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Harriet gave Mama a nod and a smile, silently promising she wouldn’t add to her burdens. Harriet might sometimes wish her mother had more fire, but Mama’s youthful rebellion had brought her years of scrimping, an early grief, and very little joy. She deserved some ease and comfort now. Harriet could not take it from her.
She sat back and watched the landscape passing the carriage window. She took deep breaths to ease her temper, a method she’d learned at an early age. At least she could revel in the knowledge that she resembled her father, Harriet thought. Her grandfather must notice it every time he looked at her. She’d inherited her red-blond hair, green eyes, and pointed chin beneath a broad forehead from her papa. He’d been a handsome man, though bitterness had marred his looks as he aged. His fierce drive to support his family, continually thwarted, had broken his health. Harriet could not actually prove that her grandfather’s meanness had killed her father, but she thought it. And this made her present life a painful conundrum.
“The countryside here is very fine,” said the old man. He pointed out the window. “That is Ferrington Hall, the principal seat of an earl. A neighbor of mine.”
Harriet perked up at this name and leaned forward to look. She’d heard of Ferrington Hall while in London. An acquaintance, Lady Wilton, had complained that its new owner, her great-grandson, was missing. Peering through a screen of trees, she could just see a sprawling stone manor. “Is the earl in residence?” she asked.
“Not at present,” replied her grandfather.
She could tell from his tone that he knew nothing about it. Harriet remembered her friend Charlotte Deeping saying, “We will unravel the mystery of the missing earl.” How she missed her friends! She’d been allowed to invite Sarah and Charlotte for a visit later in the summer. She couldn’t wait.
Ferrington Hall disappeared as they drove on, and in another few miles, they came to her grandfather’s country house, the spoils of the fortune he’d made in trade. But Harriet was not supposed to think of that, let alone ever mention it. People in society despised business, and those who benefited from commercial success hid it like a disreputable secret. It seemed ridiculous to Harriet. Everyone knew. And how was it any better to have gained lands and estates with a medieval broadsword?
“Here it is—Winstead Hall,” said her grandfather. “I changed the name when I bought it, of course.”
Of course he had. Horace Winstead put his stamp on anything he touched. Or, if he could not, he demeaned it.
They passed through stone gateposts, traversed a tree-lined avenue, and pulled up before the central block, a redbrick building studded with tall chimneys. It was not large, but a sprawling wing constructed of pale-gray stone had been added at one end, and another was going up on the opposite side. The sound of hammering rang across the lush summer lawns.
Servants appeared at the front door, hurrying out to receive them. As more and more emerged, Harriet realized she was to meet the entire staff in her first moment here.
“They ought to be ready,” grumbled her grandfather. “I suppose the coachman forgot to send word ahead.”
She understood then that the servants were required to turn out every time he arrived. Her grandfather probably imagined that was how great noblemen were received at their country homes. She’d noticed he equated pomp with rank.
Horace Winstead longed to be accepted by the aristocracy. He’d planned to purchase entry into those exalted circles by marrying his daughter to a title. That was one reason he’d been so vindictive when Mama met and married a junior member of his company. Papa’s intelligence, diligence, and business acumen hadn’t mattered a whit. He’d thwarted Horace Winstead, so he had to be punished. Now Grandfather expected Harriet to fulfill his social ambitions. She’d heard him say his fortune ought to net him a viscount at least. Harriet’s fists clenched in her lap, and she had to wrestle with her temper once again. Her London season had been shadowed by Grandfather’s demand for a lord. If she so much as smiled at a commoner or seemed to enjoy dancing with one, he scolded her mother into tears.
They stepped down from the carriage and walked toward the door. The servants bowed and curtsied as they passed along the line. Harriet saw no sign of emotion from any of them—certainly not welcome. Slade, the superior abigail her grandfather had hired to dress her, would not appreciate this ritual. In fact, Harriet couldn’t imagine the thin, upright woman participating. She would view it with the sour expression she reserved for cheap jewelry and fussily ornamented gowns. It was fortunate this display would be over by the time the vehicle carrying Slade, her mother’s attendant, and her grandfather’s valet arrived.
