Rules for an Unmarried Lady Read online

  Even for adults, she wrote, mourning takes a deal out of one. Sadness and regret are understandable, but one is hardly prepared for the anger—the resentment—that accompanies grief! Adults manage to cope, but children flounder terribly with these emotions. Sometimes all you can do is hold the little ones close and murmur meaningless words of comfort, and hope that they do indeed offer comfort. On a positive note: children are resilient. And I am hoping a change of scene may hasten their healing…

  So on that May morning, Harriet was once again devoting herself to her sister’s children. She sat on the floor of the nursery playing jackstraws with the blond, eight-year-old twins, Richard and Robert—“Ricky” and “Robby” to the nursery set—and their six-year-old sister, Sarah, whose hair was almost as dark as her Aunt Harriet’s, her eyes the same blue-gray.

  This game, as usual, was marked by an abundance of giggles and merriment. Also as usual thirteen-year-old Maria sat on a couch nearby with her head in a book, one hand toying with a loose strand of light brown hair. Phillip, still seeming too young and too slight to wear the heavy title Earl of Sedwick with which he had been so suddenly burdened, was idly spinning a huge globe that was a permanent fixture in the nursery’s schoolroom-playroom. At a table nearby, one of the two servants regularly assigned to the nursery set was trying to feed the youngest, two-year-old Matilda. Tilly, determined to do the deed herself, kept grabbing the spoon, and thus ended up wearing as much of her porridge as she ingested.

  As Harriet tried carefully to free one of the sticks of the game from the pile in front of her, she felt a pudgy little hand on her cheek. “It isn’t true, is it, Auntie Harry?”

  She drew four-year-old Elinor into the circle of her arm and gave up her turn at the game. She nuzzled the little girl’s blonde curls. “What, Elly? Isn’t what true?”

  “What Ricky says.”

  “What does Ricky say?”

  Elly emitted an exasperated sigh. “Ricky says we are goin’ to Lunnon.”

  The room went quiet and Harriet could tell that this topic was not a surprise to the group.

  “Ricky, did you say that?” Harriet asked, stalling for time. She was not surprised the cat was out of the bag, but she had thought to have matters more settled before informing the children of the possibility of a trip to London.

  Ricky had jumped up from being on his knees on the floor. He looked down at his feet. “Uh—well—I—uh—heard the footman Tom talkin’ with Nurse Tavenner an’—”

  “Oh, Miss Harriet, I never said—” the nurse called from the table where she was feeding the toddler.

  Harriet held up a hand to forestall the maid’s explanation and looked at the little boy. “You eavesdropped on a private conversation, did you, Ricky?” She was careful to keep her tone gentle in admonishing him.

  “I didn’t mean to. Really, I didn’t.”

  “But then you repeated it?”

  He nodded sadly. “Uh-huh.”

  “But is it true?” Elly demanded with an insistent stamp of her foot, small hands on her hips.

  Harriet sighed inwardly, but she refused to lie to them. “I—we—do not know yet. We may all go for a few weeks. It is not settled yet. Would you like to do that?”

  Maria put down her book. “I should like that very much,” she said. “Could I go to Hatchard’s bookshop?”

  “Can I take Muffin?” Elly picked up her kitten and held it close. Harriet smiled sadly at the thought of how very important that little ball of fur had become to Elly since the loss of her parents.

  “If Muffin can go, can Sir Gawain go, too?” Ricky asked, brightening. On hearing its name, the mixed breed mutt—mostly black and white collie—thumped its tail against the marble hearth where it lay.

  Phillip stopped whirling the globe walked and over nearer the rest of the group. “What about the ponies?”

  “Muffin and Sir Gawain can surely accompany us. The ponies, probably not. But,” Harriet quickly added, “there are ponies to ride in London, too. But, really, children, you must not get your hearts set on going to London. It is by no means settled. It would be nice to have your grandmother’s agreement to such a scheme.”

