Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Dominic stood by his study window with a cup of tea in hand, fine rain misting against the pane.
He had a feeling that Frances had not believed him, but he had scented the change of weather on the breeze, his years of solitude and involving himself in the running of the estate and the attached farms imparting the gift that all farmers seemed to possess: the ability to sense bad weather, even on the finest of days.
She must have thought I did not want to answer her questions.
A dark laugh rippled the tea in his cup as he lifted it to his lips.
If she thought that, she was not entirely wrong.
He had said too much at the end of that picnic, and he could not fathom why.
Even now, it made him uneasy to think of everything he had wanted to say, things he did not like to talk about.
And he had skirted far too close to speaking of Althea.
He swallowed his tea too quickly, the hot liquid burning the back of his throat, as a knock at the door snapped his attention from the rain.
“Who is it?” he called out.
Is it Frances?
He thought of what had almost happened the last time she was in this study with him, alone.
That, in turn, conjured a chain of visions: her surprised face when he had taken the cherry blossom from her hair; her beautiful eyes and rosy cheeks as they had danced together; the feel of her soft hand gripping his rough one with admirable determination; how alarmingly nice it had felt to hold her for just a moment, to be that close to her, in this very room.
“It is me,” a different voice replied, whipping such memories straight out of his mind.
He could not let his daughter see him daydreaming like a schoolboy.
“Come in,” he said sternly.
The door creaked open and Harriet shuffled in like a nun on her way to Vespers, the very picture of contrition. Although, ‘affectation’ might have been more accurate, putting on a show of regret that she did not necessarily feel.
“I am sorry for walking away from the picnic,” she said, her head down. “I am sorry that I ruined such a lovely occasion.”
Dominic leaned back against the windowsill. “It was not ruined, but I accept your apology.” He paused. “No one was trying to upset you, Harriet. I only want what is best for you, as does Frances.”
“I know.” Harriet raised her head, her eyes so dramatically forlorn that Dominic had to bite back a laugh.
“I have been reading some more of the books that Frances gave me. They were not all as atrociously dull as the first few. And there was a pamphlet in there, written more recently by an anonymous lady of the ton. Her account of society’s scrutiny, along with Frances’, made me realize how foolish I was. ”
Dominic set down his teacup. “It is not foolish to want to be yourself, Harriet, but it is foolish to think you can overthrow an institution with a few acts of defiance.”
“I do not even want to overthrow it,” Harriet admitted with a wry laugh, as she perched on the armrest of the comfortable chair by the fire.
“I just want to be part of it. There is just… so much that I do not know, and I was frustrated, and I suppose I thought that I could get away with that lack of knowledge if I just did things differently.”
It is my fault. He wanted to confess it, but the words would not come.
Besides, it was nothing she did not already know.
She was so far behind the rest of society’s debutantes because he had not thought it important, because he had not had the means to know what to do with her, because he had kept his distance from her for far too long.
It had been easier that way, for the both of them, until it was not. At least, he had thought it was easier for them both, but he had been doubting that long before Frances arrived to be the someone that his daughter had clearly needed.
“Frances says you are doing very well,” he said instead. “She seems pleased with your progress, and… I am pleased too.”
Harriet’s face brightened, some of the contrite facade slipping. “Seeing as I have been doing so well, then, do you think you might facilitate another lesson for Frances and me?” She kicked out her legs with barely concealed excitement. “It cannot be done without your assistance.”
“I am not dancing again,” he said, a note too quickly.
Harriet laughed, and it soothed him to see that she did not try to cover it.
“Not that, Papa. Although, you are a better dancer than I thought you would be; it is just a pity I did not inherit it.” She got up off the armrest, clearly too agitated to sit.
“No, I was wondering if you might allow Frances and me to venture into Bath? A little visit to the modiste? I cannot very well debut with dresses that must be at least five Seasons out of fashion by now. Perhaps ten Seasons by London standards!”
“There is nothing wrong with your dresses,” Dominic replied, gesturing vaguely at her. “That was purchased not six months ago.”
