Chapter 13 #2
He flicked a glance toward Richard, who looked both miserable and relieved that his wife had taken the lead in the conversation.
Sebastian’s temper, which had been coiled tight as a spring, slowly began to ease. He stepped further into the room, his large frame filling the space. Sophia’s blue gaze remained steady, assessing him with a frankness that left no room for pretense. “Sit.”
He arched a brow. “I beg your pardon?”
“You need to hear the truth,” she said, unruffled by his towering presence.
“And you need to decide if you are a real man, one who can take the good with the bad when it comes to the woman you love. Because people are not perfect, Lord Sebastian, and it takes strength to accept both their virtues and their failings.”
Sebastian hesitated, then slowly sank into the nearest chair. The leather creaked beneath his weight, the fire beside him casting warmth he did not yet feel.
For the first time in hours, he was willing to listen.
He was relieved, if he were honest, that someone had appeared to take control of the situation that had been spiraling since he had found the painting hanging in Harriet’s bedchamber.
The countess made both him and, apparently, her husband feel like poorly behaved children with her firm tone, but if it calmed the terrible tempest running through him, he was all ears.
* * *
Harriet curled deeper into the corner of her settee, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as if she could hold the broken pieces of her heart together. She should have known better. She had played a dangerous game, and now she had lost. Worse, she had lost him.
She had been granted a second chance at happiness, and had wrecked it as thoroughly as she had that final day together when they had celebrated St. Valentine’s.
She was a bad person to the core, doomed to a lifetime of unhappiness because of her terrible nature.
Perhaps it was in her blood, Bertram Hargreaves’ ultimate revenge for trying to escape his influence to become a better person.
The quiet crackle of the fire was soon drowned out by the sound of determined footsteps. She barely had time to swipe at her damp cheeks before the door to the painted room swung open.
Evaline entered first, a determined set to her mouth. Behind her, Finch carried a heavily laden tray, Jem trailing behind with a second. And Belinda, who should have known better than to fuss over her, shut the door firmly behind them, sealing her fate.
Harriet sighed. “I am fine.”
No one responded. Instead, Finch set down the tray with an air of finality, the delicate china clinking softly.
Jem hurried forward, arranging plates of refreshment and bowls of sugar lumps beside the steaming pot of tea.
The young maid might not have perfected the etiquette of an upper-class household, but she had certainly learned her way around a tea tray.
A plate of biscuits sat in the center of the table, arranged neatly beside a dish of preserved cherries and a small bowl of clotted cream.
The little York biscuits were delicate, round confections, golden brown, and lightly dusted with fine sugar.
Harriet had always relished their crisp exterior, which gave way to a buttery, crumbly center, the richness melting on the tongue with just a hint of lemon zest and nutmeg.
Today, Harriet doubted even the most perfect pastry could soothe the gnawing ache in her chest.
Evaline, Finch, and Belinda exchanged a look of silent conspiracy. Then, as though they were a single organism, they pulled chairs closer and sat.
Evaline sat poised on the edge of her chair, the very picture of refined delicacy.
She was draped in a soft wool gown of dove gray, its high waistline accentuated by a narrow band of embroidery, and the pale blue ribbons of her sleeves trailed as she idly toyed with the fabric of her skirts.
Her fine-boned hands smoothed over the folds with an absent grace, as if she were composing herself.
Her golden curls, always so artfully arranged, framed her face like the delicate filigree of a porcelain doll, and her pale blue eyes, so wide and guileless, were filled with something Harriet suspected was guilt.
When Harriet shot her an accusatory stare, Evaline threw her a small, helpless smile, followed by a look of apology that was entirely too innocent to be genuine.
“I thought you needed reinforcements,” she admitted, her voice as gentle as falling snow. “To aid you against your own decline.”
Harriet exhaled sharply, glancing at the assembled women. Finch, Jem, and Belinda, all sitting together like a united front. It seemed her stubbornness had been outmatched.
Mrs. Finch sat with the air of a battle-tested general surveying the field, her generous figure unyielding as if she had been carved from the same stone used to fortify castles.