  This comment elicited pained expressions from the two oldest children. Maria got up from the couch and put her hand on Ricky’s shoulder. “But we may hope, may we not, Aunt Harriet? Going to London now will not be the same as it was with Mama and Papa, but…” Her voice trailed off wistfully.

  “Yes. We may hope,” Harriet assured her and vowed to herself that she would make this happen, regardless of the objections of the Dowager Countess of Sedwick—or those of the dowager’s son, the children’s guardian.

  * * * *

  That afternoon Harriet was alone in the music room idly playing a new piece of music her own grandmother had sent her from London when the dowager swept into the room with what was clearly a letter in her hand.

  “Ah, there you are,” she said brightly. “I wonder if I might have a word with you, Harriet.”

  “Of course, my lady.” Harriet turned on the piano bench to face the older woman, who took a straight-backed chair nearby.

  Lady Margaret was a well-preserved woman in her mid-fifties. Her once blonde hair was now more of a nondescript gray than gold, but it was always carefully coiffed, and her attire, if not in the first stare of fashion, was very close to being so. Of course, the black bombazine of a mourning dress could hardly be labeled ultra-stylish. She was tall; the word that always came to Harriet’s mind about her sister’s mother-in-law was stately.

  “I have had a letter from my son Quinton, and I should like to share it with you.”

  “By all means, my lady.”

  The older woman read the letter without editing. Harriet winced inwardly at the line about a “mere godmother,” but she refused to acknowledge the hit, though she was sure Lady Margaret had relished the line. The nerve of that man! How dare he try to relegate me to the sidelines. Why, I have loved every one of Anne’s children from the moment they were born! Even before they were born.

  “So you see, my dear,” the dowager said, “this trip to London that you have the children so churned up about is simply out of the question. Quinton is their guardian and he prefers that they remain here at Sedwick Hall. Besides, a pleasure trip such as you propose is not quite the thing, now is it? Even children are expected to mourn properly. Six months is customary for a parent—and these children are mourning two parents.”

  Harriet gripped the piano bench on either side of her and steeled herself to respond. “First of all, it was not I who mentioned the possibility of a trip to London in front of servants so it could be repeated in front of the children. Yes, the colonel does have legal guardianship, but perhaps he did not read carefully those paragraphs of Winston’s will dealing with the children. My brother-in-law stated quite clearly that in the absence of Colonel Burnes or their mother, I should have final say on the children’s welfare. Moreover, he granted me full authority and means to carry out my decisions. Winston and Anne were quite, quite clear in that regard.”

  The dowager emitted an almost unladylike snort. “I doubt my poor besotted son gave any thought to what he was agreeing to.”

  “Nevertheless, he did agree—and he repeated his agreement in a codicil to his will just this last December. I am sure there is a copy among Winton’s papers in the library.…” Harriet allowed her voice to trail off. When the dowager did not respond, she added, “In any event, I would say that the colonel’s being confined to a bed in southern France constitutes an absence. Would you not agree?”

  The dowager waved a dismissive hand. “That is beside the point. Perhaps you care so little about propriety that you would make my grandchildren the subject of gossip if they are seen to be so disrespectful of their parents, who loved them dearly, but I am not. And neither is my remaining son.”

  “Lady Margaret, plea
se try to understand. We—you and I—cannot disappoint the children now. Try to see it is an opportunity for education, not merely pleasure. Or as a chance for them to heal in spirit. It has been ten weeks already. They are children! They cannot go about dressed in black every day, all day with long faces. They are not forgetting their parents. They beg me constantly for stories of their mama and papa. They talk about them and pray for them every day. They miss their parents horribly. Here at Sedwick Hall, every time they turn a corner or see an object outdoors, they are reminded of their loss, of something they may no longer do with Mama or Papa.” She paused and then added, “I have not the heart to disappoint them now.”

