A Vixen for the Duke: Chapter 4

All throughout her much-needed bath, Harriet’s mind had raced back and forth over thoughts of her meeting with Daphne’s cousin. He was so handsome, even though he had been completely waterlogged. She had sat there, washing the mud out of her hair, hating her luck. Of course, he had had to meet her when she had been looking like a big, muddied fool. He had probably pitied her state.

But Harriet couldn’t keep thinking like this. Here she was romanticising a meeting with a perfect stranger. So, what if he was handsome? Jeremy was handsome too, but he wasn’t a prince.

Besides that, once this handsome neighbour found out about her scandal, he’d be avoiding the mere mention of her. She wasn’t stupid. She knew what Society thought of her. Nothing good, that was for certain.

Bridget cleared her throat, bringing Harriet back to the present in which she was staring listlessly into her plate of food thinking about a man. Harriet was exasperated. She would never change, would she?

“You know.” Bridget sighed, lifting the pitcher of gravy and pouring it over her serving of turkey. “I did not mean you had to tend to the chickens right then. I had already gotten their eggs this morning.”

Harriet’s nose twitched in annoyance. Her hair was still wet, sending a chill down her back. While she was cold, being completely clean and in dry clothes had never felt better. “You might have mentioned that before I went outside.” She smiled as pleasantly as she could muster. If she was being honest with herself, she wanted to give her aunt a piece of her mind, but that was no way to treat one’s host. She knew better.

“Yes, yes.” Bridget rolled her eyes lightly. “I could have, dear, but if people tell us everything we must know, then there is no knowledge left to ascertain. Believe me, if you struggle with something and fail, then you shall never forget the lessons learned.”

Harriet clenched her teeth. Extending the benefit of some very mundane information hardly seemed like an important lesson to learn.

“Do you think that perhaps our aunt deigned to teach you a lesson about your headstrong approach to things that upset you?” Lucy asked, popping a roasted potato into her mouth with an impish twinkle in her eye.

Harriet breathed in sharply, wishing for nothing more than to scold her younger sister. She exhaled slowly, realising that she had no choice but to let it go. Their father would be furious if she began a fight in front of their aunt, and most importantly, their gracious host. Harriet pointed her nose up high at her sister. “I am headstrong.”

Bridget laughed, setting her silverware down. “You cannot lie to me,” she said. “I am the most headstrong person you know. Listen, dear, I understand it has been some time since we have been acquainted, but we are much more similar than you may think.”

Harriet tucked a damp strand of hair behind her ear and sighed softly, looking around the small dining room at the dark cottage furniture and the painting of a strong laurel tree beside a river. “Why don’t you have servants to tend to the chickens?”

“Because I enjoy it,” Bridget replied. “And most importantly, it reminds me to stay humble and live simply.”

.

“Are you ever downtrodden that you live alone?” Harriet asked. “Doesn’t it bother you that you have all of this and no one to share it with?”

Bridget’s eyes softened, and she resumed her meal. “It is human nature to want company,” she said. “And look how lucky I am. I have two beautiful nieces sharing my home and plenty of neighbours with whom I spend my time. If you are afraid of being alone, dear, then remember that that is a decision you make for yourself.”

Harriet shrugged. She knew her aunt was right, but she would hate to admit that, especially when she was as upset as she was right now. “Then, Lucy and I may have stumbled upon a task to burden ourselves with out here in the country.”

“Friends?” Lucy asked. “I have enough back in London, really. I took this opportunity as a bit of a reading holiday if I am being honest.”

Bridget cleared her throat, which made both girls sit up in their chairs. It sounded as if she was about to tell them something difficult. She looked back at her nieces and dropped the tension in her shoulders. “I have a remedy planned for that,” she announced. “Our next-door neighbours are joining us for dinner tomorrow evening.”

Harriet reeled back. “Next door? You mean over…” She pointed across the dining room in the general direction of the estate where Daphne and her very handsome cousin lived.

“Yes,” Bridget confirmed. “Maybe you will find some enjoyment in the company of the Duke of Stanton and his family.”

“The Duke—He’s a duke?!” Harriet grimaced, wishing she’d been a little more grateful for his help. “His niece is terrible!”

Bridget shrugged. “Children can be troublesome from time to time. Show her the kindness you would have appreciated as a child. It is that simple.”

