vitriol. She cast around for the appropriate words to ask him about Felicity’s sister. When she’d decided to come to Tenterfield, she hadn’t anticipated trying to persuade Sir Malcolm to tell her the truth on his deathbed.
‘Well, girl? What d’you want? I haven’t time to waste pandering to the likes of you. Tell me what you want and be gone. You hear, Fletcher?’ He addressed the servant standing by the window. ‘This lady is not to spend a minute more than necessary beneath my roof.’
The man bowed. ‘Yes, sir.’
Harriet tamped down her anger. ‘I wish to ask you about something that happened in the past. Do you recall Lady Emma Weston? She attended Lord Watchett’s house party at the same time as you, in the summer of 1802.’
Sir Malcolm’s lids lowered to mask his eyes. ‘How do you expect me to remember one chit out of so many?’
‘She was Lady Baverstock’s daughter. It was the year following Lord Baverstock’s death.’
His thin lips parted and Harriet recoiled as his tongue came out to touch his lip. ‘Ah. Yes, indeed. The golden angel.’
Nausea churned Harriet’s insides. Time had softened the memory of quite how contemptible Sir Malcolm had always been, despite his wealth and his handsome face. He had, however, been irresistibly charming to the young innocents he had targeted, and Harriet quite understood how a naive young girl could fall for his silver-tongued lies. She had been fortunate to be immune from his attempts to seduce her when she was young enough to appeal to his tastes. She had resisted, thinking herself in love with Benedict. Time had proved she was just as naive as poor Lady Emma, whom she was now convinced Sir Malcolm had seduced and impregnated and abandoned. Emma had escaped by taking her own life. Harriet had not been so cowardly—or, mayhap, so brave—when her heart had been broken, although...there were times during the years following her marriage to Brierley when suicide had seemed an enticing option.
‘So it was you,’ she said to the man in the bed. ‘She wrote to you, after the summer you met. She was in love with you.’
His head twitched to one side. ‘I said I met her. I admitted to nothing else.’
But Harriet knew, without a shadow of doubt, that Sir Malcolm was the man who had despoiled Felicity’s sister. He had been a rake of the very worst kind; she did not need his confession. She leaned in close, breathing through her mouth to avoid the sour smell emanating from the bed.
‘She killed herself! You seduced her and abandoned her, and she killed herself because she was carrying your child.’
He looked at her, his slitted eyes glinting. ‘Best thing for her. One less fatherless brat to worry about. Isn’t that so, my lady? Although you could not even manage that, could you? Lost it, as I recall. Careless of you.’
Harriet reared back, pain ripping at her heart. She must get out. Now. She should never have come. She suddenly realised this trip hadn’t just been about Emma but about her, too—an attempt to make sense of the path her life had taken since she had fallen in love with Benedict. And she saw that she and Emma were the same: gullible victims of men who used and abused them and abandoned their responsibilities.
‘I hope...’ The words dried on her tongue. No, she would offer no comfort to this loathsome man, dying or not. She marched to the door.
Outside, the door firmly shut again, Harriet leaned against the wall, dragging in deep, shuddering breaths. Janet fumbled in her pocket and offered smelling salts. She had been with Harriet since the very early days of Harriet’s marriage to Brierley, and had proved herself a loyal and protective friend to the young, bewildered bride. Harriet had long blessed the day the older woman had been appointed as her maid.
She waved the salts away. ‘No. I will not faint, I promise you. I am trying to calm my anger,’ she said, forcing a smile to set Janet’s mind at rest.
She glanced back at the closed bedchamber door. How could such a man have lived with himself all these years? She pushed upright and shook out her skirts, smoothing them.
‘Come. Let us go. We must get back to the Rose as soon as we can in case the snow begins to drift.’
She had reserved accommodation at the Rose Inn at Sittingbourne, a bare four miles from Tenterfield Court, on their way through from London. The plan was to stay there the night and return to London the following day, when Harriet would tell Felicity what she had discovered. She must hope the news would not prove too upsetting for her friend, who was now with child herself. Harriet ruthlessly quashed her ripple of envy that Felicity would soon be a mother.
She was thankful there was no sign of Benedict as they descended the stairs and went through the door to the panelled Great Hall with its ancient blackened stone hearths at either end. The butler sent word to the stables for their hired chaise and four to be brought round to the front door, and a maid ran to fetch their travelling cloaks, muffs and hats. It was cold outside and they had prepared well for the journey from London, with blankets and furs piled in the carriage.
‘The chaise is outside now, milady,’ the butler said. ‘Take care, it might be slippery. Cooper here will help you.’
A footman, well wrapped up, stepped forward and Harriet took one arm whilst Janet took the other. They emerged into a world transformed. The air swirled white and she could barely make out the trees that lined the sweeping carriageway that led from the house to the road. The easterly wind had picked up, gusting at times, and blowing the snow horizontal, stinging Harriet’s cheeks. The waiting horses stamped their feet and tossed their heads, blowing cloudy breaths down their nostrils as the hapless post boys hunched on their backs. Harriet hoped they had been given a warming drink in the kitchen; she did not doubt they, like her, would be glad to reach the inn where they were to spend the night.
Harriet clung tightly to the footman’s arm, feeling her half boots slide on the stone steps as they descended warily to the waiting chaise. She looked across at Janet at the very same moment the maid released Cooper’s arm to hurry down the last few steps, presumably to open the door ready for Harriet.
‘Janet! No!’
It was too late. A shriek rose above the howl of the wind as Janet missed her footing on the second to last step. Her feet shot from under her and she fell back onto the steps, one leg bent beneath her.
‘Oh, no!’ Harriet hurried as best she could to where the maid lay. ‘Janet? Are you all right?’
‘Yes, milady. I—’ Janet screamed as she tried to rise, a high-pitched, sobbing scream. ‘Oh, milady! My back! It—aargh! My leg! I can’t move it!’
‘Oh, good heavens!’ What if it is broken? Harriet remembered only too well the pain of broken bones, a pain that, in her case, had been numbed by a far greater agony. She thrust those memories back down where they belonged. In the past. ‘Can you carry her to the chaise, Cooper?’
The footman bent to lift Janet, but the maid batted him away. ‘No! Don’t touch me. It hurts!’
Harriet crouched down next to Janet, taking her gloved hand. ‘We cannot just leave you here in the snow. You’ll freeze to death.’
‘I can’t bear to move, milady. I can’t bear it. And I can’t go in that yellow bounder, not the way they drive. I cannot.’ Her words ended in a wail.
Now what was she to do? Harriet stared through the driving snow to where the chaise and four still waited. It was barely visible now. The weather was worsening. She must move Janet somehow.
‘Allow me.’ A hand gripped her shoulder as the deep voice interrupted her inner panic.
Benedict.
Her instinctive urge to shrink from his touch battled against her relief that help was at hand. She glanced round, taking in his hard eyes and tight-lipped mouth, and she clenched her jaw. Janet must be her only concern.
‘Thank you,’ she said.