  The dowager’s lips thinned. “It is not proper. I heartily disapprove and I find it extraordinary that you consider my opinion to be irrelevant in a discussion about my grandchildren. I cannot sit back to see them the subject of gossip.”

  “I think,” Harriet said softly, “that, unless we who are most concerned, make it a topic of general discourse, it will not be so.”

  Lady Margaret tried a different tactic. “Surely you cannot mean to open Sedwick House in London for your little jaunt to the city. There is only caretaker staff there now, you know.”

  “I do know. No, I will not open the house in Mayfair. We will stay with my grandparents in Bloomsbury. Their house is large and well-staffed—and they keep the nursery ready for their grandchildren and their great-grandchildren. I will take the Sedwick nursery maids and sufficient footmen for our travel.”

  “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?” the dowager asked coldly.

  “Not yet. But I would welcome your suggestions.”

  Lady Margaret rose and stepped toward the door. “I have told you what I think.”

  * * * *

  For the next three days, Harriet saw little of Lady Margaret. When they chanced to meet at meals, both were too well-bred not to be civil, but there was little warmth in their conversations. Lady Margaret made a point of being away from home much of the time, paying calls in the local neighborhood. Harriet feared her own infractions might well be a central topic of discussion during those calls, but she chose to ignore that possibility.

  Her own attention centered on preparing for the trip to London. Having never planned such an elaborate journey on her own before, she sought the advice of the Sedwick steward, Mr. Stevens, as well as the butler, Patterson, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Ames. Within the week, the entourage was on its way. Although it was expensive, travel by post chaise was most expedient. The entire group included the seven children, Harriet, two nursery maids, Harriet’s personal maid, and sufficient footmen to provide adequate protection along the way. Three days after departing Sedwick Hall, the party arrived in the early evening at the somewhat dated but elegant townhouse of the Earl of Hawthorne in the Bloomsbury district of London.

  Chapter 2

  Having seen her charges tucked into their beds in the nursery, a weary Harriet retreated to the drawing room. Simple courtesy required that she spend at least a few minutes in polite conversation with her hosts, two of her favorite people in all the world—her own maternal grandparents, the Earl and Countess of Hawthorne.

  The elderly couple had been on hand to greet the arrival of their favorite granddaughter and seven of their numerous great-grandchildren when the group arrived that afternoon. They had received the lot of them in the drawing room, but perceiving the children to be tired and hungry had quickly dispensed with customary greetings and sent them off to the upstairs nursery, always kept in readiness for such welcome invasions. Harriet had been proud of the children, and had expressed to them her pride in their having shown themselves to be polite and well behaved in extending proper greetings to their mother’s grandparents.

  “We done good, huh?” Ricky asked, preening.

  “You did very well, indeed,” Harriet said. “Those were most correct bows, Richard and Robert.” The boys preened even more.

  Harriet had escaped to her own room only long enough to change from her travel dress to a more comfortable day dress and then returned to have supper with the children in the nursery—as she had informed her grandparents she would do in order to help get the youngsters oriented to their new surroundings. Having achieved that order of business, she now welcomed the refuge offered by adult company.

  She sank happily onto a gold and maroon striped couch next to her grandmother, a small woman with a determined chin, gray eyes, and iron gray hair that had once been the near-ebony shade of Harriet’s hair. “Ah, Nana! Poppy! I cannot tell you what a feeling came over me as I came through that door earlier!” She gripped her Nana’s hand as she pointed at the drawing room door with her other hand. “I remembered how frightened and lonely Anne and I were at being sent here after Papa died—scarcely two years after we lost Mama. I was–what?—seven, I think; Anne, twelve. We’d never been to London before—never been away from Lancashire, to be sure. But you made us feel so welcome!”

  Her grandmother returned the pressure of her grip. “That was a very difficult time for all of us. And this is as well. I am glad Anne’s children have you to help see them through at least this initial upheaval in their lives.”

  “I thought a change of scenery would help ease their grief,” Harriet said.