“She pushed me into the mud, and then the Duke found me covered in mud and… and… and chicken excrement!”

Bridget shrugged again. “As unfortunate as that is, dear, I do not think the Duke will hold it against you. He was raised most of his life by his dear uncle. The man is…” She paused, her eyes fixing on the windows on either side of the door that led outside. Her smile was hardly noticeable, but not completely lost on Harriet. “Well, many good things, but I will simplify it by saying that he raised a very kind and polite young man.”

“What about the Duke’s father?” Harriet asked.

“I do not think he had ever made a tremendous amount of time for his son, besides teaching him the family business. He was a brilliant businessman, but starting a family is not business. It takes a tender heart to nurture a child,” Bridget explained.

Harriet nodded, pushing her plate away after one final bite of the turkey. The meal had warmed her up and made her feel as if she had finally rejoined the land of the living.

“You seem sweet on the Duke’s uncle, Aunt Bridget,” Lucy noted.

Bridget narrowed her eyes. “I meant to tell you. There is a box waiting in your room for you to store your books in. This is no reading holiday.”

“Reading is a hobby with many benefits,” Lucy argued. “You cannot stop me from learning!”

“I do not intend to,” Bridget said. “Your sister spends too much time with her head in the clouds.”

“Wh—Who? Me?” Harriet asked, incredulous, despite being caught with her head in the clouds. She couldn’t stop thinking about that duke. Good God, he had an incredible face.

“Isn’t that true, Miss Harriet?”

Harriet sighed. “Yes.”

“And so, I am bringing you back down to Earth, but as for Lucy.” Bridget turned, addressing the younger sister directly. “You spend too much time with your head stuck in the pages. If our Harriet must endure the pains of reality, then you must also. Enjoy some one-on-one human connection and experience. It will be good for you.” She dropped her napkin on the table. “Now, go on, girls. Go to bed. The chickens will be up rather early.” She smiled and stood up, waiting for her nieces to follow suit.

Harriet had barely been here for eight hours, and she was already at her limit. She wanted to go home, where life was disappointing yet comfortable and predictable.

Harriet tossed and turned, dreaming of the strangest things. She was half awake, aware that she lay in the guest room, her nightgown bunched up around her knees and the sheets tangled around her. The other half of her was asleep, and those stupid chickens were running amuck in her dreams.

After some time, she awoke, lying in her bed and staring at the ceiling while the wind and rain pattered against the windowpane. The day had been properly exhausting. It was quite late, too soon to start a new day but too late to try and resurrect the humiliation of the day prior.

She still cringed at her interaction with the Duke. It had occurred to her that she should have been a little warmer and gracious in his presence. Turns out that’s hard to do when you’re covered in an ungodly mix of filth. She had scrubbed his coat the best she could. It lay air-drying over the vanity chair of her bedroom. In the dark of night, it looked more like a shadow, perhaps a reminder of all the affection she craved but didn’t deserve.

Harriet sat up and pushed the covers off her and lit a candle on her nightstand. She wasn’t much of a reader. In fact, she hated to read. But maybe Lucy was right. Maybe she should try, since she had a great deal of solitude to look forward to.

She left her room and slowly crept down the hall, the stairwell creaking as she placed her foot down. She quietly snuck down so as not to wake anyone. In the downstairs entryway, she rubbed her eyes. It looked as if a candle was still lit in the sitting room. She crept up to the archway and peeked into the room.

Bridget was sitting on the couch, cross-stitching a design onto a pillowcase. She glanced up. “You cannot sleep?”

Harriet frowned. “No.”

“I suffer the same fate.” Her aunt shrugged lightly, glancing down at her work. Her hand moved deftly as if she had long memorised the motions of her stitches. “You are in a new place. Both literally and figuratively,” she said. “Come, sit.”

Harriet nodded and crossed the room. She sank into the couch and looked blankly at her aunt. She had visited her several years prior, but it felt like her aunt was even more odd than she’d remembered. It seemed in more recent years, her aunt had developed a keenness for several things. Bridget had a collection of animals and an interest in archery and hunting. These were all things that Harriet had never imagined doing. Her aunt never seemed to care whether the things she did were unladylike or not fitting for high Society. She never appeared to care what anyone thought.

“I really wanted to know earlier,” Harriet said softly, her voice barely a whisper in the quiet house.

