Just a Marriage of Convenience with the Duke by Hazel Linwood
Chapter 21
Harriet sat in a chair by the window, looking out at the street below. She had found her sister in this very chair so many times before and wondered at how someone so interesting and lively could engage in such a boring pastime. What was there to see but the people passing by? They were no one to her, inconsequential souls whose names she would never know.
Now, though, she found it oddly soothing to look out and wonder who those people were. Did any of them know where Bridget could be? Had any of them seen her the night of the ball, taking note of which way Lord Haskins’ carriage had been going?
Harriet’s melancholy only grew worse as the hours went by. There was nothing to be done but sit and wait, a waiting that was slowly driving her mad. She had to remain here in case Bridget returned somehow, but in her bones, she was dying to run out of the house and search the countryside for her sister.
The wait in the nearly empty house only led to the darkest sort of thoughts. There was no way Lord Haskins would ever let Bridget return, even if he did manage to make it to Scotland and force her hand. The notion of having Bridget and her family home for dinners or a Christmas feast was impossible. After all, were they to just pretend that the earl’s treachery was behind them, pretending that all was well once more?
Harriet knew it was impossible. More likely, she had already seen her sister for the last time and hadn’t even known it then. If she had known, Harriet would have clung to Bridget, holding fast to her, and telling her how much she loved and admired her. She would have thanked her for being the only mother Harriet had to call upon while navigating the bizarre world of being a young lady. She would have told her the most important truth of all, that no matter how often she’d complained or grumbled, she was fiercely proud of Bridget for the work she’d done changing their poor students’ lives.
“Bridget,” Harriet said under her breath, “if you ever return to us, I will show you how grateful I truly am.”
A fresh bout of tears poured down Harriet’s face but dabbing at them with her damp handkerchief was now useless. She continued to watch out the window as though she could somehow will her sister to return home.
“My lady, you must eat something,” the housekeeper admonished sweetly as she entered the room and eyed Harriet’s untouched tray. “It is not good for you to pine away like this.”
“I can’t even think about food at the present,” Harriet muttered, still looking out the window to avoid the distaste her tray left. “I cannot think of anything but Bridget.”
“She will be well, I am certain of it,” Miss Glenn assured her. When Harriet turned sharply to look at her, she held up her hands to stop her. “No, dear girl, I do not know anything of her whereabouts. And I confess, it is but a feeling that I have. But Lady Bridget is strong and kind and good, and I know she will find her way back to us somehow.”
“Oh, Miss Glenn. How I long to believe that!” Harriet cried, pulling her legs up close to her, and wrapping her arms around her knees. “I want it to be true, but I cannot envision it. What if we never see her again?”
“Shh, there now,” Miss Glenn said, placing her arm around Harriet’s shoulder in an overly friendly way to stop her tears. “You must simply believe that everything will be all right. Your father and the Duke of Lockhart have gone after her, and I am certain they will not rest until they have found her. But for her part, Lady Bridget is more capable than you may know. Only have faith that she will be well.”
“I suppose there is nothing else I can do,” Harriet admitted sadly, leaning her head on the housekeeper’s arm. “Thank you, Miss Glenn.”
“You can thank me by having some of this soup,” the older woman teased gently. “I will go ask Cook to warm it again, so find your appetite while I’m gone, hmm?”
Harriet smiled at her weakly, but then she nodded. Perhaps the woman was right; all she could do was trust that everything would turn out well. There was simply no other alternative at the moment.
Harriet heard footsteps and knew Miss Glenn couldn’t possibly be returning from the kitchen already. She looked over her shoulder and saw Mr. Blake enter the drawing room, two ladies in tow.
“Lady Agatha Bentley and Miss Camille Parks are here to see you, my lady,” the butler said, announcing the two friends. He stepped back lest they plow him over in their haste to hurry to Harriet’s side.
“Harriet, tell me it isn’t true!” Agatha cried out, dropping beside Harriet’s chair, and grasping her hand. “Lord Haskins has eloped with Bridget?”
“It cannot be!” Camille echoed on Harriet’s other side.
“I’m afraid it is,” Harriet admitted, rising to her feet, and leading them to the sofa. “She never returned yesterday evening, and the Duke of Lockhart came here looking for her. He and Father surmised that Bridget had been stolen from us.”
Agatha and Camille exchanged a guilty look, one that caught Harriet’s attention.
“What is it?” Harriet demanded.
Agatha shook her head. “No, it’s nothing. Only that we were speaking of this very matter yesterday evening at the ball.”
“We were not speaking ill of Bridget, though, please know that,” Camille assured her in earnest. “But only that now Lord Haskins has been so awful, poor Bridget has no choice but to marry him or risk ruining her reputation.”
