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Faint light filtered through the high windows above, but it was enough for him to find his way. His office door was still open, but it was pitch dark inside now that he’d extinguished the lamp. He had no desire to go back in there, anyway. Even under the cover of darkness, he would feel the disappointment emanating from William’s portrait.
There was a bench on the other side of the foyer. Weary beyond words, he cast himself upon it. He could probably walk to a pub and hire a taxi home, but it would be an enormous risk at this hour. Thieves were everywhere, and he was alone and unarmed. The bench was hard, but he was tired. And though his head pounded and his thoughts whirled like leaves tossed in a storm wind, sleep soon took him.
~ * ~
Harriett’s carriage rolled past yet another village. The farther they got from London, the smaller these became. But the charm of the neatly thatched roofs, the low stone walls containing little gardens, and the cheerful folk going about their daily chores escaped her. The memory of her encounter with Roland—with Manchester, she corrected herself—would allow her no peace.
It was a miracle she’d escaped the house without incident. Papa had been cheerfully tipsy by the time she’d arrived home last night. Fearful of his wrath, she’d poked her head into his study to find him red-cheeked and singing a merry tune to his brandy. Pasting a smile on her face, she’d told him all was in order and bid him a good night. He’d lifted his glass to her and bid her safe journey.
Her sister, she’d been informed, had taken to her room early and was already asleep. Eager to avoid any questions concerning the night’s events, Harriett had gone to bed herself at once.
But not to sleep. Her dreams would be full of him. How could they not? To awaken to reality after reliving bliss would be unbearable. Unable to close her eyes, she’d lain awake until the maids began to move about in the predawn. By the time the eastern horizon had begun to pale, she was already passing London’s outskirts.
Breathing deeply, Harriett willed the wheels to go faster. They traveled light, for her luggage was minimal. Out here there would be no need for fancy gowns and finery. She’d taken only two of her better dresses in case anyone of consequence heard tell of her being in residence and came to call. She doubted they would. Her plan was to arrive as quietly as possible and remain inconspicuous.
No one but the midwife and a few well-paid servants even knew Arabella was there. She had been smuggled in and kept in relative isolation at Papa’s little “seclusion cottage” down by the lake. The small but comfortable little house had long served as his haven from what he called “the constant feminine uproar” he suffered while at the manor.
A rueful smile tugged at her mouth. Though Papa had never breathed so much as a single remark to the effect, she knew having four daughters and no male issue had been both a trial and a sore disappointment.
There would be plenty to do besides play nursemaid to her sister. In addition to sending notice to the Hospital’s governors and staff, she had letters to write to Lily and several of her other friends. They all deserved a plausible, if false, explanation for her sudden departure. There were the manor’s ledgers to review and reconcile, and Papa had charged her with inventorying their furnishings.
He’d finally taken her advice regarding retrenchment. After the Season, their London townhouse would continue to serve as his main residence while he rented out the manor until his debts were paid. He would be on his own, for Arabella would come to live with her and Russell at Woburn Abbey.
That was one decision she’d made without consulting either of her younger sisters. Arabella could not stay with Cat and Hammond. No matter how much Cat loved Bella, Harriett knew the first time Hammond behaved amiably toward his wife’s errant live-in sibling it would inspire suspicion and jealousy.
At least one of the Dunhaven sisters would have a happy marriage.
Looking out of the window, Harriett scanned for familiar landmarks. The sun was now in the west. They ought to be close. The wood cleared a bit as they crested a hill, and in the distance she saw the tip of a white steeple peeking out above the treetops. They’d made it to Englefield. Cranemoor and the lake would be just beyond.
She relaxed. Not long now and she would be free of the confines of this beastly carriage. Yet again, she attempted to shift and find a better position. There was none. Still achy and sore from her illicit lovemaking, she longed for a softer seat that did not jolt her every few seconds. Propping a pillow up beside her, she leaned against it, taking a little of the pressure off her derriere. Uncomfortable as she was, the rocking motion of the carriage combined with the day’s warmth at last lulled her into a deep, dreamless sleep.
It was approaching twilight when she awoke and peered out into the gloaming. The sight that greeted her was a most welcome one indeed—home. The small but proud manor stood like a fine jewel set amid green lawns and orchards. She hated to think of anyone else living here, even though she knew she’d soon have another, far grander house to care for as Lady Russell.
The carriage hit a particularly nasty rut in the road, flinging her back against the squabs. Cursing, she righted herself and prepared to get out at the earliest possible opportunity. It was not long in the coming, thank heaven.
As soon as the conveyance rolled to a stop, she alighted, glad to be back on solid ground. No one came out to greet her, for there had not been time to send word ahead. No matter. Her room would be made ready quickly enough. Meanwhile, she would have a bath and a bite of whatever was available. Perhaps she’d even take dinner in the kitchen.
With a pang, she was reminded of the countless times she’d supped with Mrs. Glasse down in the Hospital’s kitchen. It would never happen again. Those days were now gone.
Before she could lift the ornate brass knocker, the front door was flung open and a head poked out. The woman’s cap was askew, a few wild curls of graying brown hair straggling out from beneath its ruffled edge. On seeing Harriett, the familiar, plump face below it broke into a bright smile.
“Bless my soul!” hooted Mrs. Jenkins, the housekeeper. “We weren’t expectin’ you for another fortnight.” Her brows lowered with concern. “Is everything all right, then?”
“Yes, Mrs. Jenkins. Everything is quite fine.” She nodded in greeting at Katelyn, Mrs. Jenkins’s daughter-recently-become-maid, who’d appeared beside her. “I came early because Arabella wrote and asked after my company.”
The housekeeper’s face scrunched in distress. “Poor mite,” she murmured, shaking her head as they entered the house. “It’s a tragedy. His lordship can trust in us to keep it under our hats, though, m’lady. We know it weren’t her fault. The blackguard what done the deed ought to hang, he ought. I hope they catch him, and I hope they make the noose good and tight,” she finished, her tone venomous.
Whatever tale
her sister had fabricated to explain herself, Harriett didn’t want to contradict it so she kept her mouth shut and nodded agreement. Mrs. Jenkins was terribly biased when it came to Arabella and would’ve believed whatever story she was told.
The kindly housekeeper had always held a special affection for Arabella. Thanks to a flooded ford on the night of Arabella’s birth, the midwife had been unable to attend, so Mrs. Jenkins had been the one to deliver her. A year later after Mama died giving birth to Cat, Mrs. Jenkins had in many ways become a mother to Harriett’s younger sisters. She’d even nursed Cat alongside her own newborn son, Paul, who was now apprenticed to the village blacksmith.
When drawing up the list of those who would accompany Arabella to Berkshire, Harriett had put Mrs. Jenkins’ name at the top. Papa had argued against it, afraid she would be too lenient, but in the end Harriett had won. No one was more loyal, after all, and secrecy was imperative. It had comforted her to know Arabella had the mother of her heart by her side.
“How goes it with my sister?” she asked, anxious for news. “Is she in good health?”
“She is, God bless her. I prepare her meals every day with my own two hands, I do. Sadly, my old knees—being what they are—don’t allow me to visit her every day,” added the housekeeper with a grimace. “So I send her my Katie, instead. They’ve become good friends, those two, even though I know it ain’t quite proper and all.” Her cheeks pinked.
