Chapter Two
Cousin Harrison’s country estate lay three miles from the village of Temple Ewell in Kent, and a short half-day’s ride from the coast. After Leonora’s complaints trailed off into silence, due either to exhaustion or defeat, Harriett began to enjoy the carriage ride. It was a perfect, English summer’s day, the verdant countryside dotted with motionless black and white cows. The road wound past a watermill on the River Dour. White clouds scattered across the pale blue sky made the view look like a Constable painting she’d seen on display at the Royal Academy.
After mid-day, the carriage passed through Pendleton’s elaborate wrought-iron gates and drove into the park. When they emerged from the trees, the imposing southern aspect of the baroque mansion presented itself, giant urns and statues ornamenting its parapet balustrade. Harriett felt the house didn’t suit Cousin Harrison at all; it seemed far too elaborate and fanciful for his parsimonious personality. It had suited her mother’s cousin, Aunt Elizabeth, perfectly, however, whose childhood home it had been. The carriage rocked to a stop, and a groom stepped forward to put down the step and open the door.
A lean, thin-faced butler stood at the front door. “Mr. Everard is in the small salon, milord.”
“You’re new are you not?” her father said. “I don’t believe I know your name. Rumbellow has been here since the year dot.”
“O’Hara, my lord.” The Irishman bowed again. “Rumbellow passed away two months ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Was it an illness?”
“A terrible accident befell him my lord. He fell on the stairs I believe—broke his neck.”
“He liked a tipple, Elizabeth told me. But she was fond of the man,” Mama observed, as they divested themselves of their traveling cloaks, pelisses and bonnets into the arms of a maid.
They followed O’Hara past one echoing room after another, all under covers with the sour smell of neglect. They found their relative ensconced in the small, stuffy room with the curtains drawn. He lay on a sofa wrapped in a shawl, close to a roaring fire, despite the mildness of the day.
Leonora raised her eyebrows at Harriett as if to say, and for this, I’ve missed one of the best balls of the Season?
“Harrison, so good to find you looking well.” Her mother sank onto an uncomfortable looking curly-legged Louis XIV armchair.
“Not according to my doctor. About time you came to see me.” He sniffed. “I may well have died by now. How long has it been?”
“When you have children, your time is never your own, “Mama said. Harriett thought she hid her annoyance well.
“Perhaps if we open a window, Harrison, let in some fresh air,” her father suggested, tugging at his cravat.
Mother unfurled her fan, casting father a warning glance. “I wonder if we might have tea. It’s been a long, tedious journey.”
Cousin Harrison stared up at Harriett with pale, cold eyes. “Don’t just stand there like a stuffed goose, girl. Pull the bell.”
When the tea arrived, Harriett left her parents to their attempts at a civil conversation and wandered out onto the porch. The tallest tree, an aged oak, rose up above the park. She had played there as a child, when Aunt Elizabeth was alive. It had been a very lively place then and a delight to visit. One saw things differently as an adult. What seemed thrilling back then was no longer the case. Disheartened by the dreary state of the house, Harriett roamed along a path through the trees dressed in their summer green, recalling how she’d made up stories and narrated them to an audience of birds.
Before she knew it, she’d walked over a mile and stood before the stately old oak tree that she used to climb. She paused, remembering that Pendleton lay on a rise above a wide green valley, and the tree offered a wonderful view all the way to the Channel from its topmost branches. One might see the French coast on such a fine day. It was undignified for an adult, but who would see her? She looked around. Finding no one in sight, she untied her poke bonnet, divested herself of her cinnamon-brown spencer and pulled off her kid half boots. She rolled down her stockings and tucked them into her shoes. Gathering her cream percale carriage dress up around her knees, she eased herself onto the lowest branch, and began to climb. Pleased, she quickly got into the swing of it. She’d been an excellent climber when she was young. Such a practice stayed with one into adulthood, apparently, although she was now a little more cautious. She’d climbed half way and stopped to consider her way forward when a figure rose from the shrubbery below her. He stood examining something, in his hand. He looked up and caught sight of her then shoved it into his pocket. Whipping off his hat, he stared up at her in surprise. “Can that be you, Harry? It must be. Taller, but as skinny as ever.”
From her lofty perch, Harriett took a deep breath. “Gerard.”
“’Tis I.” He came to stand below her. “So, you can still climb that tree.”
“Why ever not?” She put a foot on a lower branch in an attempt to climb down without affording him a revealing view up her dress, and soon found it impossible. “Turn your back, will you?”
He gave a sly look at her bare legs before he turned away. “Are you sure you don’t require my assistance?”
“I’ll ask if I do,” she said ungraciously. She reached the bottom branch and stood holding on, while considering whether to jump and possibly fall in a heap at his feet. In the end, she swallowed her pride. “You might help me,” she suggested.
Gerard turned around and put up his arms. She leaned over and rested her hands on his broad shoulders. He gripped her waist and lifted her down. For a moment, he held her close against his chest, causing a rush of sensation to pass through her. “Not so scrawny after all,” he said with a grin.
His hard male body pressed against hers, his mouth close enough to kiss, unsettling her. She struggled within his arms. “Put me down!Youare just as outrageous as ever.”
He set her on her feet and stood with legs spread and arms folded, studying her. “You always were tall for a girl.”
In her bare feet, Harriett’s head reached his shoulder and Gerard stood well over six feet. “Too tall for beauty, or so I’m told,” she said pragmatically.
His dark brows rose. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”
Beholding Gerard, Harriett quite agreed. With his well-shaped mouth and the cleft in his chin, he was still the handsomest man she’d ever set eyes on. She bent to pick up one of her boots.