“Is that all anyone can speak of? My sister’s possible virtue?” Harriet cried out angrily, kicking at a stool nearby. “She is gone! Does no one in this entire city understand that? I may never see her again, and given such, I care not about what anyone thinks of her or me or our father or…”
“Shh, there now, Harriet,” Agatha crooned quietly, standing up and coming to sit beside her. “We know how much you love her, and we feel precisely the same way. You’re right, nothing matters now but that she remains safe and returns to us soon.”
“I’m sorry, Aggie. I know what a good friend you’ve been to her,” Harriet replied, leaning her head on Agatha’s shoulder.
“I have every hope that we might not be the only ones who are willing to overlook the bonne ton’s ‘rules’ where Bridget is concerned,” Camille said, opening her reticule and retrieving a folded page. She plucked it out and smoothed it flat, then held it out for Harriet and Agatha.
“I’m not reading that rubbish,” Harriet replied after recognizing the letterhead at the top. “There was a time when I devoured every word and clung to it like it was the very Gospel. Now, I have been shown how wrong I was to believe any of it… and how much pain it brings others when the words are nothing but lies.”
“Don’t be too hasty, Harriet,” Agatha said with a bright smile as she read further down the page. “It seems as though the writer is very put out with this Haskins and has suggested that every able-bodied man go after him and apprehend him lest other young ladies be victims of some upstart’s scheming!”
Harriet snatched the paper away and read it aloud, Agatha and Camille flanking her as she read. When she finished, she turned to look at them with a hopeful smile.
“Do you think anyone will actually help find Bridget?” she asked, clutching the page in front of her.
Agatha shot Camille a glance, then shook her head. “No, I’m afraid not. If there’s one thing I know about this bunch already, it’s that they do love to know about everyone’s personal affairs and discuss them at length over tea, but rarely do they intend to actually inject themselves into those affairs. But it is enough that everyone should now know how Bridget was wronged!”
“Yes!” Camille cried in agreement. “When she comes home—and I am certain that she will—then this already means many in the ton will feel sympathy for her. To be certain, there will be those who shun her lest other young ladies think it acceptable to elope, but those people are few and stupid. Everyone knows how wonderful Bridget is, and they certainly know that Lord Haskins has absconded with her against her wishes.”
“I hope so,” Harriet grumbled, falling back against the sofa, and throwing her arm over her eyes. “I only wish I could have half your optimism, Cam.”
“It’s all we can do for now, I’m afraid,” Agatha commiserated. “That, and to think only the best thoughts for Bridget’s return.”
* * *
Bridget had no way of knowing how far she’d walked, but it seemed like it had taken hours. The painful echo of her growling stomach reminded her incessantly that she’d had nothing to eat since before the ball yesterday evening—how had that been such a short time ago, when so much had happened to her since?
Along her route, Bridget had managed to spy berries that she recognized and deemed safe to consume, but they had been few. Already picked over by country folk and birds, the sad specimens that were left had been hardly big enough to chew.
Then, as the road carried Bridget around a wide bend alongside a small river, she spied the most welcome sight—an apple orchard whose boughs hung lazily over the road, bent beneath the weight of small, green apples.
Bridget hurried to the nearest bough and inspected the fruits. They were no bigger than the palm of her hand and probably as hard as rocks given how underripe they were, but they were certainly better than any other food she had with her. Reaching up and grasping one of the apples, she pulled as hard as she could.
But it refused to turn loose.
Bridget twisted it this way and that, and finally after working the small fruit back and forth on its tenacious stem, it tore free. She looked down at it for a moment with a disheartened sigh, then attempted to bite into it. It was crisp and overly tart, but its fleshy meat was not willing to yield easily. In her hunger, Bridget managed to tear off a sizeable piece and had to chew repeatedly for it to even go down.
That was unpleasant, but it’s the best I’ve got, she thought miserably as she valiantly tried to take another bite.
“You there! Wot do ya think yer doin’?” a gruff voice shouted.
Bridget turned to see an angry-looking farmer storming towards her as fast as his old, wobbly legs could carry him. Behind him, another man sauntered along, his hands shoved down in his pockets.
“See there? I told ya I weren’t lyin’! Caught the thief in the act, we did!” the farmer said proudly to the other man.
“Thief? Good sir, I am no thief, “Bridget protested.
Both men blinked in surprise at the sound of a woman’s refined voice coming from such a filthy, bedraggled shape of a man. Bridget touched her cheek, remembering the soot that had been smeared there to help disguise her appearance.
“Sir, my apologies,” Bridget said, looking down at the apple in her hand. “I have been through a terrible ordeal and have not eaten since yesterday. I helped myself to an apple from your tree, but I will gladly compensate you for it once I have been returned to my family.”
“I care not for yer troubles, we all got’s ‘em,” the farmer snarled. He turned to the man beside him and said, “Well, go on then. Do yer job! Put her in irons!”
Bridget froze, sure that she had only misheard the grumpy man. Irons? Over an apple that was hanging over the very road? She looked to the other man imploringly, but he hung his head in shame.
