about it. I have told the servants to carry a bath up to your bedchamber.”
Harriet recited her tale of the fire and the rescue once more.
“But you are a heroine!” exclaimed Agnes. Then she fell silent, her intense gaze roaming around the shabby schoolroom while her mind worked busily.
Agnes was beginning to detest Cordelia. It was difficult, she thought, watching the candlelight flicker on Harriet’s sensitive little face, to believe that two such sisters came out of the same stable.
Underneath her beauty, Cordelia was vulgar and coarse. Harriet, despite her shabby clothes and soot-stained face, still managed to look like the lady she was.
Agnes made up her mind. “I am going out for a little, Miss Harriet,” she said. “I will return in time to see you before you go to sleep.”
She left Aunt Rebecca and Harriet together and ran to fetch her cloak and bonnet. Then she called for a hack and set out in the direction of the City, calling at first one newspaper office and then the other.
Agnes Hurlingham knew Cordelia was hoping that Harriet’s bravery would be quickly forgotten. And so Agnes was determined that the whole of London would know about the rescue of the duchess.
Meanwhile, as Harriet was enjoying a warm bath. Aunt Rebecca sat by the fire and turned over in her mind all Harriet had told her about the Marquess of Arden.
Aunt Rebecca felt ashamed of herself and what she considered her own abysmal lack of spirit. She should not have lurked in her room, frightened and depressed because Cordelia did not want them.
It was her God-given duty to see that Harriet found a husband. Mr. Bertram Hudson, for example, was certainly interested in Harriet. And perhaps the marquess himself would bear watching.
Taking advantage of the new deference of the servants, Aunt Rebecca rang for supper for herself and ordered a tray of delicacies to be offered to Harriet when she emerged from her bath.
As she had promised, Agnes returned in time to make sure Harriet was comfortably prepared for bed and had everything she needed.
Harriet smiled at her sleepily and said, “You are very kind to me, Mrs. Hurlingham. I cannot thank you enough.”
Agnes’s conscience smote her. She had only been kind to Harriet to spite Cordelia. “Call me Agnes,” she said gruffly. “You should not really be in these quarters, you know. I will speak to Lady Bentley on the subject.”
So it was that Cordelia, returning from the opera, found Agnes patiently waiting for her.
“Such devotion, Agnes,” she said nastily, “or do you want to say something to add to my already disastrous evening? Society, I would have you know, was quite shocked to see me this evening. Why was I not at home tending to my brave little sister? Pah!”
“That is what I wanted to talk to you about,” said Agnes Hurlingham. “You’re going to be in the suds unless you do something about her.” She jerked her thumb inelegantly in the direction of the ceiling.
“Do something about Harriet?” demanded Cordelia with dangerous sweetness. “What
do
you mean, Agnes? I have already
told
you what has to be done with her. Send her packing.”
“They’ll be calling you a sort of Lady Macbeth if you do that to London’s latest heroine,” said Agnes. “They’ll be calling in droves tomorrow just to get a look at her. And servants talk, you know. ‘Fore you know it, it’ll be ‘round the ton that she and her aunt are housed in the attic. That her clothes are monstrous shabby. Ain’t the conduct of a lady—
that’s
what they’ll say.”
“Pooh!” said Cordelia. “No one will call. Furthermore, Agnes, I do not like your tone. Remember your place, my good woman. Call Martha and tell her to make me ready for bed. You silly woman! As if saving that old miser of a duchess that society has detested this age will make the slightest bit of difference!”
Agnes hardly slept that night. She was out in the street in the morning as soon as she heard the news
Harriet recited her tale of the fire and the rescue once more.
“But you are a heroine!” exclaimed Agnes. Then she fell silent, her intense gaze roaming around the shabby schoolroom while her mind worked busily.
Agnes was beginning to detest Cordelia. It was difficult, she thought, watching the candlelight flicker on Harriet’s sensitive little face, to believe that two such sisters came out of the same stable.
Underneath her beauty, Cordelia was vulgar and coarse. Harriet, despite her shabby clothes and soot-stained face, still managed to look like the lady she was.
Agnes made up her mind. “I am going out for a little, Miss Harriet,” she said. “I will return in time to see you before you go to sleep.”
She left Aunt Rebecca and Harriet together and ran to fetch her cloak and bonnet. Then she called for a hack and set out in the direction of the City, calling at first one newspaper office and then the other.
Agnes Hurlingham knew Cordelia was hoping that Harriet’s bravery would be quickly forgotten. And so Agnes was determined that the whole of London would know about the rescue of the duchess.
Meanwhile, as Harriet was enjoying a warm bath. Aunt Rebecca sat by the fire and turned over in her mind all Harriet had told her about the Marquess of Arden.
Aunt Rebecca felt ashamed of herself and what she considered her own abysmal lack of spirit. She should not have lurked in her room, frightened and depressed because Cordelia did not want them.
It was her God-given duty to see that Harriet found a husband. Mr. Bertram Hudson, for example, was certainly interested in Harriet. And perhaps the marquess himself would bear watching.
Taking advantage of the new deference of the servants, Aunt Rebecca rang for supper for herself and ordered a tray of delicacies to be offered to Harriet when she emerged from her bath.
As she had promised, Agnes returned in time to make sure Harriet was comfortably prepared for bed and had everything she needed.
Harriet smiled at her sleepily and said, “You are very kind to me, Mrs. Hurlingham. I cannot thank you enough.”
Agnes’s conscience smote her. She had only been kind to Harriet to spite Cordelia. “Call me Agnes,” she said gruffly. “You should not really be in these quarters, you know. I will speak to Lady Bentley on the subject.”
So it was that Cordelia, returning from the opera, found Agnes patiently waiting for her.
“Such devotion, Agnes,” she said nastily, “or do you want to say something to add to my already disastrous evening? Society, I would have you know, was quite shocked to see me this evening. Why was I not at home tending to my brave little sister? Pah!”
“That is what I wanted to talk to you about,” said Agnes Hurlingham. “You’re going to be in the suds unless you do something about her.” She jerked her thumb inelegantly in the direction of the ceiling.
“Do something about Harriet?” demanded Cordelia with dangerous sweetness. “What
do
you mean, Agnes? I have already
told
you what has to be done with her. Send her packing.”
“They’ll be calling you a sort of Lady Macbeth if you do that to London’s latest heroine,” said Agnes. “They’ll be calling in droves tomorrow just to get a look at her. And servants talk, you know. ‘Fore you know it, it’ll be ‘round the ton that she and her aunt are housed in the attic. That her clothes are monstrous shabby. Ain’t the conduct of a lady—
that’s
what they’ll say.”
“Pooh!” said Cordelia. “No one will call. Furthermore, Agnes, I do not like your tone. Remember your place, my good woman. Call Martha and tell her to make me ready for bed. You silly woman! As if saving that old miser of a duchess that society has detested this age will make the slightest bit of difference!”
Agnes hardly slept that night. She was out in the street in the morning as soon as she heard the news
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