“Father, do you want me to be a success or not?” she asked, her voice rising in pitch, his eardrums shivering.
“I cannot seem too… provincial. And I will have Frances and Catherine to help me choose well, in a way I cannot do on my own. They have lived in London, Father; they know what everyone is wearing these days.”
“Clothes, I expect,” he replied dryly, a half-smirk upon his lips.
Harriet rolled her eyes, her hands clenched into fists. “This is not funny, Father! This my future and you are not taking it seriously.”
He noticed that she only ever called him ‘Father’ when he had done something to displease her, and ‘Papa’ when she wanted something from him.
For a moment, he was struck by a blow of sudden sadness, as he remembered her as a little girl, running to him, calling him ‘Papa’ always.
And how he, in turn, had ignored her sweet call for attention, forever insisting that he had other, more important, things to do.
What an idiot I was, trying to be like a man who cared for nothing. Trying to be like my father.
That guilt alone almost compelled him to agree to the outing… but he managed to hold permission back for a moment.
“Harriet, if a gentleman decides he has no interest in you because of what you are wearing, then he is not worthy of you,” he said, his throat a little tight, for this was not a comfortable conversation.
“In truth, you should attend these upcoming balls and events in a gown of potato sacks, to see who is truly interested in you for who you are, and not what you wear or what you are worth in terms of dowry or connections.”
Harriet’s mouth fell open, her gaze wide with abject horror. He could almost see the vision of herself sweeping into the Assembly Rooms in a gown of hemp flashing across her eyes.
“But… that is not how things are done,” she countered, recovering quickly. “And you just said yourself that an institution cannot be overthrown with a few defiant acts. So, please, let me have some lovely dresses to wear. Please, Papa!”
He puffed out a breath, already knowing that she had won this argument. There was nothing he could have denied her now, considering all he had denied her in her childhood. But he did not want her to know the full extent of the guilt that gnawed at him, lest she use it to her complete advantage.
“If you are to have this excursion, there will be rules,” he said crisply.
“I will determine an amount of money before you go, and it is not to be exceeded; I will be accompanying you, and I will not accept any complaints or you will not go at all; and you will not choose anything that might attract the wrong sort of attention. The gowns will be tasteful and elegant, not too garish or, heaven forbid, French.”
Harriet giggled. “You would not know a French gown if it hung from your study windows as a curtain.” She shrugged, triumph gleaming in the eyes that were so like her mother’s, that same dusky blue.
“But I accept your terms, as long as you do not mind being snickered at when you enter the modiste. You should ask Frances; it is not the place for a gentleman.”
“Nevertheless, I will be in attendance,” he said, already dreading the excursion.
He did not like to visit Bath at all if he could avoid it, filled with all of the friends and associates that his wife, Althea, had relished so much.
People who would wish to greet him, when he did not wish to be greeted.
Indeed, when he had agreed to his daughter debuting, he had not thought of how it might open him back up to society’s opinion.
Their too-polite inquisitions, at the very least.
May I introduce you to my daughter…
Have you met Lady This or Lady That…
What a tragedy it was…
But you have no sons…
You must be in want of a new wife…
His mood darkened like the rainclouds outside, blotting out the sunshine of the picnic earlier.
“And before we leave,” he added, his tone firmer, “I want you to apologize to Lady Frances, as you have apologized to me.”
Harriet snorted a laugh. “I have already apologized to her, Father. She was the first one I visited.” She whirled around and practically skipped toward the door, a reminder of just how young she really was.
“And now, I shall run along and tell her the wondrous news! We had a wager. She did not think you would agree, so now I shall have an extra sixpence to spend as pin money!”
Dominic would have scolded her for gambling, with Frances of all people, but Harriet was out the door before he could utter a single sharp word. Maybe that was for the best, for he could not promise he would not have used it as a reason to reject this entire endeavor.
It cannot be avoided.
Better to remind himself how to behave in Bath society now than embarrass Harriet and ruin her chance of success in London society, in a few weeks. Indeed, maybe he should have employed a tutor for himself… or maybe he could ask Frances to refresh his memory.
Surely, there could be no harm in that?