She grabbed a pillow from beside her and held it close to her stomach as if she could just pull it through her. She was willing to feel anything other than numbness. Even if the events of yesterday embarrassed her, they never overshadowed the dull void that clawed at her stomach like a wild animal attempting its escape. When Jeremy had left her, she had lost more than just someone she had cared about. She had lost trust, security, and her future.

“What?” Bridget looked up at her, and it was only then that Harriet realised she’d never finished her thought.

“I just…” Harriet trailed off, her eyes burning at the thought. “I wanted so badly to be in love. I wanted someone to love me and sweep me off my feet. And now, that will never, never happen. Wasn’t there a time in your life when you wanted that?”

“Of course,” her aunt said gently, her hand still making quick work of her cross stitch. After a moment, she pulled it away from her to look at her work. “You know, back when I was young, I had never even thought about marrying for love. I was merely an asset in my father’s business. And for a long time, I thought that was how it was supposed to be.” She paused, tying off a knot and snipping the thread. She rummaged through her case for the next skein she needed for her design. “But the seasons change, and I got older. I had been married for…” She paused. “About twenty-five years?” A sigh escaped her lips, her chest collapsing with disappointment. “I eventually thought about it. It took some time for me to stop feeling so guilty. I never loved him, and he never cared for me either. I felt so guilty for so long that I never loved him the way I vowed.”

Harriet’s chest felt hollow yet heavy all at once. Maybe she had felt the same way. Now that her aunt had said it, she wondered if all the numbness she was feeling was just guilt. If she had loved Jeremy more, might he have stayed? Maybe she had said or done something to turn him away. He had gone off, just a few months before their wedding, and loved somebody else, and soon he would be a father. It felt like that was her fault.

“I understand that,” Harriet whispered, her throat tight with emotion.

“But as I said, the seasons change, and we get older. And now I can see clearly that no amount of words, social pressure or money can make you love somebody. Love is a choice you and another person make. You cannot force happiness like that.” Bridget separated a skein into several threads before tying off the needle. “But let me ask you. What do you suppose love is?”

Harriet pressed her lips together and thought. “Cinderella,” she replied. “Love is when a man goes so far as to return your shoe, even when he doesn’t know you. But he loves you, and even though you are the saddest girl in the world, he still wants to marry you.”

Bridget grimaced slightly. “Might you think about that for a moment?” She resumed her stitching. “Imagine that you lost your shoe and some man thirty years your senior with the face of a bullfrog endeavours to return it to you. Is that love?”

“N—No!” Harriet tossed the pillow to the side. “What are you implying?”

“I just mean to say such a gesture is only romantic if the man is handsome, but otherwise, how would it make you feel? How would you feel if the Baron of Frogington sought to return your shoe and marry you?” Bridget laughed gleefully at the thought of her made-up suitor.

Harriet knew where her aunt was going with this, and she hated the insinuation. Cinderella a romantic fairytale. Ever since she was young, she had heard about the story and those two words that she had hung onto for the rest of her life thus far, .

“You have not said a word, so I assume you would find the Baron’s advances delightful.”

Harriet sighed. “Fine. I would be absolutely mortified. Are you happy now?”

“Delighted.” Bridget smirked. “I just mean to say that fairytales are destined for the rubbish bin. Real love is caring about someone more than you care about yourself. We can hope he’s handsome, and we can hope that he’s wealthy. However, if you love him, it will not matter if he is the spitting image of a bullfrog. You were so busy looking for prince that you never bothered looking for prince. Besides, is it not a little strange for a man who doesn’t know anything about you to be in love with you? That is pure vanity. You have a mind. Use it.”

Harriet rubbed her weary eyes, feeling a tightness in her chest that had finally overshadowed all the guilt. “Do you feel sad that you never found love?”

Bridget shook her head. “I am still young. What makes you think I have lived the entirety of my life?”

“How could we ever marry? We have both been mired.”

Bridget looked at her niece for a moment. She opened her mouth to say something but stopped herself. For just a few seconds longer, she paused. “There is great power in being a solitary woman. And you, Miss Harriet Hale, are a force of nature.”

The two women sat there for some time, listening to the last of the rain pound against the window. Then, in the morning, Harriet awoke, still on the couch, with a blanket draped across her body and a finished cross stitch sitting on the coffee table.