” declared the dowager, closing her eyes once more.

  Penelope smiled and glanced at a clock. “You should go and dress for dinner. I do hope our trunks arrive in time or we shall be forced to eat in our rooms. I fear I have not yet gone over the table expectations. Did your mother instruct you?”

  “Of course she did.” Harriet tried to keep the bite out of her tone in wanting to defend her mother. Truth was her mother had allowed Harriet to experience an unconventional childhood and had many times told Harriet she wanted to give her the freedom she had never experienced.

  “Good. If you are confused by anything, just look over to me. I bribed the butler to have you seated across from me.”

  “You did what?”

  “It was easy, the staff are months behind in their wages. Easy to bribe.”

  Harriet viewed Penelope from an entirely new perspective. Penelope Rose was a resourceful creature, and one she was glad to have on her side.

  ***

  “Finally!” breathed the Dowager Duchess of Marchford. “I thought we would not see our trunks before dinner.”

  “Just in time,” commented Penelope, as she directed the footmen who were bringing up the numerous trunks the dowager felt necessary for a short venture into the Highlands. Madame Leclair swept majestically through the room and began unpacking the duchess’s trunks, putting away the gowns, hats, capes, shawls, shoes, bonnets, and other essential items.

  “I shall leave you to dress.” Penelope took her trunk into her adjacent room, a room most likely designed to house a lady’s maid or a companion of a wealthier, more important person. That is what she was. A paid companion. No shame in it, of course, but it was no great honor either.

  Things would change when she started to draw income on the capital they made through their clandestine business as matchmakers. As a single woman, she would still not be allowed to live alone, perish the thought. But at least she could live with some independence.

  Penelope opened her trunk and saw at once that it was not hers. The gowns inside were fine and definitely unfamiliar. She carried the trunk back into the dowager’s room and handed it to Madame Leclair. “I believe I took one of the dowager’s trunks instead of my own. Have you seen mine?”

  “That is your trunk, mademoiselle,” said Madame Leclair.

  “I thought it looked like mine, but when I opened it, none of my clothes were inside. I believe this must belong to the dowager.”

  The dowager yawned audibly in a manner Penelope had never seen before. If Penelope didn’t know different, she would say the dowager was pretending to be tired to get rid of her.

  “This is your trunk, mademoiselle,” repeated Madame Leclair.

  “But it is full of—” Penelope stopped short when she noted a pointed look pass between the dowager and Madame Leclair. “What is this? What have you two done?”

  “We have a lovely surprise for you,” said the dowager, a sugary sweet smile on her face. “We replaced your wardrobe.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Penelope.

  “Your gowns needed updating. If you are to accompany me as my companion, I expect someone with a little more sense of style.”

  “My gowns were perfectly serviceable.” Penelope rifled through her trunk to find layer after layer of unknown clothing. “Where are my gowns?”

  “The maids—” began the dowager.

  “You gave my gowns to the maids?” gasped Penelope.

  “I tried, but they would not have them,” said Madame Leclair.

  “What was wrong with them?” demanded Penelope.

  “Wrong, oui, very wrong,” said Leclair with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Gave them to the poorhouse, poor souls.”

  “You gave them to…” Penelope spun around and stared at the dowager. “You gave all my clothes to the poor?”

  “Of course not. I could hardly give away what you were wearing. But I did replace what I could. At least take a look at the gowns.”

  Penelope took out a blue damask, a golden silk, and something of pink that was so light and airy she thought it must have been spun of clouds. They were beautiful, all of them, and it gave her a lump in her throat. What was she going to do with these clothes? She could hardly wear them.

  “Do you not adore them?” asked the dowager.

  “These are all ball gowns. None of them are practical.”

  “I should hope I did not buy you anything practical. But here, you have not opened your other trunk.”

  “I do not have another trunk.”

  “Oui, mademoiselle, this is for you,” said Leclair with a wink and opened a second trunk, larger than the first. In this trunk Penelope found a scarlet riding habit, several morning dresses, and others.

  “I cannot believe you did all this.”

  “But there is more!” Leclair brought out bandboxes of hats, bonnets, and another smaller trunk just of slippers and boots.

  “I do not know what to say,” mumbled Penelope. “This must have been very dear. How can I pay you back?”

  The dowager coughed slightly and asked Madame Leclair if she would run down to the kitchen to ask if they would bring up tea. Leclair gave a pinched look of injured pride—she was a French lady’s maid, not a common messenger—but she complied.

  “I shall pay for that,” mumbled the dowager.

  “Your Grace, I appreciate this, but I cannot possibly accept such extravagant gifts,” said Penelope, holding herself straight and tall. “I should be much more comfortable in my own clothes.”

  “Yes, about the money. I decided you needed a new wardrobe so I…” The dowager turned away and took a deep breath. “So I used the funds we acquired from our success as Madame X.”

  “You used our funds?” Penelope swallowed hard a lump of foreboding. “Please tell me you did not use my funds.”

  “I thought it appropriate since it was to benefit you.”


  “You spent my money?” cried Penelope. Those funds were going to provide her an independence so she would not have to be anyone’s companion. “I asked you to have your solicitor invest the money.”

  The dowager turned to Penelope, her bright-blue eyes blazing. “And I have invested the money. I have invested it in you. There is no reason why you should be so shabbily dressed.”

  “Those were my funds. You had no right!”

  “If I am going to be seen with you, I should be able to demand a style of dress that is appropriate.”

  “But these gowns are not appropriate. They will make me look like I am putting myself forward. People will talk.”

  “People may notice you, which is a good thing. You are a young lady. Why should you be attired in clothes best suited for a woman twice your age? You are much too young to be dressed as a matron. Where did you get your clothes? They are dreadful.”

  “They were my mother’s!” cried Penelope.

  “Aha! My point is made. Why would you wear such gowns? I have seen your sisters. They do not languish in such unattractive attire.”

  Penelope sighed and paced the room. “When my sisters and I first came to London, we were sponsored by our aunt, but we had very little to buy new clothes. It seemed more important for my two elder sisters to have the appropriate adornment to put themselves into society where they could meet husbands. After a few years, my elder sisters were married and it was time for my younger sisters to come out into society. Of course they needed new gowns and such.”

  “Now that all four of your sisters are married, when does it become your turn?” asked the dowager with a pointed look.

  “I do not wish for a turn. I do not wish to be dressed in such finery.”

  “You dress like an unemployed governess so that no one will notice you. These plain gowns of yours are like a shield.”

  “And what is wrong with that?” demanded Penelope. She had been unfavorably compared to her beautiful blonde sisters her whole life. As the only brunette of the family, and a rather plain one at that, Penelope had learned early not to compete in the same games as her sisters.