“It is nice, thank you,” I said. Harriet coughed dramatically, and I continued more loudly, “Is there tea?”
“Oh!” Mrs. Hickinbottom ran out, ran back with a teapot, and poured two cups of a liquid dark as dirt. I thanked her as the bitter scent of over-steeped leaves spread, and she scurried out again.
Harriet sniffed her cup warily. “Must we drink this?”
“She is trying her best. A lady is always polite.”
Harriet muttered, “Yes, Miss Woodhouse.”
My brother-in-law’s casual contempt of Harriet rose in my memory, and I said, “Emma.”
Harriet was poking her spoon in and out of her porridge. She looked up, puzzled.
“You should address me as Emma,” I repeated.
“I could not!”
“We are two ladies traveling together. It is proper.”
After a dumbstruck silence, she said, “Yes, Miss—” then winced and stammered out “Emma” with a flustered blink. We both laughed, and I felt a surge of affection.
Harriet jiggled her teacup handle, the inky surface wobbling. “Why do you wish me to marry a gentleman?”
“You are a lady.”
“But I met my father last year. He is a tradesman.”
Postponing my answer, I picked up my gloves from the table edge and closed my eyes to put them on.
Yesterday, I had dressed with my eyes open. I even enjoyed the amateur assistance of our host’s young daughter. But today had been a tense terror. Harriet rescued me when the girl could not fasten my dress quickly enough. The reservoir of strength I had gained at Chathford House was draining.
Eyes still closed, I fastened the pearl button at each wrist and said, “What was it like? To be told who your father was when you were seventeen?”
Harriet’s voice was soft. “When I was little, I dreamed my father would ride to Mrs. Goddard’s on a huge horse and give me presents wrapped in pink paper. Then he did come, and he did give me a present but not in pink paper, and we stared at each other in the school parlor, and he had saggy whiskers and a bent hat, and he seemed frightened of me. That was after you helped me survive my foolish infatuation for Mr. Elton, and I thought… I have been on my own all this time. What good is a father now? And he never visited again. So not good for anything at all.”
Tears stung the inside of my closed lids. Firmly, I said, “Put him out of your mind.”
“I am not a lady, Miss Woodhouse.”
I opened my eyes and gave a smile. “Miss Bennet would say you have a right tobind, and she is quite correct. Read this.” I passed Harriet the letter that had been folded under my gloves. The thick paper had been addressed to Chathford House in a weighty, masculine hand, and one of the Darcys’ footmen had delivered it this morning.
Harriet read aloud:
“Dear Miss Woodhouse,
I have thought upon our discussion of your friend’s plight. I plan to lunch with Mr. John Debrett next week. I am sure you understand the significant opportunity this presents. If this interests you, speak with me at the Darcys’ upcoming ball.
Yours, &c.
Mr. Rosdan Tinsdale, MP.”
Harriet’s features crumpled in dismay. “Mr. Tinsdale? That horrid man!”
“His politics are unpleasant, but politics are irrelevant in polite society. What matters is that he is willing to help.”
Harriet shook her head desperately. “Did you see his face when he met me?”
“Whatever you imagined, put it aside. This is an introduction to Mr. Debrett!Debrett’s Dracal Lineageincludes all of England’s prestigious wyves. When you are listed, no gentleman will doubt your ability to bind.”
