Last Miss Phillips Page 2

  Seated in Mrs. Hobbins’s drawing room, she cradled a cup of tea in her wrinkled hands, its contents swaying slightly beneath her tremor. Across from her, Louisa poured a cup for Kitty, who was stationed by the window, gazing at two people passing by, no doubt engaged in gossip beneath the parasol one carried aloft.

  “Surely it isn’t as hopeless as it is rumored to be,” countered Louisa. “Isn’t a good name worth something in the shops? Certainly to his creditors, who know he stands to inherit a pretty property in the future.” At her motion, Kitty moved from the window to seat herself on the nearest chair. It would not do to linger away from the conversation, even if she had no real desire to hear more of the misfortunes of the gentility.

  “The only thing that shall save him is an advantageous marriage,” continued Mrs. Fitzwilliam. “I shall eat my own hat if he doesn’t make a smart match with some young woman of no name and fortune come Michaelmas.” The words left her slightly out of breath as she raised her cup of tea to her lips with trembling fingers.

  The dampness in the room caused the pianoforte in the corner to strike a faint, hollow note, as if an unseen player had touched its chords. Kitty’s head turned in its direction, a move almost imperceptible as it was unconscious. Her breath momentarily suspended before beginning again as normal–although what she expected, be it ghost or familiar song, she could not have told.

  “Speaking of such creatures,” said Mrs. Fitzwilliam, “I have heard a whisper that Miss Harwick is leaving Germany for her native shores again.”

  “Hetta Harwick?” said Louisa. “Mr. Charles Harwick’s daughter?”

  “Now that Providence has granted her a fortune, I suppose she intends to show it off among her betters, but that is all I know of the matter.” Mrs. Fitzwilliam lowered her teacup again, its contents almost splashing upon her blue silk.

  “She was a rather spoiled young girl, as I recall,” said Louisa. “Undoubtedly, that has changed with time and with age, of course. Especially since she never made the match her family was so keen upon in her youth.”

  “A fortune will have made her worse for all that,” said Mrs. Fitzwilliam. “She needed a corrective rod in her youth, not a fortune in her maturity. What a shame there was no son to leave it to instead; perhaps he would have had more sense than those silly daughters.”

  This remark stiffened Louisa’s complacent form for a moment–for was she not the daughter of a man with the misfortune of no sons to carry on his name? Mrs. Fitzwilliam, however, did not seem to notice this affront as she continued speaking.

  “The Evertons will no doubt have her to their party on the eighteenth. Their invitations include anything sensational among the fashionable, no matter how vulgar.”

  “I shouldn’t accept, if Mr. Hobbins did not so insist upon it,” said Louisa, with a sigh. “It pains me that his career must always mean pleasing someone or other of means who is not truly well-connected in society. It is not so much the Evertons to whom I object, but the people with whom they associate–the outlandish and artisans, I mean.”

  “Has Miss Harwick been long in Germany?” Kitty spoke up.

  “Oh, many a time,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam huffed forth, her breathlessness still swifter than Louisa’s meditated replies. “Since before the father’s death, mother and daughter were there often–whenever his fortune was unfavorable in England–and they were in France and Italy for a time also. In fact, I believe Miss Harwick was keeping a pretty set of rooms there until a year ago, or so I heard from the Benwicks, who were abroad last summer.”

  “How very knowledgeable about the world she must be,” murmured Kitty. “And so accomplished, I am sure. We shall feel very small in her presence, given how little out so many of us are by comparison.”

  “You needn’t feel any smallness of mind in her presence,” retorted the ancient sage. “Hetta Harwick never had any sense that wasn’t meant for scheming for a good match.”

  “Surely not any longer,” said Louisa, with a touch of scorn. “She is not a marriage prospect that would please most noble households or any gentleman’s family with desire for humility and good breeding.”

  “It won’t be her age that prevents it,” chortled Mrs. Fitzwilliam, “for even with thirty and four years to her score, such a fortune won’t go unnoticed in society this Season.”