She was a woman built for endurance, her ample frame wrapped in serviceable brown wool, the severe lines of her bodice accentuating the breadth of her shoulders.
If Napoleon himself had stormed the sitting room, she would have met him head-on with nothing more than a sharp glare and an ironclad sense of duty.
Her face, weathered by years of managing unruly taverns and unrulier patrons, was set in the stubborn lines of a woman who had never once lost an argument and did not intend to.
Her mouth pressed into a thin, disapproving line, though her dark eyes, shrewd and knowing, carried a glint of something softer.
Not sympathy, for Mrs. Finch had no patience for self-pity, but an unspoken understanding.
She had seen the wreckage men left behind, and she was not about to let Harriet sink beneath it.
With a decisive nod, she adjusted the folds of her apron as if preparing for war. “Right, then,” she declared, her voice sharp as a musket crack, “let’s get on wiv it.”
Shifting her gaze to Belinda, Harriet saw not the woman her father had cast aside without a second thought, but one who had seized the opportunity given to her with quiet determination.
Belinda sat with her spine straight, her hands folded in her lap, the very image of elegance.
Though she was dressed modestly, her natural refinement could not be disguised.
She had a way of carrying herself that spoke of someone who had once been accustomed to luxury and had learned, through necessity, to survive without it.
The firelight flickered against her dark brown hair, gleaming where it was pinned into a neat coil at the nape of her neck, and her hazel eyes, once dulled by resignation, now held a spark of purpose.
Harriet had given her a way out, but Belinda had taken that path on her own terms. There was no simpering gratitude in her expression, no trace of self-pity.
She was a woman who had been wronged, yes, but she would not allow the past to define her.
She was forging ahead, stepping boldly into a new life, and Harriet could not help but feel a swell of admiration.
“Well,” Belinda said, tilting her head slightly, her voice smooth and composed. “Are we to sit here all day, or shall we set about putting you to rights?”
It was a simple question, but in it lay the firm resolve of someone who understood the necessity of resilience. Harriet had saved Belinda from ruin, but perhaps, in this moment, it was Belinda who might save her.
Even little Jem, the waiflike girl who had somehow wormed her way into Harriet’s heart with her artless affection, had pulled a chair over, though it was far too large for her slender form.
She sat with a resolute set to her face, her mop of unruly hair barely tamed by the simple ribbon with which she had tied it back that morning.
Her freckles stood out starkly against her pale skin, and her gray maid’s uniform only emphasized the fragile delicacy of her frame.
Yet despite her diminutive stature, there was nothing hesitant about her presence. She had the air of someone who had made up her mind and would not be swayed, her hands clenched into small fists atop her lap as if she, too, were bracing for a battle.
Harriet almost smiled. Apparently, her status as an important viscountess was not sufficient to cow her own staff into leaving her to her misery.
Evaline had invited them in with her dainty concern, and Harriet’s band of rescues had gathered.
Finch with her unshakable stubbornness, Belinda with her quiet strength, and Jem, the smallest of them all, who had chosen to plant herself firmly in solidarity as though she, too, would stand guard against Harriet’s despair.
Harriet stared at them. “I do not require a council of war.”
“Nah, what ye need’s a cuppa tea,” Finch said matter-of-factly, pouring a cup and thrusting it toward her.
“Ye should eat summat, m’lady,” Jem added, her usual meekness replaced by gentle insistence as she nudged the biscuits forward.
“Men are cruel,” Belinda declared, as if that alone would mend everything.
But Harriet’s chest ached because she knew that was not true.
Sebastian was not cruel.
He had never been.
Most of what had gone wrong had been her fault, or at the very least, a consequence of her own choices and the circumstances that had shaped her.
Maybe the truth was that she had never deserved him.
She had never been strong enough, never been honest enough, never been good enough. He had always been too good for her.
And now, she had lost him forever. The fire popped softly in the grate, and outside the painted room’s tall windows, the December afternoon was already dimming toward dusk, the sky the color of cold ash.
No one moved to light the additional candles.
For a moment, the only sound was the quiet settling of the coals and the breath of four women who did not know what to say next.