  “We shall do what we can to help as well,” the older woman said. “There are military reviews and what not—you know the Prince Regent is going all out to entertain the German and Russian royalty who are visiting to celebrate the end of Napoleon’s reign. The children will surely find all that pomp and finery impressive.”

  “Probably,” Harriet agreed. “The boys, especially, are quite mad about the army, what with their uncle’s serving in the Peninsula.”

  Harriet had scarcely noticed as her grandfather unfolded his lanky form from a maroon winged chair across from the couch she shared with his wife, but she was abruptly aware of his thrusting glasses of sherry at the women with one hand as he balanced a goblet with a splash of cognac in his other hand.

  He sat back down, swirled his glass, savored the aroma, issued a satisfied sigh, and finally sipped. He looked up to catch an exchange of amused glances between the women as they observed this ritual. “A man’s entitled to enjoy a fine cognac, is he not?” he asked rhetorically.

  “Especially now that he may do so legally, eh, my dear?” his wife agreed indulgently.

  “Well, there is that,” he said, taking another sip. He leaned forward in his chair, his hands clasped loosely around the bottom of the glass on his knees. “We are quite pleased that you chose to visit us, Harriet. Saved us a trip to Derbyshire, don’t you know?”

  “Is that so?” Harriet asked.

  “Oh, yes. You know how I hate traveling out of the city, but there are certain matters you need to know about.”

  “Laurence,” his wife admonished. “The poor girl has scarcely had a moment to relax. Legal matters can certainly wait until morning.”

  “If you insist, my dear,” he said.

  But Harriet’s interest had been piqued. “Legal matters? That sounds ominous—or at least interesting.”

  “Not ominous,” he assured her. “Concerns your mother’s marriage settlements.” He drained his glass and set it aside.

  “Mama’s marriage of—what?—three decades ago?”

  “Oh, yes. At least that,” he said, with a nod of his snow-topped head. “As is customary, you and Anne received allowances based on not only your mama’s dowry, but also your father’s will, which made ample provision for his daughters.”

  “My allowance has always been quite adequate,” Harriet said.

  Her grandfather coughed politely. “Yes, I should think so. It is all somewhat complicated, and the solicitor will explain it to you fully, but your fortune was separated from Anne’s when her marriage settlements were negotiated. Sedwick was more interested in cash settlements than in the properties
you Mayfield girls inherited from your father, so that was arranged and your interests were severed from Anne’s.”

  “I do not recall any mention of these matters,” Harriet said.

  “’Tis not something one ordinarily discusses with females, especially as young as you were then,” the old man said.

  “Yet another example of men underestimating us women,” her grandmother interjected.

  “Now, Celia,” the earl admonished mildly. “Don’t you be haranguing me with another litany from that Wollstonecraft woman. I refuse to take responsibility for the way of the world.” He shifted in his chair and said to Harriet, “Hinckley, the solicitor, will explain it all to you in great detail later, but the short version is this: as of your twenty-seventh birthday, should you still be an unmarried woman, you will yourself have total access and control of what is, to put it simply, an immense fortune. Property—mostly in Kent—and investments on the ’Change.”

  “My twenty-seventh—? What a strange number,” Harriet murmured, trying to take all this in.

  “Your father undoubtedly thought it highly unlikely either of his pretty little girls would be single past her twentieth birthday,” the old man said.

  “My goodness. Your birthday is only a few weeks away,” her grandmother said in some surprise.

  “September, Nana,” Harriet said. “And, yes, it is that one.”

  “Well, now that you are independently one of the richest women in England, don’t you be thinking of moving away from us—setting up your own establishment like that Holstenmeyer woman,” her grandmother said in a worried tone.

  Harriet patted her hand. “I wouldn’t dream of bringing such scandal down on either your household or Sedwick’s. I have quite, quite enjoyed being able to switch from your house here in town to Anne’s in the country as the whim suited me. I just hope…” But she refused to finish that thought, at least for the moment.