vendor’s horn, and, armed with all the papers, she retreated to her room. London in 1811 boasted eight morning papers. Agnes’s large mouth widened into a grin of pleasure as she saw that every paper had given prominent space to the bravery of Harriet Clifton.
She rang for the butler and told him to make sure Lady Bentley was given the newspapers with her morning chocolate and then took herself off to bed. Only a month ago, on her birthday, Agnes had given way to a hearty bout of tears on seeing a life of servitude stretching out before her to the grave. For the first time in ages she began to feel that life might hold some interesting surprises. She smiled to herself as she fell asleep.
Harriet awoke to find the maids bustling about her room, packing up her meager belongings.
“What is happening?” she demanded, struggling awake.
“Lady Bentley’s orders,” said the housekeeper from the doorway. “We are to move you and Miss Clifton into rooms on the floor below. Lady Bentley’s compliments and you are to present yourself in the drawing room, miss, at four o’clock. Her ladyship has supplied you with two gowns and begs you to pick whichever one you consider suitable.” The housekeeper suddenly smiled. “It is so exciting, miss. The house is like a flower garden. Everyone in London seems to have sent presents and bouquets and poems. And the newspapers, Miss Harriet! Every single one has written about your bravery.”
It was a bewildering day for Harriet. The new rooms allocated to her and Aunt Rebecca were elegantly furnished with a pretty, private sitting room between their two bedrooms.
Dressed in one of Cordelia’s oldest gowns, a plain taffeta dress in half-mourning colors of dove gray piped with black that Cordelia had worn shortly after the death of Lord Bentley, Harriet sat in the drawing room, telling her story over and over again for the benefit of the ton.
Wrapped in her numerous shawls and scarves, Aunt Rebecca listened each time with the same enthusiasm with which she had heard the first account. Although Mr. Hudson was very much present, hanging onto Harriet’s every word, the Marquess of Arden was not, and Aunt Rebecca felt a little pang of disappointment.
Cordelia smiled and smiled, feeling her face beginning to ache. She could not get rid of Harriet so long as this adulation lasted, and, worse, she was quite clearly expected to take Harriet with her to all the fashionable events of the Season.
Agnes Hurlingham’s conscience troubled her. Her loyalty surely lay with the mistress who paid her wages, and not with these newcomers. She alone knew what it was costing Cordelia to smile and smile as tribute to her sister followed tribute.
But Agnes’s pity for Cordelia was to be short-lived.
A soberly dressed gentleman introduced himself as Mr. Arthur Prenderbury and claimed to be a distant relation of the Cliftons. He was a scholarly-looking gentleman in his forties with a long, rather serious face and steady gray eyes. After having paid his compliments to Harriet, Cordelia, and Aunt Rebecca, Mr. Prenderbury seated himself next to Agnes and engaged her in conversation. Had she seen Mrs. Jordan in
Country Girl?
For his part he thought it a shocking mélange of absurdities.
Agnes began to talk about the theater, flattered by her companion’s steady attention. He made her feel feminine and witty, and he laughed appreciatively at several of her sallies.
And then, “Mr. Prenderbury!” Cordelia sailed up, a vision in pale pink muslin embroidered with tiny rosebuds and a garland of silk rosebuds in her hair. “I have been sadly neglecting you. I see you have been keeping my poor old companion amused. Too kind. Do come and meet Lady Jenkins. She is quite a bluestocking and makes my poor head ache, since I have not the faintest notion of what she is talking about. But a scholar like you will be more than a match for her.”
Mr. Prenderbury had risen to his feet as Cordelia had begun to speak.
She rang for the butler and told him to make sure Lady Bentley was given the newspapers with her morning chocolate and then took herself off to bed. Only a month ago, on her birthday, Agnes had given way to a hearty bout of tears on seeing a life of servitude stretching out before her to the grave. For the first time in ages she began to feel that life might hold some interesting surprises. She smiled to herself as she fell asleep.
Harriet awoke to find the maids bustling about her room, packing up her meager belongings.
“What is happening?” she demanded, struggling awake.
“Lady Bentley’s orders,” said the housekeeper from the doorway. “We are to move you and Miss Clifton into rooms on the floor below. Lady Bentley’s compliments and you are to present yourself in the drawing room, miss, at four o’clock. Her ladyship has supplied you with two gowns and begs you to pick whichever one you consider suitable.” The housekeeper suddenly smiled. “It is so exciting, miss. The house is like a flower garden. Everyone in London seems to have sent presents and bouquets and poems. And the newspapers, Miss Harriet! Every single one has written about your bravery.”
It was a bewildering day for Harriet. The new rooms allocated to her and Aunt Rebecca were elegantly furnished with a pretty, private sitting room between their two bedrooms.
Dressed in one of Cordelia’s oldest gowns, a plain taffeta dress in half-mourning colors of dove gray piped with black that Cordelia had worn shortly after the death of Lord Bentley, Harriet sat in the drawing room, telling her story over and over again for the benefit of the ton.
Wrapped in her numerous shawls and scarves, Aunt Rebecca listened each time with the same enthusiasm with which she had heard the first account. Although Mr. Hudson was very much present, hanging onto Harriet’s every word, the Marquess of Arden was not, and Aunt Rebecca felt a little pang of disappointment.
Cordelia smiled and smiled, feeling her face beginning to ache. She could not get rid of Harriet so long as this adulation lasted, and, worse, she was quite clearly expected to take Harriet with her to all the fashionable events of the Season.
Agnes Hurlingham’s conscience troubled her. Her loyalty surely lay with the mistress who paid her wages, and not with these newcomers. She alone knew what it was costing Cordelia to smile and smile as tribute to her sister followed tribute.
But Agnes’s pity for Cordelia was to be short-lived.
A soberly dressed gentleman introduced himself as Mr. Arthur Prenderbury and claimed to be a distant relation of the Cliftons. He was a scholarly-looking gentleman in his forties with a long, rather serious face and steady gray eyes. After having paid his compliments to Harriet, Cordelia, and Aunt Rebecca, Mr. Prenderbury seated himself next to Agnes and engaged her in conversation. Had she seen Mrs. Jordan in
Country Girl?
For his part he thought it a shocking mélange of absurdities.
Agnes began to talk about the theater, flattered by her companion’s steady attention. He made her feel feminine and witty, and he laughed appreciatively at several of her sallies.
And then, “Mr. Prenderbury!” Cordelia sailed up, a vision in pale pink muslin embroidered with tiny rosebuds and a garland of silk rosebuds in her hair. “I have been sadly neglecting you. I see you have been keeping my poor old companion amused. Too kind. Do come and meet Lady Jenkins. She is quite a bluestocking and makes my poor head ache, since I have not the faintest notion of what she is talking about. But a scholar like you will be more than a match for her.”
Mr. Prenderbury had risen to his feet as Cordelia had begun to speak.
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