She waved a hand in dismissal. “Please, go home. Enjoy the day.”
He bowed low and then sprinted from the study. She realized, as she heard his rapid footsteps retreating down the hall, he would probably spend the rest of the day in his new wife’s arms. Hopefully, he would manage some sleep before reporting back in the morning.
She shook her head and rang the kitchen bell to signal she was ready for tea. At that precise moment, the thunder of paws and her son’s excited voice echoing down the hall signaled her “tea” would not be the restful affair she’d hoped for.
“M-mama, Mama!” The eight-year-old was covered in mud and trailed by two monstrous mastiffs shaking their huge heads from side to side, spattering furniture, carpets, and walls with their endless supplies of drool. One look at the wet, caked detritus covering their paws made her re-think her generous offer to let Thomas spend the rest of the day at home. Any urge to reprimand her son for trailing chaos into her sunny drawing room was tempered by the knowledge that he was all she had left of the only passion she’d ever known. The passion she’d left in a grave outside Waterloo in Belgium five years before.
“Slow down, my love. See the words in your mind before you try to say them.”
“N-nana…”
“Yes, Nana? What has she done now?”
“She…she’s gone to town. D-dressed in her w-witch costume.”
Harriet leapt to her feet. “No. We have to stop her. Where is she now?”
He hung his head. “By the time I gave up trying to get her to come h-home, we were h-half-way there.”
She pulled him close and squeezed his thin shoulders. He’d lately taken a growth spurt which seemed to send every bit of the substance of his body into the upward shooting of his limbs toward the height of the man his father had been. At just six, his head nearly reached her chin.
“It’s not your fault. She’s not your responsibility.” She stooped to the level of his clear blue gaze. He was so much his father, with just a dusting of freckles across his nose the only inkling he was her son as well. “Did she say where she was going?”
“She said what she always said. She was on her way to Covent Garden to practice her lines with the rest of the troupe.”
“And she was dressed as a witch?”
“Yes, Mama. ‘Macbeth.’ You know.”
Unfortunately, Harriet did indeed know. Her grandmother had spent most of her adult years as Her Grace, the serene, beautiful Duchess of Sidmouth. She’d behaved with the utmost decorum after having been plucked from the London stage by the late duke. True, the scandal at first had spread like wildfire through the upper levels of thetonuntil a strange thing had occurred. A group of older women who dominated aristocratic society slowed the gossip to a trickle and then a virtual standstill.
They included the ducal couple in the most sought-after invitations of the Season that year, and their loyalty paid off. Everyone who was anyone had to see the notorious, blazingly beautiful former actress who had emerged from the cocoon of the London stage into a sedate and proper duchess. After that, Their Graces retired to the vast Devon estate on which the title was based, and proceeded to raise a brood of normal, unexceptional heirs. The notable exception, of course, was Harriet’s mother, Ariel.
After Nana’s sixty-seventh birthday, her mental faculties had gradually regressed. Now, she spent her days preparing for a mythical return to the theatre of her youth. She was convinced there would be an urgent call from Covent Garden, begging her to return to her most famous roles, like the First Witch in Macbeth. Harriet had heard her grandmother recite the fourth act so many times, she could probably play it herself.
Lieutenant Bourne strodetoward the side of the crowded tavern bar where a large group of men were shouting obscenities at a frail, elderly thespian, dressed in flowing black robes with a high, conical black hat trailing a black veil. She wielded a sturdy staff with which she made the motions of stirring the imaginary contents of an invisible cauldron.
He was caught off guard when a sudden move by one of the menacing patrons to snatch at her dress was met by a violent drubbing with the wooden staff. Richard straightened and took a closer look at the woman. She was not as frail as she seemed.
Her retaliation provoked more men sitting at scattered tables to join the noisy crowd at the bar. Richard rose to his full height and buttoned his scarlet uniform jacket. Time to end the nonsense before she was injured.
“All of you. Either respect the lady and her performance, or return to your seats.” The crowd turned to him as one and then went back to heckling the elderly lady.
Richard put his fingers to his mouth and emitted a high, loud screech of a whistle. “I’m not joking. Return to your seats, or I’ll haul the lot of you before the magistrate.” A number of them gave him a dismissive wave. The rest remained either riveted to listening to the performance, or intent on tossing spoiled food at the beleaguered actress.
Saints preserve Ireland, he muttered under his breath. “Sergeant Dawson,” he barked out. “Stop those men.” And then the two of them waded into the agitated throng. Richard reached the woman’s side first and leaned close to ask where her carriage might be.
“Oh, I walked here,” she admitted airily and pointed her hand gracefully in the direction of the front entrance.
“I don’t doubt your word, milady, but I’m sure your coachman must be waiting nearby. Shall I take you there?”
When she suddenly shone her full attention on him, he was stunned. Although this woman had to be somewhere in her sixties, her face was as flawless as fine porcelain, and her deep green eyes were like shimmering emerald pools. Those eyes peered down her patrician nose taking in every bit of him. He felt a warmth spread through his limbs, and to his complete chagrin, a hot flush ignited from his neck to the top of his head. This ageless nymph of a woman fancied him.
As instant awareness shot through him, she placed a hand on his arm and leaned close to whisper in his ear. “You can take me anywhere you like, young man.”
Harriet staredout into the late fall landscape while she warmed her feet on wrapped hot bricks on the floor of the family carriage. God, what a bitter October night for Nana to have picked to go a wandering in search of a theatre.
Each time the elderly woman’s slipping mind put her back in the days of her earlier acting triumphs, Harriet alone had been left to hunt her down, make apologies all around, including to the magistrate who had been involved on more than one occasion in settling the near riots she’d caused at various taverns in and around Falmouth.