  Thirty-four years of age–three more than Kitty, yet with such an age, to be considered an eligible match for a gentleman. Kitty felt her cheeks flush hot with this notion, her gaze fixed upon the cup in her hands. Her fingers seemed bony, their creased surfaces made rough and careworn by games with the children and general neglect. She should have taken better care of herself, she thought; she should apply herself to the creams and remedies which Louisa claimed preserved her own youth despite three children and the advancement of forty.

  “If the Evertons send me a card, I shan’t attend,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam said, as if attempting to comfort Louisa that someone proper would reject their attentions. “I hardly ever go out anymore, for stuffy drawing rooms and the shocking lack of good chairs in these great houses is too much for me.” Her breathlessness returned, encouraging her to finish her cup of tea and decline the offer of a biscuit.

  “Then I shall give you an account of it,” said Louisa, “If Mr. Hobbins insists upon our presence. I cannot imagine that they would neglect to send us a card, not if they are sending one to Hetta Harwick, who is nobody at all.”

  Kitty tried to imagine Louisa in the presence of a coarse and aged Hetta Harwick and failed; in her imagination, Hetta had taken on the far too-weathered aspects of Mrs. Fitzwilliam with her wrinkled jowls and shrill voice. Hetta was scarcely older than herself–and surely she was not so old as she imagined herself, was she?

  “I suppose that one ought to call on Miss Harwick when she arrives in town,” Louisa continued, thoughtfully, “although I do not like to do so. Unless she is changed; for perhaps the years have given her a more gentle nature and a bit of humility in the presence of those above her.”

  “If it comforts you to think so, then by all means,” said Mrs. Fitzwilliam. “But in my opinion, there’s no changing a tiger’s stripes for a leopard’s spots. A conceited young hussy was Hetta Harwick in her youth, and I suspect she’ll return to London as such.”

  Chapter Three

  Had Mrs. Fitzwilliam laid eyes on the heiress in question the moment she was speaking, she would have surmised her worst predictions to be true. At thirty-four, despite the general rules of society on women’s youth and charms, Hetta was more than a handsome woman; her appearance was much the same as the girl who had snubbed unfavorable suitors at the tender age of nineteen. Maturity–and, perhaps, good fortune–had maintained the bloom in her cheeks and the golden hair, the smooth skin of youth. A coy glance from Hetta Harwick would draw the eye and blush of many a youth along with the grey heads of stateliness.

  The post to London on a harsh morning in March had a fair passenger in Hetta. In her green traveling costume trimmed with gold, the feathers in her bonnet like pale sea foam curling away from the crown, her chin tilted high with the consciousness of beauty and wealth in the midst of plainer passengers: an elderly woman in an expensive grey gown, a young man returning from his “finishing tour” who had an eye of appreciation for the feminine beauty across from him.

  Beside her was a hatbox from a Paris shop; above her, strapped to the carriage roof, more than one trunk and bandbox in her possession, containing silks and muslins, taffetas and satins in the latest styles and patterns. The rest of her things–her furniture and paintings, her elegant pianoforte and harp–were to be shipped separately to London, where other sundry decisions must be made regarding a proper carriage and the airing of the house taken for the Season in Mayfair.

  “Are you for London, Miss?” asked the youth, whose accent betrayed him as a descendant of the prosperous “country” gentry and not a London gentleman. Hetta smiled.

  “I am, sir,” she answered. The woman beside him stirred, li
ke a grey goose awakening on its nest.

  “I am not,” the woman announced, in ancient tones cracked with sleep. “I am going to Dorset.” This, having no significant bearing on the conversation at hand, drew only a polite smile and murmur from the young man and no comment at all from Hetta, who turned her head towards the scenery visible through the open coach’s shades, giving the young man a long period of appreciative gazing upon her delicate profile, the gold and pearl earring dangling alongside a loose golden curl.

