Her vain ambition led her down a slippery slope, exposing his weaknesses to her watchful gaze. She had no right to interfere, no right to pry. After all, why should she question his loss of faith? True, she suffered through hardship and deprivation, and the pinch of poverty squeezed her daily. Yet she never lost faith; she relied on it to carry her through her trials and tribulations. Papa nicknamed her “The Eternal Optimist,” and joked that she could find something good in every situation—even the plague. She shivered, tightening her shawl over her chest. Perhaps her hopefulness blinded her to the terrible reality of Brookes’s past.
When she finally arrived at the cottage, Sophie dashed down the stairs, an expression of blank horror in her blue eyes.
“What has happened?” Harriet assumed her usual air of sisterly authority.
“Mama took on so about the Blessing of the Wells and the Ball, I felt I had to call Dr. Wallace. It was dreadful, Harriet. I know that he is expensive, but what could I do?”
Harriet patted Sophie’s arm. “It will be fine, Sophie. But why was she so upset?”
“Mama says she will not take us anywhere, as she does not want others to see our reduced circumstances.”
“Whatever does that matter, in a country village? Come, let’s go and speak with her and the doctor.” Linking arms with her sister, Harriet pulled her up the stairs.
As they entered the room, Dr. Wallace stood beside Mama’s bed, pursing his mouth into a thin line. “I thought a mild dose of laudanum would help this nervous exhaustion. Whatever are we to do with you, my lady?”
Without stopping to think, Harriet tugged at Dr. Wallace’s sleeve. “The laudanum—it’s not too potent, is it, Dr. Wallace? I worry that Mama is taking too much.”
“The laudanum is the only thing that makes life bearable,” Mama snapped, offering her wrist to Dr. Wallace so he could take her pulse.
“A little laudanum never hurt anyone, Miss Handley.” Dr. Wallace smiled and placed his fingers on Mama’s wrist.
Harriet stood her ground. “Well, if Mama isn’t so very ill, then a mild dose of laudanum might help her now. If she takes it, though, she won’t be able to attend the Blessing ceremony. But she would be all right by herself for a few hours, wouldn’t she, while we go? And she might try to attend the ball tonight, Doctor?”
Dr. Wallace cast a searching glance over the patient. He nodded with satisfaction and gently let go of her wrist. “I have prescribed a regimen of rest to cure your mother’s nervous exhaustion.” He hesitated, and then smiled gently at Harriet and Sophie. “Still, perhaps I prescribed strict bed rest in haste. A brief social outing might help, your ladyship.”
Mama sank against the pillows, with the air of a sacrificial victim. Her face was pale, her lips drawn. “Very well. I am outnumbered. We will attend the ball tonight. But I must have rest up until the moment we leave.”
“Hattie, you are so good with Mama. I honestly did not know what to do with her. All I did was mention the events in the village, and she became hysterical. I sent Rose to fetch Dr. Wallace. It was all I could think to do.”
“You handled the situation very well, Sophie. Don’t fret.” They crossed the hall, entering the room they shared. “I apologize for being gone for so long. I feel guilty for not being here to help you.”
“But you were helping me! You were seeing the captain, were you not? How did you fare?”
“Poorly, I am afraid. I made a blunder, and questioned him too closely about his emotions and his faith. The whole affair grew a bit disastrous.” How embarrassing the entire unfortunate morning had been. Save for Stoames’s kind words, she was prepared to forget the whole episode.
“Poor Hattie. I am sure it will be fine. I imagine he is unused to speaking to anyone about his feelings.” Sophie splashed water from the pitcher into the basin, and began washing her hands and face.
Harriet regarded her sister’s back closely. “In truth, I treaded on sacred ground. It made me rather sick.”
Sophie turned to face Harriet, patting her face dry with a threadbare towel. She flicked her eyebrows quizzically. “Whatever for? I shouldn’t worry. He’s promised to share his memories to help you write the book. Surely he knew what that would entail.”
Harriet flopped onto the bed with a sigh. “Sharing memories and sharing facts are very different things,” she murmured into her pillow. Her stomach recoiled and she could talk about her awful morning no more. Looking up, she chose the one topic of conversation designed to distract her sister. “Shall we dress for the Blessing?”
“Oh, yes! What will you wear?” Sophie managed to grow both animated and serious at the same time.
Harriet grinned at her with indulgence. “I haven’t any idea.”
“I’ve made over two old muslin dresses. They look lovely. See?” Sophie pulled them out of the wardrobe, casting an approving glance over her handiwork. “Look, I put new ribbons on the bodices, and embroidered in white—I think whitework is so divine, don’t you?” She gave the dresses an expert shake. “Here, Hattie, you shall wear the one trimmed in blue, and I shall wear the pink.”
She traced one finger over the embroidery, and the delicate threads caught on her rough skin. A trickle of interest suffused her body. A dawning awareness of her looks, and the desire to be pretty assumed a great significance in her consciousness. There was no driving force behind this transformation, was there? Certainly not. She just wanted to look nice, that’s all.
Sophie studied Harriet with a judgmental air. “Hmm. I shall dress your hair, Hattie. I’ve wanted to experiment with braids. My hair is too curly, but yours is so straight it will hold a braid nicely.”
Harriet gazed into the looking glass over the washstand, running a hand over her dark brown locks. Her hair was tucked up into its usual severe chignon. She could never call it attractive. Would anyone else? She rather doubted it. After all, Sophie was the acknowledged beauty of the family.
“Oh Hattie, I have ideas for our ball dress tonight, too,” Sophie prattled on. She gazed into the mirror, fitting her cheek against Harriet’s shoulder. Reaching up, Sophie tucked a wayward curl behind one shoulder. “Do you know, Hattie,” she said breathlessly, an expression of satisfaction lighting up her china-blue eyes, “I rather think I shall fall in love with the captain tonight.”
Harriet’s heart dropped like a stone and she suppressed the sudden flash of jealousy that flooded her being. She closed her eyes, blocking out their reflections in the glass. “Well, I should certainly hope so, Sophie.”
Chapter Seven
Brookes glanced toward the village green, where a mass of blooms obscured the well. The riotous color of the flowers and the sun sparkling on the cornets and flugelhorns made his eyes smart. He blinked to clear his vision. Opening his eyes, his gaze fell on the two Handley sisters, strolling arm in arm, toward the garishly decorated well. The bleating of the horns died out, replaced by a buzzing in his ears. Every sense he possessed trained, with military precision, on the pretty girls clad in white, their heads so close together that their bonnets touched.
Sophie’s little golden curls framed her face. Brookes stared at her, running his assessing gaze over her figure. She looked like a Dresden china doll, he decided flatly. Very pretty, to be sure, but untouchable. Casting Sophie away, he focused on Harriet. Her bonnet irritated him, for it covered her glossy brown hair and cast her fathomless blue eyes in shadow. Drat the bright sun. Harriet would keep her hat on throughout the ceremony and he would miss the chance to see her pure profile in bold relief. He noted that their servant stood beside them, but not his future mother-in-law. Where was Lady Handley? Almost everyone in the clutch of nearby Derbyshire villages was in attendance, he observed, glancing over the crowd gathering on the green.
The crisp rattle