Page 188 of The Ladies Least Likely
She shrugged and pushed away a lock of hair waving before her eye. “I don’t know. Mum says we’ll have to go back to Silesia sometime. That’s where she’s from, you know. She says my grandfather will want me, that he’s someone important, though I suspect we’re nothing but peasants and she made that up to please Missus Demant. She’s making me practice the language, and she says as soon as they send word that it’s safe, we’ll go back.”
The twisting thing tore then, deep and hard, and Ren felt as if he were bleeding inwardly. She wouldn’t be in a separate world. She’d be in a separate country.
“Write to me?” His voice sounded hoarse. Harriette was his lifeline, the one person who understood him. If that connection were severed, the one person he relied on gone, he might truly descend into madness or despair.
“If I can. Here.”
She slipped a thin cord through the hole in the amulet to create a necklace, then handed it to him.
“What if it is valuable?” he said in surprise.
He’d seen how she lived. Her mother depended on the Demants for everything, her food, her shelter, her clothing. Mrs. Demant got to boast that she was sheltering a refugee from another country, a highborn woman in desperate straits who’d been forced to flee her homeland leaving behind her husband, her wealth, her very name. Mrs. Smythe might enjoy sitting about in stricken poses, playing the role of wilting outcast, but Ren couldn’t see Harriette spending her future dependent on anybody.
“Did you know the early Christians thought madness was sacred?” Harriette stood and scanned the sky, her curls lifting in the wind. “Divine inspiration. In the Dark Ages, the simple or touched in the head were called innocents. And those who were marked or had deformities, they were sacred, too. It was the sign of God’s will, of his chosen. Their extra suffering would purify them.”
Ren clenched the amulet in his hand, anger taking him by surprise. His suffering hadn’t purified him.
“You’re not like the others, Renwick, and you’re not meant to be. Keep this as your reminder.” She covered his hand with hers. “It’s all right if you’re different.”
A strange warmth bloomed around his hand where she touched him. It was like the warmth of a spell, or a holy prayer.
“In this sign I will conquer?” He’d meant to be glib, but the words came out low and urgent, more like a promise. Or a prophecy.
“Yes,” she whispered. “If you stay who you are.”
He didn’t know what she meant, not then. He wanted to be anyone other than who he was. He’d give up being an earl’s son to be strong and whole and golden-tongued. He’d give uphis lands and his inheritance if he could marry someone like Harriette Smythe and have a warm, quick, loving companion to the end of his days.
They wandered back to town, Harriette only stopping to sketch a mere half dozen things along the way, and Renwick earned an extra beating that evening for fumbling as he rehearsed the bow he would have to deliver the countess. She arrived the next day in splendor, with a coach-and-four, a lady’s maid and two footmen, panniers that were wider than the doorways of the Manor House, and a powdered wig towering atop her proud, noble head.
The next time Harriette scaled the Blinder Wall, she found the house shut up and empty. Ren was gone.
He wrote her, long letters that crossed lines and crossed them again to fit in all his thoughts, but they never reached her, for he never sent them. Unmarried girls were not supposed to receive letters from unwed gentlemen, and he would have died with shame if anyone but Harriette read his inmost thoughts.
He moved on to the world of an earl’s son, the world of school and country houses and a long grand tour across the courts and ruins of the Continent, and he never knew what became of Harriette Smythe. But she remained in his heart, a ghost and a gift, in the chi-ro amulet that the Earl of Renwick wore about his neck and never parted with. He gave up much to be accepted in his new world, and he would give up more, but not that. It was his sign, his promise that he would eventually conquer, and he needed that hope more than anything.
CHAPTER THREE
LONDON, 1776
“This is a terrible idea, Harriette,Liebelein,” said Princess in her heavy accent.
Jock squinted at the big, gracious house with its neoclassical pillars and high windows gorgeously lit by hanging lamps and tall braziers. “A swell’s ken,” he announced. “No place for your scampers, Miz H.”
Though his position was properly that of groom, and he wore the striped coat of his station, Jock rode atop the big Yorkshire coach horse that pulled the luxurious cabriolet. Out of instinct, he shifted his weight to calm the animal as a string of carriages rolled noisily by, disgorging their brightly plumed passengers before the expansive edifice fronting Grosvenor Square.
“The countess’ll have you on the carpet for it,” rumbled Beater, the big man with the squashed face standing on the groom’s platform at the rear of the carriage.
“Which countess?” Harriette retorted. “My own dear aunt, or the Countess of Renwick, who has no reason to love me and will not condone my sneaking into her house?”
Princess rolled her eyes at Harriette’s insouciant tone, but Beater pondered the question. “Both,” he decided.
“I daresay it was mere oversight that Lady Renwick did not respond to my card,” Harriette said. “She must know that I, too, want to welcome her son home from abroad. After all, we were good chums the summer he lived in Shepton Mallet.”
“That was more than ten years ago,Liebelein.” Princess shook her head. “He’s a young man and has had many adventures since then. How can you depend on him to remember?”
Harriette bit her lip. She considered herself even-tempered and sunny, but her emotions had been in a roil ever since she heard the news that the Earl of Renwick was returning to London. She’d grown and changed a great deal, and he would have seen much in his years at school and then abroad on the Continent. What if, indeed, he had forgotten all about her?
She needed him to remember. She needed his help. They all did.