  If Hetta was aware of his gaze–and she could hardly fail to be, with her shrewd perception–she made no attempt to encourage or discourage it. Instead, her thoughts traveled inwards with a speed surpassing the scenes of the English road, traveling the route of experience in France and Germany, the comparative comfort of her life in Italy but a mere year ago.

  Mr. Charles Harwick had not been a prosperous man for most of his life. His fortune nonexistent, a mere speculation and a great deal of creditor’s grace, forcing him to relocate his family in a more forgiving part of Europe, where luxury might be had without the persistence of one’s bills.

  This life had not been unpleasant: there had been balls and parties, the latest fashions in her wardrobe, enough musical training to fulfill the talent and tastes of the daughters. When her sister was married, there was none but herself to be indulged, which had been pleasant indeed. Her whims had been rule in France and Germany, her pretty manners and tantrums had carried the day when mere request failed. Despite this, there had been something unsatisfying in it all; something which Hetta could not explain.

  When the post arrived in London, she exited along with the young country gentleman, who handed her down from the carriage with a pleased blush evident on his cheeks. He was soon occupied with his own luggage and the servant waiting to drive him home; Hetta, on the other hand, dispatched the footman with a half-guinea and a command to hire a carriage and pair on her behalf. The remaining passenger, the grey goose of an elderly woman, remained huddled inside, a mere glimpse for Hetta’s eye as her own chariot rolled away from the busy scene.

  She had not seen London in several years; yet she did not anticipate great changes, nor expect an immediate welcome among her father’s former friends. They would be cordial enough, she supposed; the rest of society, barring the proudest and the higher ranks of nobility, would pay her attention simply because she now possessed money.

  Among them would be suitors, she knew; a specimen of mankind she had not entertained seriously since her last Season in London. Marrying abroad was out of the question, of course. Even her sister had only consented to marry an English gentleman whose diplomatic work required him to live abroad, as opposed to being a foreigner. Hetta was clever and charming, beautiful and petted–destined for a better match than her sister, her friends supposed. She had rejected the offer of a baron-to-be, had scorned the hand of a wealthy but elderly duke who had encountered her once in Baden-Baden.

  But as youth and marriage market speculations faded, something else came into view which changed the score of the Harwick family in their self-imposed exile. The speculations which had indebted Charles Harwick for most of his life had brought him wealth before his death–suddenly, the English gentleman of pretence, with no property or title, possessed something more material than many of the lowest ranks of nobility burdened by heirs with expensive tastes. Life in Germany would be given up for London, of course; but before the change was made, Charles Harwick fell ill and did not recover.

  His wife’s health faltered after this tragedy. Even the climate of France and the comfort of her daughter’s villa could not prevent her from following his example scarcely two years later. And thus, the triumphant wealth of Charles Harwick was divided between the married daughter and the unmarried Miss Harwick.

  When Miss Harwick had left London, she was a young girl who had been peddled about in the London marriage market, hopeful of a fortune by marriage and particular to the point of crushing her family’s best hopes for recovery. Now she was in turn a prospect for hopeful families of genteel status and little means–and capable of being as particular as she pleased.

  *****

  The house in Hetta’s possession in Mayfair possessed no old name except the one of the gentleman who was letting it in order to keep his family in tolerable order in the countryside rather than retrench financially before his equals. Something of this story was familiar to Hetta, who was not without awareness that the misfortune of others enabled her good fortune. She permitted her gaze to grace the surrounding houses as she was handed down from the hired carriage. Stately brick and mortar, windows not to be envied for the tax levied upon them, a flutter behind the glass which suggested her servants were putting housekeeping in order. A housekeeper hired upon recommendation, a footman, two French maids–one a ladies’ maid–and a chef, who had been in Hetta’s employ since the time of her mother’s death.

  “Welcome, Ma’am,” said the housekeeper, curtsying before her. “There’s a fire been lit in your room and in the drawing room also. The maid Bessie–that’s the one lately hired for the downstairs, as ye asked–has done the parlor and library this morning.”