“Surely the irons aren’t required,” the man said as he pulled Bridget by the sleeve. “Come on then… miss.”
“Where are you taking me?” Bridget demanded, trying too late to pull her arm back.
“Yer goin’ to the gaol to pay for yer crimes!” the farmer shouted at her.
“The gaol,” Bridget whispered. She looked to the constable, who seemed to at least have the decency to feel put out for what he must do. “Surely this isn’t necessary…”
“I’m afraid so,” the constable replied quietly. “Mr. Amberton has had quite a problem with thieves stealing his crops, or so he says.”
“So I says? Yer dead straight I says! They come stealin’ from me ever’ season, leavin’ me naught but a barrel or two to sell,” the farmer shouted back. “I’ll not put up with it anymore!”
“Mr. Amberton, please,” Bridget tried, looking over her shoulder at him as the constable began pulling on her arm carefully. “As I have said, you will be compensated for this apple, and for many more.”
“Be gone with ya,” the farmer snapped, brushing his hands together as though he could physically remove her with the gesture.
“Good sir, please! My father is the Earl of Repington, I can see to it that you are repaid for your troubles… and your kindness!” Bridget tried desperately.
“I gots no kindness for a thief! No’ get away from me farm!” the old man said before turning and stalking off in the other direction.
Bridget was dumbfounded. All this fuss over a single apple that could have easily fallen on the road for anyone to claim. Where was this man’s sense of charity, his notion of caring for his fellow man in their time of need? She turned her attention to the constable instead.
“Sir, I beg you to unhand me. Surely you see how ridiculous this is,” she pleaded, but the constable only hung his head further.
“Aye, I do. But Mr. Amberton has sworn out a complaint. There’s nothing I can do. Once you’re given to the gaol and ordered to appear before the magistrate, I can try to get word to your family, if that will help.”
“Yes, that will help tremendously. You see, I was traveling with—”
Bridget stopped. How much should she reveal without painting herself as some sort of criminal element?
“—no, I was taken from my family by a scoundrel. I have managed to escape his clutches but have not eaten in over a day,” she continued hesitantly. “I am trying to return to my home in London, and you have my word as the daughter of a gentleman that I will repay both this farmer for his trouble and you for your kindness.”
The constable bristled. “Now see here, that does sound very much like an attempt at bribery!”
“No, sir! I assure you; I only mean to say I understand the situation you’ve been put in. I would see to it that you were compensated for the difficulty of your job, that is all,” Bridget corrected sweetly, wondering how she could continue to make her situation worse.
“That’s for the magistrate to decide, not me,” the man said, sounding nervous for a moment.
Bridget noticed the crack in his voice and looked up at him curiously. He couldn’t be but perhaps a year older than she was.
“Sir, do you have a sister? One whom you look after and care about a great deal?” she asked hopefully.
“I do. Three of ‘em. I’m charged with doing my job well so that I can provide for ‘m now that our father is gone,” the constable said, still walking Bridget towards a wagon that was waiting in the road.
Bridget realized that the constable’s step had slowed, that he was no longer so forceful with his grasp on her sleeve. It gave her hope, at least for a little while.
“Would you want your sister to be dragged off like this for taking an apple to ease the hunger she felt?” Bridget asked. “Tell me truthfully.”
“No, I suppose I would not,” he finally admitted, the shame in his voice encouraging Bridget further.
“Then I ask that you think of me as someone’s sister, a young lady who has been poorly treated, kidnapped even and taken from her home against her will. My reward for escaping from a terrible scoundrel and trying to make my way home again is to be placed in irons for the theft of a morsel of food?”
Bridget needed no dramatics to conjure up a tear in her eye as she truly was beside herself. The events of the past week finally came crashing down on her spirit, causing her a deeper level of grief she would not have thought possible.
Before she could beg of him any further for mercy, Bridget was standing alongside the wagon.
“If you’ll climb up and have a seat there, I’ll trust you not to need the irons,” the constable said, looking away. “And please… do not jump down from the wagon, I could not bear it if you were harmed.”
“No, I won’t,” Bridget promised, tears mingling with the soot on her face and running rivers of grime down her cheeks.
The constable stared at her for moment, then took hold of one of her hands. Bridget flinched in surprise but stilled when he only turned her wrist over and back, inspecting her hands.
“You are actually a lady, aren’t you,” he said, inspecting the other hand the same way. “I can tell by your skin, by your face there.”
“I am, sir. I swear to you, my father is an earl. I was taken under false pretenses by a nobleman who was intent on marrying me in Scotland despite my refusal,” Bridget explained quietly, hoping for his sympathy. “And I confess it that my crime was in stealing food. I have never been in such a state as this and did not know what else to do.”
“I understand. I must do my job, but I’ll see what I can do,” the constable said, his hard shell cracking slightly.
“Thank you, sir.” Bridget nodded and climbed up into the wagon as she was instructed, then sat down on the rough boards in the back and waited for the constable to take her away.