They entered the house, moving through a cramped entryway into a parlor crammed with costly furnishings, Eastern silks, and indifferent paintings. It looked more like a shop offering luxury goods than a cozy sitting room. Harriet felt as if the clutter was closing in on her, strange and oppressive. Her mother wandered about, seemingly in a daze. She had not grown up here; her father had purchased the house after her marriage.
“You can see we will be quite comfortable here,” said her grandfather with his usual complaisance.
Harriet’s spirits sank as she thought of the days ahead. There would be long, heavy dinners, tedious evenings, and many difficult conversations. Indeed, all the conversations were likely to be hard. How would they manage, just the three of them? She knew her grandfather had not received invitations to fashionable house parties, and she doubted his neighbors here included him in their social round. As far as she had seen, he had no friends.
“We will settle in and plan our strategy for next season,” the old man said. “You have not made a proper push to attract a noble husband, Harriet. You must try harder.”
Harriet started to reply, saw her mother’s worried frown, and bit her lip. She didn’t know what she was going to do. She couldn’t swallow her anger forever.
***
Harriet slipped out a side door of Winstead Hall and moved quickly to a line of shrubbery that would hide her from the house. Strictly speaking, she was not supposed to wander about alone. It hadn’t been specifically forbidden, however. Mainly because her mother didn’t realize she was doing it. Harriet had evolved a variety of excuses to withdraw to her room during this visit, and so far, they had been working. Slade might have noticed her absences, but the dresser was not the sort to tattle. She would speak to Harriet if she had concerns.
Fortunately, her grandfather spent his mornings on business matters, reviewing documents or conferring with employees up from London. If she avoided him in the afternoons, she only had to spend evenings with him. It was all she could bear. She thought she would burst if she had to watch every word for much longer than that.
Harriet opened the parasol she’d brought with her. Her pale skin tended to redden with the least exposure to the sun, and Mama would notice that. She walked through the gardens to a path she’d found that went across a grassy field and into a wood. It was well away from the hammering of workmen on Winstead Hall’s new wing, and it led toward Ferrington Hall. Harriet remained curious about that neighboring estate. Lady Wilton had made such a to-do about its missing heir. Harriet had gone over to peek at the neglected house more than once.
She walked fast, eager to expend some of the energy that built up in her at Winstead Hall. It was better to be tired than mad with frustration.
A little more than halfway along her customary route, Harriet began to hear a chorus of unfamiliar sounds—children shouting, the ring of a smith’s hammer, a barking dog. As she moved on, they grew louder. Finally, when they seemed nearly on top of her, Harriet looked through a screen of vegetation and discovered a band of Travelers camped in a meadow. They hadn’t been there yesterday.
She drew back, not frightened but cautious. She didn’t know very much about the nomadic Travelers. Some people complained of them, but the people she could see in the camp didn’t look shiftless. They were busy with about a dozen tasks. She didn’t think she’d be welcome in their midst, however. She also resented this intrusion on her woodland refuge. This was Ferrington land, where they had no real right to be. Perhaps they’d discovered the hall was empty.
Harriet watched the camp for a few more minutes. Children ran gaily between the roofed wagons, which were decorated with twining painted designs. Women sat together over some sort of handwork. Two men tended a picket line of horses. It looked more idyllic than threatening. She saw no reason to change her habit of observing Ferrington Hall. She didn’t think any Travelers would enter its grounds.
She skirted the encampment and went on, slipping through a small, overgrown gate in the walls around the manor. She’d never seen anyone out on the estate, not even a gardener, though the plantings were in need of attention.
Harriet walked through the grounds, enjoying her solitude, feeling the tension in her shoulders ease. Sherequiredthis respite from her grandfather’s house and his hovering presence. She was grateful for it.