  “Very well, Mills,” Hetta replied, pulling off her gloves. “Has Jacqueline seen to my things?”

  “She has, Miss Harwick,” Mills answered, following her mistress as Hetta removed her bonnet and added it to the other traveling attire now in the keeping of the obedient French upstairs maid Adele, whom she addressed in the girl’s native tongue, much to the private consternation of the housekeeper.

  “I shall wish tea served in my room,” Hetta continued, turning to Mills as she spoke. “Tell Javert I wish only a cold supper before eight, for I am too tired.” She climbed the stairs with no one accompanying her, accepting a brief bow from the woman who had emerged from one of the rooms at the sound of her voice.

  “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Harwick.” Jacqueline spoke with the low, deep intonation of a Parisian woman, although her voice was soft beneath its husky tones. Her skin more tan than Hetta’s paleness, her gown a maroon which favored her dark hair greatly–more so than the golden curls of Hetta, the former owner who bestowed it upon her maid a few months' prior.

  “Bonjour, Jacqueline,” she answered.

  “I am sorry I was not below–I have had a bath drawn for you. Hot water and the perfumed salts which you prefer.” The ladies’ maid had slipped into French with these words, speaking easily to Hetta as if they were acquaintances and not servant and mistress.

  “Merci,” Hetta answered. “That is what I should have preferred, for I am tired and sick of this traveling costume after so many hours in that dreadful post.” She, too, spoke French in her reply, with an unaffected accent born from years of foreign life.

  “Shall I ring the bell for anything?” asked Jacqueline.

  “No, no; you may go. I do not need attendance, except lay out my dressing gown and also my green India muslin.” As she spoke, she removed the jacket of her traveling costume, tossing it upon the damask chair near the doorway to her bath.

  A woman with a fortune of thirty thousand pounds is a woman of leisure, prompting curiosity with regards to her breeding and appearance among the prosperous Mayfair neighbors –a polite curiosity among the well-married and senior population, something more intense on the part of those with younger sons or indebted heirs concerned in their pursuits this Season. As rare as a woman of independent means was in London society, so was a woman independent in spirit; and it was this latter existence which had suited Hetta Harwick both rich and poor.

  How long before her arrival was the topic of quiet discussion behind well-placed fans and in discreet corners? For she had no doubt it would be, once she appeared among them. Before her dressing table, laid out with French perfumes and the tools of self-preening, she gazed into her looking glass as she speculated upon the coming months in London, with an expression which did not betray the workings of her mind.

  “Are there any parties of note t
o be given next week, Jacqueline?” she asked, when the maid entered to pin up her mistress’s hair.

  “Yes, Mademoiselle. There is a ball at Lord Netherton’s tomorrow night; I have heard the maids talking of it, for the new girl was employed by his house until this week.”

  “It is too soon,” Hetta said, more to herself than her maid, “and they shan’t invite a person of no consequence.” She opened a jar of cream and spread a thin layer on her hands.

  “I have heard that there is to be a party at another house in London–near St. John’s Wood,” continued the maid, in her soft tones. “The family is prosperous, apparently, although everyone here says they are a little vulgar. The English are so afraid of the improper and these people are too eager in their friendship.”

  Hetta considered this statement thoughtfully as the maid slid an ornamental pin into place to hold her curls aside.

  “They sound like the exact sort of people I should expect to be giving parties in London,” she answered in French. “They shall send a calling card first. And then they shall send an invitation, no?”

  Chapter Four

  The house in St. John’s Wood was not the most fashionable, but it was well-placed and equally as formidable as its neighbors in terms of exterior appearances and its garden.

  In terms of its interior, the tastes of its owners were expensive without regard to dignity and decidedly modern in comparison to the stately appearance these rooms once bore. It was the unmistakable mark of “new” wealth: the subtly creeping class of middle fortunes and no name which sprang suddenly into the same circle as the gentry, despite having recent ties to trade, no property to speak of, and no ancestry of any consequence at all.