Chapter Nineteen
Chapter One
Tansley Cottage
Tansley Village, Derbyshire
July 1816—the year without summer
“What does the letter say, Mama?” Harriet ducked as her mother cast the missive aside, scattering sheets of paper around her bedroom. Alarm bells clanged in Harriet’s mind. If it were good news, Mama wouldn’t carry on so. Harriet gathered the foolscap sheets into a bundle, scrutinizing the bold handwriting scrawled across each page.
“They refuse to help us. Your father’s own family. And what are we to do? What is left to us? I vow I am a prisoner in this dreadful cottage.” Mama burst into angry tears.
How many times had Mama cried over the past year since Papa died? Harriet had long ago lost count. Their lives had gone from easy pleasantness to perpetual sorrow in just a few short months. Now—well, they had all poured their last hopes into assistance from Papa’s family, and Mama’s hysteria was frightening. ’Twas time to grasp control of the situation, and steady her mother’s nerves.
With the expert precision borne of months of practice, Harriet flicked open the bottle of smelling salts on Mama’s bedside table. The acrid smell filled the little chamber, causing her eyes and nose to burn.
“Here, Mama,” Harriet murmured gently, trying to hold the vial under her nose. But Mama knocked it aside with a brusque gesture. Goodness, was it broken? Harriet scrambled after the bottle. No, but it had spilled. That was a waste they couldn’t afford. Harriet sponged the solution with her handkerchief, wringing the cloth against the lip of the jar. She had to salvage as much of it as she could.
“Rose,” she called to the family’s faithful remaining servant, “could you please bring Mama some chamomile tea?” Sometimes the chamomile worked when the smelling salts didn’t.
“Of course, dearie,” Rose called back, banging the kettle in the kitchen below.
“Mama.” Harriet placed the bottle back on the dressing table and sank onto the foot of her mother’s creaky mahogany bed. “Even if the Handleys won’t help us, I know Captain Brookes will. You know he has inherited the estate after his brother’s death. He’s a wealthy man now, and when Sophie marries him, I am sure he will see to our welfare.”
“This whole situation is absurd.” Mama lay back on her pillows, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I am Lady Handley, after all. I am no longer Cecile Varnay. I should need no one’s assistance. I should have to depend on no one’s sense of duty. Your father was wealthy beyond measure.”
“Papa died bankrupt.” The harsh words fell before Harriet thought them through, and she scrambled to lighten her tone. “Thanks to his vast library, I am an educated woman. But you know as well as I do, Mama, that we spent it all. On books or on jewels, it makes no difference now.”
Mama turned on her side, away from Harriet. A brief knock on the door announced Rose’s arrival with the tea tray.
“Here you go, my lady.”
“I don’t want it. Take it away.” Mama buried her face in a lumpy pillow.
Harriet sighed. Usually the smelling salts or the chamomile tea did the trick, but this hysteria wouldn’t back down. There was one last resort. She shrank from using it, because it cost so much, but there was nothing else that could be done. “Rose, if you please, go fetch Dr. Wallace. He can be here quickly if he’s not out on another call.”
“That’s a good idea, dearie.” Rose patted Harriet’s shoulder and ran downstairs.
The floorboards squeaked in protest as Harriet paced the length of Mama’s bedroom, seeking the solution to their problems. Mama’s sobs had eased until she fell asleep, and that suited Harriet just fine. As she slept, Harriet racked her brain for a way out of their situation. They had to have money. Some other means of security than her sister’s possible marriage. All of their possessions were gone. What was left? Harriet’s head began to pound. There had to be a way they could survive. Harriet caught a glimpse of her reflection in the cracked mirror over Mama’s vanity. Her face, drawn and pale, contrasted sharply with her eyes, which had darkened to an inky blue. Distracted, she tried to tuck a few of her dark brown locks back into their pins. She looked as disastrous as the situation she now faced.
A commotion sounded in the front entry. Relief washed over Harriet as she recognized a gruff, masculine voice that must belong to Dr. Wallace. She hurried down the stairs to meet him.
He strode into the tiny vestibule, dumping his black leather bag on the rickety bench at the foot of the stairs. Harriet steadied the bench and glanced at his wrinkled but kindly visage. “Oh, Doctor, thank you for coming. We don’t know what to do with my mother—she took ill and finally cried herself to sleep.”
He didn’t spare her a glance, or any common courtesies. “Well, I’ll have to awaken her to do a proper examination. What caused this outburst of hysteria?” he grumbled as he dug through his case, bringing forth a small vial.
“She received a letter that made her most upset.” Hopefully that was enough explanation to satisfy him. She refrained from revealing the entire sordid tale.
With a curt nod, he hurried up the stairs.
Rose embraced Harriet, holding her as tenderly as a mother. “Come into the kitchen, dearie. We’ll have a nice cup of tea.” Drinking in Rose’s steadfast strength, Harriet leaned
